The Typhoon Broke My Umbrella

The Star Ferry Terminal and Hong Kong Skyline

Crossing the bridge from Kowloon to Lantau Island on my way to the airport, the Hong Kong “Symphony of Lights” illuminated the island outside the car window. The sky scrapers were flickering with colored lights while lasers danced in the sky. It was a fitting farewell from Hong Kong and Asia. In a few short hours, I would be on board my Singapore Airlines flight to San Francisco - returning to American soil for the first time in almost three months. My heart raced with anticipation of any number of things: the excitement of flying my favorite airline in the world, getting closer to home, catching up with old friends and family, starting school, wondering when and where my next trip will take me.

My short stay in Hong Kong was pleasant enough. I can’t say I fell in love with the city, but I enjoyed myself and would be happy to return someday. I spent my first day wandering around the city in the dismal pre-typhoon weather. All of the shopping malls and various points around the city had signs stating that signal 3 had been raised for the Special Administrative Region, i.e. a typhoon was anticipated to hit within 12 hours. I had an umbrella with me, but less than an hour after leaving the hotel, a gust of wind literally ripped my umbrella to pieces. The metal frame of the umbrella had snapped into multiple pieces, and the fabric had ripped. I tossed the umbrella in the nearest garbage can and continued wandering around the harbor in the wet, windy weather. I paused to snap some photos of the statue of Bruce Lee along the Avenue of Stars.

The next day, I felt bored with Hong Kong already. The weather was still wet, sticky and cloudy, so my outdoor activities were limited, and I just wasn’t in the mood for museums. In the evening, I decided to go ahead and hop over to Macau. I walked down to the ferry terminal, grabbed a ticket, and boarded the next hydrofoil to Macau. Although the typhoon had passed without ever hitting Hong Kong, the water was still incredibly rough from the windy weather. The two Japanese girls behind me couldn’t quite handle the ride, and they spent the 1.5 hours taking turns running to the restroom, seasick bag in hand.

I would probably point a canon at that building too

I was pleasantly surprised with what I found in Macau. Floating into the port, one can’t help but notice the gargantuan Las Vegas style hotels and attractions that line the Cotai Strip. MGM Grand, Wynn, The Venetian - they’re all there, along with some local casino establishments. I took a cab into the center of town and the ruins of Sao Paolo. I climbed to the top of the fortress, snapped pictures of the old facade, all that remains of St. Paul’s church. Later, I wandered down the cobblestone pedestrian only streets that weave their way through the old Portuguese colonial buildings. Macau isn’t as refined as Hong Kong, but I found it’s rough-edged character enchanting.

Ruins of Sao Paolo

After making a couple laps around the old city, I started hunting for a good Portuguese or Macanese restaurant for dinner. I ended up at a small restaurant tucked in an alleyway near the cathedral where I enjoyed some Pasteis de Bacalhao (Fried Salt Cod Cakes) and Arroz de Marisco (seafood rice). The food was outstanding and served in massive quantities. I felt bad leaving behind so much of the giant pot filled with deliciously creamy rice loaded with prawns, squid, octopus, clams, mussels, and fish. Properly satiated from dinner, I walked back to the ferry terminal and was back in Hong Kong by 1AM.

They really are everywhere

Hong Kong was my last stop in Asia, and I was on my way back to the states, but my journey wasn’t over yet. I spent a few short hours sleeping in San Francisco before an early flight back out of the US to Vancouver. I spent a great weekend with my good friend Jon wandering around Vancouver, eating good food, and having some good laughs.

I might like you better, if...

Old Lijiang

Naked fire, eh...

Maybe this has something to do with the naked fires

Uhhh???

Yes, miss, I did just take your picture

I may have walked a little too quickly from the plane towards passport control in Chengdu, but I was trying to keep up with a particularly long-legged American in front of me that was setting the pace. I worked myself into a very slight sweat in the warm humid airport. The quarantine officer took my H1N1 declaration, gave it a once over and then sent me on my way. As I walked through the gate towards passport control, though, an alarm went off because my temperature was too high. An officer jumped towards me, grabbed my arm and said, “We must take your temperature again.”

Before landing, they had played an informational video on the plane about customs and quarantine procedures in China and the new protocol for the prevention of the spread of Swine flu (H1N1). The video started with a shimmering red and gold image of the Chinese state emblem and pomp music like that of an old news reel - both suitable for a communist propaganda film. The film was in Chinese with English subtitles, but they had neglected to consider the readability of the subtitles against different backgrounds, so the white text was projected onto a white background during most of the film, so I only caught a few key words. My favorite part of the film was watching the cartoon depictions of different flu symptoms. Nothing like a runny nosed cartoon character to get you excited about visiting a new country. I guess I had been properly warned about the strict health precautions being taken at the entry points to China.

I followed the officer behind a curtain in the quarantine area, where I was handed a face mask and asked to sit down. A doctor gave me a thermometer and asked me to place it under my arm. He then proceeded to review my declaration and repeat most of the questions verbally. “Have you had trouble breathing, runny nose, congestion, fever or other symptoms recently? What cities and countries have you been to in the last 7 days? Where are you staying in China? What is your mobile phone number? What is the phone number of someone else that knows your travel itinerary?” The questions went on and on. The doctor took back the thermometer, recorded the temperature and asked me to wait because another doctor was going to check my throat. I guess it’s a good thing I had an over 5 hour layover before my flight to Lijiang. In the end, they had collected too many passengers of questionable health to make me wait any longer for the check-up. “Your temperature is normal, so we will let you go now, but please contact the authorities immediately if you develop any symptoms.”

Passport control and customs were a breeze after worrying that I might get stuck in some medical quarantine area for god knows how long. I found my way to the China Airlines check-in counter, but they wouldn’t check me in for my Lijiang flight because it was still too early. I pleaded with them to just check my bags and then I could wander the airport hands free until it was time to collect my boarding pass. The agent agreed, took my bags and printed out my boarding pass, which she then set aside and said I could collect in 4 hours. Luckily, the Chengdu airport has a surplus of tea houses with internet access, so I settled down in front of a terminal with a glass of jasmine tea. It didn’t take me long to realize that the health inspections weren’t the only sign I was in China. Youtube, twitter, facebook and my own blog were, among many other sites, inaccessible from within the PRC. It took me a while to figure out what I could do after I checked my email, but I ended up checking the news and browsing the couch surfing site.

Eventually, I was granted my boarding pass and went on to my connecting flight. On board, a young, short Chinese woman was sitting next to me. After she had already fastened her seatbelt and settled into her seat, she decided she needed her reading light on but couldn’t reach it. I figured out what was going on, and I turned on her light for her before she had to move all of her stuff and get out of the seat. She said thank you, one phrase I could understand, and then proceeded to ask me something in Chinese. I told her that I don’t speak Chinese, but that didn’t slow her down one bit. She gave a look of disappointed understanding and then continued conversing with me in one of the few languages in the world that I have absolute zero comprehension of. Eventually, she smiled and went back to reading her book. I then switched my focus to the news being shown on the overhead screens. Once again, it was a poorly subtitled Chinese broadcast, but one story really caught my attention.

“This year’s butter cow and butter calf at the Ohio state fair will be accompanied by an equally buttery farmer and his wife.” No need to worry about what they think about Americans on this side of the world - they know we have excellent butter sculptures in Ohio.

After having collected my baggage in Lijiang, still laughing about the buttery farmer, I stepped outside to find a taxi. I was directed to the next taxi in line, which was being watched over by its rather surly female driver. She was probably only in her late 30s or early 40s, but she looked like she was almost 60. I told her the name of my hotel, and she said 100. I didn’t catch what she was saying the first time around, but once repeated, I realized what she was saying. I figured her asking for 100 yuan for the ride to the hotel was a signal to start bargaining, but since I had reached the limit of her English, we weren’t getting very far. One of the airport staff saw me struggling, came over and said, “meter?” Yes! Meter! That’s all I want is for her to use a meter. The ride into town was silent, and I feared for my life every time Little Miss Giggles overtook another vehicle on a blind curve in the dark. Once in town, Giggles decided she had had enough of the silence and turned on some music. The last thing I expected was for the CD to start playing a techno beat, but I was pushed over the edge when the lyrics came on. “I might like you better, if we slept together.” It was impossible to contain myself any longer, and I started laughing out loud. The driver just looked at me like I was crazy.

Waking up the next morning to a gray, rainy sky in Lijiang, I felt tired and a bit short of breath. Crap, was I indeed coming down with a case of H1N1? Had they inadvertently exposed me to the virus while I sat waiting in the quarantine area at the airport? I didn’t have any other symptoms, so I sat back and tried to think what could be the problem. Suddenly it occurred to me that I wasn’t too far from Tibet. What’s the elevation in Lijiang? I got on the computer to google the information, and sure enough, Lijiang sits at an altitude of about 2400 meters (almost 8,000 feet), more than high enough for some minor altitude sickness. Symptoms of altitude sickness include fatigue, shortness of breath and dehydration among others. Coming from an elevation near sea level, it is no surprise that I was having difficulty acclimating to the new altitude. To adjust to long-term stays at altitudes above 5,000 feet can take as long as 30 days. Yay! I’m not dying, I’m just oxygen deprived! The internet recommended lots of rest, avoid physical exertion, drink lots of water and ask for some oxygen for severe cases. Feeling more comfortable having self-diagnosed my condition, I opted not to be the American dork asking the hotel for oxygen, but I did follow the rest of the advice.

I spent some time wandering around the old town of Lijiang, which is picture perfect. The streams and canals around the city were crossed by numerous stone and wooden bridges. The old architecture of the Naxi homeland was a taste of “true” China, albeit in an almost Epcot fashion with everything so well-renovated and full or tourists. I lost my way down the narrow stone alleys of the town, which was the perfect way to explore. At one of the squares, a group of elderly women were performing traditional Naxi dances. It seemed as though the lead woman knew what she was doing, while the rest just kept looking around at each other for clues. There were a number of pauses and missteps, but it added to the charm factor of the whole thing. Walking away from the dancers, I heard the jingling of bells and the shouts of horsemen. I turned to see two traditionally dressed men riding horses rapidly down the road. I grabbed my camera to take the picture, and they turned and rode directly towards me. I was in definite danger of being trampled by two small horses ridden by two small men, but in the end, I passed right between the two… just barely.


The shopping was tempting, but I couldn’t cope with the trouble of transporting some of the beautiful ceramics, and I just couldn’t quite justify purchasing one of the large traditional fox skin hats, though I’m still a little disappointed about that one. The smell of dried yak meat wafts down every street and alleyway of Lijiang, and once I saw where the smell was coming from, I figured out what I had just had for breakfast. I had picked up a sushi roll from the buffet with some mysterious brown shreds inside. It didn’t taste like any fish I had tasted before, but I couldn’t quite place what it did taste like. The smell of the yak meat was a perfect match to the flavor still lingering in the back of my mouth. Yak sushi, breakfast of champions.

I’ve enjoyed my limited time in Lijiang, although I keep peering towards the mountains in hopes of catching a glimpse of Jade Dragon Snow Mountain, but the clouds this time of year seem to just sit permanently on the peak. The first day, I wasn’t even convinced the mountain existed the clouds were so thick. Over the course of time, I have seen the base of the mountain and some of the lower peaks surrounding it, but the clouds refuse to give up their resting place, and I’ll be leaving without having seen the main peak. Such is life.

Just a drink, a martini, shaken not stirred

Riding off into the sunset on a speed boat with mountains of limestone jetting out of the water, it all felt very James Bond. Was I on my way to check in at a new beach resort, or was I unknowingly being transported to a meeting with Dr. No? Arriving at Rayavadee, the Cambodian method of wading through shallow waters was unacceptable for a guest like me. Instead, because the boat couldn’t reach the resort pier at low tide, they brought a dock out to me by tractor. It was all rather peculiar, but I loved it. Two guest services personnel were waiting on the dock to welcome me, and back on the beach, the guest services manager had my check-in documents ready. I was escorted to a beautiful open-air waiting room where they brought me a fresh coconut milk and lime welcome drink, and I signed the registration papers.

I was eligible for an upgrade, but they suggested I take a look at both bungalows first. The higher category room had a private “hydropool” in the garden but was located further from the beaches and main pool. The lower category room they had prepared for me, however, was directly beside the main pool with a view of Railay beach, and the interior was identical to the other bungalow. I opted for the room with a sea view that already had a chilled bottle of Prosecco waiting for me. The bungalow was fantastic, full of mahogany and all the creature comforts one could desire. My favorite part of my orientation tour, however, was when the young lady escorting me around the resort pointed out that the closet was double sided with one door on the bedroom side and one door in the bathroom. “If you need the restroom quickly, fastest way through the closet.” I spent the first evening in the room giggling childishly at how wonderful this place was (and imagining myself rushing through the closet to the toilet). I popped open the bottle of Prosecco, ordered some room service and made myself at home.

The next morning, I enjoyed breakfast at the main restaurant and then walked around the resort taking some photos. I spent a few hours swimming and enjoying a perfectly sunny day. I walked to all three beaches on this 26 acre property and had some excellent French fries in the Grotto bar inside a cave at Phranang beach. I wanted at least one perfect day of beach relaxation on this trip, and I lucked out and got it. It was, afterall, monsoon season, and showers could have put a damper on my beach time at any moment, but the sun was shining all day.

Should I take the M1 to the M2 down to 342, or stay on the service road all the way to Railay beach? It may sound like trying to figure out which highway to take to get somewhere, but this is what was going through my head while trying to find my way back to my bungalow late in the evening after a great dinner of steamed sea bass with ginger, chilies and lime at the Krua Phranang Thai restaurant on the opposite end of the property. The paths around the property were quite narrow, full of vegetation and not incredibly well-lit. the exception was the service road, which was wide enough for golf carts to pass by and had plenty of lighting. The real question is which way I was least likely to be attacked by wild animals. Against my better judgment, I decided to take the smaller, shorter path to my room. Sure enough, while walking quickly down the path trying to ignore the unidentifiable sounds of the night, rustling in the bushes and splashes in the ponds, a medium-sized gray monkey jumped straight in front of me on the path and looked me in the eyes. I glared right back at him, he let out a yelp and bolted faster than he came. I guess I’m one scary monkey.

Some more breakfast and some more swimming in the morning before I had to bid farewell to my short-term home at Rayavadee. The staff encouraged me to come back and spend more time soon, and I agreed to try my hardest. Back on the speedboat tilted up at full speed towards the mainland, my Bond-like adventure was over.

I've had a very interesting welcome to China, but alas, access to my blog and facebook have been blocked by big brother. Just a mobile post to say I will be posting again on Tuesday, inshallah.

Gimme one dolla'

Photo-op in front of Angkor Wat

Raining at Bayon Temple

Ta Phrom Temple

Some kids helping move the rice seedlings

West Bantay Lake in the storm

I hate rain - always have. Give me snow or give me sun, just don’t get me wet unless I plan on it. The meteorological madness that let loose the last two days apparently didn’t care to pay attention to my preferences. Harsh sunlight and incredible heat, downpours of biblical proportions that may last 10 minutes or may last all night, the weather bounced between these radical conditions with only seconds of notice. Despite the obligatory moisture that goes along with rainfall and is noticeably in contradiction to my opening partiality towards remaining dry, I actually found the sudden storms both afternoons perfect for the setting. The scenes created by the torrential rainfall beating against 1,000 year old temple ruins or whipping across the rippling lake were almost cinematic in nature. If I hadn’t been worried about my camera getting too wet, I would have been running around in the rain taking more photographs.

I started out yesterday exploring the ruins of Angkor Wat. For those of you familiar with this national symbol of Cambodia, you probably have an image in your head of the temple and may suspect that there is a surrounding complex. The few of you that have had the opportunity to visit know that there is so much more to it than that. Angkor Wat is but one temple complex in an expansive national park full of ruins. Temple after temple rest amongst the trees and lakes that go on for miles. After visiting the main temple, I returned to the hotel for lunch and a swim before setting out again in the afternoon. It was while visiting Bayon temple that the skies opened up, and we sat surrounded by the leaky stones of the temple, smiling Buddha faces peering at us from all directions. It was another one of those moments, where I felt as if I was standing between eras. The ancient pride of the Khmer people lying in silent testimony of the former greatness of this land as the percussion of the rain drowned out the sounds of modern life. The steady beat of water dripping through the stones reminded me that time had not been suspended.

Walking back to the car with our umbrellas overhead, a young girl approached us on the elephant terrace. She was wearing pajamas, soaking wet, and jumping from puddle to puddle making a bigger splash each time. The girl started chatting playfully with my guide, and as he paused to explain something to me, she reached for my umbrella, and I reluctantly handed it over. I was nervous she might take the umbrella and bolt, leaving me to face the elements, but instead she stood beside me stretching to her limits to try and hold the umbrella above my head. When the guide finished talking, she motioned to me as if to say, “Get moving, we have stuff to see.” My guide asked her what grade she was in - fourth. Then he inquired as to what exactly she was doing here - selling postcards of course. That’s when she remembered that she’s supposed to be working. “Hey Mr., you want postcard? One dolla’! Ok, ten postcards, one dolla’!” Frustrated by my negative responses (I had already bought 10 postcards from another young girl), she finally said, “Ok, no postcards, just give me one dolla’!” She followed us to the road constantly reminding me that I should just fork over some money because she told me to, but switched targets very quickly when a group of Brits were getting ready to get in a Tuk Tuk back to their hotel. She blocked the entrance of the Tuk Tuk, leaving them standing in the rain, smiled innocently and said, “Gimme one dolla’!” Priceless, simply priceless. That night, the rain came harder and harder, thunder rumbling incessantly with occasional flashes of lightning. At some points, I thought the hotel might float away the rain was so hard.

In the morning, things had calmed down, and the sun was out like usual. We returned to the Angkor complex to visit Banteay Srei temple, another example of intricately carved elegant temple architecture from year 967. From there, it was on to Ta Phrom temple, used in the filming of Tomb Raider, and then on to one more temple, the name of which I can’t recall. We also made a brief stop at the Landmine Museum, something not every country has. The civil war in Cambodia only officially ended in 1998, so tragic remnants of the decades-long conflict still dot the country. Signs litter the roads between town and the temples, ‘Mine Field Cleared by…” I know that should be a positive message, but it really makes me wander how many non-cleared fields are a short walk away.

My touring program continued in the afternoon, when my village guide came to take me out to his village. We rode down another dirt road pocked with large holes, ditches and puddles of unknown depths. Once in the village, we started walking around as the guide explained his village origins, the social intricacies of village life in Cambodia, and the local farming economy. We stopped at the home of his siblings to see how the planting of the rice seedlings was going and to enjoy some fresh coconut water. The driver had left the village to drive to the other side of the lake where he was supposed to meet us after a leisurely boat ride. Trekking through the fields and forests near the village, I once again started thinking about those mine field signs. In heavily mined areas, it’s always best to stay on paved surfaces, but instead, I was making my way through drained rice paddies and rural dirt paths. Brilliant. Turns out my worries were misdirected. My guide pointed out an ant nest on the ground surrounded by rather large black ants. “These ants are very poisonous and aggressive, so just jump over them.” Fabulous, just what every fat American in shorts and sandals wants to hear while wandering through the countryside of Cambodia.

I made it to the shores of West Bantay Lake without any ant bites or exploding landmines. The boat was tied to a post a good 5 meters into the lake and it wasn’t getting any closer. I took off my sandals and waded out to the boat. I’m not quite sure how I accomplished it, but I managed to climb aboard the boat from the water, and then we looked out into the distance and saw a wall of water coming towards us. The dark clouds dimmed the sunlight, the wind picked up and began to turn the lake into an angry sea. Suddenly the rain dropped on us as if the gods were taking turns pouring buckets over us. The wind was blowing the rain sideways, soaking us from all directions. Rather than sitting on the edge of the boat, we were standing in the middle, directing our efforts to finding the driest place possible in a makeshift swimming pool. We watched as small fishing boats were rocked from side to side, taking on more water until they sank almost completely into the lake. For a brief moment, the rain subsided, but the guide looked out into the distance and said, “One more coming.” After a second round of being beat about by bullet-like rain and rough winds, we were left with a sunny blue sky and proceeded across the lake where the car was waiting.

The last stop of the day was a silk farm, where I saw how silk worms were grown and fed, how they spin their cocoons, and how the cocoons are turned into raw and fine silk for weaving. The Artisans de Angkor silk farm finds people from the villages and brings them out to the farm for training and then allow them to work for the locally significant sum of $150 USD per month. It’s income that they wouldn’t otherwise have, and a skill set that they can take with them anywhere. Most of them are also given English lessons at the silk farm, another skill valuable in the long-term. We often forget how fortunate we really are.

No chance to access the Internet, but I am sitting in a theatre in Cambodia waiting for a dance performance to begin.

Rollin' down the River

Luang Prabang exudes an enchanting character unlike any other I have experienced thus far in Southeast Asia. I love how the French colonial architecture has mixed with local design elements and nestled itself among golden temples, lush greenery and the waters of the Mekong and Khan rivers. The town is quite small and very quaint. I’m not the only Farang (foreigner) to fall in love with this place, as almost every other shop, restaurant or hotel is owned by a Westerner, but the place is not a tourist trap, it is still quintessentially Lao. Today, I set out with my guide to discover just exactly how Lao the area really is.

It was raining hard as we left the town, and my guide was concerned that we may have trouble getting down the road to the village. One phone call ahead to the village and his worries were moot because it wasn’t raining there. Turning off the main road, I quickly realized the source of his concerns. The road to the village was a narrow dirt road with many steep hills and sharp curves, and when I say “dirt road,” I don’t mean a North Carolina style dirt road paved with gravel, rather genuine dirt that when mixed with large quantities of water would turn into a slippery, muddy path of nastiness. Once at the village, we boarded one of the traditional long narrow wooden boats with a local fisherman for a short cruise down the river. We stopped at the various nets and bamboo traps along the way to check for the morning’s catch. On the other side of the river, we stopped for a demonstration of how the local Lao Lao rice whiskey is made.

The Lao Lao village was small and rural. There are no access roads, only the river. Chickens and dogs roamed freely around the village while young ladies wove silk and grandmothers tended their grandchildren. A petite middle-aged woman came out to welcome us and took us to the site of her Lao Lao production. She had already steamed some sticky rice in the morning to prepare for our visit. She washed the sticky rice repeatedly before draining it and mixing it with a rice derived yeast. Normally, they make the yeast themselves also using sticky rice, but during the rainy season, they cannot dry the rice because they have no drying machines. Once mixed with the yeast, the rice is added to a large pot for fermentation. After weeks of fermentation, the rice produces rice wine, which must then be distilled to make rice whiskey. Long stalks of bamboo are used to fuel the fire underneath the distillation barrel. The ends burn in the fire, and the stalks are pushed gradually deeper into the cinders as they burn away. A metal distillation funnel and a lid sealed with a cloth rim ensure that the rice whiskey makes it’s way into a clean jar through a cloth filter.

Following the demonstration, I bought a couple bottles and we moved on to some old caves downriver. Originally thought to be the home of a Naga (a mythical serpent), many animists used to make sacrifices in the caves. One of the local Kings decided to turn the cave into a sacred place for Buddhists as well, hoping to convert some of the local village people. Soon the caves were filled with Buddha statues. From as early as the 15th century, the Buddhas of varying size and shape peer tranquilly out towards the river. The hike up to the upper cave was long and exhausting, and the thick sticky air made the journey daunting. A wet sweaty mess, I survived and saw the place where my guide’s family and other villagers once hid during the war, side by side with centuries of Buddhist history.

Back at the village where we had boarded the fishing boat, my guide’s father, the former village chief, invited us for a traditional lunch in his home. We sat on the floor and enjoyed truly local fare. Chicken soup, minced pork and vegetables steamed in banana leaves, stir fried ‘morning glories’ (which upon googling, I just discovered are on the USDA’s “Federal Noxious Weed List” and the plants are illegal in the US…Mmmm…they were good though), fried river shrimp, bamboo shoots and hot chilies mixed with crab paste, all served with sticky rice. The food was delicious, especially the noxious weeds. I think my guide’s father was concerned at my single marital status because the lunch conversation seemed to revolve largely around weddings and marriage traditions.

After lunch, we went to a small village where we watched paper being made from mulberry bark, and then proceeded to a silk weaving village. The silk weaving village was a real treat because it was truly off the beaten track. We drove down another even more treacherous mud road as far as we could, walked across a rather rickety bamboo bridge, and then wandered down the path through the village to the silk weaving center. The women there demonstrated how the silk is dyed using natural products, as well as some of the long weaving process. One young lady was working impressively fast at a rather difficult pattern of silk. The owner of the center said that this particular girl earns as much as $6 USD per day because she is able to finish more weaving every day.

Tired after a long day of exploration, I took an afternoon nap before heading out for a walk around the night market and finding some dinner. I ate at a small restaurant called Arisai, which was excellent. The owner was a Lao gentleman who moved to Paris in 1975 when the communists took over. “Now we are able to come back.” he told me, and come back he did. His restaurant was elegant with a definite French flavor.

This town has a way of feeling both exotic and comfortable at the same time. The Lao people are very friendly, and they have taken the best of their colonial history and blended it seamlessly with their local culture and heritage like a fine woven silk of overlapping patterns and colors. On one side of the street you may have people enjoying sticky rice and steamed fish while fresh croissants and pain du chocolat are being served on the other. The sophistication of a French town met by the peaceful country existence of the people just a short way down the Mekong. I’m both surprised and delighted by what I have discovered here.