Thailand 2013

I detest multi-human transportation.   I’m glad it exists.  It can be cheap.  But it reminds me of school which I don’t like.  There is that unmistakable institutional feel that permeates the entire experience.  I also hate the smell of airplane farts of which there would be 20+ hours of.  So it had to be a place as special as Thailand to allow me to overcome this foolishness, to get motivated to embark on such a big trip.

After flying to JFK from Boston, I boarded a behemoth 14-hour flight to Beijing.  I sat next to a gentleman from India named Sidhu.  He had spent five weeks or so visiting a daughter in New Mexico, family in Vancouver and a son in NYC.  Sidhu was 63 and had been retired for three years.  From the age of 14 and a half through 60, he was a police officer in India.  At 14 and a half, I hadn’t stopped playing with Legos yet.  India clearly has noteworthy trust in its youth.

In many movies, there has been that moment when the President of the United States is in danger and quickly gets ushered to safety.  This is how it was for me when I landed in Beijing and Air China realized I was about to miss my connecting flight to Bangkok.  I was aggressively ushered with shouts and important hand movements through multiple checkpoints.  The irony was that my connecting flight was delayed three hours due to mechanical nonsense.

I finally got to Bangkok at 3:30 AM and took a taxi to my hotel, Lamphu Treehouse.  The lobby was open with dark wood everywhere.  I started to notice that in a climate like this, it was hard to see where outside ended and inside began. It was a quiet, tucked away place right on a canal.  After five hours of sleep, I was arrested by a fine American breakfast buffet.  Thai food may be the tops in the PM, but in the AM, my body and soul desire American food styles.

In the six hours since I arrived to my hotel, Bangkok transformed into a complete traffic-choked nuthouse.  You couldn’t walk ten feet without passing a food vendor or being attacked by a shifty character trying to sell you something or swindle you in some way.  Later that night, a tuk tuk driver tried to gain my business by simply saying “Happy Ending”.  If I was offered a happy beginning, perhaps I would have considered.  Never before had the color of my skin betrayed me so.  I instantly became a lightning rod for all sorts of unwanted transactions.

Almost instantly, I started to enjoy the Thai’s questionable but enjoyable use of the English language.  An entertaining example of this was a yellow sports car with the words “Top Secret” dangerously written on the side.  It must be a challenge to remain so top secret with the words “Top Secret” written in big letters on the side of your car.

I headed south through the famous, crowded Amulet Market but as my amulet needs were practically nil, I moved on.  The only time I’ve ever used an amulet was in a video game.  I was about to enter the big temple known as Wat Phra Kaew when a security officer advised me to return later when the crowds had died down so he waved down a tuk tuk driver for me and told the driver to take me to a few notable sights.

I should probably tell you what a tuk tuk is.  More than a gas powered vehicle, it is potentially the most fun way to get around a city.  It’s about four and a half feet wide and eight feet long.  It has two wheels in the back and one up front that is steered with handlebars.  They have a distinct sound and smell and they look like something you would find in a children’s ride in an amusement park.

Tuk tuks in Chiang Mai

My driver was a short, smiling man of 60 years.  His tuk tuk looked older than I was.  I soon found out it was actually the same age as I am (40…gross).  I looked at all the holes, dings and overall lack of luster that this tuk tuk had and I suddenly felt old.

My tuk tuk driver and I

My driver was a force to be reckoned with.  What amazed me most is how comfortable everyone was with everyone else’s absolute lawless driving.  He showed no remorse as he drove on the wrong side of the road after sitting in traffic for a few moments (an all too common practice as I would continue to see).  He abused bike lanes often.  He zigged zagged.  He cut people off.  It was all too glorious and I loved it.

He took me to Buddhist temples.  The temples were beyond description.  They were ornate to the point it looked like some impossible computer graphic or a prism of colors not done by man but by some powerful force of physics.  Every temple was ornate inside and out.  Upon entering, you were required to remove your shoes which created the perfect scenario for a shoe thief.

The only thing that rivalled the beauty of the temples was the suit I had made for me at B.B. Fashion, a shop that my tuk tuk driver took me to.  I chose a luscious burgundy-colored Thai silk for the suit and black silk for the shirt.  The employee, Alex, tried to sell me the store but I was able to resist.  I was measured at 2:00PM on a Thursday and the suit and shirt were ready by 10:00AM the next day.  Someone was certainly exploited in this process but I still felt joy in this piece of custom clothing that would make its way to stage on the body of Barry Tattle.

The morning my suit was to be ready, I called Alex to see how it looked.  He professionally replied “very sexy”.  Alex was shady and it made me happy.

After eating and sharing a beer with my driver and seeing a gigantic reclining Buddha in Wat Pho, I bid farewell to my excellent driver.

Giant Reclining Buddha
More reclining Buddha

The next day I tried my suit on and the fit was alarmingly perfect.  It was tight in the way Barry Tattle’s suits yearn to be tight.  The final price for the suit, the shirt and shipping was $310.  Absurd.   I left B.B. Fashion and headed to Suvarnabhumi Airport where I would meet Green.  As it turns out, Green is much more than a color.  She is also a dear Thai lady.  I met her through a Thai nanny in Boston that I met during a job.  Green and I had emailed a lot before we dramatically met in front of an airport Starbucks.

The great and shady gent that sold me a game-changer of a suit
The suit finally in the hands of Barry Tattle being used in a manner consistent with its impact on ladies.

The two of us boarded her Toyota Corolla that had some fine custom trimmings added to it around the door handles and gas cap.  Around the door handles read the words “Be your own star”.  So basically this Toyota Corolla was like a loving grandmother that built your confidence by dropping positive anecdotes on you.

Thank you car door handle, I will.

Our ultimate mission, our ultimate desire was to visit Thailand’s finest jungle, Khao Yai.  But first, we would spend the night at a small house she owned in Prachinburi.  On the way to her house, we stopped at a well-known temple covered in white marble.  Watching Green I realized how superstitious and spiritual the Thai Buddhists were.  Green bought a few things to leave in front of Buddha as offerings.  After kneeling in front of Buddha and praying, she grabbed a cylinder filled with numbered sticks.  She shook the cylinder until a stick fell out.  She looked at the number on the stick and walked over to a space on a wall that had various fortunes with numbers that corresponded to the numbers on the sticks.  But not all the fortunes were good.  Green told me that you could tell which fortunes were bad since they were the ones that still had a large quantity still hanging on the wall.  If someone had shaken out the stick of a bad fortune, they would often leave it on the wall.

Marble Temple

We drove on to her house which was located about 30 minutes from the jungle.  Living in her house were a couple people she used to work with when she lived in Prachinburi: Ohm and Ainst.  She had since switched jobs and moved to Bangkok which is why she rented her place to Ohm and Ainst.  The four of us crushed lots of food we cooked ourselves at a restaurant that put a bucket of flames underneath a grill device that cooked meat and heated a stew in a surrounding moat.

Her name may be Green but she likes her purses to be yellow. Across the table from Green and I are Ohm and Ainst.

After eating, Green and I explored the wonders of karaoke.  In America, most women would not karaoke with you unless they were your mother, girlfriend of ten years or dying.  Green made her way through so many Thai pop tunes that delight was all that was left in me.  I returned fire with some Sinatra, Joe Cocker, Elton John and “You’ve Lost That Love and Feeling”.  By the end of our karaoke sojourn, it felt like we had taken a bath together…there were no more secrets between us.  This is the power of karaoke that no one talks about.  It exposes and shames you like your first day at Shawshank Prison.

The next morning we headed towards Khao Yai.  Everywhere we drove, the driving somehow got scarier.  My favorite remains how people drive a small motorbike or scooter in the breakdown lane as small motorbikes or scooters drive the opposite direction in that same breakdown lane.

“Is this allowed?” I asked.

“No.” Green told me.


What looked like a shack and a patio hiding behind some bushes turned out to be a shockingly cheap and amazing Vietnamese restaurant.  We had not had breakfast so we decided a spicy Vietnamese meal was the best way to start the day (and it was).  From there we visited the great jungle.  A jungle is not as interesting as great food or terrible driving so I won’t go into wonderful detail about it.  There were waterfalls and monkeys and people there.



It would have been the perfect picture if not for that stupid post in the middle.

In the park was a Buddhist shrine dedicated to a man that was instrumental in making the roads through Khao Yai National Park.  Here I tried my luck with the can of numbered sticks and managed to get a very good fortune that more or less said:  I will be lucky with everything I wish for.  If I am sick, I will get well.  I will find my soul mate.  I will become friends with my enemies.  If I lose something, I will get it back.

For those of you that read Thai, here is my fortune.

On our way back to Bangkok, we stopped at a strange steak house.  If you ignored the Thai employees and clientele, you would have thought you were in a hokey, middle American restaurant.  There were wholesome red plaid curtains and wooden booths to sit in.  Afterwards, Green dropped me in Bangkok where I checked into Korbua House on the same canal as my last hotel but a few hundred yards away.

The following day I met up with a close friend of my Boston comedy friend, Bethany.  Nong was born in Thailand, moved to the states in her early teens and moved back to Bangkok only a month ago.  Most of her family lives in Bangkok but Bangkok also happens to be a good place to embark on her clothing design business.

I will not tell you Nong’s age but once I discovered it, I could not believe it.  She was fit and lovely (if I ever start a lady gym chain or a yogurt company, it will be called “Fit and Lovely”).  I told her she must be some sort of immortal “Highlander” or “Thailander”.  With her compact, athletic figure, the flashes of red that ran through her hair and the choice eyeliner work around her eyes, she had the appearances of a dangerous and desirable character in the movie Highlander.

A Thailander and I

In addition to visiting Bangkok’s biggest temple, Wat Phra Kaew (with all the suit measuring and beer drinking, I never made it there the other day), Nong wanted to also visit a temple that was known for bringing fortune to those starting a business (among other things).  She bought some offerings, placed them in front of a shrine, kneeled down with her feet pointing away from Buddha (it is extremely disrespectful to point your feet at Buddha or anyone else), and silently prayed.  This was the second time in a couple days that I got to watch a lovely Thai lady pray and I had no objection to it.

While Nong was occupied in prayer, I walked over to a small stage where three Thai ladies, dressed in some sort of traditional, royal looking garb engaged in a very loud comedy that was accompanied by music.  It proved to be an odd pairing with the nearby holiness but Buddhism rolls in a different style.  I could not imagine a stage on the grounds of a church with some person telling jokes within earshot of praying people.

Temple comedy
Monks praying with their wondrous “high and tight” haircuts.

The two of us then took in the over-the-top wonders of Wat Phra Kaew.  The craftsmanship and attention to detail were other worldly.  It made me understand why some people think aliens are responsible for certain human creations.  It also struck me how “bling” Buddhism could be and perhaps offered an explanation as to why many Thai cars and tuk tuks were sometimes amusement-park colorful.  The key attraction of the temple is the Emerald Buddha.  Although not very big, it is very old and considered to be one of the most important Buddha statues in Thailand.


Wat Phra Kaew
Wat Phra Kaew

As special as it was, I had a hard time keeping my eye off one of the temple employees that had four inches of hair growing out of a mole on his right cheek.  Perhaps there is a reason for its profound presence.  It’s funny because this man’s job was to coax people to leave the main temple area so others could come in.  Perhaps this mole pony tail helped scare people out.

After leaving the temple, we enjoyed some ice cold coconut water.  This had become a favorite of mine.  They hacked open the top of a young coconut with a large knife and put a straw in it.  When you’re done, you can scoop out some coconut with a spoon.

Nong and I walked over to a market area where we purchased colorful bread shaped like a lotus.  Stuck into the bread were a candle and two sticks of incense.  The purpose of this was to give thanks to the river by lighting the candle and incense and putting it into the river.  This was part of the Loi Krathong festival, something Nong had strongly wished to take part in.  After we set our lotus bread boats loose in the water, we hopped on a very crowded boat and headed down the river to a sky train station.  Our object was to avoid the festival crowds that were starting to swell along the river so we headed east, away from the river, to a trendy area known as Siam Square for dinner.  Then we moved further east into Sukhumvit.  Here we had drinks at a sleek bar that had upside down Barbie Dolls hanging from a ceiling.  All of the Barbies were connected by string to various gears that moved them up and down at different times.  It was unsettling.

Barbie Ceiling

The next bar we visited was Iron Fairies.  What a fantastic place this was!  Imagine a 30-foot wide by 30-foot deep by 40-foot tall box filled with various wooden landings that were all connected by wooden staircases.  The place seemed to be lit only by candles.  It felt like a deep, romantic place out of a fairy tale.

Shortly after we sat, a jazz quartet started to play.  They were fronted by a desirable Thai lady singer.  She spoke in what I could only call “Jazzy English” but with a thick Thai accent.  Once she started to sing, her accent vanished.  As I sat there, I noticed a few couples composed of white men with younger Thai ladies.  I know that in Thailand it can be common to hang out with a Thai woman in a PG manner.  If you want your manner to be rated R or S (for Scandal), that is also possible.  At least one of the couples looked to be something more.  This something more was probably a more permanent solution.  Green had told me that many foreign men would travel an hour or so from Bangkok to the coastal city of Pattaya to collect what might become a long term girlfriend or wife.   Many of these women were poor and this arrangement provided them a way out.

The following day I saw what looked to be several cases of this walking around Phuket airport, the main landing point for the southern beaches and islands.  I guess that’s what you do after you pick your lady up at the lady shop; you first try her out in a paradisiacal environment.   It made me sad.  Hopefully some of these relationships become genuinely romantic.  But from what I saw, they had a dark futuristic tone to them, like something you would see in a science fiction movie where society has become something you can relate to but something you hope we avoid, something you’re glad was only in a movie.

Nong then brought up such a funny and accurate point.

“Maybe everyone here thinks the same about us, that you hired me.”

I returned fire. “No, they probably think YOU hired ME.”

The two of us said our goodbyes and I enjoyed my final Bangkok tuk tuk ride back to my hotel.

The following day I flew down to Phuket and then ferried my way to one of the less trafficked islands known as Koh Yao Yai.  On the ferry ride, I met a man named Daeng.  He worked at a hotel on the island.  When I mentioned I was from Boston, he told me that he was in Falmouth, MA the previous year to deliver his boss’ cremated remains to a church that contained his father’s remains.  I’ve heard of bosses asking for a cup of coffee or to pick up some dry cleaning but this was something entirely new.

At the pier, I was picked up by Dam, the owner of my hotel for the next three nights, the Thiwson Beach Resort.  I was shown to a very proper, charming wood bungalow.  Everything here was friendly and relaxing and right on the beach.  One of the employees showed me to my room.  He attempted to instruct me in locking my door but could not as the key was bent.  To comfort me, he said, “No need key…safe here…no mafia.”  I didn’t have it in me to tell him that although I was no longer worried about the mafia breaking and entering into a bungalow on a remote Thai island, I would still like to be able to lock my door.

My bungalow at Thwison Resort

The next day I rented a scooter and scooted my way south.  The island was inhabited primarily by Muslim fisherfolk that seemed quite friendly.  Dam had told me there was a gas station one kilometer.  From the hotel, I drove right by what I thought was a juice station but turned out to be a gas station.  It was a tiny little shack that had one-liter bottles of gas lined up on a shelf.

As I drove on, it was nice to take in the simplicity of this place.  Basic structures on the roadside served as tiny restaurants and shops.  Everywhere I went, there seemed to be a smile waiting for me.  It wasn’t until I reached Thailand that I realized how much my smiling muscles atrophied in Boston.  Children especially were amused by my appearance.  To them I must have seemed to be some foreign, lightning-white wonder.  At one point, I drove by a school in a remote area and all the children ran to the edge of the schoolyard and started screaming and laughing.  On the way back, the procedure repeated itself.

I managed to find a few nice beaches.  One was much removed and of decent size.  Besides a couple locals, I had it to myself.  Now that I think of it, I also shared the beach with a lot of trash.  This was a shame because without it, the beach was better than a best friend.

The following morning I boarded a longtail boat right on the hotel’s shoreline.  The plan was to visit several of the small islands just east of Koh Yao Yai.  Sharing this experience were three Belgian gents named Dirk, Krist and Joris.  They were friends from university and decided a two-week sojourn to Thailand was in order.

Longtail Boat

The islands are part of Ao Phang-Nga Marine National Park and provide an abundance of karst scenery – think dramatic cliffs against the ocean, the likes of which you see in “The Man With The Golden Gun”.  We stopped at many pretty little beaches and did some mediocre snorkeling or as Joris pronounced it, “snuggling”.


A picture of a Belgian taking a picture of a lagoon.
Islands and another Belgian


More karst drama

Although the beaches were also full of many other fellow foreigners, we did enjoy the tour.  There also seemed to be many Russian tourists which spurred on a funny observation the Belgians had made during their visit to the Similan Islands.  The phenomenon they enjoyed was that of Russian men taking pictures of their girlfriends in the most ridiculous poses on the beach.  Dirk showed me a couple rich examples on his camera.  There was a lady laying in the sand, on her back side with her arms stretched out wide as if she was expecting a hug from the sun.  The only parts of her back side that that touched the sand were her toes, butt and shoulders.  She must have looked like the letter “M” from the side.


Only yes

On one of the islands, I walked along a path that became the evacuation route during the tsunami nine years previously.  I saw the wreckage of a couple smaller boats deep in the woods.  It was almost impossible to imagine how they could have been brought back into such deep forest and vegetation.  To my knowledge no one was killed on this tiny island during the tsunami but they did have to be rescued.  What a horrific, certain-death feeling these and the other victims must have felt.  If I ever survived a tsunami, I would probably wear a jetpack for the rest of my life.

The next morning was all about rain so I sat around and wrote.  Since I checked out of my room, I had to use the common area toilet when business needed to be executed.  Normally I don’t need to discuss movements with people but this experience allowed for my first skirmish with a Thai toilet.  For those that don’t know, it’s basically a hole in the ground that one is supposed to stand above and mimic the position of a baseball catcher (except there is no catching; only “throwing”).  Even though the stall area was roomy, they felt it necessary to place this thing snug in a corner so it felt like trying to crap an 8-ball into the corner pocket.  Fortunately, I’m a pool shark so it all worked out.

Afterwards, Dam drove a few of us to the pier in the back of a pickup truck taxi.  We boarded a ferry to Ao Nang.  I introduced myself to a couple I shared the taxi and ferry with: Ineke from Holland and Simon from Belgium.  Simon’s name was fortunate since he looked like a sharper, more handsome version of Simon Pegg.  He expressed his regret at booking their trip through an agency.  He felt a complete lack of control, especially when transferring from one place to another.  I reflected on my relatively smooth experiences thus far but that was about to change.

They both had an admirable handle of the English language which seems par for the course for any European traveler I meet.  English seems to dominate the world.  It is truly the Lord of The Rings “Common speech”.  If two people from two different countries that have different languages converse, it will almost always be in English.  Even in Asia, this was the case.  It amused me how a Chinese person would use English, the language of some far away land, to communicate with someone in a nearby or bordering country.

From my understanding, once reaching Ao Nang, I was supposed to get on a longtail boat that took me to Railay, my next stop.  Although Railay is on the mainland, one can only reach it by boat.  After reaching a harbor near Ao Nang, I was told a taxi would take me to Ao Nang center where a longtail boat would take me to Railay.  When I asked around where this taxi was, no one seemed to know so I approached an amiable British fellow who sported a fine northern accent and asked him for advice.  He told me to walk down the beach for about a mile to a restaurant known as “Wang Sai”, buy a longtail boat ticket and wait until eight or more people showed up.  I was told a longtail captain would not travel with fewer than nine passengers unless you were willing to hire the boat out yourself for $50.

I bought my 100-baht or roughly three-dollar ticket and waited for an hour.  No one else showed up.  I asked the ticket vendor if there was another way to get to Railay so she refunded my ticket and told me to walk ten minutes down the road to another point where longtail boats departed.  I walked down the road only to find the boats were no longer running so I angrily walked back to Wang Sai bought my ticket back (which mysteriously increased to 150 baht) and enjoyed the fine fortune of twelve people showing up to take what was the last boat of the day to Railay.

As we walked towards the water, we realized that our boat was about 100 yards offshore and that we had to walk into the water with our luggage above our heads.  Among the passengers were two Japanese ladies with heavy suitcases.  They were on their way to a wedding in Railay.  One of them desperately dragged her suitcase through the sand that was wet from the ocean and the rain that was falling.  I took the suitcase from her, lifted it above my head and walked like a third-world market gypsy into the water.  By the time I reached the boat, small waves were compromising my balance.  It was dark and the water was now above my waist.  After handing the heavy case to someone on the boat, I scrambled up a slippery ladder, feeling as though I would tip the boat over as I climbed.  Fifteen minutes later, we reached Railay West and experienced the reverse boarding process but in more shallow waters.

After helping my two new and very grateful Japanese lady friends with their bags, we walked ashore to a very wet, drizzly Railay.  The first thing I noticed was that this place was engineered with only temporary pleasure in mind.  There were no cars or streets and seemed to be no real homes or schools.  There was only a walkway that lead through bars, restaurants and hotels that were all next to each other, competing for your financial love.  The vibe of the place was compared to one of reggae in my guide book which was true for a large part.

These are power lines in Railay that were a safe five feet from the ground.

This relaxed vibe was also shared by the fella on duty, An, at the front desk of Railay Garden View Resort, my hotel for two nights.  An casually strolled up to the front desk with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.  It’s odd they called it “Garden View” because most of the bungalows have a legitimate sea view.  All the bungalows were situated on different levels so nothing, save a few trees, obstructed the view.

The next morning, with light, I could now appreciate the impressive scenery of Railay.  There were partially vegetated cliffs that stood close to 100 meters tall.  These cliffs acted as bouncers, keeping the douchebags out of (or perhaps in) this club known as Railay.  They would not allow anyone in or out unless by boat.

On the way back from breakfast, I met who would become my new friend for a day or so.  His name was Son and he was about six or seven years old.  I assume he was a child of one of the employees.  He came over to me while I navigated my iPhone.  I showed him a picture of the War Doll.  He responded with great pleasure, so much so that a young Japanese lady and her mother also came over to take a look.  They were genuinely pleased to witness the true power of the West.

The War Doll or “The True Power of the West”

After a few hours of sea kayaking and viewing a cave, I returned to my bungalow.  Before ascending the stairs to Railay Garden View, I saw Son rolling some old bicycle tires down the concrete walkway along the small beach.  He was shirtless and very wet from a recent swim.  American parents would never allow their young child to play among strangers, so far out of view, much less swim in the ocean.  But if Son makes it to adulthood, he’ll be stronger for it.

My father once told me how he too had a very long leash as a six-year old growing up in the Bronx.  He would often walk, by himself, to the western edge of the Bronx.  This by itself is noteworthy but what made it spectacular was that to reach his destination, he had to cross some very busy train tracks in a train yard.  And not just one set of tracks either…he had to cross over at least four tracks that constantly had trains travelling on them!  And if that isn’t maniacal enough, he had to avoid the lethal “third rail” that contained enough voltage to kill a mountain.  This is more natural and outlandish than a storm!

“Watch out for the third rail,” his parents might politely say as he left the apartment.

“Chris!” my father would say, “It’s amazing I’m alive!  But this is how it was.  This proves I was meant to be here today.”

Perhaps Son will someday be bald with white hair, a powerful creature passing on powerful tales of his past to a younger, softer generation.

Son had a big smile on his face which made me happy since he didn’t appear to have any friends his age in sight.  And I also got the feeling he didn’t go to school.  His life seemed to be using his imagination to create an interesting world.  As I sat out on my front porch, doing a combination of writing and staring out at the sea, he walked up the stairs to my bungalow and confidently took a seat next to me.  He never spoke but he always had a pure smile on his face.  I entertained him with some simple gags, one of which makes it appear that the tip of your index finger has separated from your finger.  This evolved into guessing which hand behind our back contained a hidden object.  His mother called him and he was off.

Before hanging out with me, he walked up to the two young German ladies in the adjacent bungalow.  They were relaxing on their front porch too.  Son cutely and silently stood in their presence.  I imagine Son did this a lot – walking right up to the guests without speech, without reservation like a friendly pet.  This was his education and it must have been a unique one.

As I ate my tasty American breakfast, a blonde woman with a face full of professional features asked to share the table with me.  Ingrid was her name and she was a flight attendant for Lufthansa.  She lived in Limburg, Germany and was on a two-week holiday. As it always seems to do when you meet people while travelling, the conversation lead to stories of other travels, both completed and ones filed under “Dreams”.  Everything about her made me think she was engineered to be a flight attendant: her face was very pretty (and it smiled genuinely), she had nice hair, she wanted to make those around her happy and she looked strong enough to pull my body out of a seat and throw it into a life raft.

By the time we finished our breakfast, it was just after 9:00AM and a strong wind picked up.  The rain that had been annoyingly but harmlessly tagging along like Bobby Brady for the past three days had now come back like Patti Labelle with a new attitude.  Ingrid said goodbye and made her way to Railay West where she would catch a longtail boat that would bring her a few hundred meters offshore to a ferry on its way to Koh Phi Phi.  Just like that, another pretty lady left my life.

I had to do the same procedure 30 minutes later to catch a ferry bound for my next destination, Koh Lanta, so I packed up my things and walked over to Railay West in the type of rain I thought only happened in movies.  I looked out at the water and saw a sea that had gone from “annoyed” to “visibly upset”.  When I reached the beach where my longtail boat was supposed to leave from, I was informed that all ferries were cancelled.

I walked ten soaking, wind-driven minutes back to my hotel that I just checked out of to find it was now fully booked so I decided to go back to the beach in hopes of finding some other way off this place that could only be accessed by boat or wizard’s spell.  On my way back, I bumped into Ingrid again.  Her ferry to Koh Phi Phi was also cancelled but being a seasoned traveler, she was able to smile through all of this.  I told her that I was trying to get to Koh Lanta.  After some short consideration, she decided to join me.  In that authoritative German accent, she explained that Koh Lanta was on her list of islands to visit.  That and the fact that the ferry cancellations were due to a ferry practically sinking off the coast of Koh Phi Phi made her change her course.

We both wanted to leave Railay.  It was a fine place but we both found it to be suffocating.  Even if the weather had been pristine, I would have been itching to leave this place after two days.  The place was filled with too many bros in search of a laid back beach paradise.  And because Railay is famous for its rock climbing, there were also lots of straight up bros and she-bros in search of that perfect climb.  All of this if fine but I was hoping for something a little more authentically Thai.  I was beginning to think such a thing did not exist in the south.  I guess there was much Thai authenticity in the south but it felt diluted by Russians and Europeans who approached southern Thailand in the way Americans would the Caribbean.  I never got the feeling that many of these beachgoers cared they were in Thailand.  They wanted a warm, relaxing holiday.  There is nothing wrong with this nor was this the case with all the beachgoers.  Many of them, like myself, would soon travel north in search of a more distinct cultural experience.

But the Thais have no qualms about catering to these beach hunters.  They’re quite happy capitalize on this arrangement.  The foreigners are happy because they enjoy a lovely tropical situation for little money and the locals are rewarded with a dependable business.  I wondered what the south was like 30 or 40 years ago.  It seemed to suffer the same fate that the Costa Del Sol did in southern Spain.  What was once a more charming, low key paradise had now become a bit overrun.  That said, with places like Koh Yao Yai, it seemed still possible to encounter a less worn environment in the south.

This wanting to leave pushed us to find some way to get out of this place.  Perhaps foolishly, we finally found a longtail captain that was crazy enough to brave the seas for 20 minutes.  Twenty minutes is what it would take to get eleven of us to a small pier where we could take a taxi into Krabi.  From there, we would take a minibus to Koh Lanta (via a couple brief car ferry rides).

We waded out to our boat.  How silly I have been all these years for taking for granted all those times I was able to board a boat without having to get soaked from the waist down.  Acting as a second mate was a young boy of maybe ten years.  I couldn’t believe this brave little bastard was allowed to join us on this trip.  Judging from his leathery, hobbit-like feet, he had already logged many hours at sea.  He had no life jacket on either.  But then again, none of us were given life jackets on what would soon prove to be a very life jacket-worthy journey.

As everyone struggled to board the boat with their possessions, I again appreciated that Railay is a place for the young.  There is no way that most older folks would have the patience or physical capacity needed to simply get ashore.

Next to me on the boat was Keith the Canadian.  Keith was in his 40’s and was absurdly fit.  He wasn’t large but he clearly worked out.  Even his face looked like it worked out.  Keith could have been a person used as the successful, “this-could-be-you” role in an over-40, testosterone supplement commercial.   Keith and I wondered why there was no pier in Railay or Ao Nang or so many other places.  Later that day, I found out the reason: the royal family rarely gives out permission to build a pier in Thailand.  I guess Railay won’t be building any nursing homes any time soon.

Once out in the open water, we were no longer just soaked from the waist down.  Waves crashed over so frequently that it was no longer a series of waves but one continuous watery punishment.  It was also at this time I began to relish the captain’s Olympic talent at navigating the boat through extremely rough, ever-changing waters.  He allowed the boat to shake side to side only once or twice (although front to back, the boat rocked furiously which was obviously beyond his control).  He moved the boat around the waves as if he had somehow been given a map of exactly where the waves were going to be at exactly what time.  When we reached the shore, everyone heartily clapped and cheered our protector.

It turned out that Keith was headed in the same direction so the three of us eventually got on a very cramped minibus to Koh Lanta.  Ingrid liked the sound of my hotel so she checked in to her own room there too as Keith broke off and pursued his own hotel destiny.

A sign for a mangrove forest written in Thai and then masterfully translated in English.

Although not swept away, I was growing a tad fond of this German creature.  Unfortunately, this 29-year old beauty could not stop talking about her 51-year old “love” back in Germany.  Officially, they were no longer together but in many ways they still were.  The massive thorn in the side of this romance was that Ingrid wanted children and he did not.  I told her to be careful but that ultimately, it seemed like getting burned was her only way of getting through this.

“But we’ve been together for three years.  You should hear the things he says to me!  He says he loves me!”

“Well,” I said, “A 51-year old guy is going to say whatever he has to say to keep a hot 29-year old around.”

Wow.  I hope I didn’t just say that because I was attracted to her – further proof that beautiful women cause problems.  Or maybe it’s the men that like these beautiful women that cause the problems.  It didn’t help matters that she kept using the word “love” to the point that the word was in danger of becoming a mosquito.

Ingrid’s parents were only nineteen and seventeen when they had her.  Although they divorced, the parents remained friendly.  Perhaps this older man provided her with both lover and any piece of a father figure she subconsciously felt she lacked.  Maybe she just liked guys in her 50’s.

After drinks and dinner, she wanted to walk down the beach.  Was she getting lusty with me?  I borrowed some of the finest lines from Barry Tattle.  I tried to find words inspired by this romantic setting.  I think I likened her to a flower at some point.  She smiled and laughed.  She adored my attention but replied, “You are cute.  There must be women at home that like you.”

This was indeed a polite way of telling me that her “love” still had power over her, even from six time zones away.  All I could do is look at the ocean and blame it for its inability to assist me in my sexy efforts.   God!  If only Barry Tattle were here…he would have been able to safely arrive on the shores of Lady Land.

Back at the bar, we talked at length with one of the owners, Michael.  He was 34 and from Switzerland.  His sharp mind, ability to speak several languages (including Thai), his charm, his natural attraction to people and his predator disposition made him the perfect business owner and host of the resort.  His slight vanity was tempered by intelligence and genuine humility that would surface from time to time.  He had first visited Koh Lanta in ’98 and kept coming back a month at a time until he joined forces in 2007 with the other owner, a Muslim Thai named “A”.  Like his fellow countrymen, Michael seemed to have a strong handle on finances, using words like “spread sheets” and “silent partners”.

Technically, there was an invisible line down the middle of the resort, one half belonging to Michael and the other to A.  This just wasn’t for financial reasons but also for religious ones.  Being Muslim, A did not want any alcohol or pork on his premises so all the porky drunks had to stay in the bar on Michael’s side.

Ingrid noticed a mango sitting on the bar.  She practically begged Michael to eat it.  Michael looked at A who shook his head and smiled and dutifully cut up the mango for her.  Michael looked at the mango and asked me, “What fruit are you?”

“I couldn’t really compare myself to a fruit,” I answered.

“I said the same thing,” Michael told me. “but upon reflection, I realized I’m a coconut.  It’s got a very hard exterior except for a few spots on the top and once you break through, there is a soft, watery substance without much to it.”

“But is a coconut even a fruit?” I asked.

“Well I don’t know…I’m not a scientist.  But think on this for a couple days, you’ll be able to think of a fruit you resemble.”

Weeks after this conversation, one thing happened and one thing didn’t.  The thing that happened was that I discovered that coconuts are indeed classified as fruit.  The thing that did not happen is me thinking of a fruit I resemble.  I’m tempted to write something of this fruit quiz on TripAdvisor:

“Make sure you know what fruit you most resemble before checking into this hotel.  If you really want to freak out the owner (the non-Muslim one), tell him he reminds you of a coconut.  Oh, and the beds are comfortable.”

The next day I rented a scooter.  I was going to scoot with Ingrid but she mentioned the word “shopping” so I decided it was best for me to go it alone.  I rode north and then east and then south along the coast.  Just like I saw in Koh Yao Yai, I saw gas being sold in bottles outside all kinds of shops.  But since Koh Lanta is not as Muslim as Koh Yao Yai, most of the gas was stored in used Thai whiskey bottles.  This was ironic because Thai whiskey looks and tastes like gas.

Thai whiskey bottles filled with gas. It looked like a deleted scene from “The Road Warrior”.

I made a stop at the charming Old Lanta Town.  As I was about to leave, I saw a Thai couple in their 60’s making fruit shakes so I ordered one consisting of coconut and mango.  I’m a big fan of a drink that requires the use of a machete which was the tool required to open up the coconut (or as I now call this fruit, the “Swiss Michael”).  The fruit shake man sat down with me and taught me some words in Thai.  He grew up in Koh Lanta and lived in the house that his father built.  This man was great.  If you took Neil Diamond’s hairstyle from the 70’s, aged it, and thinned it out by 60%, that’s what his hair looked like.  I’m not really sure what was keeping this guy from renaming himself “Neil Thaimond”.

Neil Thaimond and I.

Neil murdering a coconut with a machete in an undeniably sanitary environment.

The next day I headed south on the scooter and made it to Mo Koh Lanta National Park, located at the southernmost tip of the island.  I walked through a little jungle and then to a lighthouse.  At the base of the lighthouse, I stopped to reflect on the fact that I was at the southernmost point of my trip and now further south on this planet than I had ever been before.  I’ve never been south of the Equator and this is as close as I’ve come.  I hope I did not tease the southern hemisphere too much with such a near miss.

If this beach in Moh Koh Lanta National Park were a lady, it would be a mid 1990′s Teri Hatcher (ah what the hell, even a current day Teri Hatcher – girl still got it).

While I walked back to my scooter, two Russian men walked towards me, the opposite way.  Even in a Thai body, the man on the right would have seemed momentously foreign and out of place.  The way he walked and held his body was almost cartoonish; there was this sensational oblivious pride to every step.  This is why it was so delightful when, without warning, a little monkey ran up to him, ripped open the paper bag he was carrying, quickly identified a pineapple, grabbed it, darted over to a tree and climbed it as if gravity was momentarily suspended.  By the time the man realized what was happening, the monkey was already 20 feet from him.  By the time the Russian became angry, the monkey was perched on a branch about 50 feet up.  If you brought this monkey feat to a human scale, it would be as if a human grabbed a keg of beer and made it to a height of 150 feet in a tree in under fifteen seconds.   The monkey was now eating the pineapple and staring at the Russian who was shaking his fist.  Eventually the humor of the situation took over and the man (and I) started to take pictures of this wonderful little bastard in the tree.

A wonderful, pineapple-stealing, little bastard.

Although out of my way, I decided to visit my favorite juice-making couple again.  I ordered the same coconut-mango brew from yesterday.  I sat down to drink and conversed with Neil Thaimond, realizing this out of the way juice run was worth it.  For whatever reason, I consciously chose to understand that I would probably never see this man again.  I typically don’t think this way.  But most of the people we encounter in life are ones that we probably see once or twice and then never again.  Because of this, I tried to enjoy this unique moment.  The man told me his name but I can’t remember it.

Neil Thaimond spending some rare time with his woman. She always sits to Neil’s right when wearing this shirt so the world knows she loves Neil Thaimond.

Upon returning to base, I decided it was time for a Thai massage.  My masseuse was in her 50’s and little but when I closed my eyes, I felt I was being slowly crushed by the Terminator or some other mechanical act of God.  There were times I feared I would break but I tried to relax and have faith in this little lady torturer.   When it was over, I must say I felt alright.

I had not seen Ingrid the night before or during the day (I actually phoned her at one point to make sure she was okay).  I was at the bar drinking a beer and reading “A Prayer For Owen Meany” when she walked over.   Ingrid told me about her adventures since seeing me last.  She got a flat tire, got it fixed and finally made it to some bungalows known as “Where Else”.  Since I met Ingrid, she incessantly kept talking about this place.  I never asked why she wanted to see it.  My brain unknowingly registered it as some repetitive item you encounter in a novel.  At first it seems unimportant but then suddenly, this little clue sheds light on some crucial feature in the novel later on.  Finally she explained.

Ten or so years ago, her “love” travelled to Thailand and stayed at “Where Else”.  He loved it so in an attempt to feel a special connection to him, she felt compelled to go there.  As she went on about this place, I noticed her small black shorts and black top.  She really looked good.  Why do women have to look so good when they’re talking about their older German boyfriends that are so far away, they may as well be fairy tale characters?

I stepped away from the bar for a moment and when I returned, Ingrid was speaking in her native tongue to a young handsome German man with a tank top and tan shoulders.  They talked so long that I started to read again.  They showed no signs of letting up so I got up, said goodbye and let them carry on.  I simply couldn’t compete.   The handsome, the young and the German are all things I could handle but the tan shoulders were simply more than I bargained for.

Today I had breakfast, said good bye to Ingrid and made my way north to Krabi.  I checked into the Orange Tree House hotel and was greeted by a wild-eyed, entertaining and friendly man in his 30’s.  He took my details and arranged my next day’s transfer to the island of Koh Phangan which is off the gulf coast side of Thailand.  When I asked his name, he said “Tiger”.  But he didn’t just say “Tiger”, he put his hands out like claws as he spoke his name.  I would have paid double for my room if I knew this was how my stay would start out.  Soon after, I met OIL.  OIL also worked at the hotel and was a friend of the same Thai nanny that introduced me to Green.  That’s right, I had now met a Green, a Tiger and now an OIL; things were getting pretty Disney around here.

I left the hotel and found myself in a town that did not inspire awe but one that was cute in its own way.  One thing I did enjoy was that there were not too many tourists.  There seemed to be regular Thai people doing regular Thai things.

I still don’t know why a Cro Magnon man was carrying traffic lights in Krabi.

In the morning, OIL was kind enough to bring me breakfast.  I returned the favor by picking up a few snacks for her and Tiger at a local market.  I was beginning to love these local markets.  I was boldly diving into them with little regard for food poisoning.  Being from half a world away, partaking in these exotic, often less than sanitary food dispensaries was like walking on the moon without a spacesuit.  The locals had long ago developed a hardy resistance to the bacteria and God knows what else found in these markets but they were all new to my foreign figure.  I was amazed that I handled it all so well.  There were a few times I felt small disturbances in my bodily force but at such time I would take some homeopathy remedies given to me by my friend’s wife.  Did this homeopathy work or was it more of a placebo effect?  I don’t know but I’ll take them again.

The van that came to pick me up looked like a run-down, dumpier version of the Mystery Machine from Scooby Doo, although this van looked like it created more mysteries than it solved.  And so began what I was finding to be a typical transfer experience.  I thought, foolishly, this one van would drive me to the ferry about 100 miles away.  Instead, I was driven to one travel agency/station in Krabi where I stood around for 30 minutes.  I was then told to get on another van that stopped at a couple restaurants, travel agencies and finally to some 5th world bus station.  The roof of this station was supported by thin logs and was made of corrugated metal that was heavily dented from all the coconuts that had fallen onto it.  There were mismatched plastic chairs scattered about the dirt floor in no specific pattern.  One of these chairs almost broke in half when a man sat in it.  A bathroom that cost about sixteen cents to use was home to putrid aromas and urinals that were somehow mistaken for ashtrays.

A Thai bus station.

After 90 minutes in this glorious hole, I was ushered to a large bus that was going to take me to the opposite coast.  The wonder of it all was that after two and a half hours of short van rides and standing around, I was no more than five miles from the Orange Tree House hotel, my original point of departure.  If someone had simply told me I had to be at this bus “station” to catch a bus at a certain time, I would have taken a taxi from my hotel and avoided over two hours of thumb-sucking nonsense.

Once the bus got going, I realized the air conditioning system somehow caused me to sweat more than if there was no air conditioning.  At one point, the bus pulled over to the side of the highway in the breakdown lane where two vans appeared to be waiting.  One of the van drivers came aboard and called out for people going to Surat Thani.  About 20 people got up and left.  After this professional exchange, the bus pulled out into the highway, only to pull back over three minutes later.  Another van driver got on to our bus.

“Anyone else go to Surat Thani?” he asked.

We all looked around but no one moved.  The man asked again but no one moved.  He counted us, shrugged and left.  The bus pulled back out onto the highway and drove to the pier where we barely made our ferry.

On the boat, I sat down in the seating area located in the lower deck and tried to relax.  To my right, along the windows, was a ledge where I noticed something odd.  About two feet away, ants were slowly devouring a dead dragonfly.  At that point, I didn’t care so I rested my head on the ledge anyways.  Besides, the ants seemed to be more interested in the dragonfly than me.  A few minutes passed and I suddenly sensed something heading towards me so while keeping my head on the ledge, I turned slightly and saw a mouse running on that same ledge, heading for my face.  He was about six feet away and closing fast.  I pulled my groggy head up fast which scared the little creature so much that he fell off the ledge.  I looked all around the floor area beneath the seats but didn’t see him.  That was the time I decided to sit in the upper deck.

When our boat pulled into the harbor at Koh Phangan, it was dark.  Lucky for me, Watcharin, the owner of the hotel I was to stay at for the next three nights, happened to be at the pier and drove me to the Longtail Resort.  The road that took us through the middle of the island to the northeast corner was a mess due to construction.  On our way, I told Watcharin I was headed back to the mainland on Saturday to spend a few nights at the lesser known beach town of Khanom.  He informed me that he would be leaving Koh Phangan Saturday morning on a car ferry and driving right by Khanom if I wanted a ride.  I immediately accepted his gift-like gesture.  I became drunk on the idea of not having to put myself through another transfer like I had today.  In the fifteen minutes that I had known him, Watcharin had become my best friend.  I privately decided that he would be repaid for his efforts in whiskey or gas.

The next day I rented a scooter.  I wanted to drive back into town and over to a jungle where I could hike to the island’s highest peak.  This idea was lovely in theory but in theory it would remain.  The heavy rains of the previous night and morning had made the road too muddy to travel.  I tried to navigate it with my scooter but I was all over the place.  Because of this, I was confined to a small corner of the northeast part of the island.

I drove down a road to look for some waterfalls.  I stopped at a small shack with a sign that told me the waterfall was 100 meters into the woods.  An older man came out to greet me.  After looking at the waterfall, I bought a bottle of water from him.  It wasn’t until he counted my change three inches from his face that I noticed his almost complete blindness.

I thanked him and drove further down the road, managing to get stuck in a rut on a very steep slope.  I eventually made it to a small beach with many bungalows and a few restaurants that climbed high up the steep hills that surrounded the beach.  It was eerie because there was no one around.  I’m sure the rough road I travelled and the fact it was not yet the high season had something to do with it.  Soon after I walked onto the beach, five white guys came out and swam in the rough water.  They had a slightly frat-boyish way about them and I figured they were on vacation.  But there was also a European lady in her 50’s with a whiffle haircut that walked by me and said hello.  The whole thing was playing out like a rejected screenplay for The Beach.

I drove back the way I came and passed by the old man again.  The bottom of my scooter was covered in mud and in need of a quick spray so I stopped to see if the old gent could lend me hose.  After explaining what I needed for about a minute, he opened his mouth and a revelatory “Ahhhhh!” jumped out.  He smiled and grabbed a hose that he attached to an open top, 80-gallon tank of water.  There was no pump involved and therefore no pressure.  He turned the valve on.  The water dripped out of the hose with the force of drool slowly leaving a geek’s mouth.  Although he could not see the ineffective result, the blind man smiled and exhibited a strong sense of accomplishment.  I laughed my ass off on the inside.  In his mind, I had enough water pressure to fight back a line of 80 rioters.  There was no way I would in any way compromise his glee so I pretended to wash my scooter, graciously thanked him and gave him a little money.

Damn monkeys are everywhere!

The night before I left Koh Phangan, Watcharin informed me that we would be leaving on a 7:00AM ferry instead of the 10:00AM one he previously planned on.  This meant I had to be awake at five in the morning.  This is typically a terminal diagnosis for me but for some reason, I’ve been going to bed earlier on this trip and often waking up at 6:30AM.  For anyone that knows me, this is noteworthy.

The reason Watcharin wanted to leave so early was because he was not able to make it into town earlier in the day since all the rain had caused a certain hill to be slippery with mud and ultimately impassable.  I went to bed, hoping things would remain dry.  Of course things did not remain dry.  It was not raining when we started towards the pier but the damage had been done.  At the bottom of the cursed hill, Watcharin stopped, put his truck into four-wheel drive, took a deep breath, and speed up the hill.  At the halfway point, the wheels started to spin dramatically and I could already feel myself spending the rest of my trip at the Longtail Resort.  Watcharin persisted and now the vehicle started to shift sideways.  To my disbelief, the truck somehow managed to inch up the hill.  It made no sense but I still appreciated this event that defied physical logic.  At a hysterically slow pace, we made it to the top.  The next mile was rough but nothing that paralleled the dodgy nature of our last obstacle.

When we waited in the pickup truck to exit the ferry, we were slightly delayed by a tractor trailer truck that was trying to drive off the boat but couldn’t due to the seas that had grown rough.  The truck gave up, backed into the boat and let the other vehicles go by.  I was happy to be on the mainland.  Had I fully realized how wild the weather could be this time of year, I would have chained myself to a radiator back home and eaten the key.

At the time I booked the trip, I read that the weather is pleasant in November on the Andaman Coast where I was last week (Koh Yao Yai, Railay, Koh Lanta, Krabi).  I assumed that the weather on the opposite coast, just 60-100 miles away would be similar.  No.  Apparently, the gulf-side where I was now enjoys a second, smaller monsoon season that ends in December.  So now here I am in the quiet beach town of Khanom for three days, still on the gulf side, hoping I know of the sun for a few generous moments.  If not, at least the rain will hide my tears.  And, my last week of this trip will be in the Chiang Mai area which is supposed to be slightly cooler and drier.

Once again, I have my own bungalow here at the Talkoo Beach Resort.  And once again, I have two small bottles of drinking water, honorably waiting for me.  It’s funny how every place has two.  Not three, not one…always two.  I guess they figure there will be a couple staying in the room so one bottle for each.  If that’s the case, my invisible wife has died from dehydration due to me drinking all her water.

This place is decent.  I have a neat wooden sink.  I also share my shower with a giant cockroach.  As far as the whole resort is concerned, I’m sharing it with about 100 Thai youngsters who appear to be fourteen or so.  I don’t know why they’re here but there are boys and girls and they’re often wearing athletic jerseys.  Every once in a while, they cheer about something.  There’s a lot of giggling.  Maybe they’re here to watch me clog up the pool filter with an inordinate amount of chest (and shoulder) hair.

A neat wooden sink.

There’s also a bunch of random animals on the Khanom beaches (and other Thai beaches, for that matter).  Right now, I’m listening to the beginnings of what promises to be a great cat fight.  One of these cats that appears to be feral but was recently taken in by the hotel has found its way into the clean towels and sheets that were left for me in front of my bungalow.  Also on this beach, as in the others, I find loads of garbage.   It’s a shame as these beaches are arguably the nicest in the world and they are marred by trash.  I find bottles, single shoes and for whatever reason, lots of toothbrushes.

Get out of my linens, kitty!

Every bar or restaurant I went into was empty, making me feel like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.  Was I talking to the only employee in the establishment or was I talking to a figment of my imagination?  I couldn’t tell.

During the evening, I noticed my toilet paper supplies were disturbingly low so being the proactive type, I decided to avoid a most certain future calamity.  I walked into the reception area and turned quickly into the front desk.  As luck would have it, the woman on duty at the front desk was blisteringly hot.  Had I known this, I would have waited for the wart-covered ogre that probably works the night shift.  But I was right in front of her by the time I could see who was on duty so there was nowhere to run.

With all the casual coolness I could muster, I put one elbow on the high desk, turned slightly and said, “Oh hi…I was just wondering if I could get some toilet paper.”

“Okay.  You need it now?”  she questioned.

What a loaded question.

“Well, I don’t need it right now but perhaps at some point in the next day.”

“How much you need?”

Another loaded question.

“Oh, I guess one or two should do it.”

I then did what was probably the worst possible thing which was staying there and talking to her for about 45 minutes.  When another guest walked up, I told her goodbye.  When I was almost to the door, she shouted across the reception lobby, “sir, you forgot toilet paper!”

I awkwardly retrieved it, got a funny look from the other guest and was on my awkward way.

The next morning I asked my hotel for a scooter to rent.  The receptionist asked me to wait a few minutes and then placed a call to someone.  Shortly after, a man in his early 50’s drove up in a ridiculously pink scooter.  I was about to start making fun of this guy in my mind until I realized this was my scooter.  If the color scheme wasn’t bad enough, for some reason, the words “chic”, “Scoopy!” and “Lover” were written on both sides of the scooter.  To make matters somehow worse, the “o” in “Lover” was a heart.  Thankfully, my helmet was moderately tough looking.  It was black with a tinted visor.  It looked like something an Imperial Welder would wear while constructing the Death Star.

Good Lord.

The appearance of my scooter did not stop me from taking it up a mountain and down numerous, rough jungle roads.  One of these roads, without a hint of a warning sign, had a huge, impassable gaping hole at the end of a bridge.  If I wasn’t paying attention, I would have driven right off the edge and into this eight-foot deep canyon.

Thanks for the warning.

This was not the first time I’ve come across a dangerous road condition without warning.  Earlier that day, while I ascended a mountain on a small, winding road, I noticed the earth just to the left had completely washed out.  There was not one single sign or orange cone that warned me of this.  If I had driven close to that edge, there was a sizable chance that I would have taken a 40-foot plummet.

For lunch, I stopped at a great, seaside seafood restaurant.  I sat at the edge (all the excitement today was found on edges) of a large deck and digested not only a wonderful seafood meal served in a coconut but equally delicious views.  My waiter was a young South African man with very striking blue eyes.  Later that day, five miles away at the bar next to my hotel, I saw those same eyes again on someone else serving me dinner.  These eyes belonged to the brother of the waiter from the seaside restaurant.

I meant it when I said the views were delicious.

The brother who worked the bar was scruffier, older and bolder.  He kept calling me “bro” but pronounced it “breu” with a tiny roll of the “r”.  He was full of tales, more than would be expected of someone aged 20 years old.  He went on at length about his experiences as a diamond smuggler in Africa.  I’m not sure about the validity of these stories but they went well with my beer.  One story in particular that struck me as outlandish was that he claimed Nelson Mandela was already dead.  He said that his father was in the military and knew someone important that said Mandela had passed away a while ago and that they were making it look like he was alive for the sake of upcoming elections.

“Breu, Mandela is dead, breu.”

I also didn’t believe this kid since he really disliked black people.  I thought he said Mandela was dead because he wanted Mandela to be dead.  It was odd because he looked like a young hipster but was racist.  Who has ever heard of a racist hipster?  On the inside, I laughed at his claim but when two or three days later the media said Mandela had died, I wondered if this pecker was right.

After dinner, I headed over to the receptionist area to collect my breakfast coupon for the next day.  Why they didn’t just initially give me three coupons for the three days I was going to be here was beyond me.  Maybe they thought I was going to try to scalp these tickets to what has been a very mediocre breakfast show.  Or maybe they did it this way since they knew it would give me an excuse to go talk to the gorgeous, oil painting of a lady at the front desk.  You know the one: she provided me the previous night with a resource more important than diamonds: toilet paper.  She was there again tonight!

We chatted for a couple hours which was amazing given the language barrier.  She told me that she watched a couple of my videos online but didn’t really understand them.  I would have given plenty to be a gecko on the wall while she tried to make sense of my foolishness.  After ten minutes of chatting, she brought to my attention to her co-worker who I did not see since he was sleeping on the ground behind the tall reception desk.  This was odd but great.

I gathered my breakfast the next morning and again listened to a lot of Thai shouting on television.  It was everywhere.  Every television I walked by or sat near in Thailand seemed to be showing the protests taking place in Thailand.  The protests began when a controversial bill had passed through Thailand’s lower house.  It was called the Amnesty Bill and many believe it would have allowed former leader Thaksin Shinawatra to return to Thailand without serving jail time.  Thaksin was removed in 2006 by a military coup after many believed him to be guilty of corruption and implementing too much control on the country.  When I was in Bangkok over two weeks ago, the protests were peaceful.  I could actually hear them from my hotel window.  Even though the Senate rejected the Amnesty Bill, the protests continued and grew a little more violent, resulting in a few deaths and several injuries.  Now the protesters wanted the current Prime Minister and Thaksin’s sister, Yingluck Shinawatra, to step down as they believed her rule to be controlled by her brother.

For the most part, these protests were peaceful.  At one point, the police even removed barricades and let the protesters enter restricted areas.  This was done in efforts to diffuse the tensions of the protests which it seemed to do.  There were even pictures showing protesters embracing police.  From what I could see, these protests were much less violent than comparable political protests seen throughout the world.  Perhaps it’s because the vast majority of Thais are Buddhist.  A Buddhist respects life, right down to an annoying insect.  Perhaps this respect of life keeps people from being too reckless.  Or maybe it’s because they’re in a tropical climate and don’t want to sweat more than they have to.  Being violent is a workout and we all know how dangerous it can be to exert yourself in the hot sun.

Again I went out on my pink, breast cancer awareness scooter.  Again I received some curious stares from some of the locals.  A foreigner or “farang” as they say, on a pink scooter tends to stick out.  The thing I liked about Khanom was there were few farang.  I was starting to wonder where Thai people vacationed and I think Khanom is one of the places.  As in Koh Yao Yai, I got some genuinely curious smiles as I encountered some Thai people (also due to the fact that it was low season in Khanom).  On my eventual van ride to the airport the next day, I was the only farang out of fourteen passengers.  And the refreshingly small airport at Nakhon Si Thammarat was completely void of dang farang.  It felt great to get off the tourist grid for a moment.

Today I decided to drive north to see some beaches and the area’s famed pink dolphins.  I saw none.  These dolphins are pink due to a rare form of albinism.  I was hoping they would be attracted to my scooter and mistake it for a relative.  I also stopped in at a cave whose steep entrance, overrun with jungle vegetation, look like any number of sets from Indiana Jones.  There was not a soul around and the cave was not lit.  I went about fifteen feet, trying to light the way with my weak iPhone light that was humorously consumed by this greedy darkness.  I stopped and decided to take a picture, hoping a picture taken with a flash could show me more.  It did show me more, more of something I did not want to see.  I looked at the picture and covering what would have been a couple feet from my head were hundreds of bats.  One or two became disturbed by the flash and started to fly around.  It was then I realized how unimportant a cave experience was for me.

I don’t mean to be a fussbudget but maybe your cave stairway needs a trim.
Lots of bats waiting to fly around and get caught in your hair. Thankfully I shaved my afro before entering.

On my flight to Chiang Mai, I had a layover in Bangkok.  When it came time to board my flight, a long line had formed at the gate.  At that moment, I got to observe something interesting.  A Buddhist monk quietly walked to the front of the line to the side of the check-in desk opposite of where the airline employee and customers were.  The employee looked up, saw him, finished with the person she was checking in, moved over to where the monk was, checked him in and let him on his way in front of the rest of us.  It was very reminiscent of an old Obi Wan Kenobi moment.   No one challenged this Jedi and no one in the line adjusted their facial expression.

It made me seriously consider shaving my head and wearing some orange sheets around.  I’d like to know if his powers would hold up in American Registry of Motor Vehicles line.  I doubt it.  I think you need Moses riding a dinosaur kind of powers to conquer those cues.  My guess is that Buddhist monks are so revered in Thailand, they are given certain well-deserved privileges but I still prefer to think he’s using Jedi mind tricks to cut lines.

When I exited Chiang Mai airport, I could instantly tell I was in a more serene city.  Taxi drivers were there waiting for me but the over-the-top hustling and yelling I experienced in other parts of Thailand were gone.  After checking into my hotel, I went out to eat.  I sat outside eating and heard a band in a restaurant across the street playing “Feels So Good” by Chuck Mangione.  What an unexpected pleasure.  And just when I thought things have peaked, a 50-year old white guy with a subtle gut walked by wearing a black, sleeveless shirt that said “Lamborghini Countach” on it.  And yes, there was a front and side-view picture of a Lamborghini Countach on his shirt.

Wat Phra Singh in Chiang Mai. This is what MacDonalds SHOULD look like.
Wat Phan Tao in Chiang Mai. This is what the Brady’s house in “The Brady Bunch” SHOULD have looked like.
Wat Lok Molee in Chiang Mai. This is what our Elks Lodges SHOULD look like.

The following day, I walked around this really wonderful small city. Chiang Mai is a very livable place with just the right amount of urban intensity.  There is a great diversity of things to do but at no point is it overwhelming.  The abundant soulful vibe and culture were something I missed in the southern beaches (although it still could be found there).  I can’t help but feel that people go to the south to relax or retire and people come to the north to live.  If that doesn’t sell you on Chiang Mai, perhaps this picture of the most ridiculous car wash I found on a side street will.

Damn, that car looks psyched.

The other thing I finally decided to do in Chiang Mai was to buy a couple shirts for my friend Phoebe.  Phoebe had been to Thailand before and once purchased a shirt covered with less than perfect English and hoping I could find something similar.  At first I likened the activity to that of having to write post cards while travelling: something nice to do but a bit of a chore.  Once I started this hunt, I became totally absorbed and intrigued by it.  I couldn’t believe how bad and entertaining the English was; it was a hipster’s wildest clothing dream come true.

This is beyond abstract.
In case you can’t read this: “It’s not beauty lotion, it’s sweat. Beautiful and doing it. Beauty is nothing without the guts to back it up. I can do anything and making history”. I love the first line because it indicates there is a real problem in Thailand of people mistaking sweat for beauty lotion.

I opted for a daintier form of travel today, a bicycle with a basket in front of the handlebars and no top bar in the frame.  I cycled around some of the remaining parts of the old city I had not yet seen.  At noon, I met up with my brother in law’s friend’s brother.  Jon had been living in Thailand for a couple years.  The day before, he said, “Meet me at Wawee Coffee shop.  I’ll be outside when you get there.  I’m about 5’6”.  I’ll be smoking.”  It’s perfect when you can identify yourself by a future action.  Tom knew a day in advance what specific action he’d be engaged in at a specific moment.  Beyond breathing and scratching my head, I have no idea what I’ll be doing tomorrow.

I identified Tom immediately and not just because he’s white, (there’s plenty of expats in Chiang Mai – 20,000 according to Jon).  He was the compact, wiry, relaxed guy in the back smoking.  He provided me some wonderful input on Thailand in general.  From what he told me and from what I read, the Thai are a people who, for the most part, have no desire to cause problems.  They desire to alleviate tension and typically don’t discuss politics (except the protesters).  “Thailand sounds like an Asian ‘Pleasantville’”, I said.

He laughed, put out a cigarette and said, “yah, in a way”.

He told me how much they love their king which is seen everywhere.  You can’t walk ten feet without seeing a picture of him.  He recommended I read the book “The King Never Smiles” which has been practically banned in Thailand.  It sheds some very interesting light on this immensely popular figure.  The book claims that the King is one of the greatest PR achievements of all time and he was “made” to unify the country.  Whether this is true or not, he does unite the country like nothing I have ever seen.  The best demonstration of this was during the protests.  The King’s birthday fell in the middle the protests.  During that weekend of his birthday, the protests stopped.  There was such a reverence of this man.  He somehow rose above politics and all that was petty.  This made him more important than the most powerful political figure in Thailand.  Jon told me that he has a lot of influence on decisions made in the country.

I’m not sure America has such a figure, someone that the entire country has unwavering love for, that is immune to all forms of politics while at the same time influencing them.  I think the closest thing we have to that is the Statue of Liberty or Captain America.

Floating lanterns being lit on the King’s birthday.
Floating lanterns away! No one really gives thought to what eventually happens to them. Hopefully they don’t land on a gas station.

That night I stopped in the North Gate Jazz Club.  There was no music when I arrived so I read and drank a Singha.  A man in his early 30’s came over and asked if he could share the table.  His name was Paul.  He was white and professionally bearded.  He wore a baseball cap that said “Montana” on it.  This cap failed to contain the early 1980’s-length hair that poured out of it.  His eyes and glasses were reminiscent of John Lennon while the lower half of his face was pure Barry Gibb.  Paul was some sort of marine biology wildlife employee (basically, he walked in the woods a lot) for five months of the year in Glacier National Park located in Montana.  The other part of the year, he was a substitute teacher and like me, was spending a month in Thailand.  The music finally started as we spoke and compared notes on our Thai experiences.  Unfortunately, the jazz evolved into that modern, free jazz that I can’t stand.

“Hey, you want to check out a really cool music bar that I was at last night?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“My sister would be displeased to see me trusting a stranger so blindly but if I get taken advantage of in some way, at least there will be music in the background.”, I thought.

We walked a mile or so out of the small city.  When we approached the area, Paul couldn’t find it at first.  “It’s down some dirt road, I think.”  Paul continued to look.  Paul was clearly not from the northeast – his wonderful inexactness told me that.  He originated from Atlanta, Georgia (probably the Atlanta that happened before all the traffic arrived).

We finally found a long disturbingly dark, dirt driveway that led off the busy road and walked down it.  “God, my sister is going to be furious with me.  Too late to turn back now.  I wonder how bad this will turn out.  Well, I’ll just have to wait until my body heals and my psych evaluation comes through positive before I see my sister again.”

About halfway down, we paused and each took a side of the driveway so that we could add to Chiang Mai’s water table.  “Peeing with strangers?  My sister will definitely change the security code on the garage door opener when she finds out.”

Paul was so excited to revisit this bar.  “Wait until you see how cool this place is!  The owner let me play a mandolin last night.”  We came out of the darkness and into the light, looking fun.  There were people sitting at a table outside that turned to look at us.  Whenever this moment happens, I am taken back to summer high school parties.  I love that same feeling of coming out of the shadows into a well-lit area in the back yard as the partygoers attempt to identify you during your approach.

When we were completely in the light, we could see the doors of the bar were shut and no music was playing.  The people at the table were the employees and they informed us the bar was closed in observance of the King’s birthday.  Paul’s heart sank.  In true “kick ‘em while he’s down” fashion, a dog ran up to Paul at that very moment and bit his ankle hard enough to draw a little blood.  We left.

“You think that dog has rabies?” I asked.

“No.  I don’t think so.  It’s funny, that dog attacked another guy last night but it had a muzzle on at the time.”

I love animals dearly but I’m fairly certain I would have kicked that thing in the face with memorable force if it bit me.  Why a business owner would have a dog around that bites people is mysterious to me.  I felt bad for Paul.  He made a valiant effort to see this place and not only was it closed but he got bit by a dog.

Back at the main road, we flagged down a tuk tuk driver that seemed to have whatever disorder it is that makes you appear drunk.  He may have been drunk but there was something more to it.  He dropped us in town.  After we got out, he awkwardly remained in the road, in the darkness.  The road was quiet at that late hour but his staying there struck me as odd.  Paul and I tried to find an open bar but found none.  We said goodbye and I walked back to my hotel.  I approached the spot where we were dropped off and in the darkness, I saw our tuk tuk driver in the same spot.  He was sloppily sitting there and burping repeatedly.  It was so strange that I loved it instantly.  He eventually saw me, made some incoherent noises, started his tuk tuk back up and departed.

In Chiang Mai, there is an Academy dedicated to the art of hugging.
I love it when white dudes visit Thailand for two weeks and dress like this.

After checking out of the hotel, I got into my tiny, white rental car.  I headed south out of Chiang Mai and then west into Mae Hong Son Loop.  This roughly 600-mile loop begins and ends in Chiang Mai and takes you through lovely mountains.  On my way to my first destination, Mae Sariang, I stopped off at some hot springs.  As I walked around the springs, a man gave me a hard-boiled egg which is the international gesture that means “you look like a guy that would eat a hard-boiled egg given to you from a stranger”.  He and his family were cooking eggs in the hot springs.  This Mae Hong Son trip was already paying huge dividends.

It’s a picture of some mountains. What did you think it was?

After spending a night in Mae Sariang, I drove north to Mae Hong Son.  My resort was five miles outside of town, in the middle of nowhere.  When I walked up to the reception desk, I saw a picture of Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt and the owner of the resort.  It was taken about five years ago when these famous creatures stayed at the resort.  Later on, I waited in the reception area until the person on duty left for a moment.  I then quickly grabbed the picture, put it next to my face and took a photo.

If Angebrad had any sense of humor, they would take a picture of their heads next to this picture.
My bungalow. Bradelina may have stayed in this very same bungalow. Mail me $5.82 and I’ll give you all the details of how great it is to be me.
Picture of rice paddies at the resort where Angbrelinad most likely made out.

After dark, I headed into town and walked around a night market.  Performing in the middle of it was a group of Thai children playing various pop songs.  Joy was the order of the night when they played “Zombie” by the Cranberries.  As the song ended, “Dog Bite” Paul from Chiang Mai walked up.  He emailed me earlier in the day and said he might go to Mae Hong Son.  We hung out for a bit and I headed back to my place but not before we made plans to meet up in Soppong in a couple days.

With outdoor gyms like this in Thailand, I don’t understand why all Thai people aren’t jacked.

The next morning, I drove north and then took a smaller road northwest to a small village named Rak Thai which was less than a kilometer from Burma and boasted a heavy Chinese influence.  My guide book warned me against doing any hiking in this area as the border was an infamous drug route.  I must say it was exciting to have some thrill involved with an international border.  My closest international back home is the American-Canadian border.  The biggest danger there may be someone trying to smuggle some condoms or maple syrup.

I walked around the reservoir that was found in the middle of the village.  On the far side of the reservoir, I saw some people manually pushing some sort of wooden ferris wheel.  This thing looked like an ancient torture device.  There were four “seats” that swung like swings that were connected to a framework that was connected to a thick wooden axle that rested on two large wooden posts on either posts.

Ferris Wheel Of Probable Death.

A somewhat burly Canadian in his late 50’s named John somehow convinced a Thai tourist to get in this absurd and probably dangerous device.  John began to push the massive wheel with the help of another lady.  The Thai gent began to climb and laugh with fear and delight as his loved ones looking on did the same.  I rushed over and helped this wheel bring its victim to the top where he paused for a moment.  It was just enough time to let out a scream and for us to run out of the way as the wheel violently spun around 315 degrees and then came back down in the opposite direction.  But this was not the scary part.  The seat he was on also swung, giving him a serious whiplash.  The Thai man laughed with such nervous power, I was convinced I needed to do this.

I got in, swallowed any doubt and could not believe the intensity of this primitive amusement.  It wasn’t until I got off and looked at the wheel closely that I realized how bold I was.  This wheel was missing somewhere in the neighborhood of 45% of its structure.  I could not believe people were still allowed to use this liability wheel.  But this captures the essence of Thais in regards to many things.

I got in, swallowed any doubt and could not believe the intensity of this primitive amusement.  It wasn’t until I got off and looked at the wheel closely that I realized how bold I was.  This wheel was missing somewhere in the neighborhood of 45% of its structure.  I could not believe people were still allowed to use this liability wheel.  But this captures the essence of Thais in regards to many things: They don’t fix things until they break.  I can’t tell you how many shady boardwalks and decks I walked on that were clearly rotting away.

The yellow, laser-precise lines I drew show you the missing pieces of the wheel. Yes…the hot, ready dude in the picture is me.

I then drove on to an even tinier village located high in the mountains that was reached by a dangerous, narrow and cartoonishly winding road that was often not wide enough for two cars to pass by each other.  At the top was a village of only one dusty road with vendors on either side selling food and other trinkets that are a parallel version of the same trinkets sold in every country that I never seem to have interest in.  To get to the pretty mountain top lake and camping area, one had to pass through this smoky, dusty market gauntlet. The position of the brilliant late afternoon sun provided a cinematic quality to everything.  The small village was rife with tourists but they were all Thai tourists, probably from Bangkok and probably happy to escape the protests and general city nonsense on this long holiday weekend.  This made me the only farang in this Thai tourist destination.

Wow, even my shadow is hot.

There was an energy and a buzz to the place but it remained relaxed.  Thais do this very well.  They all come out to have a good time but no one tries to be the big man on campus and attract attention to themselves.  They all seem to get along.  They keep things friendly, polite and light yet meaningful.  When I made it to the camping site, there were many tents set up, practically on top of each other.  I never grasped the appeal of this type of camping.  You drive for hours to get away from a city, only to place yourself in what is often a more crowded living space that offers less privacy.

Pretty lake thing in the mountain town of Pang Ung.

I got back in my car and drove to the small mountain town of Soppong.  I ended up having to do a decent amount of night driving, unfortunately.  I also lost a hubcap and dented a wheel in the process so I was a tad edgy by the time I arrived at the Soppong River Inn.  To remedy this edge, I aggressively attacked four beers with dinner.

On my way in to town, I drove through a large festival so after dinner, I poured the remainder of my fourth beer into a cup and walked into town to investigate this festival.  Although the festival was a quarter mile long and on both sides of the main road, I never made it past the first attraction the entire night.  Why?  Because the first thing I saw was an outdoor karaoke bar.  The beers I already drank had quickly found their place in my body and had effectively melted away what little inhibitions that may have kept me from going into a completely foreign environment by myself and instantly signing up for some karaoke.

I looked at a nice woman who was drinking with her friends.  She could tell I needed help so she came over to me.  “Karoake?” I asked.  She smiled, took my hand and led me over to the karaoke “conductor”.  Next to the conductor was a special table.  This table’s specialness came from the fact that it was set in the corner, apart from the other tables and because it was occupied by Soppong police officers.  One of the officers took great interest in my presence as there were few, if any, foreigners at this festival.  His name was Nong and he was 25.  Although his English was not stellar, his excitement and desire to communicate allowed us to chat to some extent.  He introduced me to another cop whose name escapes me but his face looked like a Thai Val Kilmer.  Then there was Kop (I think).  His first gesture to me was to offer me what I thought was a dark-colored joint but ended up being a small, grizzled piece of beef.

Nong and the Thai Val Kilmer.

They all drank that foul Thai whiskey that only became remotely bearable when mixed it with soda water.  Some of them rose from the table every once in a while, would disappear for 20-30 minutes and come back.  It seemed to be more than a bathroom break.  Were some of them actually on duty?  Having a drink, doing their rounds on the streets to make sure their town remained in one piece and then coming back for another round?  From what I could tell, Nong was off-duty that night but a few of them appeared to have their guns on.

I was beginning to deeply fall in love with Thailand.  This place was like the Wild West.  America likes to think they lead the way in personal freedom but I don’t think that’s the case (at least not anymore).  From what I saw (and from what others have told me), most of Asia seems to be where it’s at.  You can drive like a lunatic, do whatever else you need to do and as long as you’re not hurting anybody, no one is going to give you too much grief.  There are exceptions to this but the general vibe I got was one of a relaxed freedom.

“You like Thai lady?” Nong asked me.

“Yeah…sure, I guess they’re pretty,” I foreignly responded.

“Yes!  You like Thai lady!” Nong exclaimed with a big smile that involved every part of his face and rarely left his face.

Before I could incriminate myself any further, I was called to a haphazard, wobbly stage to sing “Easy” by the Commodores.  As I started to sing, everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up at me.  It was plain to see that they loved the fact I joined into their musical merriment.  These people could recognize a unique, funny moment and they weren’t going to let it get away without acknowledging it first.

Shortly after I returned to the table, some young pretty ladies joined us.  They showed no hesitation in drinking voraciously in front of the cops so I judged them to be in their mid-twenties.  One of the ladies named Fern snuggled right up to me.  She kept calling me beautiful, causing her friends to break into hysterics.  She grabbed my leg and leaned into me for a photo.  Was something happening here?  We all continued to drink.  I bought a few pitchers of beer that vanished faster from drinking than if we simply knocked them over.

A lady named Fern and I.

It was time to call in some heavy artillery.  I ordered this obnoxious device called “The Beer Tower”.  About a third the way through the tower, the ladies got up to use the bathroom/woods.  Kop leaned over to me, “You see her tomorrow too!  Festival keep going!”  Nong smiled and we all laughed.

Twenty minutes passed.  “Damn,” I thought, “these small Thai ladies have huge bladders.”

Soon we understood they were not coming back.

“I’m so sorry!” Nong apologized.

“It’s okay, Nong, I’m used to it!”

Ladies or no ladies, this would not deter us from drinking.  I had a beer tower that needed to be climbed and without the help of the ladies, it was up to me to complete this large task.  God, I felt like Atlas.  It had been years since I was drunk like this.  Somehow, I was sober enough to sing “You Are The Sunshine of My Life” by Stevie Wonder and “Love On The Rocks” by Neil Diamond.

To give you an idea of the scale of this tower of lighter fluid, the water bottle to the right is about one liter.

I unwisely ate some spicy noodles, bid my new police friends goodbye, spoke of my return tomorrow night and floated home.  With the noise and distraction of the karaoke bar gone, I was able to hone in on my foggy disposition.  What is usually a smooth, seamless, continuous image as my eyes take in my surroundings was now a bunch of unconnected, staccato visions that my brain tried to make sense of.  Once back at the hotel, I did something I had not done in over eighteen years.  I threw up (from drinking).  It was more humbling than a year’s supply of Sunday church services.  It was great.

After five hours of shifty sleep, I woke at 7:15 AM to the sounds of chickens.  Forty-five minutes later, I could hear the festival starting back up and what sounded like distant karaoke singing.  These people were machines.  They drank, festival-ed and karaoked for five days straight.  I don’t know what god they were paying homage to but this god must have been happier and more proud than an ivy league parent.

I ate a great breakfast.  Part of its greatness came from the fact that I managed to keep it all down.  I went back to my room and laid down but shortly after, I heard a knock at the door.  It was Paul with his John Lennon eyes and his Barry Gibb beard.  We chatted a bit, enjoyed the perfect river view outside my bungalow and drove over to Mae Lana to do some caving.  Paul hikes for work so he’s in good shape.  I’m in good shape too so I was looking forward to a powerful cave hike with our guides.  The entire cave was a whopping seven miles long with a river running through its entirety.  We were only going to go in about one to two miles.

I know, it’s hard to even notice the stunning river view as seen from the back of my room when I’m in the picture. I’m sorry.

Unfortunately, an Austrian man in his late 50’s and a German man in his early 60’s joined us.  It wasn’t  the age thing that was the problem or their personalities.  It was other things.  First, they smoked and drank a little too much (not on the cave hike).  They were not overweight but they didn’t seem to exercise.  Second, they both wore flip flops!  Before entering the cave, we all knew we would be climbing over rocks and wading through waist-deep water.  Good footwear was essential.  These two factors really slowed these guys down (and Paul and I).  Perhaps this wasn’t the worst thing in the world as it forced me to really examine the cave itself.  There were amazing cave formations like I’ve never seen in my life and giant open areas that were at least 60 feet tall.

But there was a third thing that made the presence of the Austrian gent a bit grim.  He decided caving would best be done in a Speedo.  So to review, this man was awkwardly scrambling through a dark cave in flip flops and a Speedo as if someone told him that was the way to the French Riviera.  To make things even grimmer, he spent most of the hike right in front of me so I had to stare at these long, white, pasty legs that appeared to be born of the cave.

Stalag-whatever they’re called.
Caves are gross.
Still not grosser than the Austrian dude in a Speedo.

That night, I took Paul down to the outdoor karaoke bar.  Paul was enthralled.  Like me, this is exactly the kind of experience he looks for while travelling.  I started off with “Stuck On You” by Lionel Richie.  Perhaps there’s no connection but soon after I educated this small Thai town on Lionel Richie’s country tones, some of the young ladies from the previous night joined us again at the “Cop Table”.  Paul tried talking to one or two of these feminine delights but was limited by a lack in a lingual common ground.  He shifted his conversational efforts over to a couple of the cops.  This chat bore some interesting fruit.

Paul addressed me in a slight southern tone, “Uh, yeah dude, I’m pretty sure these girls are like sixteen or seventeen.”

“What?!” I was shocked.

“Yup, looks like you dodged a bullet, man.”

By the way, that expression seems to bear more weight when it’s backed by a southern accent.  I’m not sure I would have tried to close any deals last night but it still made me shiver.  The fact that the drinking age in Thailand is 20 and these ladies were drinking with cops, I thought they were in their 20’s.

I went back up and sang “Easy” again and then “New York, New York”.  The crowd was really into it this night.  A drunk woman and man were moved to the point that they approached the stage while I was singing and gave me their half-consumed drinks.  Another young man that was supersonically drunk and wearing a red sweatshirt that said “Cautio” (”Caution” misspelled, I presumed) on the back came over to me at least 20 times to shake my hand.  He was an odd, spooky chap that was also trying to get me to dance.  The cops paid him no mind but their patience wore thin and they kicked him out of the karaoke bar about five times before it finally worked.  What a gift this all was.

I could not imagine a more logical place for the image of a cowboy.

The next day, Paul and I drove back to Chiang Mai.  We enjoyed some first class street food and I said goodbye to this agreeable man.  I then drove to the Chiang Mai airport and began my four-flight, 40-hour journey home.

The End

I don’t know.

Portugal, Spain, and Sweden 2011

Monday, December 19th

After spending 10 months hunting the elusive comedy career yeti in the London jungles, I decided to end my campaign and head back to Boston.  I had heard rumors of this beast and even caught a brief glimpse of her on top of Audition Mountain but I had not the patience or mountain climbing equipment necessary to continue my pursuit. But before my return to Boston, I made it my duty to perform a month tour of Portugal, Spain, Sweden, Florida and then onto Boston.  And by Florida, I don’t mean the sensational vacation destination of the town Florida, Massachusetts.

On the day of my departure, on the way to the airport, I met my friend Howard for tea at the café called Eat near the Holburn tube station in London.  Howard has produced a few of my videos and a radio show pilot that I was neatly a part of.  Although it was cold and raw outside, the front double doors were open.  After obtaining permission from an employee, I closed the doors but the well-dressed, coldly attractive manager lady promptly opened them again.  She repeated this action again after someone else closed the doors.  As the chill barged into the café, I began to suspect that this café was a training ground for James Bond movie villains that would learn to be immune to pain and suffering.

Howard and I left the café and gave each other a hug that was heterosexually balanced with a gloved handshake.  I then made my way to Gatwick Airport and boarded a plane to Faro, Portugal which, per my instructions, located itself on the southern coast of Portugal.  Once in the Faro airport, I took a bus into the city and to Hotel Sol Algarve, my elaborate camping tent for the next two nights.  I entered my tiny room that seemed to be intended for 2-dimensional people or small ghosts.

Eager to eat, I recklessly left the hotel without a shower and found a nice restaurant by the name of Tasca Do Ricky.  Upon entering, I saw only one group eating at a table.  As I walked further, one of the men eating stood up from the table and approached me.  I was surprised and cautiously psyched that a random customer was so vested in my Tasca Do Ricky experience that he decided to show me around.  It turned out that I had won the Tasca Do Ricky lottery since this was Ricky himself.

Winning the TDR lottery was no small thing.  As I was the only customer, Ricky made my face sample so much food (half of which was not charged for).  Before my main entrée of grilled sea bass, he peppered me with bread and olives, tasty carrots, sardines and after dinner was complete, he gave me some of his wife’s homemade chocolate.  Throughout the meal, Ricky and I chatted like chat champs.  When I told him I was a comic, he told me some joke that a Portuguese comedian did that involved comparing his guy device to a cinnamon stick (whatever it takes, people).  So basically, Ricky was a walking, talking high-5.

I settled up with Ricky and wandered the quiet streets of this small city like a hooker that is terrible at attracting customers.  I then returned to the hotel and did the sleep thing.

Tuesday, December 20th

Some days you awake and today was no different.  It all started with a free continental breakfast on the ground floor.  No morning eating awards were in danger of being won by this continental cruise.  And the sign that told me that all food must eaten in that room had little effect on me for a ham sandwich and apple awesomely made their way into my pocket, soon to become “lunch”.

I was taught by the best at a young age to exploit buffets.  When driving to Florida, my father liked to get on the road right away in the morning without even entertaining the thought of breakfast.  It made me think he was made of some strange matter that only needed coffee and maybe a vodka and tonic if there was time.  When finally we did stop for food, we would stop at an all-day breakfast buffet where my five older siblings would instruct me on the art of maximizing your buffet experience: putting biscuits in purses, fruit in pockets, pancakes in mouths….it was guerrilla eating at its finest.

I then walked around the city and purchased some necklaces for my little nieces.  My thought was to tell them I got the necklaces from a lovely princess I met near a mountain lake in Portugal and that the necklaces give you the power to slam dunk.  I haven’t made any decisions on this so this might change.

From there, I took the bus to Faro Beach and walked a couple miles down a long thin peninsula.  On my walk up the beach, I passed by a guy that was taking pictures of a girl dressed in a tiny sweater, a thong and rubber boots.  She would jog down the beach 30 feet while the fella took pictures, walk back and repeat.  No matter what the situation: studying in the library, a sex scandal, farming after heavy rains…this lady’s outfit had it covered.  I’m not going to lie, she looked good in her thong, classy even but it was those rubber boots that made her appear to be an alien space traveler who came from the Slut System.

On my way back, I walked along a boardwalk that took me by tiny residential cottages and shacks, many of which were a mile from the road, making this the place where pizza delivery men go to die.  Further down, I stumbled upon yet another photo shoot on the beach but this one was of a fully clothed young couple in love.  It was as if some wholesome Christians decided to protest the alien, rubber-booted slut.  Pictures were taken while they lie in the sand and sometimes touched.  The whole scene made me never want to fall in love again.

Viewing a flamboyantly sexual photo shoot followed by the repressed Christian rock photo shoot left me a hungry man so it was off to Tasca Do Ricky for one last meal.  This time I ordered a dish whose name escapes me but I’ll describe it now: a sandwich filled with chorizo sausage, beef, and ham, topped with an egg, coated in cheese and resting in a pond of some illicit gravy with a side of fries.  When I was done, I felt the need to go to confession.  With every bite, I was half expecting the devil to handcuff me to a supernova.  I finished up, said “peace out” to the Ricker and enjoyed a professional-strength sleep.

Wednesday, December 21st

Holy crap!  The last day on Earth!  We’re all going to die like gnats on a light bulb…oh wait, that’s next year.  Once calm, I breakfasted and boarded a bus to Sevilla.  In Sevilla, I checked into a room in Pension Vegara that was somehow smaller than my one in Faro.

Just like my visit in 2001, I decided to stay in the maze-like, charming neighborhood of Santa Cruz where roads are more like very narrow hallways, sometimes not more than four feet wide.  I then walked to a car rental agency to pick up my car and drop it off at a parking garage because that’s what I like to do: rent cars in cities with tiny, undrive-able streets and pay to park them in a garage.  Silly things aside, I planned to leave Sevilla the next day and actually saved $100 by renting the car a day earlier…so lay off!

I then walked around some more, stopping at small store to buy a Romeo y Julieta No. 3 Cuban cigar and smoked while deciding to trade my walk in for a stroll.  Eventually I ended up in a restaurant named Catalina and took down some tapas that were so good; they made me like people again.  Afterwards, I sat in the corner of a small bar with a beer and wrote these words like some kind of tiny, tortured, aspiring writer.  Sleep.

Thursday, December 22nd

This morning I ate some breakfast at La Decana.  Upon sitting down, I noticed a very repetitive, annoying sound.  I looked at the TV and there was live coverage of the Christmas Lottery.  With most lotteries, some stiff chooses a number, somebody wins and you move on with your life.  With this lottery, there were two enormous cage balls with several hundred balls.  Two children would remove a couple balls and sing the numbers in a simple melody and repeat this procedure until the little stinker’s lungs gave out and two new children were installed for this same purpose.  Not only was there a large audience watching this event but it went on all day and was being broadcast on multiple TV and radio stations.  I don’t know what the prize was but I hope it was not having to listen to that repetitive child number chant ever again.

I then hopped in the car and drove south towards Vejer de la Frontera.  On the way, I get to see something that perfectly captures the idea of how Spaniards are more laid back than most.  Ten feet from the highway was a guy taking a piss.  The great thing was that had he moved an extra five feet away from the highway, he would have been hidden from view.  His spy-like method of concealment was merely turning his back to the oncoming cars.  Good thing there weren’t any Roman emperors driving down the road behind him or that show of a turned back could have gotten him killed.

Soon after seeing the one-man rest stop, I made it to Vejer de la Frontera.  I checked into the lovely and yes, cute small hotel or “casa rural” named Casa Leonor.  One of the owners, Paco, showed me to my room and looked exactly like a Boston comic named Chris Pennie but the Spanish version complete with a mustache and a small triangular patch of hair that clung victoriously beneath his mouth.  This small patch of hair looked like a yield sign and that’s exactly what one must do when presented with such a mustache: you yield to the stache or get run down like a golf cart pulling onto a highway right in front of Optimus Prime who’s in 18-wheeler mode doing 120 mph.

After rapping like a native with Paco.  I walked around this absurdly picturesque whitewashed town that was perched on a hill and full of tiny streets and alleys.  I went to the top of Casa de Mayorazgo and savored some Top 40 views of the town and surrounding areas.  Back at Casa Leonor, I wrote my words with the TV on and let me tell you, Texas Walker Ranger is just as lethal when it’s dubbed in Spanish (more so even).  I also think that Chuck Norris was given a brand new pair of jeans for every scene.  They look like an artist’s perfect rendering of jeans done with a brand new navy blue magic marker…flawless and crisp.

I then erratically walked around like a ball in a pinball machine, looking for a place to eat.  I found a very average place that gave me bread (which I didn’t ask for) and charged me for it (which is very beat).  All of this equals a very scientific and dependable equation for “no tip”.

Afterwards, I went to a great theater/performance hall next to my hotel to take in some flamenco Christmas music.  There were a large ring of musicians that took turns singing in the traditional flamenco style.  Another noteworthy element to the night was the older hombre walking around with a gray mustache and massive yield sign on his chin.  In the midst of watching this passionate display of Jesus’ birthday music and yielding to the great gray tache, I struck up a conversation with a baker named Juan Ramon.  As great as the chat was, the peak of the experience was the combined Flamenco clapping that Juan Ramon and I executed.  We parted ways and I made it sleep time.

Friday, December 23rd

This morning, Paco made me a nice simple breakfast and helped me locate a few points of interest on my map.  He also indicated a great place to watch the sunset.  Only in Spain could a man tell you such things without it being a challenge to your masculinity.

I said thank you and walked over to a nearby “castle”.  After seeing a sign for the castle by an entrance, I went into a small courtyard and encountered no castle employees or any information on what I was looking at.  And from what I could tell, there were also entrances into people’s homes in this same courtyard.  Eventually I located a sign pointing me up some stairs so I walked up and found a bunch of crappy rooms, some of which were being repaired by workers.  The rooms looked like people had lived there anywhere between one month to 30 years ago. One room literally looked like a crack house.  There were a few pieces of old furniture carelessly placed throughout the space, a couple mattresses, a ladder and a TV so old, it looked like the original knights of the castle watched the 1284 Olympics on it.  Indeed, it was the strangest castle I’ve ever seen and made me understand why we don’t build them anymore.

But this is something so fun about Spain or at least this town.  As with Casa de Mayorazgo, it’s all so casual.  There’s little distinction between museum and someone’s private residence.  A small sign indicates there is a historical thing you can see on the premises, you go in and you end up in someone’s living room.

From there I headed over to my car.  As I walked down a tiny walkway in the old city, a man heading towards began to laugh.  I was the only other person there so I wondered if my fly was open or there was bird crap that was about to strike my awesome head.  Instead, he said, “¡Mira!” (Look!) and pointed down an alley that was only visible from his perspective.  There were three dogs hanging out, two of which appeared to be having sex for the first time in their lives.  They looked stuck together and pretty bummed out about it.  If they weren’t different breeds, I would have thought they were Siamese twin dogs.  I told the man that I was too young to see this (but in Spanish since I’m blisteringly international).  All that was left to do was to walk away from this unwanted dog sex so I did so and stepped into a market that was managed by a guy that looked exactly like David Cassidy (haircut included) but again, the Spanish version.

Once in my car, I drove seven miles south to the coast and walked around the desirable Trafalgar Beach.  While I sat at the point and ate/scribbled, a fog rolled in quickly, brushing my figure like a pickpocket and soon rolled away.  I checked my pockets and fortunately this frisky fog did not steal my wallet.  I then drove over to Palmar Beach, opting to walk in the sand without shoes like a poet.

When I returned to Casa Leonor, I showered, took in a few precious moments of Texas Walker Ranger, ate a meal nearby and walked over to Bar Topolino to watch some more Flamenco Christmas music.  Many of the town’s locals were standing just outside of the bar, around a fire while a large group sang, clapped their hands and played guitar.  Various people took turns dancing, making it a very special thing for a red-bearded gringo like myself to take in.  Beginning to feel like a Christmas voyeur, I decided to head home where I entered a final state of relaxation via the powers of “Nuns On The Run” (in Spanish).

Saturday, December 24th

This is my 38th Christmas on this handsome planet and the very first not spent in the same house I grew up in.  Although a touch sad (especially after my mother told me she came to the same realization after putting my Snoopy decoration on the tree that I made in kindergarten), I was looking forward to experiencing Christmas in a different place.  After breakfast and a long chat with Paco, I hit the road towards Zahara de los Atunes.  I walked around the small town and stumbled upon a large outdoor tent where the locals watched a live Christmas production composed of people dressed up in various Disney characters.  From what I could tell, the voices were prerecorded and played over a large sound system; a sound system large enough to support Santa’s big voice that sounded exactly like Jabba the Hut (HA HA HAAAA…FELIZ NAVIDAD, SOLO!!).

Next was Alanterra where I scaled a steep hill to a taster’s choice lookout point and lighthouse.  This action caused my body to heat up and I wanted to protect my forehead from the sun so I removed my shirt and wrapped it around my head, becoming the urban turban legend that you’ll someday hear about and wonder, “Is that true?  It sounds too crazy to be true.”  It’s true, folks.

Tarifa was the following stop whose historic, old district was much like Vejer but not as awesome since I was not staying there.  Although it was sunny, it was not clear enough to see Africa, only nine miles away.  This further proved my conspiracy theory that Africa is indeed an urban turban legend.  So off I was, back towards Vejer but made a stop at a tiny village named Bolonia where I sat by the sea and scribbled.  Chaperoning my writings were the town kitties and the town dog that attacked me with love.  All of these creatures orbited around me like canine/feline satellites.

I was also attacked by the smell of pot which, in Spain, is a smell more common than the smell of the Dewey Decimal System in a library.  As I walked down the beach, the dog followed me so I decided he needed a name.  I chose Menudo.  I’m pretty sure he liked it.  The two of us walked over to some Roman ruins that were only 60 yards from the ocean.  Unfortunately, these neat ruins that even included an old theater had a fence around the entire area.  However, Menudo was able to find a Menudo-sized hole in the fence that he exploited vigorously.  I initially wouldn’t have taken Menudo for such an ardent archaeologist but he seemed determined to examine (and probably pee on) the site.  Menudo and I sadly parted ways and in attempts to fill this new emotional void, I watched the sunset and made my way back to Vejer.

With all of the intention of going out to witness the midnight Christmas celebrations in town, I showered, read, watched a little “Groundhog Day” in Spanish but then fell asleep like a dream weaver that had woven too many dreams in one day.

Sunday, December 25th

I realize I didn’t have a chimney in my room nor did Santa have my forwarding address but I still expected to see some presents from the fat guy.  Fortunately, Paco was able to deliver some edible gifts in the shape of breakfast accompanied by some chat.  All of these chats were in Spanish so my mind had to be sharp like a chat ninja (a ninja that kills with a vocabulary blade, grammatical throwing stars, pronunciation punches and grenades).

Upon Paco’s recommendation, I decided to take a certain road south that lead to a desired seaside location.  I realized the road would get a tad rustic but I did not realize one would need an Imperial Walker to traverse it (if you don’t know what an Imperial Walker is, think of a huge robot horse that’s 15 stories high and doesn’t exist).

Somehow my car held together and I made it to a small parking lot where I left my car and walked along a path on top of a sea cliff.  On my way, I came across a guy staring at a cactus.  He pointed at the brush around the cactus that had been cut back and told me this was to allow this somewhat rare cactus to grow.  He was clearly psyched about this cactus and just as I was about to make fun of him, I remembered I’m a 38-year old guy that still watches the original Transformers cartoons.  Besides, it’s great to see someone stand up for the little guy, even if it is a cactus.  I finished my walk and returned to Vejer.

After napping like a Born Again Napper, I had an extremely mediocre tapas experience at some small bar.  With a partially nourished body, I decided to completely nourish my soul at an 8:00pm mass at an old church.  Although I didn’t understand all of the words, the mass was similar to any Catholic mass I’ve attended in the US.  Just when I thought I got through a normal mass, something slightly odd happened.  The priest went behind the altar and came back down with a fake, golden baby that looked like a rich, Victorian child’s toy.  Do you remember the lady in Goldfinger that was killed because she was coated in gold and suffocated?  Imagine if she gave birth to a baby right before she died and you would have some idea of what this baby looked like.

People lined up and kissed this baby, one by one, on its lower stomach.  As much as I love to kiss things, I stood off to the side and behind a pillar but I lingered for a moment to make sure this was happening.  After watching 20 or so people kiss the Goldfinger baby, I decided it was indeed happening.

The only logical thing to do was to drink some wine so I brought a bottle to the kitchen of Casa de Leonor and shared some chat and wine with Paco’s brother in law, Gustavo.  This was followed by sleep.

Monday, December 26th

I enjoyed my last breakfast chat with Paco, settled the bill and drove north through some very gnarly mountain roads.  I eventually arrived in a small town in the mountains, known as Grazalema which is also the name of the national park I was now in.  The town is perched up high, giving its peeps superb views.  Behind the town are peaks of rock, making the town look like something, as my guide book noted, from Lord of the Rings.  Perhaps it was time to put my Hugo Weaving forehead to use, become Elrond the elf and tell everyone in the town that we have to leave since we’re moving to a magical place to live forever (if this doesn’t make sense, just imagine more stuff that doesn’t exist).

After checking into the Casa do Piedras, I walked around the town and my ears were again touched by something that seems to be quite common in southern Spain and that is traditional music being played over prison camp-styled speakers in the plazas or older parts of town.  All the speakers and music are the same so I assume this is some town or government initiative.  Perhaps there’s subliminal messaging in the music that orders you to be awesome.  Well, it’s clearly working (I’m saying that I’m awesome).

When I returned from dinner, I decided to read my book in a common area by the fire.  Next to me was a German family composed of a couple in their late 50’s and two fellas in their early 20’s, sitting around a coffee table in comfortable, living room type chairs.  The weird thing was that the mother was reading a book in German to her husband and boys that were all warm and cozy underneath blankets. I was as if the power went out a year ago and reading became the last resort for family entertainment.  The fact that this intimate family moment was happening in such a common area made me feel like I was watching a play.  If all of this wasn’t enough to take me to 1930’s Germany, between all the German words I didn’t know, I often caught the words “Hitler”, “Stalin” and “nein”.

While this was going on, I was reading Nelson Mandela’s autobiography while drinking some red wine.  And the funny thing was that I was reading a page where Nelson mentioned Hitler, helping create a perfect storm of a situation that would never happen again no matter what scientists or weathermen say.  All this action made Nelson and I quite tired so we slept (separately).

Tuesday, December 27th

After eating, I left the hotel and got to enjoy, for the last time, the weirdness in the front outdoor foyer which was a triple car seat from a caravan.  I have absolutely no idea why they would want this to be the first thing that their guests see but it gave the place a great post-apocalyptic flare.

I then drove through the towns tiny, narrow streets that gave one the feeling of being in the motorcycle game in Tron where you weren’t sure when you might run into a wall and perish.  Making it through, I pulled into a parking lot and hiked through some mountains for a couple of hours because it’s what my body told me it wanted.

Next, I drove 18 miles east to the neat town on a massive plateau known as Ronda.  In 2001, I traveled here so it was lovely to be back.  What was not lovely was the 100 Euro ($135) ticket I received for making an illegal left turn which did not seem to be posted.  I explained to the cop that I was lost, trying to make a U-turn and didn’t realize I couldn’t turn left but he wasn’t having it.  I didn’t fight him on it too much since he almost cited me for not having an international driving permit which technically you don’t need in Spain but if a cop wants to be a record-breaking douche about it, he or she can be.  Fortunately he backed off that point and required me to pay the fine immediately in cash so I had to follow him to an ATM, get 100 Euros and hand it to him.

Thank God I don’t smoke or smuggle weed since this experience could have been a hamster’s heartbeat away from the film “Midnight Express”.  I looked at my Nelson Mandela book and he said, “Cops are pretty shitty, huh?  Welcome to my world.”

Surprisingly, I wasn’t too pissed off about it and checked into my hotel.  To lift my spirits, I visited the same, great, little tea café I visited almost 11 years ago named Tetería Al Zahra and savored the same delicious Jamaican tea.  I highly recommend this jazzy brew whose components are vanilla tea, cinnamon and some sort of coffee liqueur.

Then, like a baby stroller with the brakes off, I strolled through the newer part of the city and over to the old where streets were narrow and touristy.  Between the old and new city is a massive 100-200 meter gorge with a river at the bottom.  The gorge averages 80 meters wide and is connected by three bridges, making it a fantastic place to dispose of heretics and salesmen.  I then ate lots of for $11, went home, researched my next travelling moves and slept.

Wednesday, December 28th

After eating a sandwich at a food place, I walked along the part of the city that lies along the edge of the cliff and savored this city’s ability to chill in such a precarious spot.  I then maneuvered my car west along some wild mountain roads that made me feel like a goat on wheels.

My plan was to stay in a town called Alora for the night so once I arrived, I walked around this town that was perched high on a hill.  On my walk, I climbed a hill to view an old castle.  In the small parking lot that provided a lookout point, there was a moldy old man that said many unintelligible things to me.  At one point, he pointed down the steep hill and over to a small settlement and said, “¡Discothèque!”  A dirty smile came over his face and he said “niñas” (girls).  As he kept repeating “discothèque” and “niñas”, he hit the back of his ears and made some odd motion with his right hand in front of his stomach.  He basically looked like a really perverted third base coach that was telling you to go for home and then have sex with something.

I’m not sure if it’s a government initiative to install a dirty old man in every tourist attraction parking lot whose function is to point you towards statutory rape opportunities but if it is, somebody may want to put that on the chopping block first when budget cuts are next discussed.

Perhaps it was that I felt nothing drawing me to this lovely town or perhaps it was my encounter with the rape sensei, but I decided to continue driving north 12 miles to a small village next to a dam in a valley, known as El Chorro.  I checked into a very unique hotel named Complejo Turístico Rural La Garganta which was once a flour mill.

My room was cooler than a go-kart.  It had a neat living area with a small spiral staircase leading up to my bedroom and bathroom.  The ceiling went all the way up to the roof, giving me that well-deserved cathedral effect that has eluded me up until now.  And the view was classy enough to take home to meet your parents: it lead down to a reservoir and accompanying dam and then up to some beefy mountains that clearly didn’t take guff from anybody.  The only thing that spoiled the view slightly were the heavy duty power lines that ran throughout the area that slightly diminished the beauty like a few acne scars on the face of a prom queen or a few gray chest hairs in a proud sea of brown on the chest of a youthful man-champ (don’t ask me how I know).

I then got back into the car and drove up a mountain that delivered a high-5 of a view and looked directly down on my hotel, giving me the sensation of a person that was in a hotel, died, started to ascend to heaven, looked back down and said, “Hey, that’s the hotel I was staying in before I died.”

I then cleaned my figure, wrote some words and looked for food which was found at a casual bar that was also part of a camping ground.  I ate my meal right between a wood burning stove and a couple guys playing pool because that makes no sense.  I couldn’t decide which thing warmed me more.  At one point, I had to move my chair so a guy could take a shot.  The only thing that could provide the perfect nightcap to this was watching a couple of “The Simpsons” episodes in Spanish.  It was at this point that the dream stork delivered a sleep baby to me.

Thursday, December 29th

I went back to my camping ground bar for breakfast and then drove east to Torcal Park to witness some strange rock formations.  I then headed south, then east, then north and then east again so I would have something to write about that would annoy my readers (and by readers, I mean Microsoft Word spellcheck).  The other reason I traveled like this was because it was the best way to reach my next destination, Capileira.  With an elevation of 1400 meters, Capileira is a tiny little village on the side of the Sierra Nevadas Mountains in a region known as Las Apuljarras.  I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to kick ass at this altitude but that was not the case.  Soon I settled into a simple hotel that, besides smelling like pesticide, wasn’t too bad.  Making up for the smell was the little veranda and stellar mountain view.

After walking around the village, looking for dinner, I decided to eat in the restaurant located in my hotel.  As I sat down to write in the bar area, I looked to my right and saw a beautiful rotating rack of CD’s for sale.  Although they were the kind of CD’s you would find in a vacant apartment, they were asking $10 each for them.  Most of the covers looked like the type you would find on a blog that is dedicated to crappy album covers.

This CD tower of power was next to a TV that sat on top of a freezer filled with various ice cream treats.  Next to that were two kegs of beer.  So basically, the purpose of this corner of the room was to someday explain to aliens why humanity failed after we went extinct.  Hanging from the ceiling were about 20 cured pig legs for sale.  Even though this is common in southern Spain, it’s still pretty damn weird and is probably the initial reason for vegetarianism.  And then…bed.

Friday, December 30th

This morning, I walked across the street to a small restaurant and made it happen with some breakfast.  And yet again, I was given a tiny tea.  I don’t know why, but every time I order a tea in Spain, I receive a thimble of liquid.  If two GI Joe action figures can’t bathe comfortably in my tea, it’s too small.

I checked out of my hotel and did a slammin’ five-mile hike that took me north of the village.  The halfway point was a tiny deserted collection of houses and buildings, tucked away in a gorge by a river that was built in the 1950’s for people working at the hydroelectric station located right next to the village.  Oddly enough, I didn’t see any Decepticons filling up any energon cubes which is weird because if you watch the cartoon, Megatron is a big fan of hydroelectric energy.  Wow, that’s two Hasbro references in one day – just trying to get them out before 2011 expires like some sad, neglected boloney in a convenience store.

After the hike, I bought some castanets for my nieces which will be well-appreciated by my sister and brother in law as they try to enjoy some quiet.  I then carried on south to the coast and then east to the small beach town of San José which is located in the National Park, Cabo de Gata.

I felt a tad like a tumbleweed (or a tumbledude) blowing through this semi-occupied town.  Without all the resort humans, all that remained was a skeletal crew of locals.  I checked into a hotel and walked around the town.  By the beach, I passed by a guy playing guitar for money with almost no one around.  As he played “All Along The Watchtower”, I wondered why he chose this sparsely populated town to play for money.  Maybe he played guitar for the government, had a great career playing guitar next to a toll booth coin catcher thing (which is great because people used to throw so much change into his guitar case by accident) but then he pissed off the wrong person and got reassigned to a ghost town.  Either that or he simply had bad judgment.

I then popped into a restaurant with, as always, Nelson.  He chose to remain in book form and watched me eat an okay meal and drink beer.  Back to the room it was for me for some of “The Housekeeper” in Spanish where I’m almost certain I saw Boston comedian Tony V briefly portray a bus driver.  Tony V is a very funny chap that was on an episode of Seinfeld and on the Discovery Channel so if you don’t know him, you should consider getting a life transplant.  I then slept (in English).

Saturday, December 31st

The last day of 2011 began with two fried eggs, bread and tea (just as I always envisioned it would).  I boarded my car which, by the way, has an engine so weak that it isn’t measured in horsepower.  Rather, it is measured in ant power or AP.  My Corsa is about 10 AP (bad).  I drove south to see some fairly secluded beaches known as Los Genoveses and El Monsul.

I then headed north to an old, semi-abandoned mining town called Rodalquilar.  The houses and mining structures were from the 1950’s and were in serious decay.  It was so funny to me how tourists were allowed to walk through the crumbling concrete structures and down cracked stairways.  One tiny little fart of an earthquake and this place would fall like a house made of wet crackers.

I carried on north through another beach town known as Agua Amarga where I saw the oddest RV vehicle of all time called the Tanis II by Steyr Puch Pinzgauer.  It looked like a lunar vehicle from the movie Moonraker.  It even had two rear axles for apparently no other reason than it looks really cool.  About 30 minutes later, I arrived in Mojácar, a cute old town atop of a hill that I also visited in 2001.

I settled into a room in a tiny hotel called Mamabels that had French doors which provided an electric view of the Mediterranean Sea.  It was Mamabel herself that showed to me her room.  Her real name is Isabel but when you remove “Isa” and add a Mama to the mix, stuff happens.  Mamabel was residing in the age territory known as “late 60’s to early 70’s” but still had a sense of style about her.  My retro-hottie radar indicated that she most likely took center stage in the Hot Show back in the day.  And I could be wrong but I could have sworn I smelled a faint trace of cannabis in the air.  Mamabel’s raspy voice convinced me she was smoking something.

After re-acquainting myself with the town, I went into one of the very few restaurants open.  The name was Rincón de Embrujo and I literally had the place to myself.  The agreeable owner, Antonio, was in the midst of making a meal for his sons but he was more than happy to personally make me a very tasty meal and converse with me about Mojácar, ladies and other crucial matters.  Upon finishing, I thanked Antonio for such a custom, unique dining experience and returned to my room.

It was about 10pm and the beginning stages of Mamabel’s private New Year’s Eve party downstairs.  I was not warned of this and when I decided to sleep, I was challenged to do so as music began to crank on a sound system that would upset the dead.  It was a professional seamless dance mix dating from the 80’s through early 90’s.

Before I go on, I need to tell you about Spanish pillows.  No matter the width of the bed, there is only one pillow that matches the width of the bed.  So the few times I’ve had a queen-sized bed, my head was resting on a very long loaf of pillow.  I’m usually not a fan of this pillow design but on this noisy night, it proved useful since I wrapped it around my head and achieved just enough sound proofing to sleep through Mamabel’s bash that went past four in the morning.

Sunday, January 1st

Anyways, after I woke and left to secure breakfast, I passed Mamabel who apologized for the noise.  I couldn’t believe this older kitty still had the powers to party like a teen (great name for a song, by the way – Party Like a Teen).  I then began to wonder if she was as old as I thought.  Maybe her partying habits made her appear older than she really was.  Maybe she was only 30.  Maybe I should hit on her.

I decided not to hit on her and did the next best thing which was eat some healthy snacks in Plaza Nueva while enjoying some great views and more stories about Nelson’s life.  I’ve noticed something about Nelson.  He just blah blah blah’s on about his life but he never stops to listen to what I’m going through.  I know he’s just a book but he should pay more attention to my life passages.

This was followed by some more strolling around and a small lunch at Rincón de Embrujo with Antonio again.  It was clear to me that today would be a lazy day so I napped, read some more and went back out to eat again.

This evening’s selection was a small establishment called Le Sartén which means “the frying pan” and this frying pan was frying up nothing but British ex-patriots.  The owners, Chris and Toni, were both from England as well and served up good simple food for low prices.  On my way out, I ended up getting into a chat with a gentleman from Manchester, England by the name of David.  He kindly bought me a couple beers which is always the right thing for anyone to do.  I asked him about the ex-patriot bar that I visited in 2001 called Tír na nÓg.  He told me it changed hands and that sadly, one if it’s more colorful patrons named Indy, passed away.

Indy was from Indiana and when I spoke with him 11 years ago, he wove some wild stories about gun-running, the CIA and other Tom Clancy novel-inspiring things.  These ex-patriot bars, especially in a small town like Mojácar, are always more entertaining than laser tag.  I always find that they’re basically like a living room for a small, tight community; a community that is living in a self-imposed state of isolation and loves talking to other English-speaking people.

Then there was Jimmy from Ireland/Scotland (who was psyched I was from Boston), Juliette who claimed to be David’s daughter (even though she wasn’t), her man Ron (complete with killer stache) and Paul (who was Irish even though he had a British accent).  Later on, a dude from Norway came in who, when he was in neutral state with his mouth closed, looked like a normal handsome gent but when his mouth opened, crazy teeth and wild words were the order of the day.  Once he discovered I was American, he asked if I could tell my government to stop messing with Norway or the world or something to that effect.  His drunken state and teeth that looked like a heavily bombed village made it hard for me to concentrate on what he was actually saying.

Paul began to intellectually tool on the guy so I figured it was a good time to make an exit.  I bid farewell to my new friends and headed towards Plaza Nueva in search of something sweet to eat.  I found a restaurant that was in the process of closing but two young Romanian waiters named John and Vasi were kind enough to stay open in order to equip me with a fine mint tea, an extra-large portion of tiramisu and a complimentary shot of Amaretto.  When finished with this effective nightcap of drink, food chat, I thanked John and Vasi.

So it was a great night, one in which I couldn’t go wrong.  Even though most everything was closed, I somehow found the right places that were waiting to give me exactly what I wanted.  I guess this is how Jedi’s always feel when they vacation.  Sleep.

Monday, January 2nd

After waking and breakfasting, I drove north towards Alicante which would be my exit point from Spain.  On the way, I stopped off at a natural park know as Sierras Espuña which is a tidy collection of small mountains.  Hoping to go on a noteworthy hike, I drove all around this stupid park finding no maps or information points so I was denied a hike that could rival my rugged nature.  To make matters lamer, once I reached the highest, deepest point in the mountains, my car started making a strange banging noise near the front driver’s side wheel.  This made my winding, steep, cliff-edge descent more exciting than putting wet bread in a toaster (and the toaster would be on).

I eventually made it out of the park safely and stopped for gas.  As I already paid a premium rate for a full tank of gas when I picked up my rental car and was told I could bring it back empty, I put a small amount of gas in.  Annoyingly, this car had the habit of taking a while to reflect the addition of gas so the needle did not move up (even though it should have).  As time went on, the needle never corrected itself and continued to go down to the point that I was now wondering how much gas was actually in the tank.  When I finally parked it at my hotel, a couple miles from the airport, the low fuel light had gone from steady to an angry epileptic seizure-producing blinking.

I checked into my hotel which I dubbed The Noise Inn since I could hear people thinking in the next room.  The walls were so ineffective at stopping sound I was convinced they were merely holograms.

Dinner was delivered to my body by Bar Avenida and for dessert; I chose something on the menu that spoke of cake, ice cream and whiskey.  The waitress brought me a premade ice cream thing in a dish.  She then took the top off of it, put it down in front of me and dumped a shot of cheap whiskey on it.  I was thrilled.  More sleep.

Tuesday, January 3rd

Even though my room was smaller than a geek, it was so perfectly faced south that I was able to watch the sun set the previous night and the sun rise this morning.  Because of this, my room became known to me as the High-5 Suite.

After a slim breakfast, I got in my car, excited to see if I would have enough gas to make it to the airport.  I did pass by a couple gas stations but did not stop as I was determined to make my fantasy of running out of gas as I hit the rental return garage a reality.  I would push this car to the airport if I had to.  The rental company would be lucky if there was a teaspoon of gas vapor in the tank when I was done with it.  I did make it to the airport with a few ounces left in the tank (damn it!) and boarded a plane to my next destination: Sweden (via Copenhagen).

When the plane landed, I walked over to the train platform and took a train over the ocean and into Sweden where my friend CB was waiting to bring me back to his house in Höör.  There waiting for our awesome arrival was CB’s wife, Margaretha.  This lovely 250-year old Swedish farm house that was full of warmth and Christmas decorations did slightly ease the pain of going from 15 days of pure sunshine with temperatures around 70 to a cold, cloudy, rainy, windy environment that struggled to get into the high 30’s.

As we always do, we enjoyed fine whiskey, food, petit cigars and remarkable conversation.  My theory is if you indulge in whiskey, cigars, red meat, cream sauces, wine, chocolate mousse and brandy as I did, some of these vices cancel each other out.  It seemed to work.  Zzzzzz…zzzzz…zzzzz…

Wednesday, January 4th

This morning brought a healthy breakfast that did not involve brandy or cigars.  As dull as that sounds, it was probably for the best.  The rest of the day was lazy.  I read.  I caught up on my sitting.  I think I walked in the woods for a while but I can’t be sure.  The purpose of the day was the evening when the decadence was eaten, drank and smoked.  To ease our digestion, “Broken Flowers” was watched on TV.

Thursday, January 5th – 8th

After breakfast, more sitting and more Nelson, CB and I did some food-shopping.  On the way back, we stopped into a small glass blowing studio by the name of Incendi Glasblåseri.  Here we met the owners, the lovely glass blowing couple known as Helena and Espen.  Espen asked CB and I to sit down while he made a glass bird right in front of us.  As he crafted the bird, he instructed us on the process and even asked me to help at one point which made the experience feel like my wildest, most opulent Science Channel fantasy come to life.

With the exception of the glass blowing and “Broken Flowers”, the next few days were like another Bill Murray movie, “Groundhog Day”.  Each day, I was like a plane joyfully caught in the same flight pattern that consisted of nothing but clear skies, zero turbulence and jazz winds (tail winds).  I’m still not able to discern where the cigars began and the brandy ended.  I think Nelson even got buzzed on some whiskey at some point.

One thing I must comment on happened on my final night.  As Margaretha, CB and I were sitting in the living room, pickling ourselves, CB heard footsteps in my bedroom upstairs.  CB thought it may have been a ghost since he believes the house to be haunted.

On the way up to investigate with CB, I looked for some sort of weapon in case this ghost was a burglar that could experience pain.  I settled on a cane with a metal handle since I like to attack ghosts with the one thing they’ll need most when I’m through with them.  As long as the ghost didn’t have a crossbow or bigger cane, I felt confident I could handle him or her in a fight.  But my chance to prove myself in ghost battle would have to wait for we encountered no life forces in the bedroom.

CB also told me that when their daughter Pernilla slept in the same bedroom, she sometimes heard someone chopping wood in the middle of the night, 15 feet away in the attached barn.  And while I slept that night, I dreamed that I was doing exactly what I was doing at that moment: sleeping in the bedroom.  But in my dream that now began to blend into reality, I felt and heard something crawling onto my bed.  I struggled to pull myself out of the dream but felt paralyzed as the presence drew closer.  Finally, I summoned all of my will and woke myself up to find nothing. Was this a ghost’s revenge for my potential cane attack?  If so, it worked marvelously since I never fell back asleep and took in about four hours of sleep total that night, giving my body a feeling the next morning that was squirrely at best.

So when the sun did rise on the 8th, I began my journey back to London where I stayed one night before flying back to the USA.  As I landed in Tampa, Florida, I realized that I had not been to the states in 11 months which made me feel like a drug czar trying to sneak back into the country to attend his child’s confirmation or something. I chose Tampa so I could visit friends there and then seamlessly move on to see my parents near Jacksonville.  On the 21st, I finally made it back to Boston where I began the grim task of figuring out what next to do with my life.

As CB drove me to the train station that final morning in Sweden, he told me that he once awoke in the middle of the night and saw what appeared to be two ghosts, an old farmer and wife, watching him.

“You must have been freaked out!  Were you awake the rest of the night?” I said.

“No,” CB replied. “I fell back asleep.”

“Well these ghosts sound like perverts to me.”

“Yes but Margaretha and I were not doing anything so it was alright.”