Emily

Still can't get enough of Emily.

JoAnne Says: May 28th, 2008 at 9:12 am

Hi Emily.

So this is the point in the Emily movie where Emily decides to pursue Academia by becoming a bespectacled Professor and we are thwarted through the time/space portal to watch “Emily, Aged” (Jamie Lee Curtis? I don’t know, I don’t do casting) change lives with her revolutionary thoughts. We see her jumping on desks, flippantly taking irreverent jabs at the government, sometimes not wearing underwear, demanding free-association introspective writing diaries from her freshmen every other week…then, all the students write her a symphony while she’s coaching high school basketball and her deaf son yells “Carpe Diem”!

For what it’s worth, you have spawned all of THIS. Cool. You are like Moses! All of the Hebrew children are talking about the spliced red sea, not just the ones who live for American Idol but the pretentious “bookish” ones! Plus, we’re all still hanging out at red sea rock bottom: our laptops are great hiding places, our ‘publish’ buttons conveniently remove the “think before you…” censor. So. Lest we all not judge. Or! Judge Emily = Judge Yourself. (I think I’ll make t-shirts.)

Joking aside: You write fantastically. I thought the article was honest. It inspired me to do much thinking about my own writing -how I use the medium of “blog” to express myself in this big, big world- along with much writing about my own writing, writing about your writing, and some other writing that has nothing to do with much of anything, but you should still be credited for inspiring it. Thanks.

We are listening and talking – thanks for leading. A+ group discussion.

What is blog? Baby, don't hurt me.

EMILY GOULD is a soul-sex goddess, and she doesn't even know what that is.

The ten page NY Times Magazine foray into her life (something like "I'm Anne Hathaway in the Devil Wears Prada except instead of a fashion magazine, I deal in BLOGGING and I have tattoos") makes me realize two things.

1. Blogs are Zach Morris at "The Max". He goes everyday to make sure that Slater doesn't steal his woman. Sometimes, the Saved By the Bell viewer gets the extra special treat of watching real time "freeze" as Zach breaks the fourth-wall (as they say in the biz). "Time out!" Zach tells it like it is. According to Zach. Then he pulls a little caper to manipulate the scene to his favor. "Time In!" And Tiffani Amber Theissen struggles with physical comedy as her character's limbs have been reapportioned to land in Zach's waiting embrace.

So, this is news? Bloggers are narcissists. We like to go to the predictably streamered and smelly gym that is the open-forum of the internet. In our own corner, near the locker rooms (the blog hosting real-estate for the young and broke), we are allowed to be the coolest kids at the seventh-grade dance - plus - we get executive editing rights to the re-telling of how the first slow dance goes down.

Sanctity of the TIMES aside (the argument that Gould's article doesn't reflect a 'standard' that the publication upholds is one of snobbery, not to mention it is a larger can-of-worms issue that frankly, is not as interesting), what did we really expect from this article? From Gould? Did we expect anything else from ourselves as readers? As bloggers?

I, like Gould, have posted my public life more times than not. Soul-sex, I named it in college one day to the giggles of my private-liberal-arts-Lutheran-all-girled-dormitory pals.

When you connect with a dude intellectually, on some very special and revered level - when you deliever any sentence starting with "I know we just met, but..." - when he agrees with you that Howard Dean's outdoor voice was inspiring and not terroristic - when first date conversation turns all "I'm afraid to love again! Who is God! Where is God?" and so on and so forth.

I was an unabashed soul-sex slut. Some girls were chasing the female orgasm; count on me to be fishing for original poems and reported shout-outs in therapy. "I think your thoughts on Respighi are really changing my world, I told Dr. McPsychoanalyzesalot so; he thinks you're good for me" and I was a satisfied woman.

My xanga blog seemed like a great way to be doted on as a truth-revealer to the scams of relationships (among a few funny bits here and there). I loved tales of my bitter and angst-ridden soul-sex insecurities. Although the writing was definitely a cathartic exercise, such a small school should make one pause before stapling internal organs on the outside of their sweaters. Cause those things don't come off easily, and I learned that a couple years later, while attempting to shove my heart back into my chest.

Emily Gould learned it too but decided to keep talking about it.

I haven't yet decided if that was ultra sweet or if she's a moron. No matter. If we've learned anything from her musings, it's that what I think as an anonymous spectator of her issues isn't important...but she did make me (and 1120 commentators on the nytimes.com site) THINK and that is irrefutably cool.

Another thing for sure? Her blog is great, and she is an impressive young writer. I am jealous, yet I love. Which brings me to the second thing Emily Gould taught me today.

2. Blog entries are not meant to be autobiographical essays. This is how I know I'm not blogging correctly. (Sasha Frere-Jones). It's also how I know I'm not a real writer, not yet. First there happens to be that whole issue of being unpublished. (Potato. Poh-tah-toe.) Second - blogs are precise. Short. They are the Accuradio 30-second BBC news spots to Dan Rather's rambling hour. The time it takes, even, to obviously state that my blogs are anything but sparkling gems of brevity...

So I believe that this post will conclude "Message in a Bottle". I gotta move. I'm not traveling anymore, so it's a good time to transition... AND! I am tired of humming the Police everytime I log on. Literarily, it's time that I learned to maneuver this genre just as I am giving fiction and reporting and editorial comment and essay the same effort.

I'll let you know when I have the address of my new, cramped apartment: the one that forces me to exercise the closet-shoe organizer, saying what I need to say but being wiser about using the space that I have.

If it wasn't for Diane Court, I wouldn't have gotten into Cornell.

job·bing / [jawh - beengh]
- adjective
1. to sit at the computer belonging to one's parents for multiple hours attempting to find an employment listing completely unrelated to the degree which person possesses and is still engaged in the recurring act of distributing funds to someone named Sallie Mae
2. being super rich and awesome and not taking crap from that silly old PC guy

Right now I should be jobbing, but the daunting Craigslist postings for administrative assistants -

Laid..Off?..Fill-Out-Survey..Job..Made_Me..$157-in-2 Days.-So Can..You - (Minneapolis / St Paul)

- is a BORING, typo-infested list longer than Warren Jeffs is used to waiting for the bathroom. (Ah, ha, ha! Get it? Big family? One bathroom? Three girls, a Guy and a Polygamous Sect-Friendly Pizza Place!)

Alas, I cannot focus on finding work; I am far too troubled by the ever-changing United States of America that I have returned to. Specifically, the study of mass culture and moral identity through the volatile medium of Prime Time television and mass distributed glossy-print media. And stuff.

• After two hours of Grey's Anatomy season finale last night, I discovered producer Shonda Rhimes' answer to the WGA strike: letting San Fernando Valley high schoolers take a stab at it! Two of the sub-plots featured 9-12th grade characters: a couple engaged in a star-crossed affair and a Luke Skywalker aficionado.

(I can just see things heating up in the writer's room! High schooler #1: Let's do a plot line where like, it's like, that movie with Claire Danes? You know, Romeo and Juliet? High schooler #2: Yeah! And one where a kid gets dared to jump in a big vat of cement and he does it because there's this girl there that he wants to kiss but she pretends not to love him because he's not cool. Just like me. Except without the cement.)

But the real gem:

Meredith: I'm still mad at you and I don't know if I trust you, I wanna trust you, but I don't know if I do. So I'm just gonna try, I'm gonna try and trust you. Because I believe that, we can be extraordinary together. Rather than ordinary apart.

Ahhhhh, the 'stuff that legends' are made of.

• At least Betty was cute.


• Gas is expected to reach $4 this weekend. OPEC, schmopeck. I blame Tina Fey. Yeah, that's right. And you, Marie Claire, are an enabler:

When you cover-girled Ms. Fey without the scar (yes, the very mark on her face that makes it acceptable for girls like me to not shave excessive amounts of arm hair - that may or may not resemble alpaca wool sweaters) you forgot that the scar is the flag of La Revolución! Fey proves that funny girls can be HOT with some quirky weird flaws too and that's really ok because we all accept ourselves and love ourselves because we're soooooooo witty and smart.

You messed with the natural order of the universe and in turn, someone actually asked 7 people he knew to track down Kevin Bacon, there was an incident aboard the space shuttle Columbia where an astronaut brushed his teeth without spending trillions of tax dollars AND Nestlé crossbred the Twizzler with the Spree, giving my sister a cavity. Not to mention the cyclone thing in Myanmar. All you, Tina Fey.

• Since I've been residing in Iowa, I have heard Ace of Base, in public, twice, and it has led me to conclude that Iowa is but one big soft-rock radio station. It's really great at first with a "OOOOhhhh, man! I love this song!" and a triumphant fist pump upon receiving a nostalgic audio waft of fifth grade. But then. You hear it again. You realize that Wilson Philips is a daily occurrence and after more than 3 minutes, soft-rock's hallowed synthesizers and repetitive percussion tracks are old news.

So then it's back to jobbing, with my search queries on Monster.com eliminating the following threads: Iowa, Photo Shopping Arm Hair and Shonda Rhimes. I'm sure it will be no time - no time at all - before I'm working again.

Take time to realize.

Travelers: Let's motion for a government-funded reintegration program. We could have support meetings and classes; we could cry together. We could have a sympathetic audience to whine about how things are so different. We could address important questions. (For instance: Miley Cyrus? Really? The creative backbone of our nation? When? How?)

I'll bring the brownies.

BACK IN THE (mostly middle) UNITED STATES:

1. Jet lag is real and lasts for longer than you think. It's weird to have not lived a day that you remember being present for. Because of this pyschological time/space muddle (admitedly, I still don't understand leap year) I've been a little bit John Nash. And not in the way that made me smarter at math...in the imaginary friend way.


2. My dad learned to play the guitar while I was gone. He's helping me slowly back into the music scene; our Partridge Family act practices every night after dinner. With Jil on guitar as well, me on keys and Ma with the syncopated handclaps, we can decently get through "Brown Eyed Girl".
Speaking of Dad and his aspirations; his comic timing (previously limited to: so, a guy walks into a bar, and...) recently became immaculate. So we sit down to watch the Cardinals play the Brewers the other night. We've got beer, warm popcorn. Dad stretches. Belches. Reaches into his shirt pocket and produces a harmonica that I didn't know he possessed. Plays "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" which is only identifiable by the rhythm of his phrasing. Deadpan, he slips the offending metal noisemaker flippantly on the coffee table, returns his gaze to the television. Jil and I: in tears.

3. Jil took me to see Colbie Caillat in Des Moines the other night. The bartender takes one look at my ID and says "'84, huh?". I suppose that was weird amongst the uniquely Iowan mix of 'tweens screaming "Bubbly! Play Bubbly!" after each number and the "Girl's Nite Outing" housewives in silk babydoll blouses and gel-infused spiked haircuts. Oh, Iowa.

Punching the Corn

It would be safe for me to put money on the fact that Causeway Bay, the shopping mall Mecca of Hong Kong, has the world's largest concentration of neon lights. Forget Vegas, baby.

As I shoved my way through the dense mass of humanity, I had to blink rapidly to bear the optical stress. So when I saw it I thought I was hallucinating.

I was not.

Standing in the throng of passersby was the greatest life-sized ear of corn, containing a man handing out flyers from beneath his flouncy, poofy Lycra exterior.

There was this Chinese girl. And when I say "girl" it must be noted that Chinese women are genetic lottery winners: not only are they predominantly quite skinny, they remain with the features and complexion of a 16-year-old until about 48. So I guess maybe she could've been like, 36, and if that's true that makes her even cooler because as she grazed past the corn she punched it.

Yes, reached out and playfully gave it a right jab.

I was so completely glad that she did, because I wanted to. Badly. Like when in the airport, I like to run and jump to see if I can touch the multitudes of signage hanging from the ceiling. It was the same strong compulsion but I restrained, you know: home court advantage. Americans are notorious for doing crap like starting wars over corn.

Back in the city, and loving it, I thought about the corn yesterday. I saw an older gentleman swing around a pole supporting scaffolding by Columbia University. He did a brilliant Gene Kelly "Singin' in the Rain" chase step and then continued on his way.

Anybody who revels in the fact that they can score a 3-pointer with a wadded up paper towel and the kitchen trash can, anyone who thinks it's ultimate to bound over all the cracks in the sidewalk, anyone who recognizes this fine line between OCD and unrelenting immaturity...I say: Keep up the good work. These actions are indicative of your spunk, spirit and general haphazard spontanaiety. Isn't it good to be reassured that you're a whole lot of fun?

So today, dear reader. Go for it. Pass it on. Reach for the Stars. Go for the Gold.

Punch the Corn.

I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes...

To the most ultimate travel buddy in existance:

Thank you.

Thank you for always having my back, for shoving my pack in high places when I couldn't reach, for blocking traffic, for standing guard when I opted not to use a "restroom" per se, for saving my life when motorbikes tried to take it, for yelling "YOU'RE NOT GONNA DIE, JUST PEDAL!" when I was scared to ride my bike against Chiang Mai traffic. Thank you for being honest when Asian clothing didn't suit Irish hips.

Thank you for singing Mariah Carey on bikes and in caves, for fending off Swedes and blessing Brits, for picking me up when I fell (metaphorically, of course but also literally, when I characteristically biffed up the stairs in Australia's coolest nightclub), for suffering through U23D. Thank you for making up silly songs with me, for inspiring me to give up doing anything half-assed, for teaching me the art and value of shopping around. Thank you for loving a tennis ball.

Thank you for being fearless, for taking chances, for dancing in all places, discounting sand resistance. Thank you for telling me when I was wrong. Thanks for travel-day hugs and country-flag patches for my backpack, for dashing for the salt when I had leeches, for not one- but TWO - years of awesome birthday events. Thank you for being "just as dorky as me", for the invaluable feeling of not having to stand alone.

Thanks for sharing: beer, soap, socks, toothpaste, laughter, watermelons, chopsticks, ideas. Most of all I thank you for our conversations: your words have meant so much, have inspired so much, have made me think, giggle, argue and cry.

Thank you, Gina, for everything that you are and will accomplish in life. You are beautiful, brave, AMAZING. Your friendship is an indelible part of me.



There will be more post-op commentary on this blog, but continue the adventure with Gina in India: http://ginavriens.blogspot.com

In the Navy...

My first clue that today was extra special (or "specious" as Gina and I like to say after seeing the word miss-printed so many times across Asia) was at the grocery store in super hip Hong Kong (right next to our super CRUMMY overpriced hostel).

I was obliviously buying an apple and some milk, when I realized that all the checkers were plastered in stickers. Mostly, they were in Chinese, but I recognized the Olympic rings, the Beijing games logo...and flames. It sparked my curiosity - and spark it was indeed: One sticker featured the torch with 5.2.2008.

Out of the Hu Jintao and predecessors-imposed government block of news information, Gina found a newspaper in English.

Lucky us! Torch relay was coming through Hong Kong on this very day!
Unluckily for me, I am still a lot shorter than lots of Chinese.
This is the torch passing:





This is the police carting away a Western protester with "Free Tibet" written across his face. Also in the unlucky cards I've been handed: slow reflexes.



As we continued to walk, emersed in the joyous spirit, ceremoniously waving our Samsung-sponsored free flags, we ourselves were flagged down in HK's port-side party district, Wan Chai. The US Navy was spending their last night in town, and a throng of sailors sensed our shared Yankee-ness as we paraded past their own spirit-filled refuge from the USS Kittyhawk.

The following is a collection of fun facts that, over a span of 7 hours, Gina and I collected from our new Naval friends and the hippie-haired Chinese bartender.

In no preferential order:

1. The USS Kittyhawk, based in Japan, will return to the states shortly and be completely MELTED into a huge chunk of steel. Or it might go to North Carolina to hang with it's winged namesake. Nobody is really sure on this one.

2. Nobody really likes being in the NAVY...but shhhh...don't tell anyone that a majority of these guys want to pack it in for Canada. It's really quite sad; from the complaining about their barracks, to the bemoaning of our government officials that wouldn't let them retire, to the simple fact that they can't watch CNN. They weren't even allowed to go to the torch passing. Could be trouble.

3. Speaking of trouble, the Navy has a faction of "moral compasses" called the S.L.G. (Shore Leave Guard). They patrol the party areas when the ship has docked, all night long, to make sure everyone actually gets back on the boat. They have to wear these really dorky polo shirts with a giant S.L.G. so even the drunkest of the drunken sailors can find a "safe ride" to the carrier. I had the best time talking with the polo shirted enlisted men and it became a fun game to see if I could make their evening any better, seeing as they had to hang at the bar without drinking. There were MULTITUDES of them walking around, which became even funnier.

"Soo....S.L.G., huh? Selling lovely Guavas? Single, Lonely Guy? Sore Ligaments Galore?" It was JoAnne dorky flirting at my best effort. The similarly dorky Navy guys thought this was funny, the daft ones didn't get it and very seriously explained to me the importance of their assigned duty.

4. An S.L.G. polo gets washed by ONE guy whose SOLE duty is to wash all of the S.L.G. polos. That's all he does. On an aircraft carrier. All day long.

5. There are over 29,000 Chinese characters in their alphabet. Or something like that. Pictured is the difference between "Human being" and "Human being in jail".



6. Most likely, the woman who spoke no English but taught me how to correctly say "The fire is burning my eyebrows" on the train from Xi'an to Guangzhou, probably also liked to pet my arm hair because A1. It's ridiculously furry. and B2. I guess not a lot of northern Chinese women can grow hair on their arms. This was the bartender's best guess.

Six of my deepest, pressing questions: answered. What more is there? Life's mysteries unveiled. Guess it really is time to come home.

Squatting Again.

China brings Gina and I back to our usual shenanigans.

I say "usual" because there is nothing particularly exotic or adventureous about going to the supermarket or train station in a country whose language you have mastered double entendres in. Although there was general merry-making, Opera House-seeing and dancing like crazed 'tweens on unquenchable sugar highs, none of these actions were lost in translation, like we seem to dig doing.

Our backpacker spirits are at ease again; we feel giddy when completing even the most mundane task. ("Here's what we should do: I'll pour the tea, and YOU go figure out how to ask for soysauce, ok!" "OK!")

Great Wall:



So, in 221 B.C. a Qin Dynasty emperor made an homage to himself, and BURIED it near his masoleum. A farmer uncovered it in the 70's...and now we all go there, Bill, Hill AND Chelsea included:



Did you know that Beijing is so polluted that walking around the city for one day has the same effect on your lungs as smoking 70 cigarettes A DAY?

We saw dead Mao Zedong. Which Gina thought was creepy. And I thought it was the coolest. How often do you come across an embalmed father of communism? And hoards of SILENT chinese? They still were a little pushy, though...However, Beijing is really working on that in lieu of the Olympics, offering CLASSES for it's citizens to learn to stand in lines (for a country seemingly so about discipline and order it really is funny that they have little concept for waiting a turn).


Beijing is also attempting to politically correct street signs that could have faulty or silly english translations. For instance, "Racist Park" has been changed to "Ethnic Minority Park". If you should find yourself in town for the games and are in need of a Protologist, never fear. The doctor's office will now just say so. A couple months ago, you would have been looking to visit the "Dongda Hospital for Anus and Intestinal Disease". And don't forget to "show mercy to the slender grass" when walking across manicured public lawns...

read the whole article here.





I'm home in just a short week, and there are many things I'm looking forward to: my family, for certain. A different v-neck t-shirt. Back issues of the New Yorker. A hairdryer! But it must be said that a certain travel buddy and I are having real issues about parting...everyone said we'd be sick of each other, and now...it's hard when you share so much (from toothpaste to soap to experiences no one else would understand) and are faced with separating. G is in self-proclaimed denial and makes "earmuffs" everytime I get a little (typically) weepy. It will be a good week, a bittersweet week...and all the while, we'll be happily speaking Chinglish.

The Secret Rainforest Lives of Men

This post is for my girls: those who go for "artsy" men. Two weeks ago, I fell privy to some information quite valuable to those prone to falling mushy anytime a dude croons, paints or decides to explore intricate rhyme schemes.

My research yields that these men are all unoriginal FRAUDS! They've merely stolen inspiration from the Queensland Australian Rainforest.

Example 1:

It's not only because Snoop Dogg passes the pipe. It's because he seems to think he got the 'beautiful' ladies all up in his grill by "Ooooo-eeee" -ing his way way into their hearts. WRONG! Snoop was obviously taught this obnoxious bird call by the indiginous "Eastern Whipbird".


Example 2: One evening in Hanoi Gina and I met two really good looking guys. I mean really really good looking. Their names were Matt and David and I'm not ashamed: If either of you are reading this, I've not since seen any Australians that rival your hotness. Not that I particularly need to tell them: Matt was aware of his cool factor, and of the fact that his verbal sparring was second to none. He probably realized he was terrifically handsome as well, but this wasn't enough for Matt. No, no...he had to be really funny as well. I remember a fun story about a morning jog he took in India, while humming Grieg...which (sparing you the exact details of this comical story) led to him teaching a young Indian child the Milkshake song ("Repeat after me: My Milk-shake brings all the boys to the yard...") and in turn making up a song of his own. Of course we asked him to perform this song for us and only until we hiked the rainforest did we REALIZE that MATT THE PERFECT had made up a song that sounds JUST LIKE the call of the Kookaburra. Lies. Still heartbroken about that one.


Example 3:

Just as Meat Loaf would do anything for love, so would the juvenille land mullet, as the tightly-bonded family structure of land mullets is incomprable in the reptile world. And do I have to spell it out? Mullet? Skink? Too easy.


Example 4: Like we should swoon when Chicago-based emo rockers Fall Out Boy gives us a tune that inspires lead singer Pete Wentz to jump up in an artistic fury, one fist clenched, the other choking on his mic? It's nothing the Wallabee hasn't been up to for years.



Example 5: Last week we were in Brisbane. One night, we decided to go out with our friends Harry, Josh and Richard from England and picked up a new guy along the way: Kaarel from Estonia. If Kaarel was a bird in the rainforest, he'd be the Eastern Bristlebird. The Bristlebird, according to the informational trifold at the camping area near the part of the rainforest we hiked, 'hides all day except to sing gloriously on top of bushes, when inspired'. We danced for 3 hours straight. Kaarel should have been a contestant on "So You Think You Can Dance". He was brilliant. He had a way of hearing latin beats in anything. (We did a rhumba to some Beyonce. The tango during "Umbrella".) He could jive (and thank goodness, when the DJ did the unthinkable with the Grease Megamix). He could make anything work, from club to disco to trance. And, after a lyrical/interpretive ballet stunner with "Livin' on a Prayer", I would have to deem this my most ultimate dancing endeavor, with a gloriously talented and silly dance partner. It was so good that I forgot to care that I've seen crazy dancing like that before...in the rainforest...uh, with a stick guitar... :)

Camus, Pancakes, Mullets and Steve Mollick

Recently I attended a church service in Allora, Queensland. It was conducted featuring endearing Australian accents, and I was inspired to add my own "Hosannarh inna highest". Father John sported one of the finest mullets I have ever seen, complete with pony-tailed braid. Sporting fatigue print cargo shorts, a completely tattooed left arm and a Harley flanking the parsonage, it wasn't just watching such an anomology in action that was convicting. It was his face, a glimpse of untarnished reverence, as he prayed.

Last week during the hazy hours of pre-dawn, I witnessed an elderly man helping an elderly woman set up a stand at a morning market in Chiang Mai. I was in transit to the train station, and regretfully only got a split second of assimilation. He wore a pink shirt. They were arranging oranges, his one hand on a run-away fruit, his other on the small of her back as if to say "I've got it, I'm helping, I care, I love you, Isn't it nice to be in the cool of the morning, before the blazing neon heat of this day, just you and me?"

I sang in the Concordia Choir with a remarkable friend named Steve. Steve often played jokes until they were dead. Then repeated them again. We begrudgingly indulged this sort of humor, and eventually laughed, because the assinine nature of it all became funny after the millionth time. This is one of Steve's lesser qualities but it serves as an example of how he lives his life: Pushing the envelope. Going at a concept until it has been cemented. This is exactly what makes Steve a brilliant musician. It's an obsession with taking the things in life that are worth shouting about and playing them out; whether they be a love for a particular measure of Brahms or a silly joke stolen from "Curb your Enthusiasm".

My Aunt Maureen is the quintessential Go-Getter. On just about four hours of sleep each night, there isn't a task she hasn't put herself to wholeheartedly. I like that. Beyond the perfection of her world famous blueberry pancakes (renowned the east coast over), finding the most effective paper-mache recipe for her children's science projects, single-handedly editing the town newspaper, taking fabulous professional-grade photographs, volunteering for worthy causes, remodeling homes, remembering birthdays and, as a cousin once said, "bringing the fun", Auntie Mo tackles life issues with this beautiful element of grace. You can watch it each day, from a bite of blueberry breakfast to the bigger ways in which she has chosen to raise her kids, care for her family, change the world.

My grandfather is the strongest man I know. He is in the last stages of watching his wife die for nearly twenty years. He has never relented in her care, he has gone far beyond what Nicholas Sparks' teenage girl cult classic "The Notebook" prescribes as over-the-top love in cases of Alzheimers. He has loved her through an all-consuming disease, his desire to provide dignity to her existence has validated his,
and when you ask him, he'll say that it has been his honor.

A nobel prize winner in literature, Albert Camus must have thought himself numb every single day of his life. From an impoverished childhood, his goalkeeping football skills warranted a scholarship at the University of Algiers. Around 1930, during his football career, he was diagnosed with Tuberculosis, and forced to meditate more on school and less ruminating on the soccer field. He paid the bills parking cars and checking the clouds at the University's meterological institute.

He had to do SOMETHING before stunning the politicos and literati of the time (and each sucessive generation) into obsequious bafflement. The man wrote and talked so smart that no one could put a finger on exactly what he was saying, and yet, since a lot of it seems a solid estimation of truth, it is a worthwhile pursuit to trace the lineage of his brillance.

Camus hated being associated with Existentialism and couldn't even get with simpler classifications: Atheist nor Nihilist nor Agnostic nor Believer. Absurdism seems to be a common designation of Camus' philisophical home, but he scoffed at that as well. The man couldn't even hold down a political afilliation: As a student, Camus was an active member of the Algerian People's Party, a communist faction. Once they found out that he was keeping time with George Orwell and Jean-Paul Sartre, and heard his hybrid chatter of Socialism and Anti-Totalitarianism, combined with the worship AND desultory critcism of the party to which he asssociated served his prompt exile. His human rights efforts in the 1950s proved that none of us should even care to name whatever it was that motivated him: he was driven to see the world, fix the world, love the world in no other fashion but his own.

They are untouchable, inimitable, round pegs amongst square holes, the jacks of all trades: The Beethovens who write symphonies before being taught to read music. The John Nashes who blink numbers (give or take a peripheral imaginary friend). The Auntie Maureens, the Pink Shirted Husbands, the Tattooed Anglican Priests, the Steve Mollicks, the Papa Neds. Like Camus, each of them would probably groan at being grouped as such. (Except for maybe Steve. Rachel, Steve's wife, will probably have to deal with the repercussions of me potentially inflating his already generous ego, so sorry Rach.)

Everyday that I live, every place that I magically see (by use of my sparkly gold wand which looks more like a three-by-four piece of plastic), there are people that I meet or read about that change me. I am in awe of their passion; it is sensory, palpable, and completely unavoidable. I want it. I want to breathe it, sing it, need it more than food or sleep.

Camus demanded that we "live to the point of tears". Living to the very edge of insanity, making each day expand with creativity. It's inspiring to witness that. I'm learning that our world is ever-expansive, but not so big that you can't do or have exactly what you want. It is a matter of recognizing that you have stamina from a love bigger than yourself. Then, you go at it with all that you have. Most importantly, however, is the end result of courageously deciding to release your gift into the grasp of others. (Be it Machivellian political theory or a really great terracotta pot for your Mom's geraniums.)

I thought that this trip would plop a new career into my lap; would make me a fabulously thin, a worldly and wise version of myself. I thought I could come back with all sorts of insights and a newfound love for the Buddha, or maybe even a rekindled adoration for Jesus.

And although I'm not altogether done with Christianity and I can still run a decently timed 5k, none of my dream world delusions have thus evolved. And that's okay. These experiences can do nothing but inspire an existance full of passion.

I want to cultivate passion for one vocation, or maybe I'll throw myself at twenty-six careers! I want to execute at LEAST twenty-six home improvement and random art projects. I hold grand illusions (potentially naive) that I'll someday experience Camus-sized passion for one man, hopefully not twenty-six (too long of an interviewing process). I want to be able to say what I mean in less than twenty-six gazillion hours, and one day I hope to share more than twenty-six passionate ideas with a gaggle of offspring just as crazy as their mother.

At this very second, though: I have no IDEA what I'll do to pay my stockpile of bills, the result of all this passion-watching.

Maybe the University of Algiers needs someone to park cars?



"Always go too far, because that's where you'll find the truth." -Albert Camus




JMH

Best of March

Best Meal: At the celebration of a new home in Muong Ngoi, Laos: Beef salad (cold chili sauce marinated pieces of meat with cilantro, mint, green onion, carrot dipped into with balls of sticky rice)

Best Run: Circling the "old city" of Chiang Mai, Thailand (we spent several days in the north of Thailand before boarding a flight to Brisbane from Bangkok). The old city wall circumvates the central area of the city and is a cool run to scale ruins while dodging cars and motorbikes.

Best Hidden Talent: I am a master at shadow puppets. This discovery brought to you by 3 hours of boredom in Lam Namtha, Northern Laos, when the electricity in the town cut out for an entire night during a monsoon rainstorm.

Best Swim: 10 minutes before my birthday ended and in no need of better motivation than to savor the last moments of my day, my South African surfer friend Dominick joined me in a race across the Nam Ou and back.

Best Quote about Swimming: "Everytime I see you two, you're trying to swim somewhere impossible." - Nathan the Aussie

Best Tribute to Insomnia: On the evening of March 30th, 2008, Gina and I prepared for a 16 hour train ride by staying up all night (it was spent at the Night Bazaar in Chiang Mai followed by a trip to the pub followed by reading Anita Shreve in our 90 degree guesthouse digs)hoping that we would then sleep all day on the train ride to Bangkok. It was, again, 90 degrees and in our broken 3rd class train seat, sleep was hard to come by. So, we get to Bangkok at 10 pm on the 30th and decide not to spend the money on a guesthouse. We hit the pub again, this time with backpacks. We head for Bangkok International at 2 am. We can't check in until 5 am, so we eat yogurt, play with the automatic sinks while meticulously brushing our teeth, decide to chain our stuff (and ourselves) to metal benches. We take a nap from 3-4, are entertained by a Canadian sugar-loaded energy drink addict, go through security to find out that we need to go online first to get our Australian visas. We play on expensive airport computers. We go through security. One more uncomfortable bench nap. Flight leaves for Hong Kong: 11 am April 1. 8 hour layover in Hong Kong. Pass through immigration to play with Champ outside. Promptly get kicked out of parking area by Chinese security. Attempt to make our 2 days without showers seem better by frequenting the duty-free perfumeries. Promptly get kicked out just as I am slathering on anti-aging pro-retinol $100 mosturizer that turned out to be a facial masque that I should have washed off. We do yoga. We run through our terminal. We try on all of the sunglasses we see. We read magazines. We drink tea. We eat noodles. Finally, our flight leaves to Brisbane: 11:35, April 1st. After absorbing Cathay Pacific food, a sad excuse for merlot and a return to McDreamy via Disney movie, we end the spell. 1:25 am, April 2nd: I sleep. Well. Or at least good, considering.

Best Bike Ride: Around Lam Namtha, Laos. We spent all day exploring a waterfall, having lunch roadside with a native tribe, pausing for fruit at the heat of the day, biking accidentally into the butcher's yard.

Best Repeated Dinner Option: All you can eat vegetarian buffet for 4,000 kip (50 cents) in Luang Prabang.

Coolest Repeated Dinner Option Company: 4 girls studying early childhood development at Yale who were accompanying their professor for a World Health Organization summit on prenatal and early childhood care and education in Laos.

Best Gina Quote: We shared with a couple other backpackers the simple joy of having a fridge in a tropical climate guesthouse, talking about how good it was to be able to buy your own yogurt and store it, eating it promptly upon wakening. When these two other backpackers talked about how much they thought it would completely suck to live in NYC on practically no money, Gina shrugged and said "Eh. You get a fridge. You put your yogurt in it."

Best Hike Around a Waterfall: Kuangsi Falls, near Luang Prabang, Laos. I thought we were going to get eletrocuted. Or fall off the mountain. Luckily, neither did, although I almost fell out of a tree trying to reach a rope swing and Gina was determined to swim in the crystalline blue water, thunder or not.

Best Book: "Reading Lolita in Tehran" - Azir Nafisi

Best Picture of Cute Man Taken on the Sly: Our victim was Victor from Austria. He was our bus buddy from Vientienne to Vang Vieng. He gave me his old ipod headphones when mine broke. I swooned. And Gina just kept taking these: (pictures of sleeping Victor...coming soon!)

Best Day of Forgetting I Was An Adult: Tubing down the Nam Song river in Vang Vieng.

Best Cave: The acoustics brought chills as Gina and I sang in a cave once used to hide and treat wounded soldiers in the Indo-Chinese war.

Best American Activity that's FUNNER Overseas: Bowling in Laos.

Best Break In: On one particular very VERY hot day in Chiang Mai, Gina and I attempted to use a swimming pool at the four star "Royal Orchid Hotel" as there are no lakes, rivers or oceans close to North-Central Thailand. We attempted to ask a receptionist if we could pay to use the pool, but since her english faltered, we forged ahead; changing into our suits in the staff lunch room, doing laps past some wealthy scandinavianly speedoed senor citizens, making up a name under which we were staying (Gina: "Our last name? Ummm...Anderson. Our room number? Well...our parents have the key. Their first names? Ummmmm...) jumping ceremoniously back into the olympic sized piece of heaven when the security guard finally came to give us the boot, attempting to offer small sums of money to stay poolside (or at that point, yelling offers to stay in the exact middle of the pool). Consequently, dejectedly squeaking our tevas through the marble lobby.

Jo Vs. Wild

Leaving the Year of the Jordan

I didn't want to wake up.

I was serenly nested in my hammock on the porch of our bungalow. I had rigged a mosquito net, strung from my laundry line over the balcony. There was a moisture-filled raincloud over the river, masking the Yellowstone-on-jungle-steroids mountains of Muong Ngoi, Laos.

PERFECT sleeping-in weather.

Except I couldn't.

A nagging feeling pulled at my stomach, exacerbated by the rooster chorus populating the Lao Village. Today was a passage into the unknown: my twenty-fourth birthday.

It wasn't an age I ever imagined being. I can recall telling Jenny Meyers at age eight that turning sixteen would most likely be the year I became a fairy princess astronaut. I know that I was stoked to have a driver's license issued without the death stamp of "UNDER 21 UNTIL..."

When I was ten, my parents threw a Harris bash not soon forgotten: Complete with rented clown costumes, a neighborhood parade and hippie socialist gift exchange (in which all children had to participate, even if it was THEIR birthday and they wanted the presents ALL TO THEMSELVES). Yes, the circus at 1001 S. 2nd street inspired me to wish that time would pause that day in the fourth grade.

But twenty-four? After so many birthdays, I'd never envisioned this one as a transcendent milestone. Not that this is news to anyone, but to reiterate: I have no job, no man, nothing but a passport, a dingy tennis ball (which is technically only half mine) and the dirtiest toes known to mankind.

This thought depressed me for a minute as I watched the sun rise over the Nam Ou River. A water buffalo belonging to the owner of our bungalow was shaking his mane free of mucked-up river crud, clanging his bell at me in mockery. "Welcome to the world of wrinkly old things," he sneered.

"At least I'm not chained to the fence," I stuck my tongue out at Mr. Buffalo.

Gina and I had been in the north of Laos for three days. The day before, we had taken a songthaew (long-tailed wooden boat) up the Nam Ou to a remote village lacking cars, motorcycles or telephones. We enjoyed the luxury of electricity from 6-9:30ish pm. This was the draw of Muong Ngoi: Not only was I getting a feel for rural, hilltribe Laos, but I got to play outside in the mountains ALL DAY LONG and gleefully camp in my hammock everynight.

I was euphoric about spending my birthday in such a place until it actually happened.

I glanced at my geriatric buffalo buddy and wished he could transport me to a magical facebook portal where I could check in with my past life and feel self-indulgently loved. Or Skype with my Daddy. Or call my Aunt LeAnne and listen to her recount the moments of my first day on earth (one of my favorite birthday occurences).

Inside our bamboo-stilted hut, Gina slept soundly: this was good. She had been so sick the previous day. "Soooooo," I thought to myself. With the only soul I knew recovering from Riverwateritis, I prepared to jazz up March 21st the Jordan Knight way.

As I returned from a cup of Laos coffee (thankfully a little more considerate on the intestines than Vietnamese brew), I found an awesome birhtday surprise: GINA! Up, dressed, and smiling.

We decided to hike up PaBoom, the largest mountain in the village. The summit is too steep to pass, it's mostly rock climbing, and in the States they might have suggested technical equipment. In fact, it was such that foreigners were not permitted up without a guide.

That's when birthday magic transpired.

Chumphorn, a 26-year-old Muong Ngoi native had been working as a trekking guide for the last seven years. His english was functionable, so we gleaned insight at every turn (the ones where we weren't hanging on to a cliff ledge to prevent falling to our deaths in the river below). He was saving money to get married and start a life in the village. Those darn water buffalo cost upwards of 2,000 USD and he needed one (and a hut and stuff) before he could take a bride. His friend Paul from California had figured out a way to help on the romantic side, at least: Chumphorn possessed a used guitar and an American repertoire - "You know 'Hotel California', yes?"

The rest of the day went like this: I accidentally sat on a snake. In peak JoAnne form, while standing absolutely still at the bottom of PaBoom, my exhausted muscles gave way into the tributary where I proceeded to unknowingly pick up a leech that I later pulled out the Bear Grylls way while Gina ran for table salt. Serendipitously, friends from our previous travels showed up at the village. Alex and Julia, a Seattle couple we had gone out with in Luang Prabang, Steff from Canada, Nathan the Aussie who had ridden with me on a bus from Vang Vieng. We all ate curreid pumpkin under candlelight, and had a makeshift cake (double stuffed oreos). I was serenaded in English AND Swedish (the Swedish birthday song giver was a woman my mother's age who drunkenly and dutifully told me to check my email soon, because surely my parents were thinking of me). Alex and Chumphorn built a fire on the beach - a terrific celebration with Lao friends and Weterners alike, a miraculous gathering of the younger crowd dwelling in Muong Ngoi. We drank Beerlao and Lao-Lao (village rice whiskey) and the Jo-Lao (Gina's very own concoction done up the "American" way: jungle juice in waterbottles).

Chumphorn and his friends played Thai and Lao pop music, and induldged me in Richard Marx's "Right Here Waiting for You".

The birthday flashbacks returned. I was 22 and there was a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, a boy with a guitar and his own rendition of the dorkiest love song on the planet. I thought he walked on water. In the weeks surrounding that birthday, I had dreamed that he'd plan a master escape and let me play Peter to his Jesus, as the template for post-graduation Lutheran singles stigmafies.

In retrospect, though I've not yet again felt my heart so vulnerably glue-sticked to my sleeve or my emotions flying full mast in the monsoon affectionately termed 'falling in love', I knew it wasn't end all or be all and that a life of whimpering "I fear, so someone else, something else...lead me, 'cause I can't do it myself" would be an injustice.

I'm so thankful I was forced to decide that I could walk on water. Alone. And still float.

It's the same power ballad, but a different key; a different hemisphere. Same cheesy lyrics but a different, insane, glorious story of self-actualization and Divine truth, forgiveness and growth: mine.

Cheaper than Garage Sale Undies

Gina and I have made happy inhabitants of Laos, a mountainous country with plenty of cave-exploration, pre-Angkorian structures, a neato French influence and tons of learning. Yes! I am constantly doing that self-introspective thing that makes me and everyone else who hates the rapidity of my parentheticals absolutely nuts. Alas, it was such a long entry about body image, that I figured everyone could just go see "The Vagina Monologues" instead and probably be better off.

So here's a different sort of treasure for you:

Gina and I are the cheapest travelers on the planet. Her fastidiousness concerning money has saved my wallet...kind of. The following is a list of dirt cheap things we've done.
*Note: This entry may not be suitable for the faint of heart, germophobic, or easily nauseated.

• When Gina was wounded on Ko Tao, they gave her a giant gauze bandage...instead of buying more gauze, Gina would save it, wash it out...then use it again after re-treating the wound. This became a problem when it was noticeably bloody (ew), so, we cut up a sock, courtesy of Cathay Pacific.
• Once, we cleaned our feet with moist toilettes meant to be put on your head. A bus freebie.
• Between the two of us, we use one bar of soap. This bar is for hair, bodies and clothes. It is sacred, and finding the next natural bar of soap is a bargaining and pricing adventure.
• We buy yoghurt at the gas station or minimart for breakfast whenever we can, even if the savings is only in the 10 cent margin.
• We will walk 2 miles to buy 6 liters of water at a savings of sixty cents.
• We will use an airplane freebie toothbrush for two weeks to extend the longevity of our good ones.
• In the absence of a spatula, bread crusts will get the peanut butter from the bottom of the jar.
• Plain, cheap crackers and apples are the new hangover food (Gone are the days of West 4th Falafel, sadly).
• Excitement is finding a can of coca-cola light for under US 60 cents.
• We will find a wooded clearing and make the other stand guard if it means not paying to use squats.
• We take the bus over any sort of terrain, even if that means 7 hours to go 100 kilometers over a mountain range. And on that bus, if JoAnne gets stuck in the back between a man with an M22 weapon (I had a good, long time to inspect it, each time the barrel struck my knee in the tumult of the twists and turns) AND a small child, throwing up out the window, it's okay...because she's saved $2.
• We will take shared taxis for 3 hour rides with 6 other passengers. That's right: a small sedan with 5 in the back, 3 in the front.
• We bought a sarong in Thailand (in absence of a beach towel) but it's hard to share...so we contemplated cutting it in half.

Even though we are so cheap, our funds are dwindling...so...there has been a major change in itinerary. Gina and I are going to Australia for the month of April. There we will stay with Gillum family friends: John and Diana, and hopefully run into some under the table work.

(More cheap fun with Champ in a park in Hanoi- a couple taking their wedding photos thought this was great, so we are now part of someone's memories of the happiest day of their lives. In our tevas and one-bar-of-soap grungy glory.)

Love to all,

J

Best of February

Best Meal: Streetside Pho in Cau Dhoc, Vietnam (Pho = beef broth with fesh bean sprouts, mint leaves, scallions, chili-peanut dipping sauce for your 'stix, pipping hot flanks of beef and fettucine-sized Asian noodles)

Close second: The COFFEE in 'nam. I refer to it fondly as 'cocaine syrup'.








Best live music: The Vietnamese Disco band on top of ritzy HCMC hotel "The Caravelle" that, replete with synth drum pads, successfully covered the Gypsy Kings' "Bamboleo". Accents and all.







Best canned music: the "Macarena", the unoffically national anthem of Cambodia, all along the beach bars of Sihanoukville.







Best purchase: 4 dresses of Korean and Vietnamese high 60's fashion at a thrift store in HCMC complete with eager to please shopgirl who kept launching more vintage fun into our curtained-off "dressing room" (electrical breaker wall) and yelling "SOOOOO nice for you!" Made me miss my thrift shopping days with Grandma Bev.







Best runs: Outguessing motorbikes to and from Independence Monument in Phnom Penh, Joining the Hash House Harriers in Phnom Penh, along the river in Kampot.







Best Gina quote: "Dude. You're a BUS." While incredulously staring down a tour bus driver obviously contemplating running her over.







Best exercise: "Aerobics" in the park with 150 Vietnamese women in HCMC (wondering how it could potentially be offensive for females to wear spaghetti-strapped tank tops yet perfectly acceptable for droves of them to pelvic-pump for 3 minutes straight at the end of a rudimentary calethetics-like workout).

My aerobics friend Mai, who spends half of her year in Minneapolis!

Best complement (Uhhh, I think): "You not soooo fat. But if you get more so fat, you come back and I make new for you, ok?" - Phuom, my tailor in Ho An, Vietnam while measuring me for a...you guessed it...dress!





Best idea: Because of the constant reliance on the horn of any bus, motorbike or car while anyone and everyone drives in SEA, Gina and I have decided in turn, to scream in long bullhorn spurts as we cross streets. So they know we're crossing. This may or may not have been inspired after a round of late morning cocaine syrup.

Just call me Ann Geddes: The fruit market in Cau Dhoc

Ho Chi Minh City

And I'm proud to be an American?

My favorite juxtaposition about myself: I love a good frat party but would rather choke on a mentos, attempt to give myself the Heimlich, fail repetitively and permanently disable my vocal chords than saddle up with an ignorant meathead bound for Corporate Middle America.

After a minibus ride to Ho Chi Minh City via sardine tin backseat-age, Gina and I had befriended a Canadian unafraid of voicing his all-around Northern superiority and two good ol' Coloradans (the first Americans we'd come across in a long while) straight from the University. Read: A couple mega-church attending boys with hair gel and snowboarding tales that astoundingly made the word 'awesome' a noun, verb AND adjective. We'll call them Opie (one looked remarkably like Ron Howard) and Cory Matthews.

We arrive in HCMC and set out on the routine cheap hostel find. A backalley and a check for flea infestation later, we settle and agree to meet up later for a drink.

We drink, we eat, enjoying the chaos of the Vietnamese motorbike infatuation. We're on a second story balcony drinking cans of "333" (said: Ba ba ba) from a plastic bucket full of ice at the end of our table.

This doesn't sound high class, I'm sure, but in Vietnam is qualifies as a night on the town. A nation of habitual snackers, most meals can be consumed right off the street corner. In fact, the food is generally better while perched on a Fischer-Price colored and sized bench, taking care that motos don't storm over your tevas.

The boys give us the same formulaic itenerary we get from most backpacking men: In Cambodia, they paid ridiculous amounts of money to throw a grenade and shoot artilery at the nation's army training grounds. Off the coast of Thailand, they learned to SCUBA. They rode elephants. They ate a fried tarantula in Phnom Pehn. In every city they have their laundry done because they can't be bothered to do it themselves and while they wait for substitute Asian mommies to wash their tightie-whities, they take in the fabled Thai Ping-pong show. (This involves women who have discovered remarkable projectile powers in unmentionable places.) The boys revel in telling us as if we haven't met morons like themselves before this particular crossing.

It's only after several rounds (and terrible JoAnne jokes: What are we on now? 666? 999?) that we decide to hit the pavement. So far, a decent night with the 3 Amigos.

It's then that we find the Bia Hoi. The Vietnamese brew this lager in the same way they crank out kids and Nikes. Much like these overstocked items, this means you can sit on any number of street corners, drink a giant stein for the equilvalent of US 10 cents and the beer girls (outfitted in sponors costumes much like Steffi Graff) bring you peanuts and fruit all night...for free!

Happily, we cheers. But then Gina quotes Kanye and the smiles are over as we watch our plastic table instantaneously burn to wax. Our fellow Americans seem to think Mr. West is a black thug (what else do rappers know besides drugs and 'hos) who willfully killed his mother by funding her cosmetic surgery.

This leads to a convulted brawl that goes something like this:

Opie and Cory: Black Americans had to have voted for Bush so why the hell would Kayne say that our president hates black people?

Gina and JoAnne: Ever heard of the state of Florida? Faulty CHAD machines? A governor named Jeb? HURRICANE KATRINA?

Opie and Cory: Lies!
Gina and JoAnne: Racists!
Opie and Cory: Commies!
Gina and JoAnne: I'd rather be red than smelly like you!
*obviously, we were not throwing our best punches at this point, so I'll save ourselves the embarrasment of the rest of the name calling, but eventually, it is capped off by the following comment...

Canadian: You guys are messed up, eh?

So, lesson learned. Again. I really think we should change the cliche so that it's more like Marie Antoinette's cake: You can take the girl out of the middle America, and you can have most of middle American taken out of her, too.

Do not be mistaken: I love and adore lemonade, playing pool, bluegrass festivals, cut-off jean skirts, being overly polite and barbequed beef brisket. I hope to never stop attending graduation parties in people's garages and I would consider it tragedy if the clouds of dust that get stuck in your throat at the county fair were a phlegm issue now abandoned.

No, it's hardly the cool summer nights in the back of a friend's pickup or the Dairy Bar that gets me down. My real problem isn't even these boys we've just met. They are quite respectful, even when throwing down fourth grade insults (this is way Midwestern and should be a revered art-form, if you ask me). It's just that they represent a middle America that I love so much and still feel completely dismissed by. I feel like American can stunt your growth: My culture did the opposite of pushing me towards unique, quirky, world-conscious Christiane Amanpour-dom. Instead of crafting women with a sense of urgency, passion, drive and crealess khakis, middle America told me about the woman I "should" be.

So, you Coloradans, you 10-grade Advanced Composition teachers, you dream-squelching Cobber boyfriends: Please don't ask me to shut my eyes to the rest of the wrold. Don't tell me that it's even POSSIBLE to do a trip like this and count your best day in terms of gunsmoke. Don't hold me back, even when I overuse the semi-colon. Don't tell me that Nicholas Kristoff is never going to pick me to travel with him to Africa. (Which he didn't, but still...you could have at least been SUPPORTIVE for the sake of a good dream.) I want to drink and exchange ideas with anyone and everyone, but don't assume that you can strip off the beat-up v-neck I've been wearing for too many days in a row and find the same "I Heart Billy Graham" t-shirt you're wearing. Considering the large beer gut I now have going for me, it's just not going to fit anymore.

In the same breath, to my kindred spirits: Kirsten who said that Kristoff would be crazy not to take me and spent hours editing my essay, Mom and Dad who may have rolled their eyes but always followed it up with a hug, and countless other mid-Americans I love who ARE awesome (by it's proper definition): I am thankful that you pushed me towards the adventurous, the new, the creative. I wish you could be here too, sitting streetside drinking Bia Hoi, folding your legs protectively under your too-small plastic chair, just waiting until you make it to US $1 (and that happy, happy place facedown under said chair).

Here's to you.

Where at least I know I'm free...

War Remnants Museum, Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), Vietnam

I am wondering how many editions of 9th grade US History textbooks Houghton-Mifflin will publish before they include pictures of American GIS in 1968, proudly grasping tuffs of hair on the heads of decapitated Vietnamese children.

I am wondering how long we'll spend millions entertaining our children by allowing them to spar with bb guns and videogames, watching them either unemotionally shrug their way to an oblivion of violence or make livelihoods as mechanical engineers who design four-foot long bazookas, expressedly to be pointed at the heads of other humans.

I am wondering how a German citizen feels at the Holocaust Museum in DC.

I am wondering how the terms Imperialism/Communism/Terrorism are all, in essence, the same 'ism'.

I am wondering who the hell thought up Agent Orange.

I am wondering how I'd feel about all of this if I were born 40 years earlier.

I'm wondering how a US citizen could claim America the best country in the world and account for ruthless inhumanities in situations across southeast asia.

I'm wondering if these same Americans who would deem our country the best could recite the exerpt of the Declaration of Independence, displayed at the beginning of the war crimes section of the museum, clearly stating the Vietnamese distrust of such great words. It's palpably unmistakable as a statement of hypocrisy: Hey, America. We don't believe you when you claim that all are created equal and this "truth" is self-evident. Maybe self-directed, as it only applies to people born on a certain continent and with a certain skin color.

I'm wondering if my children, in 30 years, will backpack across the middle east, telling Afghani citizens that they are Canadian to avoid confrontation. Because by then, there will be museums showing awful things inflicted by a US military machine in the name of what? Democracy?To win a war on terror with an even more clever artilery of...terror?

On this point, I don't wonder, I know.

Those children of mine, smart and precocious, terribly attractive and wittily amusing (much like their mother) will ask me what I did to stop my government from engaging in these brutalities and then they'll ask me what they should be doing.

Run for Senate? Seemed like a good idea for self-confessed Vietnam war criminal, Bob Kerrey.

Change the military from the inside out? But their father and I have always told them not to stick their hands in on a lit stovetop.

Pull an "Up Yours, McNamara!" like Norman Morrison or Roger Laporte, who in 1965, protested the Vietnam war by setting themselves on fire? (Maybe the more dramatic option, just not really ...umm...effective) Decide to rally their colleges to close in protest?

Pray? To who? The oil gods, so we'd never run out? The Dow Jones Industrial Buddha, so that our finances would surpass China and we'd all be "secure"? Dick Cheney, so that he'd stop making up ridiculous crap about axises of evil and backing it up with the Office of Legal Council and Justice Department?

I don't wonder, I know:
I will have absolutely no idea what to tell them.

NAM

(working title for a self-help article title)

"How to cross the Camodian/Vietnamese Southern Border in Typical Gina and JoAnne Fashion"

(or how about for the Daily News)

"Capers Abound! Gina and JoAnne in Vietnam, Finally!"

(Women's Health and Fitness would call it)

"How to Completely Give Up on Your Diet, DESERVEDLY!"

(Forbes would have a different take)

"The Importance of Verbal Comprehension and Written Agreement in the Transfer of Money Across Southeast Asian Countries for the Economic Benefit of the Traveling Young Female"

(and the American Health Association would be interested, too)

"The Prevalence of the Urinary Tract Infection Among Women in Tropical Climated Underdeveloped Countries where Facilities are Less than Standard if not Wretched"

Yet again, Gina and I have managed to make our way, laboriously and hilariously, into another country. Should you consider such a trek in the future, I have posted a "DO" and "DO NOT" list of activities to aid in your travels.

DO:

-Take a motorbike from Kampot to Had Thian (VN border) because it's beautiful and everyone needs to hum a little Traveling Wilbury's now and again (Well it's alright/ Riding around in the breeze / Well, it's alright/ If you live the life you please)

DO NOT:

-Trust that your moto driver has "a brother" who "lives" across the "border" and will take you all the way to the ATM-less town of Chau Doc for "Just Five Dollar"! Fantasy, baby. He will take you to see his "brother" at the "public bus stop".

DO:

-Take the 4 hour bus ride to Chau Doc and enjoy the smell of rice paddies and corn fields, fresh Vietnamese pastry buns sold on the side of the road, and the most glorious of all: sugarcane after a short blast of monsoon-season rain.

DO NOT:

-Let said bus take off without travel buddy who was in desperate need of a bathroom and ended up going in a native's riverside hut. You can let the busdriver lay on the horn all he wants, and even if he doesn't speak english and everyone is laughing at you as you wave your hands frantically while straddling 25 pound bags of rice laying in the aisle, you must remember that your travel buddy's ass is hanging off the side of the Mekong river, guarded only by a small curtain and several moto drivers. Come on. Do your part.

DO:

-Try Vietnamese Coffee.

DO NOT:

-Ask for it black. Even though the woman at the streetstall cafe looks really sweet in her matchy-matchy silk jumpsuit, she is lacing your coffee with Cocaine. She brings it to you in a small 4-oz shot glass, brewing in the Vietnam version of a french press. At first, this will make you smile. Then. You will tremble. You will sing Eric Clapton. You will tell your travel buddy that you haven't felt this way about coffee since college. You will not be able to finish your breakfast of delicious chicken Pho (noodle soup) because you can't physically bring the chopsticks to your face anymore.

DO:

-Take a hike up Nui Sam (Sam Mountain) after you have come down from your "caffeine" high.

DO NOT:

-Forget to go to the bathroom before you go, otherwise you will be stuck in a touristy-Disneyland-but-full-of-dirtiness alleyway, paying 2,000 dong to have a grown Vietnamese woman stand centimeters from your face and poke at your sunburnt nose while you wait to use the "bathroom": a shower stall. With a drain. And four walls. And a tub of water to wash it down the drain when you're done. Also, it is recommended that you refrain from attempting the Guiness World Record of Longest Urination Performed by a Caucasian Female Backpacker at the worst pay squat toilet (if you can even call it that) in the history of the world.

Portraits of Kampot

Spastic is not an appropriate enough descriptor for William, but it is as close as the English language permits.

We meet William as we are sharing a taxi (an early 80's model of a Camry, I think) with a total of 7 people in it. William is the only English - speaking Cambodian in the car, sharing the passenger seat with another compact Khmer. His obnoxiously large diamond ring and dress clothes do not convey his comprehension, so Gina and I verbally carry on to God-knows-what extent, though it's enough to affirm any stereotype that Americans are all characters from Desperate Housewives, I'm sure.

As she and I take turns sitting on top of each other and inadvertently poking at each other's mosquito bites, we cogitate on our last days in Sihanoukville: lots of silliness on the beach by day and mass consumption of alcohol by night; two Englishmen almost par with our particular brand of dorkiness for all of it.

Talking is the only remedy to ease the torture of the trip; the windows don't roll down, the driver hates us because we wouldn't pay US $24 dollars to hire the entire car (thus the vindictive time-consuming gathering of other people to reach his quota) and we are both in the wake of round two of the intestinal virus (termed "Cambodian Belly" by the 60-year-old French woman staying next door to us when she cornered me into listening to details of her night in the restroom).

Little did we know that William was studying our every sentence, and meticulously plotting the events to come.

When we reached Kampot, we are formally introduced: Will is a Phnom Pehn based real estate agent. He speaks at us as if he is firing missiles, and has to push his glasses up every two seconds because of the shell-shock of it all. His intensity is endearing if not concurrently dizzying. In a rush, we all settle on the same guesthouse; we agree to meet him for dinner.

10 minutes before we are to meet, William knocks on the door, does not wait for an answer, walks in.

"Seachfood! Sheachfood? Uh- LOBSTER! YES! I GET TODAY AT THE MARKET! We eat, ok? OK!"

"Ok?" We smile. He leaves.
Wait, what just happened?

We go downstairs to the guesthouse restaurant. No William. We sit and wait. No William. We blame translation, and go back up to his room to sort it out.

He opens the door with a spray of water launched square at unsuspecting Gina. In a moment we process: William is naked from the waist up and is holding a comb. " I WASH MY HAIR!" yells he. Gina attempts to explain that we were confused about the lobster. Did he want us to wait while he ate? Should we go someplace else and meet him later? We are informed that "NO!" We are to join him, he got $25 worth of prawns; he definitely wants us to eat with him.

We of course accept, with trepidation on account of our frail stomachs and the fact that William seems harmless but displays enough Ted-Bundyisms to raise a flag.

Dinner is served: An absolute feast. Fried pork in eggplant. Red vegetable curry. Steamed Prawns. Beerlao. William makes sure that we each try the prawn's egg, which is a rare and expensive treat, apparently. William makes no secret of the fact he is rich. My first clue was verbal: "I AM VERY RICH!" My second, third and fourth were shown in his attitude towards other Cambodians in service roles. He was terribly ungracious...but why so nice to us? Red flag number two.

Conversation is amazing. William is a member of the contentiously corrupt CPP (Cambodian People's Party) so we get an earful. He is literally the Entertainment Tonight expose of all the information Gina and I have pondered and had no one of repute to ask about. We learned why Cambodia hates Thailand (in 2003, riots broke out on the streets of Phnom Pehn because a Thai actress claimed Angkor Wat belonged to the Thais...plus a bunch of racist stuff). We gained further appreciation for the family structure. The typical Cambodian father hides all emotion and is supposed to look happy to keep the household in order. (Could this be an allegory for a post Khmer-Rouge country controlled by tourism and a failing UN-driven war crimes tribunal?) We learn how Cambodian men feel when Western men marry Cambodian women. "This is good question. But we don't worry. They marry the ugly girls and it is good for all."

We also learn that 27-year-old William is quite lonely and would like to rectify this by convincing Gina to stay forever.

Wholly blind and against good backpacker sense, we take motorbikes to a spot over the "New" bridge, a gift from the Koreans.

We land at the local Karaoke bar. Transparently conspicuous (women only work at these establishments, not frequent them) Gina and I are pulling rank with Paris and Nicole.

We wait on the patio as they prepare a room for us. We eat mangoes and peanuts and drink Angkor (Slogan: "My Country, My Beer").

The Karaoke room: Envision a bomb shelter with a large black leather couch, television, 2 microphones and a coffee table. It's Clay Aiken's bachelor pad in Kosovo, basically. An older woman comes in and opens our second round; William screams at her in Khmer, Gina and I quietly say thank you. We are embarrassed that our host is a big meanie.

He has told her to play "Hong Kong Karaoke"- song after song of sappy love ballads in English, most we had never heard but enjoyed harmonizing to. Occasionally we'd get "Un-break My Heart" or "Right Here Waiting For You" but mostly these were tunes that had taught William English - he embodied the words and sang them to Gina, quite emphatically.

So emphatically, that we decided to leave the Manson Ranch before things got REAL bad.

There was not one motorbike home to save our impending lives, so we walked the 2 miles, haphazardly, as William's phone GPS had died.

Back at the Guesthouse, we shook hands curtly and ran the flight of stairs, locking the door behind us.

This was a necessary action as our businessman was leaving for Phnom Pehn at 6 am and as he knocked repetitively adding a giant "HELLO!" at 5:45, we rolled a sleepy eye at each other and said prayers of gratitude for the double lock and deadbolt.

***

I sat at a restaurant on the river this morning, reading Haruki Murikami and eating yogurt. A fully bearded man walked by on the street, 6 yards away. He is scruffy, tall and wearing a heavy jacket despite the heat. He sees me, walks backwards four steps. He draws an imaginary index finger gun from his leg pocket. With a "ShhhwwwooosssH" sound effect, he first "shoots" himself in the right kneecap. Then the left. Right arm. Then left. He opens his mouth, glares at me, and pulls his thumb trigger. Scared, I looked down.

2 hours later, I am sitting in the same spot, cup of coffee in hand. He has a bag of groceries in his right hand, but this does not stop the returning Khmer sporting the Unibomber look to draw his left hand imaginary pistol and take aim for my forehead.

***

Les is a burly, bleached blond Canadian in his early 60's. He and his partner live in Kampot for 5 months of the year. Les, needing a substantial doctor-ordered form of exercise (and in want of a good suntan) decided to build a beach on Prek Kampong (the river). He tells everyone about it and invites them to lounge on "good sand" and draws them a map if they look directionally challenged (ME). Les and David hire a Cambodian to live year round on the property, attending to his guests and seeing that the lawn chairs are straightened properly.

***

Chanda (pronouced Jehnn-na) works at Lili Perles, a bead shop initiated by a French jewelry designer. I stopped by to create adornment, and met the young Cambodians working there. Chanda, with her huge grin and immediate offer of friendship stuck like the green-tea gum she shared with me.

When I was somewhere floundering in pre-adolescence, my family would go to Minnesota, spend a week on the lake, fishing, swimming and eating 'smores. Other ritual behavior included a stop at the "Loggin' Camp"a chitzy, lovable breakfast homage to Paul Bunyan and his blue ox.

There was another flat-chested 12-year-old running around. Her father owned the restaurant. Upon meeting me and my similar Kerri Strug top half, she took my hand and we ran through the woods; she promised there were fairies, she'd seen them.

What magic it was to think there might be other-worldly beings in the North Country. Even more magical that for a period of summers, we'd still run to go find them.

It takes me like heat lightning, still. The surprise connection that people share; the shock of comfortable kinship in befriending another woman. As Chandra helps me find matching beads we speak, pragmatically at first as I probe the extent of her English. She is beyond proficient. She exclaims "It's Un-be-LIEV- able!" when I ask her if she likes the Robbie Williams album that is playing. She thinks he's handsome. Unaware of the movement to bring sexy back, I assure her that Justin Timberlake will be her new wildest dream and I promise to send a CD.

She tells me about all the languages she speaks, I'm duly impressed and tell her she should go into business. She laughs, long and easily. "That is a funny thing. A Cambodian woman in business." Regardless, this girl, at a mere 20 years old, runs a water plant at her home village (keeping her younger cousin accountable for the money he seems to be laundering) , manages the Lili Perle and keeps a long distance boyfriend in Phnom Pehn (who her mother whole-heartedly disapproves of).

"A shame," I retort. "You would be a better businessman than most men!"

I ask her what it is that she wants to do, if she could do anything at all.

" Travel, " is her out-of-character one word reply.

"Come with us!" I teasingly beg. I wish it were as simple as taking her hand and running into the oaks and pines, chasing fairies.

Beyond her native Khmer, Chandra can speak Chinese, Thai, English and is learning French. Her voice eases over each of them with a non-existant glottle and a savoring of vowel sounds. Her word worship is delightful, so I fire question after question, mainly to hear her adoration of the language.


***

He has the frame of Kate Moss, with less chest and a little more of a backside. In fact, I think his figure is ideal, actually. I'm sure if we had conferred about this very personal issue, however, he'd probably disagree. I wouldn't expect less from the man who politely shot down all of my other statements that attempted to praise his genius.

Arne is the co-editor and publisher of "The Globe". Based in Phnom Pehn, the Globe reaches the English-speaking intelligentsia of Cambodia. Slick graphics, an original voice on politics and an occasional piece of malarkey a la the "Today Show". It's innovative and smart - delectable and in step just as hearty - an oatmeal-raisin cookie of a publication.

In one year, he and his partner have managed to employ a full-time staff of nine people and have been granted an exclusive with Bill Gates for next month. Also hugely awesome is their close coverage of the UN/ECCC (Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia) tribunal to finally judge war crimes against the Khmer Rouge.

Quietly, in his small uncontrollably curly-haired German demeanor, Arne is bounding buildings. He speaks, he shows me the magazine. All I want is to stitch my own superhero cape and jump along.

***

The tour agent booking our taxi to Vietnam is asked his name by Gina. "Viet."
He pauses. "But not Viet Cong, ha?"

Tomorrow we are gone.
To my love, Cambodia, for all that you have been and are to me,

Jo
February 24 2008
Kampot