Azores: prologue

Behold the middle of the Atlantic.

I beheld it in person, and it was awesome.

***

“You’re going where? What’s that??” was a common reaction when I told people I was going to the Azores. I answered the question and, for the ‘why’ that would follow, recommended an image search.

 

I’d put out feelers more than a year ago to various friends about an Azores trip. A couple of people tentatively bit, enough to do some initial planning, and then unbit. I’d offered it up to Nina, which led to our going to Romania instead. Romania was beautiful and much-needed, but not entirely a vacation (what with a five-year-old present), a month or so after getting back I’d worked myself into a desperate need for another vacation. At which point, from out of nowhere, one of the original takers wrote and said “let’s do this.”

The trip came together pretty fast (although barely fast enough: we had a hard time in July getting reservations for September). We took an entire weekend to figure out exactly where we wanted to go. The big choice was between “chill” and “ambitious,” and we were close to opting for the former when we decided we really should go to Flores, which pushed us toward the latter. The best way to get out of Flores was via Faial, so we may as well spend some time in that middle island group, and hike up Mt. Pico while we were at it. So it would be: four islands in twelve days.

The most efficient way to get to the Azores from the United States is via Boston, which worked out well for me. I’d visit my dad and depart from there. The most efficient way to get to the Azores is with Sata, or Azores Airlines—which Google autofills to “worst airline ever.” But if you check the results, it’s evidently only the fourth worst, or something like that. The negative results spike every couple of years when people get stranded (often in Boston). The Azores are a weather-rich environment, and Sata has a fleet of 14 planes, which means limited options to replace any plane that experiences issues. The food was atrocious even by airplane-food standards (in contrast, Turkish Airlines, which I took to Romania, had very decent food by airplane-food standards), the entertainment was minimal and device-based, and the seats were pretty cramped. But I’d rather be on a worse airline for four hours than a great one for six hours and then a layover followed by 2 more hours.

We did not get stuck in Boston, but I did get stuck on Sao Miguel largely as a result of the incompetence of Sata. There was a slight delay, which made for a precarious connection, especially with my bag the last one off the carousel in Sao Miguel (I didn’t want to check it but it exceeded the weight limit of 8 lbs by 2 lbs). I opted for my bigger, heavier-framed bag not because I needed the space but for its ergonomics and handy pockets. Lesson to self, so as not to be in an involuntary bag-check situation: get a smaller version of the same bag (looking forward to those Osprey sales in November). Also looking forward to camera sales, but more on that later.

Kiera was assured by the gate agents that I’d make it onto the connection, but the Sata people evidently rebooked us both (but she had no bag, so she was able to use her original boarding pass to board and they let her stay). I had to spend 8 hours on Sao Miguel, which ended up being fine, although it was definitely annoying. I checked my big bag to Flores, checked my medium bag at left luggage, and wandered into Ponta Delgada, where I explored, and found a SIM.

Now, there was a Vodafone at the airport but the saleswoman told me my only option was a 10GB SIM for €20, of which I had no need. The store downtown offered me 5GB for €15, and only when I was about to walk did they reveal the 3GB SIM for €10. That was twice as much as I’d paid in Romania, for half the data, but it was a price I was willing to pay and it was worth it. Having a local phone came in very handy.

I stuck the SIM into my dad’s old phone, which we replaced because he thought the microphone had stopped working (I discovered that it just has funky settings that keep it muted even when you’ve unmuted the volume). On this trip I had more electronics than I’d ever traveled with: my ‘good’ phone, the ‘burner’ phone with the local SIM, my iPad (for ongoing trip research, among other things), my good camera, and my underwater camera (for snorkeling, kayaking, or other watery adventures). And all the associated charging devices and other gear. And I used it all. I used just about everything I brought, except for the epipen (and that’s a good thing) and one pair of lounge pants (it was warm enough, even in the evenings, to lounge in dresses, but you never know). There wasn’t anything I hadn’t packed that I missed; I’d debated bringing trekking poles for Mt. Pico, but our guide had some for us to use. I’d also debated bringing snorkeling gear, but overpaying for it was still a better option than lugging it around.

I’d have liked more time on Pico; all we really did was hike, although we got to see wine grapes growing in stone-wall arrangements during the ride from the port, and I availed myself of the natural swimming pool a short walk from our hotel. There was a lot more to see on Sao Miguel, but I was happy with what I did see. On all the islands, when the fog comes in you can’t see much of anything. We were super-lucky with the weather on Flores, mostly lucky on Pico, occasionally lucky on Sao Jorge, and half-lucky on Sao Miguel. But we made the most of it.

Chilean Patagonia: The fiords from the Navimag ferry

It was so windy in Puerto Natales that we couldn't board the ferry until after 11pm, probably closer to midnight, and even then the rooms weren't ready as they had to be cleaned after the previous occupants. We’d sprung for a nicer cabin with its own bathroom, but not for a double, and hoped our bunkmates wouldn’t be awful. Ten minutes or so after we got into our cabin, it dawned on us that we *might* have it to ourselves but we didn’t dare dream. As more time went by, we noticed that there were only two keys on the hooks. Then, Jason noticed that only the two bottom beds were made up. We still weren’t ready to take anything for granted. When it finally became clear that no one else would be joining us, we did the happiest of proverbial happy dances. That cabin was barely big enough for the two of us and our stuff (we each took up two lockers); we two had to carefully navigate around each other. I can’t imagine having had another two people in that room. I later befriended a British boat-builder-turned-consultant (Robert) who was put in a room with “three very smelly Frenchman” and even more emphatically thanked the FSM for our good fortune.

It was wonderful to be on the ferry—in one place for four nights and three days—without packing and unpacking and living out of a backpack and catching planes or buses. This, too, we did in the right order: after a week of trekking, we were ready to for some low-key lounging. With views of snow-capped mountains like the ones that so captivated us on the trek.

Robert told us that he’d taken the ferry in the past, and that it looked like it was at about half-capacity. I couldn’t imagine it full; they’d need to stage meals like they do at the refugios in Torres del Paine. As it were, there were lines around the dining room when meals were announced. My new friend offered me a glass of wine, which would have surprised me two days earlier. Alcohol was expressly not allowed on the boat (something had gone bad years ago). When they announced the ban, however, they quickly added “but mind you we’re not police. We won’t be looking for your alcohol.” Robert said they straight-out told him to bring his own.

The day before, or maybe earlier that day, Jay and I were given a beer each by my other buddy, Claudio the truck driver (this was a cargo ferry that happens to accommodate leisure passengers, rather than a cruise). We were looking at the route map on the upper deck when he started chatting with us in Spanish. 

He trucks frozen produce all over the continent and has a family, including two kids and a poodle, in Santiago. The ferry bores him, including the scenery. To him, it’s routine.

He was pleasantly surprised at my Spanish, and offered me a beer—Crystal brand, the favorite of the people of Chile. 

We didn’t find him that night, but he brought us some the next day, together with his music. He played Mazzie Star up on the deck, then Patrick Swayze. He asked me if I liked Michael Bolton, at which point I turned to Jason and asked how one says “No Talent Ass Clown” in Spanish. He also loved Cyndi Lauper, said her music made him cry. It was surreal to be listening to rock music and drinking bear and looking out over the water.

The food on the ferry was excellent, and they accommodated dietary restrictions. 

The yoga was quality as well. Cristián thanked us for gracing the room (or deck) with our presence, and ended by saying that we are empty, therefore we have everything. It was a phenomenal class, and the Tai Chi was also pretty good. The second day of Tai Chi was on the open ocean--first time ever that it was calm enough there to even try; we had an almost complete class before he ended early, saying that in these conditions it was an extreme sport. That night, the boat not-so-gently listed from side to side, which I found to be excellent sleeping conditions. I get motion sick in just about every other environment, but I've always, so far, been fine on boats. I declined the dramamine the crew handed out before we emerged from the fiords into the ocean.

I was disappointed by the paucity of wildlife, though I knew it wasn't really the time of year for whales. We did see some dolphins splashing around on our first day, and then what must have been whales later in the trip. We saw narrows, and shipwrecks, and snowcapped volcanoes. 

Puerto Eden, a floating village reachable only by boat

A shipwreck perched atop another shipwreck

It's become an island for birds, complete with a tree growing out of it

The yoga was wonderful

We got to tour the bridge

One night we stayed up, though not too long, to see stars. As we sailed north, we were actually able to catch a sunset. It was lovely.

The movies were thought-provoking. I’m still shaken by “Machuca.” The Pablo Neruda film they showed the first day started out strong but got weird in a self-involved way. Chile is one of those countries where the past and the political is ever-present. It was maybe after one of the movies that I asked Jason if he’d read anything by Isabel Allende. I’d also referenced Ariel Dorfman. He said I must have really paid attention at school, but I never formally learned about Latin American history in school (well, until grad school). I learned about it indirectly from reading Latin American literature and taking Spanish (which, admittedly, I mostly did as an undergrad). I shrugged off the comment, said you don’t get fluent in Spanish by not reading in it. Shortly before the trip, I dug out my copy of “Canto General” and started to read a page or so aloud before bed. I don’t understand every word, but the meaning washes over me nonetheless.

We were somewhat refreshed and ready to disembark by the time we got to Puerto Montt. Here were the seals that greeted us before we disembarked and headed off to Puerto Varas.

Seals greeted us in Puerto Montt

Fourth of July ramble

A few months ago I went to see "Black Panther" with a dear (white) friend who has spent a lot of time in Africa. She found it tedious and inauthentic. I knew even at the time that her assessment was counter to that of many Africans, but shrugged. Last week I watched the movie again--in a much less appealing setting, but more on that later. Among the group gathered were a handful of actual Africans who not only loved it, but told me that in their respective countries it was sold out for weeks at a time and that a lot of people were going looking for holes to poke, gaffes to criticize--and those people were pleasantly surprised at how well done the movie was.

I had a blast Friday night at the screening--mostly at the pre-movie gathering for my friend's birthday. A good, boozy picnic is a wonderful thing. And I enjoyed seeing the movie the second time, but if I hadn't seen it before I would've been lost. And everything I hate about cinemas was there times a thousand: talking, cell phones, and other douchey behaviors. The screen was small, and there were bright streetlights all around it. The movie didn't start until late (mid-June is the worst time for an outdoor screening in the northern hemisphere) and ended late. All this to say, this is why I look forward to watching movies on planes.

***
I bought something expensive today and felt vaguely guilty about it. Guilty as in irresponsible. Which is bananas because it was a very responsible purchase. But I was so conditioned by my mother to think of any large purchase as indulgent. There's a word in her language, our language for being so indulgent; she last used it on me when she learned I'd be paying $40 for a haircut. I may as well have dipped my proverbial balls in gold. To some extent she was genuine, but to a greater extent it was just another way of finding fault with everything I did. Another thing to nag me about, another topic for the shit fairy, another source of drama for someone who fed on drama. I'm almost disappointed that my mother is in no condition to argue about the new oven and  dishwasher I just ordered. To be clear, I'm very disappointed about the condition she's in and not just because it precludes her from receiving the giant fuck-you that comes with these purchases. Not out of spite; out of hard-won independence. I mean, why is guilt even an issue here (answer: because my mother trained me to be guilty). The oven I have now came with the house, which I bought nearly ten years ago, and who knows how long it had been there. It was always missing a rack, and I've made due with a makeshift one. It's filthy AF (and it was in the process of trying to clean it that I broke one of the burners, so now I have three--only one in front). I've been baking in the toaster oven since I got the solar panels, which is ridiculous (I'll run the oven in winter, not in summer). It's time for an electric oven, a clean one. An efficient double-oven. The dishwasher also came with the house (new, but I didn't choose it). I could do with something more efficient and much more quiet.

Replacing appliances after ten years is not unreasonable. It's not dipping your balls in gold. Investing in quality appliances isn't irresponsible. Why am I even questioning the decision? The reason I'm broke is that I've been paying a 15-year mortgage for 8 years. That's also not irresponsible. And I'm not that broke--I've never been less broke. I can afford to live well. I can afford to invest in new mid-range appliances after ten years. I'm also not going to sweat the kitchen remodel I'll be undertaking now that the attached appliances have to be removed anyway. I've never liked my kitchen floor, but I've lived with the cheap-ass, uneven laminate for nearly a decade. My counters are hideous. It's time. I didn't create the situation in which doing what I have to do is a statement to the woman my mother once was, that she doesn't control me. She created that situation and I'm doing what I have to do.

Self-help tips from the NYT, followed by a ramble

Willpower is an uphill battle; try pride, gratitude, and compassion.

We too often think about self-improvement and the pursuit of our goals in bracing, self-flagellating terms: I will do better, I will muscle through, I will wake up earlier. But it doesn’t need to be that way, and it shouldn’t: Self-control isn’t about feeling miserable.

From the Times' piece on be happy by thinking like an old person, this stuck with me:

None went to a job he did not like, coveted stuff she could not afford, brooded over a slight on the subway or lost sleep over events in the distant future.

I thought about it again this morning, in response to a real dick move not on the subway but on an airplane. It was a full flight, and the woman boarding just ahead of me (but sitting at least a few rows behind me, it turned out) took up some premium bin space with a puffy coat. I asked her to take it out at least until I could get my bag in; she suggested that I try a bin a few rows back. I told her that bags take priority over coats in bins. The woman in the seat next to mine--already sitting down--told her that they've asked people not to put coats in bins. The offending woman took her coat and huffed ahead, who knows how far back into the plane. My seat-neighbor and I rolled our eyes in solidarity and mild indignation at the woman's entitled, dickish behavior. I started to take satisfaction in the indignation, and then I remembered the line from the Times story.

On fitness (and more travel rambles)

Three times a week or so, I bike eight miles to work. After making it up The Hill from hell and parking my bike, I walk up four flights of stairs to the showers, and then back down, and then up a couple more to get to my office. Some days I feel the ride more than others--some day I feel the ride to work and other days I feel the ride from work--but I generally do feel those stairs. The stairs, especially (or sometimes the Hill), remind me that fitness isn't about not feeling it; it's about knowing that you'll make it even if it hurts. And the more you hurt regularly, the less you'll hurt on vacation.

We didn't deliberately plan an active trip, but the places on our itinerary were not designed for inactivity; if you want to get around, you have to move your body. You have to walk the old city walls and climb the clock towers. I suppose you don’t have to kayak or cycle, but you'd miss out if you don’t. My phone counted 22,671 steps the day I arrived in Tirana—and I didn’t get there until 3pm, and 30,526 the day after. Even on days where we spent five or six hours on a bus or in a car, we moved. The day that started with a six-hour bus ride to Kotor clocked in at 15,000 or so steps, and 17,000 the day after that. Once we settled into places where we didn’t constantly need to coordinate or use maps, I started leaving my phone in the apartments, so I don’t have the data from those days, but I know that K’s phone counted 16 miles the day we were at Plitvice.

We felt some of the walking and hiking. I certainly felt the cycling and the kayaking. But it was tough in a good way; I knew I could do it. Because I do it regularly. I say this without a trace of smugness; I know how hard it is to get in shape. I initially got in shape back in the day because my lifestyle demanded it (I had to be somewhere by a certain time, within half an hour of leaving work, and cycling was the only way to do it). I hated every minute of it until I didn’t. Once I got in shape—probably about six weeks after starting—I didn’t want the bike ride to be over. Everyone feels better when they exercise. Everyone benefits from being more mobile. 

***

There was a bit too much sitting (and for the drivers, too much driving) but the movement was what made it tolerable. On the long drives, we listened to podcasts, including some episodes of Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me. There was a sense of disconnect in listening to this quintessentailly American show in a very foreign landscape, in these foreign lands. Foreign even as everyone we interacted with spoke English. The tours—the walking tour, kayaking tour, etc.—were in English. Signs and descriptors were in English. If you were a foreign tourist who didn’t speak the local language or English, you were SOL. People asked us where we were from and were sometimes surprised when we told them. There are more European and other tourists in the area than Americans, or maybe we didn’t look the part, whatever that means. 

***

Some standards were better, others worse. I do like reliable western plumbing, and I say that as someone who has very reliable, very low-flow toilets. Public toilets were often pay toilets (thumbs down, but I get it).

Wifi was an expected thing (in restaurants, etc.), as it is in so many places outside the U.S. My cab driver into Tirana from the airport had wifi in the cab (well, I guess I hotspotted off his phone).

The buses were clean, and the regional flights were nice. Even on the small planes, including the turbo-prop to Zurich, there was sufficient leg room. I don’t need much, but it’s nice to not have a seatback jammed directly in front of your nose, which I did experience on the way to Miami and back just over a month ago. Regarding the long-hauls, I was excited about Austrian Air on the way out and not so much about United on the way back, but United was very comfortable with great service and Austrian was meh—they were apparently bought out by Lufthansa and it showed. On the way over I was seated next to a massive (tall and big boned, not overweight) Austrian woman who openly resented the fact that someone was occupying the adjacent seat; throughout the two or so hours that I slept, I’d intermittently wake up and find her limbs in my space. Bitch, if you need two seats, buy two seats. Buy business class. Your (tall) size is not my problem. I’m merely claiming my own space, not size-shaming or stigmatizing. If you need more space, for whatever reason, you’re not entitled to mine.

Big Sunday roundup

Refugees face a harrowing journey to and through Europe.

Lebanon's governance crisis demonstrates that even people enured to dysfunction, are limited in what they can tolerate.

Also on governance: pair what's going right in Guatemala with the article I linked to earlier about how Brazil's instutions are keeping the country together.

Surprise! The company behind the Tianjin tragedy made money from endangering people by flouting regulations.

Egypt's prisons are horrible.

This is a great article about Russia and its but you can take the line about how "Hints, insinuations, and doublespeak are the weapons of the weak" as applying to both the personal and political (see last week's ramble). An excerpt (from the article, not the ramble):

Professor Barbara Geddes, a prominent researcher of authoritarian regimes, classifies Russia as a "personalist autocracy," as distinct from a single-party or military autocracy that exists elsewhere in the world...

Most personalist regimes are less durable than single-party dictatorships and more susceptible to economic and exogenous shocks, because a “heaven-sent leader" must continuously prove his ability to turn water into wine and multiply loaves of bread or fish. Any difficulties must be temporary in nature. Also, personalist regimes need to continually buy off their elites: when the rewards for loyalty run out, the ranks of supporters suddenly evaporate.

Replicability issues are not unique to the social sciences. Case in point.

I rarely agree with Gary Taubes, but it is a no-brainer that starvation is unsustainable. This is behind the misconceived interpretation of research--that weight loss doesn't work because people gain it back; they only gain it back if they were starved, because of course few people will starve themselves in the long run. This is not to say that sustainable, long-term lifestyle changes won't help people drop pounds.

Pair Dr. Nerdlove's wise words about boundaries--

• People who assume (or try to take) a greater level of intimacy than they actually have are creepy because they’re ignoring your boundaries.
• Respecting somebody’s boundaries, on the other hand, is a mark of respect as well as social calibration. It shows you that you value their comfort and respect their social, emotional and physical safety. 
• Once again, this is boundary-pushing behavior; by insisting that you are somehow “owed” something, you are saying that the other person does not have the right to decide their own actions or responses. If you already are demanding things of strangers – even something as relatively innocuous as a smile or a “hi” back – you’re establishing a precedent where you expect more of your desires to be reciprocated, regardless of whether the other person is interested or not. 

 --with all my RM posts and this piece about approaching women in public. And these pieces on rape culture.

Also on boundaries--in the sense that some people like to deliberately flout them as a power move--as well as other essential relationship skills that we value: you can bypass the need for them by going the sugar route. [This is an exceptionally well-written piece and I highly recommend that you read it in its entirety.] Some excerpts:

Drama, according to Thurston, includes taking your time to decide whether you want to have sex, having any motive beyond the one you stipulated up front (which was greed), and a presumption that you will be courted. No, sir, Thurston's courting days are over.

and

“A lot of them are very lonely and they don't have time to go through traditional dating because they're so successful. And they really don't have time to woo a woman or to like, you know, answer your phone calls.”

The other interesting thing about the article is the equivalence with housewife-ism (to counter the default equivalence with prostitution)--isn't it all on the same spectrum? I'd argue--without judging either of the three--that there is a difference: spouses with unequal incomes are each contributing in different ways to a shared goal; there's a relationship there, and the health of the relationship is something both parties have committed to sustaining. It's not transactional. This article makes it clear that, in sugar relationships, each party is in it for him/herself and wants no part in the work it would take to have a relationship. And there's nothing wrong with that, since the terms are clear; everyone knows what to reasonably expect.

PSA: existing with breasts =/= trying to distract with one's cleavage. Another PSA: do not clean your lady parts with lysol (or anything else). Remember what Doctor Gunter said: they're a self-cleaning oven.

This Times thing about narcissists reminds me of mom, although she's not quite as bad as any of these (or at least hasn't always been).

Serena Williams is amazing, but we knew that.

Mostly agree with the inadvertent coiner of 'Manic Pixie Dream Girl,' except I'd argue that Zoe Kazan brings it on herself (I've had the misfortune of watching two of her films--which she herself wrote--on planes). She revels in the MPDG, and thus is part of the problem.

Great video about actual vs. stereotypical vegans.

Meditation is good.

Stunning photos of bark.

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(A tiny part of) the Mekong Delta

After we crossed the border out of Cambodia--after the travel agencies herded us around--it dawned on us that the bus we were on--destination, Saigon--didn't have a dedicated stop at My Tho. My Tho was on the way, and this bus was the travel agency's quickest way of getting rid of us. I was concerned that we'd have to go all the way to Saigon and backtrack. Jay was concerned that they'd drop us at the side of the road and we wouldn't be able to get a cab to the guesthouse. Rick had had it, period, and threatened to get off at Rach Gia. That wasn't an option as far as I was concerned; we were flying out of Saigon the following night. So we stayed on the bus as it honked its way across the Delta. The part of the ride for which we had daylight was, at least, beautiful. But at that point, none of us reacted much to rice paddies, with or without water buffalo. It got dark. I slept intermittently (the seats reclined fully). Around midnight, we stopped at a truck stop for a half-hour break. I marked my territory by way of my very productive coughing.

Around 1am, the bus did indeed drop us off the side of the road at My Tho, but it wasn't long before we saw a cab. We showed the driver where to go... except Google Maps got it wrong, so we took him slightly the wrong way. He had to call the guesthouse, and the owner directed him. We didn't blame him one bit for not speaking English, even though, in practice, it made communication a challenge. But it all worked out. We got there, the hostess and staff showed us to our rooms, we slept it off (or at least I did). I'm a good sleeper; my body will sleep, and if it doesn't for whatever reason, it'll make up for it next time. I set up my mosquito net and used my earplugs. I don't remember whether we were woken up by roosters (we were elsewhere, even in Snooky; in Luang Prabang, it was monks, who drum at 4am).

Indochina: prologue

I needed to go on vacation, badly. I hadn't been on a real vacation in years (2.5 years, precisely), and I'd been agitating. I'd considered joining a friend of mine who was going to Switzerland for work, but I'd been there (lived there, actually), and the timing wouldn't work. But by late October, my report was out and, as Jay's contract would end at the end of 2014, he grew more responsive to my agitating. One morning, as I sat in a meeting--I don't normally bring my phone to meetings, but I knew the one in question would be brutal--we texted back and forth about possible destinations. We were all over the world: Puerto Rico, southern Africa, Macchu Pichu, Yellowstone, Argentina, Indochina... and so on. We started throwing out places in the morning, and by late afternoon, we narrowed it down.

Too hot in Namibia; rainy season in Macchu Pichu. I'd always wanted to go to Indochina. 

So we settled on that and proceeded cautiously and expeditiously. My manager blessed the trip (i.e., my monthlong absense, two-three weeks of which were during the holidays anyway so who cares). We booked flights--Emirates offered the best deal--so we added a stopover in Dubai. The guys wanted to go to Ferrari world, which, by the way, you can see from low-earth orbit. We booked lots more flights, and lots of hotels. We left some arrangements unmade--some things were better arranged in-country--and though we had a rough idea of what to do in each place, we mostly winged it in terms of activities. We made trade-offs: it was an ambitious trip, with four countries in two and a half weeks, and there was so much to see. You can always spend more time somewhere, and it's a matter of personality whether you want to take it slowly and really get into a place or hop around and see a little bit of everything. We were scolded over our choices: you need two weeks just for Vietnam! Skip Laos! You need five days for the Angkor complex!

We probably could have spent two weeks just in Vietnam, but I have no regrets about going to the other places, nor about choosing to visit Hue or Hoi An. We certainly did not need five days in Angkor. I mean, there are advantages to having more time--you can hit more temples first thing in the morning, before the rest of the masses descend on them, and that makes a huge difference--but you can definitely see as much as you (or at least we) want to see before getting templed out, in two days. As for Laos, we didn't want to leave; it was lovely.

It did take a lot out of us to change places, hotels every night or every other night. In fact, the only place where we stayed three nights was the crappiest hotel ever, so it didn't really help. But hopping around was the choice we'd made, and it we saw a lot as a result.

We all worried about things. Jay worried that flights would get canceled, or that our Vietnam visas would get confiscated, or that we'd have to bribe someone to get back in the country from Cambodia. He worried that the trains would sell out (well, I kind of did too) or that we wouldn't always be able to get around. He worried about all the cucumbers that might manifest themselves in his food. Rick didn't like small planes, or most boats, so he worried about those. He also worried about food poisoning and malaria. I worried about bad weather--scorching heat in some places, rain in others, and fog in Ha Long Bay. I worried we wouldn't find a good Ha Long Bay cruise, and maybe that we wouldn't find our way around the Mekong Delta. I worried I'd have to eat a lot of seafood. Later, I worried about getting hit by a motorcycle.

But not a lot went wrong, especially not at first. The flights all flew, and the hotels were all fine except one. I lost a tooth (crown) at Ha Long Bay, but a dentist in Hanoi put it back in that evening in ten minutes, for $10. I caught a cold between Luang Prabang and Siem Reap, but it didn't stop me from doing anything. Rick did lose his camera, which super-sucks, but he'd gotten all of his photos off of it beforehand. All in all, as weary as we were upon returning, we had a blast and saw some really cool stuff.