Life Repeats Itself

I've come to believe that life really is a pattern of cylces that repeat themselves over and over again. We progress through life finding ourselves at different stages that we will eventually look back on as learning experiences when we end up in similar stages at later points in life. At least, that would be the optimistic viewpoint.

Another year, another night of reflection at the Beirut Airport sitting at an aging computer terminal in the Cedar Lounge. It's been over a year since my last late-night flight out of Lebanon, and I'm no less disappointed to be leaving this time as any other. I don't know if I'll ever understand what it is about this place that draws me back time and time again. Is it the smiles, kisses, and loud voices of my many family members; the huge spreads of fresh, delectable food every day; the intense mediterranean sun and the cool sea breeze; the free-spirited nature of the people; or even the excitement and stress of not knowing what news the next hour might bring? I don't have an answer, but I know I have to hold back the tears of joy everytime I am heading to Lebanon and the tears of sorrow everytime I am leaving.

Lebanon is caught in one of life's cycles. It is a country with so much to offer, but I doubt it will ever be truly appreciated by the masses because of the political, religious, and idealogical conflicts of its own people and the outsiders that bring their conflicts across the borders. Lebanon cycles in and out of periods of peace and instablility. Some days the country seems to flourish and other days it suffers under the stresses of the world's many problems. My hope is that one day the Lebanese leaders will learn to look back at the cylces of unrest that have plagued this beautiful country for centuries, if not millenia, and try something different to break the cycle.

As for me, I have found myself nearing the end of another year of studying with only hazy plans ahead. This stage of the cycle of life is one that I am all-to-familiar with, but it never gets any easier. I'm officially a licensed attorney now, and I will soon have yet another degree to add to my resume. The problem is that I am no closer to knowing what it is I want to do or even where I want to live. Home will always be North Carolina in some way, but it is probably one of the lowest ranked locations on my list of potential placed to live and work. Austria has always treated me well, and I have a great deal of gratitude for the life-changing experiences and people that I have encountered while living there. Lebanon calls me back over and over again, but I don't know what my life would be like living here fulltime. So many questions to answer, and so many decisions to make. I have stressed about these difficult life decisions in the past, and things have always turned out ok. I hope that the next stage of the cycle is a good one for me and the country of my ancestors.

The First Days of a New Life

            I've written before about the blessing of feeling at home in so many different places, and I’m reminded of that everyday that I wake up in this beautiful city. I moved to Vienna two weeks ago, and it has been a whirlwind of exhausting activity and utter excitement. I spent most of the first week shopping and assembling furniture with one of my best friends, without whose help I’m not sure I would have survived. Once my apartment was in habitable condition, I was left with the errands and bureaucracy that go along with a move to another country. At some point this past week, I finally sat back and realized that while there was much I could and probably should do, for the first time since I arrived in Vienna, there was nothing I had to do. That is when I really started enjoying my new life.

Oberlaa Cafe, Währinger Strasse

Volksoper Subway Station

            One day, I woke up and went for a wander through my neighborhood. I stopped by the Lebanese snack shop downstairs to say hi to my new Arabic-speaking buddy I had met a few days earlier. I told him I need to improve my Arabic, so he only speaks to me in Arabic now, and I’m really excited about the practice. A little further up the street, I wandered through one of the nearby parks, and then found my way to my local wine shop. The place is filled with all sorts of goodies from wine and liquor to gourmet foods, and the shopkeeper was happy to help me pick out a good local bottle of wine. A bit in the opposite direction, I took a stroll through the Kutschkermarket, my local fresh produce market. I have yet to try the food at the small snack stand operated by the market cheese booth, but the food looks and smells delicious. The old folks of the neighborhood hang out and gossip on the benches under the large tree in front of the market. Across the street is a well-known coffee shop and patisserie, and an ice cream shop next door. The Italian restaurant down the way has stereo-typically slow Italian waiters, but the food is generally quite good, and they have the best bruschetta in town.

Kutschkermarkt

Freyung Passage

Palais Ferstil

            I met some of my classmates Wednesday evening for a drink, and then Felix and I went for a Lebanese meal at my old standard across from the University. The manager was happy to see me again after an extended absence. I’ve also been doing my best to catch up with old friends that I haven’t seen in quite some time. Remembering the old days when we were so young and naïve leaves the mind lingering in a nostalgic state, but then we shift to current activities and learning about what has and has not changed about us since those younger days.

Cafe Museum, Karlsplatz

Karlsplatz

            On Saturday, I started the day off with a walk through the inner city stopping briefly to enjoy the music and festivities of a small wine festival being hosted by one of the banks. What better way to recruit new accounts than free-flowing wine, a brass band, and bankers in lederhosen? The occasional yodel brought a smirk to my face and a strange sense of comfort to my heart. Shortly thereafter, a group of protestors marched by, trailed by the police, carrying a sign advocating women’s rights. The young protestors seemed to have their real objectives tangled up in an adolescent sense of rebellion, and they stumbled over their angry chants. “Kein Gott, Kein Staat, Kein Patriarchie!” they would yell twice, but the third time people started forgetting what they were supposed to say. Eventually, the whole group was mumbling until the group leader would use the loud speaker to get everyone back on track again. It bothered me that they chanted for an end to religion and politics as part of their mission to help women, but my concerns quickly subsided along with the annunciation of their slogan.

Erste Bank Wine Festival am Graben

Kohlmarkt

Am Graben

Hoch- und Deutschmeister Band

            Two of my classmates met me to see the Hoch- und Deutschmeister Band perform their last march of the summer season. The band is a throwback to the old military bands of the Austrian Empire, and we marched behind them through the city to the Hofburg Palace where we lounged in the sun beneath the oxidized bronze glare of a Roman-styled Austrian Emperor while the band played classics like “The Beautiful Blue Danube.”

            After a quick tour of the inner city, we met up with yet more of our classmates to grab an introductory drink and get to know each other a bit before classes start. I am almost certainly the oldest in my class, which is a new feeling for me, but not an unpleasant one. Later in the afternoon, we browsed through the Naschmarkt, the large outdoor food market in town. That evening, I met up with another old friend and his girlfriend for some drinks and a very pleasant dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant. Maybe (or almost certainly) I’m a bit odd, but nothing feels quite so empowering as being personally greeted by the owner and waiters of a restaurant. It probably means that I eat out too much, or just eat too much in general, but the false sense of importance it gives me is one of my more harmless vices.

            I started Sunday off with a couchsurfing brunch near Spittelberg, where I met some really fun people and even another alumnus of my high school. Afterwards, I took two new visitors to Vienna for a cold wet walk around the rainy city. They seemed to be in awe of the grand palatial buildings and rich history and culture of which Vienna is full. A quick prayer at St. Stephens Cathedral, and we were once again wandering down a chilly Kärtnerstrasse. My companions soon asked about the possibility of seeing a classical concert, and I was immediately on my phone checking schedules. It just so happened that a concert at the Musikverein was starting in 15 minutes, so we picked up our pace and made it just in time to grab a couple tickets and relax in the warmth of the concert. An added perk was the appearance of the 86 year old composer Friedrich Cerha after the orchestra had just performed one of his works.

Musikverein

            Sitting back and staring at the gilded details of the ceiling while the mind absorbed the peaceful melancholy of the Ravel piece that the pianist played, I couldn’t stop thinking about how fortunate I really am.

            

Until Next Time

I'm back in my spot of contemplation as I await my departure from Lebanon. Sitting at the same computer in the Centre d'Affaires in the Cedar Lounge at Beirut International Airport, I always like to take a minute to appreciate my time in Lebanon before boarding my flight to Frankfurt.

There really is nothing else like family. My cousin Raymond said it best this evening as we sat on his balcony looking out over Roumieh. He said that all of us may have different experiences and different viewpoints, but when we sit together we can see something special in each other that runs in our blood. Flatteringly, he remarked how special it is to have a cousin like me that three generations after leaving Lebanon can still feel the spirit of this country and our family. After about 10 days of hearing my cousins say less than loving words about my other country, it was a great feeling to hear Raymond raise a toast "to Lebanon, to the US, and to the greatest cousin in the world."

I don't know if his last comment was quite accurate, but maybe he was talking about someone else. Regardless, it is me that is unbelievably fortunate to have such a large group of distant relatives that so willingly welcome me as part of the family. I am even more fortunate to have an immediate family that is close and truly care for each other, but there is something particularly gratifying about returning to one's roots. The feeling grows stronger as one begins to understand those roots. It is as if the tiny frail ends of a tree root have suddenly found new nourishment and grow strong, wrapping themselves around the source of this nourishment.

My younger cousin, Jean Charbel, Raymond's son, asked me today if I would stay in Lebanon forever. "Why you have to go back? Stay here. We have many universities in Lebanon." I promised him that I would try to come back next summer, but he insisted that next month would be better. The prophetic youth then told me that someday I would live in Lebanon with a beautiful wife and a happy family. I told him that I would like that very much.

So here I am again with such mixed feelings, preparing to leave one home to return to another. Each time I visit Lebanon, I become a little more aware of the country's shortcomings and the difficulties of living in a place like this, but at the same time, I grow more and more attached to the people and the culture. There is no problem or defect that Lebanon could ever have that could sever my love for this country. It is a place like no other, and it will always be part of me.

For tonight, Lebanon, I say, "Until next time."

Home

Sitting by the old stone church surrounded by family and friends, I watched the sunset behind the alter as the choir sang the movingly melancholic songs of a Maronite mass honoring St. John. I feel a sense of peace in the midst of this chaotic land of conflict and prejudice. Why is it that I feel so comfortable in a place full of so many problems? I feel at home. I feel a sense of belonging that is somewhat inexplicable. Three generations before me, my great-grandfather left this land to find a better life. I am so far removed from this place, and yet it is a part of me that I can't escape. Whatever part of Lebanon flows through my blood, its influence over me grows stronger with every moment I am here.

Despite the innumerable problems that Lebanon faces on a daily basis, there is something enchanting about this country and its people. They are a people that find it so easy to hate, both others and themselves, and yet they are a people so warm and hospitable that it is often difficult for an outsider to comprehend. Lebanon is a country of constant contradictions, but that is part of the intrigue.

I am a very lucky person because I feel as if I have so many homes. I was born and raised in North Carolina, and it is clearly my home by definition, but I feel at home in so many other places. After four years living in Austria, it is easy to understand why I feel at home there; I know my way around, I understand the language perfectly, I sometimes speak the language well, I have great friends there, and I feel comfortable there. I am also at home in Lebanon, the land of my ancestors. My family's history in Lebanon has brought the country close to my heart, and I will always consider it one of my homes. I have also spent over 10 years traveling regularly to Slovenia, Croatia, and Bosnia & Hercegovina. Despite having no real connections there other than some of my best friends, I feel at home in those far off countries.

I recognize how lucky I am to feel at home in so many places because I have seen the pain of those that are forced to live somewhere that they don't feel at home. On this visit to Lebanon, I have been working with an organization helping to resettle Iraqi refugees. I had the honor of interviewing a young woman from Iraq that is living here in Lebanon while waiting to be resettled with her husband in the states. Her life and the lives of her family were threatened in Iraq, so she has a genuine fear that may prevent her from ever seeing her real home again. She lives in Lebanon, a country that she admits is beautiful, but she does not have a home here. Many factors keep her from feeling any comfort or sense of belonging here. I wish I could explain the sadness that this woman feels living here, separated from her husband by bureaucracy, but it is something you can only appreciate by seeing it in her eyes and hearing it in her voice.

There are so many people in this world that have no home or have been forced out of their homes. I am thankful in so many ways that I have been blessed with so many homes.

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.