Help, I Am Melting

This last 2 weeks have been hot! Blistering hot is more like it. Budapest has a number of micro-climates, but ours had been tipping the thermometer between 95F-103F. Sure, there are many places in the US where it gets just as hot, but they generally have AIR CONDITIONING.

On one of the hottest nights, Ron suggested we dine out since I need to review restaurants for my Frommer's assignment anyway. He went through my list calling places to see who had A/C and who didn't. This is like Santa's good or naughty list come summer time. He discovered a Thai restaurant, Parázs Prezzó that I had wanted to try. Jackpot! They have A/C. Reservations were made for 7pm and we were there on the dot waiting to be cooled and fed. For once we did not care how efficient the service was, the longer they took, the more air conditioning we could absorb into our pores. If we could only do a slow release of the coolness, like a time release vitamin capsule, it would be perfect.

When we arrived the place was jammed, but three tables had reserved signs on them. The woman behind the bar said “Sit anywhere!” even before we said we had reserved our space. Once we adopted our table the two waiters went into a confab, while shooting looks in our direction. They were too far away speak to, but I could have written a note on the napkin “We did have a reservation!” to hold in the air. Interestingly, not one worker who was visible was of Asian heritage. Yes, we all know that Hungarians originally came from somewhere in Mongolia, but those facial traits have long since evaporated through cross-breeding with other Europeans.

Once I relaxed and realized we were not going to be evicted from our feeding ground, it dawned on me the air temperature was barely cooler than outside. Perhaps the air was on, but with some many hot bodies, it really wasn’t cool. Neither was the food, it was hot and my carrot salad was spicy hot. Incredibly good! This restaurant gets two thumbs up.

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Chow Tuscany

Our plan was to skip out today and return to Florence. However, our plan had significant holes in it. There supposedly was a bus about a ½ mile from the villa, but there was no marking to identify a stop. Getting the bus depended on previous experience or dumb luck. Since it only came through once every few hours, these were not odds I was in favor of considering.

However, first things first, I wanted coffee. Andrea thought ahead, because at 10am when people would be roaming the grounds, even if sleepily, pastries were delivered. The kitchen table was filled with different pies, cakes, croissants, and other sweet delights. What they did not deliver was coffee. The villa owner lent us a coffee pot, so others came to the rescue. We all sat around outside eating, drinking, and chatting until the Sandman disappeared from our memories for at least today.

Gradually, people started disappearing. Some were leaving for other cities before returning home. Others were going for a drive in their rental car. We were still weighing our options for the great escape. For those who were staying longer, there was a wine tour planned for Tuesday, but now that the masses were parting ways, I was chomping to get back to Florence. Eric, a co-worker of Andrea’s had already committed to taking a couple into Florence to the train station. There was no room in the car for us too. However, he graciously offered to return for us later in the day. We had told our B and B host we would return before 5:30pm when he had to leave for his restaurant. If we hadn’t, he would have had to drive back into the city to let us in.

Once breakfast was over, I was antsy and wanted to move. I could not get on the Internet no matter what I did. The Wi-Fi would not work for me; the villa owner gave me a cable to connect to the wall outlet, but it refused to work too. I did not want to spend the entire day looking over pictures on a netbook mini-screen. There was also the fear of truly not knowing how to turn my phone off from roaming and winding up with a considerable roaming charge like I have done in the past.

Eric returned by 3pm and was ready to drive us to Florence. I was sorrowful about the seemingly wasted day which could have been spent seeing the museums of Florence. Once back in the city and rechecked into Fabio’s, we wanted to take Eric for dinner as a thank you, but he wasn’t certain about the others’ dinner plans, so decided he had better wait to see what the others back at the villa had planned. Instead, we went for a beer and an appetizer before he returned to the Tuscan villa.

Once we said good-bye to Eric, it was too late for any museum admissions; all we could do is window tour and window shop. That is not entirely true as so many shops stay open into the evening hours. We were able to go into some stores to browse. The only thing we decided on buying was a sheet of Florentine paper to put into frames for the two guest rooms. 

For dinner, we went to the place Fabio had suggested; it was near the B and B. It is called I’Raddi. The food was reasonably priced and tasty. I would have reviewed it on TripAdvisor, but I could not find it listed. There was not enough motivation to suggest it as a new listing, so they lose out.

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Getting High in Quito

 Our breakfast buffet at the Hotel Sierra Madre was excellent. I devoured the fresh papaya and they served eggs besides the other fresh fruits, cheeses, and local specialties, which had sugar. I could not touch those.

While still trying to adjust to the thinner air with this altitude, we decided on the Hop-On Hop-Off bus today, so we asked directions from the hotel clerk to get us to the nearest stop. It was at a park about 8 blocks from here. Once we found the park, it was huge, covering like 4 square blocks and nary a sign as to where the tourist bus was stopping. We asked a half-dozen people, but either they did not know, they took wild guesses, or sent us on wild goose chases. Finally, we came across a tiny little restaurant down some stairs. Something told me this was the place to ask yet again. Bingo! The young man came out on the street with us and showed us exactly where the stop was, directly across from the Hotel Colon. We had a half hour to wait, but with the walk to the park and the walking around looking for the stop, we were ready for naps.

While we were waiting, we were sitting at the bus stop where public buses stop, watching people come and go. Some of the locals are so short they practically need a step stool to get up to the first step of the bus. In some ways it was comical, but one would think the bus companies would have kneeling buses for just such reasons. 

The Hop-On Hop-Off bus is $12 per person; the complete circuit is 2 ¾ hours. We did the entire round to get the feel of the city. In many ways, Quito is farther along than any city in Guatemala or Belize, but not quite up to Buenos Aires. Unfortunately, the commentary on the bus did not keep pace with the attractions or in many cases, the attractions were so far off in the distance, you could not pinpoint what the ghostly voice was referring to anyway.

On the 2nd go around, we stopped in an area that was known for the restaurants and bars. As it turned out, it was mostly bars and international restaurants. There were Italian, Japanese, Mexican, and Chinese places to dine, but finding an Ecuadorian one was like finding hen’s teeth. For a tourist area, it was dismaying when some restaurants did not have a menu in English. Although we could understand the basics, it was the nuances that were important to my food selections.

To Ron’s dismay, I opted for the Mexican restaurant after the hawker outside convinced me it was good food and fresh. This turned out to be an excellent choice. When in Quito, do try El Mariachi Taco Factory at Foch €-318 and Juan León Mera. If we had known the portions would be as large as they were, we would not have ordered as much as we did. I had a salad of lettuce, beans, avocados, and tomatoes with a lemon dressing along with a chicken consommé with avocado, onion, rice, and cilantro. Both dishes were fabulous, but too much food. I could not finish either one. Ron had a combo platter that he was not able to finish either.

We walked around the area for an hour wasting time to catch the bus once more. We did the circuit for the length of time that they were running, but ended in an area we had no idea how to get away from. There was a mall, so we went there to see what it was like. Tremendously large and swank with stores the quality of Tiffany’s and every designer that could come to mind, our eyes were glazed over with the abundance. The decorations were splendid, but what we wanted was el baño. In this giant mall, there is only one. According to the mall directory, the location is not clear, so it took some time, but we were finally successful.

What was not a success was finding a bus to get back to either the restaurant area or our hotel. Buses do not have printed itineraries at the stops. You wave a bus down that has incomprehensible sections of the city on the front and when it slows, there is a person hanging out who you ask if they are going your way. No one was after flagging 14 different buses. Then we tried a taxi, but that was pointless too. Fifteen thousand taxis in this city and they all had a fare. We tried our luck by crossing the street. A taxi stopped for us.

Without an address, we asked him to take us to the region of Mariscol where the restaurants were. It was quite a lengthy ride, which would have cost us $2. The driver did not have change for a $5 bill, so he settled for the only $1 bill we had.

After going from restaurant to restaurant to try to find food that was not fried, heavy on starches, or enough to make a carbo counter go skyrocketing, we had almost failed. We also asked for an Ecuadorian food establishment, but were told the only one went out of business. They lied! We found one, had dinner, and were not impressed with it. I had a braised chicken breast with beans that was supposed to be a specialty of the coast of Ecuador. It tasted like the braised chicken breast Ron makes at home. Nothing out of the ordinary. Ron’s dinner was so unexceptional by his comments; I cannot remember what he had. We asked that they a taxi for us and went back to the hotel.

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I Do Give a Hoot

This all started when XPatLoop, the British owned ExPat Portal put this on Facebook. There was a link to the gallery of photos of the opening event, but I will not sink down to copying it here.

Hooters Budapest launch event can only be described as huge, as you can see in this new gallery
The first Hooters restaurant in Hungary celebrates its grand opening to the public today, 27 August 2012, a "VIP" opening event took place on Saturday 25 August.Alex Hemingway, CEO of Crown Restaurants and boss of the brand in Hungary, stated, "We are confident the unique Hooters experience will be ...
17 hours ago

It seems I was the first to comment, but other men followed my lead. Three people liked my comment. I deleted the names of the other posters for privacy reasons.

Ryan James: More of the worst of the US coming to a neighborhood near you.
        6 hours ago · Like · 3

Male 1: you could even say that Hooters does well in the US where most of the women are obese and lard asses. Here in Budapest where there are pretty girls everywhere it will not be so easy.
        5 hours ago · Like · 1
Male 2: Ahh, come on. It's all good fun with some cheeky on the side. Was there last night and it was great not to mention being a delightfully tacky yet unrefined daisy duke with a serving tray Americana evening. This import is what this city need...See More
        4 hours ago · Like 

Male 1: fine but many American franchises dont work here. I remember Wendys, Dunkin Donuts, Remax, Dairy Queen and many more have tried and failed.
        4 hours ago · Like
Ryan James Yes, let's exploit women for cheeky fun. How about a jock strap bar for the women with the men hanging out their goods? That would certainly be entertaining for the hen parties.
        3 hours ago · Like 

Male 1: Ryan, people vote with their feet. I can imagine it will do well with guys who cannot get pretty girls and have to pay to talk to them. Sounds like it is not intended for the locals but for visitors, bit like the Hard Rock Cafe in Vaci utca. rarely do Americans understand Europe, this sounds to me like a real example.
        3 hours ago · Like
Male 3: The world has gone mad, everybody has become so PC it is painful. Oh yes, the beauty of a woman's body when combined with perfectly fried onion rings and a cold beer is despicable to say the least... sounds terrible! If Hooters is exploitat...See More
        2 hours ago · Like 

Male 1: so 'J', sounds like you should just go to other clubs in Budapest and take out the middleman !!!
        2 hours ago · Like

Male 3: 'M', the business will fly or fail based on the footfall, we will see, I think Hooters is the least of our current problems in Hungary! At least it has given jobs to a few people... About Americans understanding Europe or anywhere else for...See More
        2 hours ago · Like
Male 1: Yep, you understand my point fully....in America you can believe in tiny ninja warriors who hide in vaginas and lie in wait for bad people's sperm. (Bill Maher) and Todd Akin is a creationist (believes in Adam and Eve) and even sits on the Science Committee in Congress.....you have to hand it to the Americans they are one sandwich short of a picnic
        2 hours ago · Like · 1

I don't think that any of these men would be proud to bring their family and friends in to Hooter's if their daughter or niece were working there as a waitress.

What I find truly disappointing is that no women weighed in on the issue.

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Don't Eat Here - Roosevelt Self- Service

I was walking by this restaurant at 9:30 am on a Tuesday. Food was already set out, not covered in any way, yet the restaurant doesn't open until 11am. I would not eat here on a bet. I don't care if the table is refrigerated or not, the food at the top is not getting cold enough to ward off bacteria. Some of the salads have mayonnaise in them too. If you want to try your luck, they are at V. Kossuth Lajos utca 7.

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A Sign for Our Times

I spotted this sign in front of a restaurant when I was walking down a street. Clever and true at the same time. 

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George Lang RIP

Anyone into food problably knew something about Gundel's restaurant here in Budapest. It was and is probably the most expensive restaurant in the city. If you have not heard yet, the renovator of Gundel's and the more charming less expensive Owls Nest, George Lang has died in New York. Sorry to break it to you so abruptly, but yet, we all have an expiration date somewhere. There is a lovely tribute to the man in Restaurant Insider if you care to read it, click here. 


According to the reprint in Chew.hu, "While best known as the proprietor of the Café des Artistes in Manhattan, he later made headlines for bringing back to life (with the backing of cosmetics heir Ronald Lauder) Budapest's venerable Gundel, which had fallen on very hard times during the communist era. I wasn't initially going to write any tribute-like post in honor of Lang, because, at least in his later years, he didn't seem to be a force for culinary good. He not only let Café des Artistes go bust (it has since reopened as "Leopard at des Artistes"), but he also presided over/agree to the sale of Gundel to the Danubius hotel group, which from day one seemed intent on returning the place to its pre-1990 squalor. One could even say that both places, as well as his career as a whole, were always slightly more about PR than food. And those Gundel-branded wines... well, let's not even go there."


I could not have said it better, so I had to quote it. When I was writing my books, when I had opportunities to speak with chefs, a common theme of Budapest restaurant life was the demise of Gundels. It only survives on reputation from glorious days of the past and current day patrons who effusively pour on accolades to hide their shameful waste of money.

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Time for Dinner?

One of my former students wrote me when a reader was looking for the best Chicken Paprikash n the city.  

"I have seen that you were looking for a great restaurant with good Hungarian food. However, I do not know any by heart, I can suggest you one really great restaurant. They are specialized; you can order a variety of food, but the clocks around you can fill your heart with a special feeling. Take a look at their website. The restaurant's name is Clock Cafe.

We gave it a try last Friday with Dr. Karla Kelsey, Allison Layfield, and Jeff Frawley. Let me tell you, Time Is On My Side, your side, his side, her side, upside and downside. The place is filled with clocks of all sorts, shapes, colors, sizes, and dials. I wasn't sure if we were meant to "second" guess the timing of our food from the "minute" we ordered it or if it was a clue we had stayed overstayed our welcome and should leave. "Hour" waiter was great and spoke English with "precision". We had to "hand" it to him. He could "sweep" through the orders without pause. And honestly, we "timed" it just right. According to 72 clocks, a half-hour after we arrived, the place was jammed with diners.

The food did receive mixed reviews. My assorted grill was perfect. Those vegetarians who ordered the salmon spaghetti were disappointed. The others were fine with their choices too. The only thing I disliked now that I am a reformed smoker was the stale smoke smell. I can handle people smoking, but not old smells of smoke. Come January, that will not be an issue any longer.

Time to go. The little hand is on the 8 and the big hand is near 21.

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Testing, Testing, Are You Alive?

We set the clock so we could test my stamina. There are things left undone. Shopping is the first priority. We left this for when we returned, to buy from the women's collective in support of it, plus not to have had to lug it around with us for four weeks. Now it is buy or regret it. Whatever hit me passed over. I was able to shower, get to breakfast, and wait for a taxi without feeling like I would keel over.

Since I was so sick yesterday, not one cigarette passed my lips prompting me to decide this morning to postpone my starting smoking again. I know others would say they are quitting or that is what I am attempting to do, but I am not. In my youth, my mother always called me a quitter and said I never finished anything I started. Although this was true, I did not have role models who did complete things other than the meals set before them. As I reached my 20s, this quitter label started wearing thin, so I made sure I completed things; some of those things were completions my mother wished I had quit. Going to beauty school was one of them. She hated having son who was a beautician or hairdresser as they were called back in the 70s. As it turned out the more I completed, the more I liked myself. Starting more ventures and completing them aided my self-esteem. So, now I cannot quit smoking, because I am not a quitter. What I am doing is postponing the starting date of when I will resume smoking again.

After placing a call to Solomon, the taxi driver who drove us from the railway station, we thought our good do-bee deed for the day was in place. Forty-five minutes later, Solomon called to say he could not find us. Well, impossible, we are the only two white people standing in the hot sun waiting for a taxi at this hotel. He was at the wrong hotel, so he would be delayed another twenty minutes. 

We waited an hour and a half, but no Solomon. The hotel receptionist Grace, said she would call us a reliable driver. John showed up. We wanted to go the David Sheldrick Foundation, but Mr. Map after consulting the map, insisted that since it is in the Nairobi Wildlife Reserve, we would have to pay $3o each to get in. I keep insisting that if this were true, the guidebook would have pointed it out. John's itinerary for us was to go to the Wildlife main office gate to ask about entrance, then go to the gate where the foundation is located and double check the visiting hours, then to the place where we want to shop. This little excursion is costing us 3,000 shillings (30 euros).

I was right, there is not charge to get into the Wildlife Reserve for the Foundation if you go to the correct gate. We did get to that gate, but at 11:30, so visiting hours were almost over. On our way to our shopping place, we stopped at a shop John wanted to show us. It was just as large, but nothing was presented well creating sensory overload. At our shop, I had wanted these beaded angels, but they were gone. I knew they would be, but I had hopes. We did find plenty of other things to buy finishing up our gift list.

John dropped us off downtown so we could stop at an ATM and Trattoria restaurant where I had the avocado milkshake. Today, we had lunch with our drinks. My chicken salad was delightful. Ron had gnocchi with Gorgonzola sauce. Delish!

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Happy 2010

We made our last trek up the mountain of stairs for breakfast today. We leave at 5am tomorrow morning for Mombasa, Kenya. Zanzibar was nice, but we overstayed. Seven nights is too long. As romantic as the name sounds, there is not a lot to do and those who come expecting beautiful beaches are gravely disappointed. Add in the electric and banking issues and it can make it extremely challenging.

Honestly, over two weeks into this trip, we planned it the way we usually plan trips, but we goofed this time around. Normally, what we do is pick the time we want to be away and then fill in what we want to do, where we want to stay, and what we want to see within that range. Up to this trip, this method has worked well for us. As I said, in retrospect, 7 days on Zanzibar is too long. Four days would have been plenty. We could have done the turtle tour to spend another day doing something, but we had the feeling there were would be as many turtles as there were dolphins, making it a waste of money. 

The beaches in Stonetown are not swimming beaches, they are for the fishing boats and tourist dhows, though there is not much of a beach anyway. The better beaches are a taxi ride away. We are not beach people anyway, but those we know who have come for the beaches swore they made a mistake. The sights on the island are limited. Today, we did go to the old palace of the Sultan. It was interesting, but in dire need of repair in every inch of the place. 

We saw the fort last night when we went to dinner, we did the spice, dolphin, and monkey tour. We toured every touristy souvenir shop innumerable times and they all have basically the same merchandise.

We have seen more of the hotel room here than we ever have on any vacation. Part of this is that the heat and humidity wipes us out, but there really is not much to persuade us to stay out for. Been there, done that. We could have cut it short, but live and learn. According to the owner of the 236 Hurumzi Hotel, Stonetown is the largest city on the island and there is not much else on the rest of the island. Even if there were, we would need to taxi there, the public transportation consists of trucks with lengthwise benches in the back. When they are filled up, they go to the destination. After arriving someone, we may never be seen again, not knowing how to return again.

A stop at Mercury's for a drink took some time today. Later, we went to another restaurant we had drinks at previously, but this time Ron had a pizza. One last trip through the shops was just to waste some time until the fan and air conditioning at the hotel were turned on again. For dinner, we went to Monsoon Restaurant, but almost didn't. We wanted to have a drink on the terrace and dinner inside. They refused to allow us a drink outside, but would serve us dinner inside. Not understanding their reasoning, we questioned it again when the manager, a German woman overheard us. She came to the rescue and said it was fine. Inside, you leave your shoes at the door and sit on mats on the floor. Dinner was good, but my chicken curry was a leg and thigh only. Ron had prawns and a healthy serving of them too.

We did our last stop at Kilude Cafe, said good-bye to Esther, our favorite waitress and went to bed for a 4:30 am wake-up call.

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Did You Want an Autograph With That?

Two nights ago, Ron and I went to a restaurant for dinner and to re-review for the book. I had gone back to this restaurant during the time he was in the States, but was terribly disappointed in the food and the service. Because I refused to believe that this was their new standard, going downhill so drastically, I wanted to give them one more shot at it before it went into the book. The book has the good, the bad, and the disastrous, so watch out. All went well, the service was fine. With only four other diners in the place, I should hope so. A group of five older ladies walked in and took a seat. Their NYish accent pricked up my ears, so my eyes followed them to their table as they sat down. Then lo and behold, what should they place on the table to the side...Frommer's "Budapest & the Best of Hungry" 7th edition. As my head and chest swelled, it was difficult to maintain my balance in the chair while trying to eat at the same time. Fortunately, I had a few bites of my dinner before they displayed the book, or I would have forgotten to taste the food. As much as I tried to ignore them, I could not keep my wandering eyes at home. When we finished, I told Ron I was going to say hello. He did not think I would do it. After excusing myself, I asked how they liked the book. Three of them formed a chorus of "We love it. It is our bible." I will excuse the other two for not joining it with the rest. They had just arrived from NYC only four hours prior and were still jet-lagged, so their reflexives were not up to par yet. Once they heard the others, they were able to kick start themselves and shower me with platitudes making it a complete cheerleading squad of 60 somethings. Four of them pointed to the fifth woman and said she is the organizer. She has been organizing their annual trips together for the last ten years and does an amazing job. She bought the book, and read it to them every chance when they were gathered within earshot. I looked at the book. There had to be over fifty little pink tabs growing from between pages and not one of them had any writing on them. I was uncertain how they were distinguishable, but as we spoke, the ring leader was able to grab the correct tab needed to quote something that I wrote. After fifteen minutes of soaking up the praise and laudatory comments, we left them to enjoy their meal, but as we were walking away, we heard "Wow, isn't that wonderful? We met the author." Another said "That was so cute of him to come over to speak to us." Cute? Peter Pan complex aside, I think I have passed 'cute' a few decades ago, but hey, you have to bask in whatever rays of sunshine come you way.

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Kim Files 8

Well the Kim Files are sadly coming to a close as her time here shortens. She was able to get in on the Opera House tour, while we went to Treehugger Dan's for quick coffee. Meeting her back at the Opera House, we stopped for another coffee at the Ballet Slipper cafe. Deciding we needed to gear up for dinner, we went back home. Kim read, I wrote, Ron puttered around. There was a big night ahead of us, going to the Trofea Restaurant. An all-you-can-eat dining venue where everything is included, a 120 food choices, plus beer, wine, and so on, we needed our strength. As much as I try to monitor myself, getting really small portions, I inevitably come away feeling like the Pilsbury Dough Boy, poppin' fresh. We waddled back content.

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A Week of Eating

Two years ago when I was researching the first Frommer's book I was writing, there was a former Fulbrighter here, Angela Bennett, studying Hungarian for the summer. We had known her from her year here as a Fulbrighter, so she went with us to dinner from restaurant to restaurant for weeks, sampling dishes so I had more fodder to review. History has repeated itself in a minor way. This last week we had the pleasure of the company of one of the first Fulbrighters we had met here in Hungary, Jennifer Norcross. Jennifer was an exchange teacher here for a year, teaching English. She loves the city, so returns often. Her timing was impeccable, not only staying with us, but just in time for the restaurant tour once again. Jennifer had the good sense and I must say good taste to purchase my book ahead of time, so I had a make a list of the restaurants she would like to eat at while here. Each of her eight nights, we dined at a different place. I collected feedback from she and Ron concerning their meals. Besides being a good dining partner, she is great fun to be around. She has a vivacious personality and is never without something of interest to share whether it is over the dinner table or just over breakfast. Just observing her in daily life, I can imagine she is an incredible teacher. We just wish she could have stayed longer, there are so many more restaurants to waiting for us.

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Christmas in Melbourne

Christmas in Melbourne. Ron has this obsession with going to church on Sundays, but even more so on Christmas. Some years I go with him, while other years I find a coffee shop to bide away the time. This year, he decided attend the services of the Episcopal Cathedral, so I went just for the show. Our seats were in the back, put I could not see a nativity anywhere in sight. Ron said there was a tree, but that passed me by also. Talk about deadly dull, this is one of the most morbid “celebrations” I have attended. For what is supposed to be regarded as a celebrated occasion, the music was most maudlin. It was difficult to tell the difference. Each song sounded like a funeral march, not celebratory in any stretch of the imagination. It is no wonder that most of the people were seniors, there was nothing here to inspire young people. Streets were emptier than yesterday, but still fuller than what would be expected for Christmas in the city. All of the stores were closed, but a smattering of coffee shops and restaurants were open. Others had signs showing they were closed until January 5th extending the holiday for their employees. With limited choices to amuse ourselves, we went to the Royal Botanical Gardens. The garden was founded in 1846 by Baron Ferdinand von Mueller and William Guilfoyle, the first two directors. The Baron was considered the greatest botanist of the 19th century. Today, the garden is over thirty-eight hectares with more than 52,000 individual plants, representing 10,000 different species from around the world. We have been to a number of botanical gardens, but this ranks as one of the more beautiful. Each section is lush, well categorized, and filled with interesting specimens. On the outskirts, there are wonderfully assorted statues dotted here and there to add a special stop and pause moment. What was most intriguing for us were the Christmas picnics. We had seen notices of this in butcher shops and grocery stores, but it was still funny to see people sprawled out on a blanket with Santa hats on and the Rubbermaid storage containers spread around with serving utensils. It seems to be quite common here to have picnics from the looks of the number sharing the lawns of the gardens. With the movie Australia released, we decided we should see it here and today was a choice day for some entertainment. The casino multiplex was where it was showing at 3:45. Similar to Hungary, the seating is assigned, but they showed us where seats were available and let us choose our own. The cost of a ticket was a shocking $16.50 each!! Ron decided to opt for popcorn, but I did not; the smallest size popcorn was $6.00. The coming attractions literally took up thirty-five minutes before the feature film began, but since we had no where to rush off to, it did not matter much. Did I like the movie? Yes and no. The scenery was at times breathtakingly beautiful, but I could not see myself wanting to spend any amount of time in most of the places shown. Sure, I would like to visit them, but after one night's stay, move on. The story was disappointing. It seemed like it took part old Western movie, part WW movie and reset it into an Australian setting and viola, you have a new movie. Change the Native Americans to Aboriginals. I cannot say that would miss anything that Hugh Jackman is in, but Nicole Kidman seems disingenuous in her role. Lasting close to three hours, it was entertainment, nothing more. Would I take the history portrayed as factual? Hardly, but it may make me ponder and dig deeper into investigating it for sure. We decided to eat at the food court at the casino; both of us could have whichever cuisine we had a hankering for, but both of us chose Indian. Food whether restaurant or grocery store is beyond expensive. Restaurants use entrée to mean appetizer or as in some places a starter. For what we would call an entrée, they call a 'main'. Every establishment seems to love the 20s; most 'mains' seem to start at $20.00 or more. There has hardly been a night when we have left a restaurant spending less than $50.00 for the two of us and that only includes one beer each. If we had a heavy bar tab, I could understand it, but we never do. Our time in Melbourne is coming to a close soon. We both are in love with the city. It is going to be difficult to leave here, even if we don't know what pleasures Sydney will bring. With that in mind, we headed back to the hotel again expecting a quiet night, but not finding it. Since so many obviously cannot find holiday comfort with family, it is gratifying that they could find it with each other.

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Back to the Beginning

Our room here at the Comfort Inn is slightly smaller than what we had the first time here, but the beds are just as comfortable. One thing I look for at hotels is how clean the mattress is. The sheets may be clean, but if the mattress or pillows are old, soiled, or downright groady, it gives me the heebie geebies. With one exception, the roach hotel, all of the places we have stayed pass the deep down cleanliness test with impressive colors. Hence this is why they are added to Our Picks on our web site www.budabab.com/our_picks.htm . We only refer to the best.

Toward the end of vacation, I go into what Ron calls ‘reentry’ mode, where I stop thinking about the present and concentrate on the things that need doing once we return home. Pushing these thoughts back, we forced ourselves to visit Starbucks to use their WiFi. There is this compulsive need to pay our credit cards hours after we have used them so the rich do not get richer on our interest charges. Plus there is satisfaction in reaching the stage of life where one can say they are truly debt-free. Needless to say, with the e-mails and other utilitarian tasks, we were at the café for over two hours, and then had to return the computer to our room.

There is one Hindu temple we had read about after our first time here, which from pictures looked well worth seeking out. Ron thought he knew where it was having seen it from the monorail in the past, so this was our destination today. Tickets for the monorail are point to point, whereas the point we were headed cost 1.20 Ringgits, less than 50 cents and much cheaper than a Disneyland ride. We disembarked where Mr. Map thought the temple was, but he was in grave danger of losing his designated title; we arrived at a Chinese Taoist temple instead of a Hindu one. The temple looked like it had lost its congregation long ago, being in an unkempt state of affairs, but interestingly, there was a flourishing traditional Chinese medical clinic operating inside and to the right of the main altar. They must deal with foreigners often enough to warrant a translation of the information into English.

Close, but no cigar for the temple we wanted to see, so we walked a few blocks and found an area where there were dozens of stores that sold wholesale jewelry. Block after block, shops were specializing in the glitz and gaudy items to accessorize, a cross-dressers dreamland. As we wandered, other shops started to appear as we reached a neighborhood downtown area, though still in Kuala Lumpur. Then peaking over the tops of other buildings, we spotted the temple we were searching for and magnificent it was.

Although I firmly hold to being agnostic bordering on atheist, there are places where I feel such serenity, there is no denying for me that it has to relate to some past life experience. This only happens when I enter Buddhist or Hindu temples strangely enough. Weirdly, when my photos in Buddhist temples are usually on the blurred side regardless of how artistically I control my camera, yet in Hindu temples, the photos seem to be crisp and clean. Finding this temple was worth the effort. Statues everywhere inspire a regal solemnity over my soul that I rarely find elsewhere worming a desire within to sit around and take lessons from whoever is willing to share their wisdom with me. Ganesh is always my favorite with his elephant head and my love of elephants. I walked around the massive complex taking it all in and wanting to share it with everyone through my photos, but halfway through my batteries died. End of the pictures; I had not recharged the back-up set thinking there were not be a need. My mind holds all of the untaken pictures, but how to share them will be a mystery.

Ron loves taking us off of the beaten track not answering direct questions. When we left the temple for parts unknown to me and asked where we were heading next, he only committed to the light rail train. Buying a day ticket for 7.50 Ringgits seemed ominous to me, our hours were ticking away and we had to leave this evening. We got off of the train at a section in the city where the old wooden houses are built on stilts. Walking in search of a drink, we found we were in a local neighborhood with the usual impromptu looking restaurants patronized by locals, yet only one was open. Ron was searching for a beer, which gave me internal giggles. We were in the land of Islam with head covered women working around us and alcohol being against the teachings of Islam as strictly as Mormonism. There would not be a beer to be found, but he fought on with his ethnocentricity assured that they would indulge tourists. However, after a few blocks, it was a certainty, we were in areas where tourists never tread and the locals were staring at us with smiles and word balloons lingering over their heads saying “These tourists took a wrong turn.”

Admitting defeat, we moved on and in search of a beer. We returned to the central bus station and then to our old ‘hood’ where we started this whole adventure a month prior. It did not seem as overwhelmingly crowded and busy as it had originally. We have been inoculated with the crowd and confusion vaccine. From a street vendor, I purchased some durian already to eat. Durian is one of the smelliest fruits imaginable and not pleasantly fragrant. Some areas restrict their growing it due to the stench. However, some brave soul in some millennia decided to venture past the aroma and cut through to the innards where four avocado shaped pieces of light yellow fruit are waiting to be evacuated. Unlike its smell, the fruit is mind in flavor, slightly juicy, but carries some of its smell into the taste. I tried it, but I could live without it.

Still not finding a beer, we went back to our hotel neighborhood where we knew for certain alcohol was not restricted and found beer before going to the laundry to collect our clean clothes. One of the best things about these countries is the inexpensive laundry services all over. We have never had to suffer with dirty clothes, having it laundered along the way. Now we would be returning home with the only dirty clothing being those that we traveled in.

Our flight to Doha, Qatar is at the unthinkable time of 3:30 am. According to the front desk clerk, we need to leave the hotel at 11:30 via taxi to get there in time. Not liking that answer, we are waiting for a change of shift and will ask again when the new clerk comes on duty. We prepare by taking a nap, though my naps are never longer than one hour, so I am up earlier than Ron to write in semi-darkness with the monitor for illumination.

Our last dinner here and we are going to do it up. We returned to a restaurant in the neighborhood where they have pork ribs in a lemon sauce. The sauce is so delectable if they bottled it, they could be rich. The ribs are almost a misnomer being chunks of pork almost absent of bone. I ordered a medium portion of chicken curry, small was not an option for some reason. To complement this, I also order a small portion of the lemon ribs, warning Ron that I am guarding my plates like a starving dog. If he wants any of this, he had better order his own. The medium portion of the curry was enough to feed a family of four; the ribs could have fed a small tribe in Botswana. I did my best, but since I did not have the time to send the leftovers via Fedex to the poor starving children in China, I had to admit defeat after giving it a glutton’s go at it.

Returning to the hotel, the change of shift desk clerk said we could leave for the airport at 12:30 am, an answer we liked so much better. We went to repack for the final time after showering and tried to nap yet again. Sleeping on my stomach was like trying to sleep while stretched over a beer barrel, it wasn’t going to happen.

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Mysterious Knocker Part 2: For Real This Time

The knock on the door occurred again this morning, but this time we could not send him away to get more sleep. We had a flight from Hanoi to Kuala Lumpur at 9:15 and the airport is over an hour away.

The taxi was on time and started the meter as we arranged ourselves in the cab, but I told him the hotel had paid for the trip. He asked for a receipt, but Ron had seen the clerk hand him a paper already. I told him to turn around and get it from the hotel if he did not have it, because we were not paying the bill. Miraculously, he continued to drive on.

We had paid for Express boarding, but had no clue what it meant. Checking in was a breeze and Air Asia was again great. We boarded first with express boarding directly into the plane getting to choose our seats first and first shot at the overhead storage. Our luggage weight was not an issue, which was a relief. The flight took off on time and we arrived ten minutes early. The landing was the smoothest we have had in years.

From the airport, we took the bus shuttle directly to our hotel for 15 Ringgits each, a real bargain. The hotel clerk remembered us and welcomed us back apologizing for not having the same room available. We immediately took our dirty clothes to the laundry service next door to pick up tomorrow, so when we get home, we will only have one shirt each that needs to go into the wash.

Not having a really good coffee since we left Siem Reap, we had to go to Starbucks for a caffeine fix. We did head back to the mall that had the large white Christmas tree to see if it still graced the lobby, but it was gone. The Chinese Lunar New Year starts on January 18^th and the whole mall is decorated in red and gold in anticipation. If you look at my photos, the changes are dramatic. If you want to see my albums, send me an e-mail to drryanjames@gmail.com.

Our enthusiasm is not what it was a month ago and although there are a couple of things we would like to see here, we only have tomorrow. If we see them, fine, but if we don’t, oh well. After being gone a month, our thoughts about tourism transpire from we have to see it all to whatever we see and do is fine. Touring around is work. Being a tourist is mind bending. Not only to you have to transform your thinking to the language differences, but the culture, the food, and a real obstacle is transportation once you hit the ground. It has not been easy getting from one place to another, but it has been an experience that I probably would not have given up when all is said and done. It helped me grow as a person to see what others have to survive with in a microscopic piece of their daily lives making me feel fortunate for living in Budapest.

The WiFi is not working at our hotel, so we have not been able to download mail or post my writing, so we will have to make a trip to Starbucks tomorrow where they have free WiFi at everyone of the 150 stores in the country.

The major difference being back here as opposed to Cambodia or Vietnam, is prosperity. More people are better off here than in the other countries. Malaysia had embraced technology and it has worked for the masses. No one here is hounding us to buy books, cigarette lighters, fruit, combs, bracelets, jewelry of any kind, or offering us rides in their cyclo (there are no tuk-tuks or cyclos here). No one is asking us where we are from, how old we are, or if we have children. The culture shock continues with the majority of women wearing head coverings. Then there is the weather. It is so much hotter and humid here. Just as we were entering the city, the clouds opened up and it poured a torrential rain. Thinking this would relieve the humidity, when it stopped, it was only successful in creating a city steam bath. You can almost see the steam rising from wet pedestrians as the sun is now drying their clothing.

Similarities do exist, each restaurant you pass has someone trying to get you into their door and massage parlors are everywhere outnumbering the number of tourists in any of the countries. Full body massages run on the average of $6.00 for an hour, the same for a foot/leg massage also. From what we can see, they are all legitimate massages, but it goes without saying there are probably other types available also, but not for this writer for sure.

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Mysterious Knocker

This will be a brief post. It was basically an uneventful day. But, it did start out interesting when someone came knocking on our door at 6:00 am to say they were waking up Mr. Tam. We both popped up and Ron said through the door, there is no one here by that name. They repeated the message and Ron did likewise. We tried getting back to sleep, but then about fifteen minutes went by and the knock came again. The messenger said the taxi was here for Mr. Tam. Ron again shouted through the door, but refused to open it to speak to the guy. Speaking through a door to a non-native speaker who barely understands English is like expecting your pet dog to literally understand everything you say to them; it just does not work that way. The shouting match went back and forth for a good five minutes, before we realized it was not Mr. Tam, but Mr. Jam or James. They were under the impression we were leaving for the airport today and had a taxi waiting. The first knock was our wake-up call and the second go around was the taxi’s meter is running even if you are not. Opps! Right hour, wrong day, try again tomorrow.

Neither of us could get back to sleep after this. After a shower, we went down to breakfast where each male employee looked sheepish, so we could not tell which one was the morning messenger, but we smiled at all of them to show no hard feelings. Now we wondered if we were getting one to two nights free for the botched guideless boat trip, but either way, we were prepared.

Blue dragons seem to be a rarity, but I wanted one. The Hmong people make stuffed animals with their ethnic weaving and cloths that they create. I wanted a small blue dragon, but had only seen the large ones, while the small ones were lemon yellow, hibiscus pink, and tangerine orange combinations. We finally agreed on getting the large one since it was the correct color, but we could not remember where the store was where we saw it. After hunting for over an hour, I suggested we give up the search and Ron wanted to find the Catholic Church anyway.

When we found the church, it was overflowing with people at the 10:00 am mass. The next one was in French at noon, and then in Vietnamese at 4:00. Whiling the time until we could return, we found a café. The French mass was not nearly as well attended as the morning one, yet it was surprising to see how many people there were. Just having a French mass shows there is a need, which makes me wonder why. The interior of the church is something we have never seen. The entire altar and side altars were done in red and gold, very ornate designs, but really red and tons of gold. I felt like Dorothy in the Land of Oz after a Beijing makeover. It was unusual too that they still had their Christmas trees up and lit at this late date. Hopefully, they are artificial or are a real fire hazard.

Basically the rest of the day took us on the search for blue dragons. What we discovered was another restaurant run by former homeless children as a training program in self-survival and hospitality skills for future employment. We had refreshments here to show our support and bought a t-shirt from them. Next door is a shop that sells fair trade items produced in cottage industry workshops by village women, where we found a little gift for a friend.

Our dinner choice was a restaurant recommended by a friend who had lived in Vietnam for nine months, bless his tolerant heart. The desk clerk told us it is the most famous restaurant in Hanoi serving recipes from the entire country’s gastronomic offerings. Outside the hotel was a cyclo, so we climbed in after negotiating a $5.00 ride. This poor man really earned his money. It turned out to be quite a distance from our hotel, so his poor legs must have been tired. When we arrived, I gave him extra dollars, so he said he would wait for us to take us back.

Neither of us was thrilled with our choices for dinner. The starter was delectable, but the entrées were ho-hum not even coming close to the descriptions on the menu. Dessert was an interesting addition. I had mung beans in coconut milk with peanuts and jelly. Interestingly, many desserts are sweet soups. When we left the restaurant, our cyclo driver was no where to be found, but we waited ten minutes to see if we were overlooking him. We decided on a taxi back, which took thirty minutes due to the driver being young, not aggressive in his skills, plus never getting higher than second gear.

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Round and Round in Cyclos

Breakfast, included at the hotel, was a satisfying omelet, bacon, and a baguette. Baguettes in Vietnam have centers like spider webs. You can see there is something in there, but when you try to pull it out, the consistency is like cotton candy. If you wad it up, you have a teardrops worth of substance in your hand. The coffee is atrocious making me need to seek out better flavored caffeine elsewhere. Ron read in the guide (not Frommer’s mind you) about a place called Baguette and Chocolate, but after twenty minutes of walking up and down the street where it was listed as being, a young man came up to us to see if we needed assistance. The café had moved over a year ago. We found another reasonable looking coffee shop where real coffee was served. We sat in the window seat.

Outside the window and across the street was a young cyclo driver, the bicycle kind of transport. The young man waved to us and motioned he would take us around the city. We smiled and tried to ignore him. It was not on the agenda. Finally, he found a willing fare and left us. Before we left the café there was a replacement who offered an hour tour of the city for $8.00 for both of us. We decided to take him up on it, but cyclos are built for two Vietnamese, not two of any non-Asian body types. By contorting like we were playing a game of Twister, with one leg on the red dot and the other leg on the blue dot, we intertwined into the seat and off we went. Our driver started out with the first question they learn in all English lessons throughout the country. “Where are you from?” They could care less about the answer since they never respond to the answer. Case in point, we told him we just arrived from Pluto and he did not stop short and kick us out of our seats. The next question also follows the formula, but still throws me. “How old are you?” Again there was no reaction when I said twenty-five and Ron admitted to one hundred and one. Skipping over formalities, the next inquiry is “How many children you have?” Our cumulative total of forty-six did not stir a reaction.

Riding in one of these cyclos is very similar to the ride in the House of Horrors. You are riding along, and then suddenly you think you are going to smash into something and the car turns suddenly at the very last moment, causing your heart to beat as fast as tribal drums warning of impending danger. If I had started dying my hair again, I would have been white once again by the end of the ride. Someone should discuss implementing more traffic lights here, but the three that they do have go unnoticed by all anyway, so the lack of them must be to conserve electricity.

If someone could create a mechanism making car and motorcycle horns bleat every ten seconds while the motor is running, it would allow all drivers to concentrate on steering, freeing them from having to count to ten to hit the horn manually. Noise never stops and neither does the traffic. Adding to the suspense of our survival, the driver kept bending over to tell us things along the way. First he pointed out the Military Museum explaining in poor English what it was, and then said “You know, boom, boom!” About five minutes later, he was massaging my neck and told me he knew where we could get a good massage and some ‘boom, boom’. We are not sure if the Military Museum is displaying sexual exhibits or if the massage therapists have guns, but we thought it wise to refuse both.

The tour was especially delightful when we went around the lake; miraculously the traffic was reduced in the lake area, so we could actually speak to each other without shouting. The placid moment did not last long as we entered the real word soon enough. The clock had run over one hour and we were on the opposite side of the city; we thought of getting out and walking back, but with crossing streets it would have taken at least an hour and years off of our lives. When we were finally able to untangle ourselves in an area that held some familiarity, it was a two hour ride. Suddenly the cost of our indulgence went from $8.00 to $22.00. Okay, it was worth the money. He needed it more than we did, but still I hate being made the fool. Seriously, could have stopped him at one hour; we discussed the added costs and let him continue uninterrupted.

As we rode around, we noticed that the shops run in waves. Two blocks will all sell motorcycle seat covers, and then the next two blocks will all be pots and pans. Shoe stores cover the next few blocks. They all segregate according to their offering like they fear keeping the competition out of sight. Astonishingly, they do wear more shoes here than they did in the other cities, where flip-flops or other styles of sandals are worn. When it first caught my attention, I could barely count ten people wearing shoes, but here the statistics are just the opposite.

The other key difference here in Hanoi is that restaurants, shops, even the cyclo drivers crave U.S. dollars over their own Dong. In the other cities, we could not convince people to take dollars; we had to have Dong on hand. When we run out of dollars, we will have to plead vendors to accept their own currency.

Later when we were walking around, one of the women who looks like they are carrying the scales of justice, but are really carrying fruits or vegetables for sale, stopped me to buy fresh cut pineapple. With the opportunity to pamper ourselves with fresh fruits, it seemed reasonable to spend $1.00 on a pineapple already peeled and cut. She said to me, “Take my picture.” I indulged her by snapping her with her bracing and balancing her heavy load. Ron snapped a couple too. When I said thanks, she said “Okay, 50,000 Dong for the photos.” After a good laugh, I thanked her again saying not in this lifetime because other than a ‘NO’ she would not understand anything I replied with.

We wound up buying a nice carry-on type bag that has concealed wheels and a handle for $20.00. Tomorrow it will take it maiden voyage to the Halong Bay excursion. Another Hmong elephant made its way into our life also. There would have been a second Hmong dragon too, but could not find a blue one in the right size. Now that we each have a carry-on bag, might as well make good use of it.

Walking around the lake one more time, we walked a bridge to reach a small island. On it is a pagoda called “Where the Turtle Returned the Sword” based on a legend. There is a temple there where the deity looks like Confucius, but the explanation discusses a General in the Armed Forces from the 15^t century. People were obviously in prayer at the base of his statue.

Restaurants here are definitely more upscale than in Chau Doc and Ho Chi Minh City, implying the costs are higher, but they are more affluent in their décor also. Due to these, the people selling gum, books, water, cigarette lighters, and horses with bobbing heads are not likely to enter and give their spiel while diners are in the process of mastication.

One funny sign we have commonly seen restaurant bathrooms states “Do not stand on the toilet”. It is common in less touristy areas to have squat holes in the floor that you stand over. The country folk must not recognize the use of a toilet trying to stand and squat on them.

We went to a French/Vietnamese restaurant tonight called Le Cyclo. Each of the chairs were cyclos around a table. Different and interesting, it was one of the most expensive meals we have encountered on our entire trip. Ron had the duck and I had chicken over fried Vietnamese noodles. With two beers, the bill came to a shocking $16.20.

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Who Pulls the Strings?

We were really at a loss as to how to spend the day today having covered the major sights and attractions already, which is really a short list. We had passed the zoo on the city tour, but it had heartbreak hotel written all over it, so it was not a way to have a happy ending here. We both had different ideas for breakfast and thankfully many restaurants offer a variety of menus including Vietnamese, American, British, and even Mexican breakfast options. We went to the one offering French toast as well as a breakfast burrito settling for these choices. We chose well, both being satiated, we went back to the market to get t-shirts.

Strategically planning the door to enter closest to the clothes, we were able to avoid being mauled or maimed while at the same time avoiding mauling and maiming anyone trying to grab us. Successfully buying two t-shirts and one pullover with smiles and the rewarding feeling for the sales people as well as ourselves, we left to walk the city. I had found a stuffed dragon made by the Hmong people in one shop, but was not thrilled with the color. We went in hunt of another dragon of a different color. Searching high and low over blocks and blocks of shops, it seemed this type of craftsmanship was limited to the only store I saw it in. We walked a couple of miles in the meanwhile in a much longer period of time than it would normally take since it is usual for sidewalks to be parking lots for motorcycles or temporary restaurants, causing detours into the street where you have to play Ping with traffic. Crossing the street is another time waster; it reminds you of an old television show called “This Is Your Life”.

Ron had read about an ice cream parlor that is French owned while supposedly serving the best ice cream in the city. We sought it out and placed our orders. He was more gracious with his compliments than I was, but I did not think my choices were all that flavorful. While we were sitting there, it started to sprinkle. We were hoping for some rain as the sky had been overcast for a couple of days and the humidity was in the 80-90 percentile each day making it feel unusually warm with the heat and pollution from six million motorcycles.

Meandering back to the hotel, we had decided to buy tickets for the Vietnamese Golden Dragon Water Puppet Theater, the only water puppet show in the world, so they claim. Tickets were $4.00 each and the hotel sold them. The show was at 6:30 or 8:00 pm, so we chose the early show and had planned on a restaurant nearby for afterward. In the meanwhile, we read, wrote, and planned the rest of our trip out.

I was checking e-mail here at the hotel, where they had a cable I could hook up to my computer; no wireless was available. When I work off of the battery, the computer is extraordinarily slow. After minutes, Outlook finally opened and the mail downloaded rather quickly being a high speed connection. I spotted an e-mail from my editor, which was a stab in my stomach. I had submitted my manuscript, if is it is still called a manuscript when it is a travel guide, on October 8^th getting an immediate response thanking me for getting it in weeks early. I had then written him a couple of times before leaving having concerns about rewrites, but never received a response. Having fifty percent Italian DNA, I worried obsessively that there were so many things wrong with the book they had not decided not to use it and did not know how to break the news to me. Until we left for the trip, I was panic stricken about not getting a response, but miraculously when the trip started, I was able to let it go completely. Now, with a week left of vacation, the e-mail I had waited months for has arrived. Outlook corrupted and would not open any of my mail. Grrrrrrrr…

We walked to the puppet show not exactly sure of the location, but Ron with his map in hand and after asking for directions a couple of times, we found it. I had imagined a water puppet show as puppets being hung down over a pool of water, not really remarkable, but could be interesting. There was no preparation for what we saw, which was phenomenal. On the stage on either side sat three musicians: two woman and one man on the left and two men and one woman on the right. Center stage was an oversized red and gold temple type building sitting on a large pool of river water. The water was as muddy as the actual river making it as opaque as a black cat in the dark on a moonless night. The water had some other props as well. We half expected the temple to be the stage for the puppets, but wrong again. The water was the stage as many of the puppets emerged from the sides of the temple while others came from the water directly. Puppet dragons broke the water’s surface along with fish and ducks. People entered the fluid stage from the sides. There were seventeen vignettes in all accompanied by the musicians playing instruments and being the voices of the characters. Even without language, it was enthralling. All of the tourists were flummoxed as to how the puppeteers performed these feats. It seemed possible that they were all under water manipulating the puppets upward, but there were not enough disturbances on the waters surface to betray someone below. In addition to this, there were no air bubbles rising to the top to betray breathing apparatus below. When the show was over, the puppeteers came out for a bow, all ten of them. They were in the water, but only wet from the waist down. Their chests and heads were dry as a bone. The magic continues, for us, anyway.

Around the corner and two blocks away was the restaurant the hotel recommended. When we reached it, there was a crowd of about forty people waiting to be seated. We took a taxi home again and ate locally.

When we returned to the hotel, I booted up the computer and tried the Internet and Outlook yet again. Finally, it worked and I was able to open the letter from my editor.

“Hi, Ryan,

At long last, I'm getting back to you. I apologize for the delays. It was ridiculously busy around here in November and December, and I realized that I never emailed you in the chaos leading up to the holiday break...

I assume you were busy with end-of-the semester activities, so hopefully not hearing from me was a blessing in disguise... The good news is that things went smoothly on my end and I've already shipped files off to the copyeditor. I think the book's in great shape, and I'm pleased with all the work you did... I mentioned earlier that I didn't think I'd have a long list of queries for you, which turned out to be true, though I do now have one substantial query here for you, and I hope you'll bear with me and this tardy request: I'm wondering if you could rework the introduction in chapter one. I think you did a nice job of explaining how you came to live in Budapest, which is just what I requested, but I think you maybe steered a bit too far off the topic of the city and what it's like to live there now. I think this would be a good opportunity to discuss what the city was like when you first got there and sum up how you've seen it change, with a few historical references thrown in. I would possibly cut the story about September 11th and shorten up your "getting there" story to 1 to 3 sentences and then focus the intro on living in Budapest, since your stories of teaching courses, opening up a B&B, etc., would be more interesting to readers... Also, anything you could add about Budapest *right now* as opposed to even a few years ago would be great to include. I know you added a lot of these notes and observations in the What's New chapter, but unfortunately, I had to cut some of those anecdotes to tighten the chapter (and keep us on page count). I'm attaching a copy of the current What's New chapter so you can see its final form, and I'm pasting your original chapter 1 intro below for reference... Please let me know if you're game for reworking this intro; again, it shouldn't be more than a page and a half, but I think it contributes a lot towards setting a tone for the book, introducing you as the writer and getting the reader excited about the book; so I think it's important to get it right, and I apologize if my initial instructions didn't help us to do that on the first take... Would it be possible to get a new introduction by the end of this month? Please let me know... I hope all is well, and hope you enjoyed the holidays... Best, Steve”

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Happy Bumpy Birthday to Me

At some point today, my birthday will start, but I don’t flip over the age counter until it is 8:25 am on the east coast of the U.S. the time I was born on this date. Then and only then will I accept being a year older, a dramatic change from my youth, when I waited for the clock to strike midnight in just about any time zone to claim a celebration should begin. I was having my morning coffee outside while having a cigarette when one of the tuk-tuk drivers came up to talk to me. After immediately telling him we were leaving today and would have no need for his service, he said he was waiting for a Brit or Aussie staying at the hotel who he had arranged to pick up the night before. His English was near excellent. We chatted about what I had seen in my limited time here, then there was a lull in the conversation as we watched the market place become more and more alive. He then turned to me and said “I feel sick. Yesterday, I went to a wedding in a village forty kilometers from here and in order to return here to work, I only had two hours sleep. Now I don’t feel too well.” I asked if he could take the day off to get some sleep and feel better, but he said he needed the work and the money to support his family who lives in the village he came from. He was so young looking, I assumed he meant his parents. Later, Ron had the opportunity to speak with him and found out he is thirty-five years old, has a wife and three children. He is one of nineteen children and his father is close to eighty years old. He father was hoping to have all of his children home for the New Years celebration in April since it may be his last, but this young man can not afford to attend and was feeling sad about it. There are so many stories similar to this one about how people in these countries have to make dramatic changes in their lives in order to survive; it makes many westerners look pathetic by comparison with our sniveling complaints about how difficult life is for us. We have no idea many times, what sacrifice to survive really means. Twenty minutes later than scheduled, our shuttle arrived to load us with nine others to bring us to the bus station for our trip to Ho Chi Minh City. With traffic, a journey that should have taken fifteen minutes, took twice as long. When we arrived at the bus station, there was not a bus in sight, but a parking lot full of soccer mom vans all painted the same green with white lettering, leaving us a scratching our heads perplexed. When I handed our tickets to a young man who seemingly was an official something, he took them, and returned them stamped and then pointed at yet another van. The second van was no different than the first van we rode in, making us wonder if this was another intermittent form of transport. He took our luggage and pointed to two seats, but at the time, I had not noticed our seats were numbered and matched our assigned ‘bus’ seats. As two of ten, we were ready for take-off. Traffic was mounting as the morning rush was well under way by this time. The zigs and zags that these drivers have to do are amazing. I think I have determined the qualification for a Vietnamese driver’s license. They use a tennis court with twenty cars in it. In order to pass the test, you have to drive one of the cars to each corner and to three random points in the rectangle without killing or doing major harm to anyone. If you can accomplish this, you have earned your license. A written test seems ludicrous since there are no traffic signs and only one or two street lights that no one pays attention to. They function as pretty red and green lights without stimulating any other associations. The first part of the drive was not too uncomfortable. The scenery was poverty row and more poverty as displayed by the run down businesses trying to sustain their proprietors. The word strip mall has new meaning here. These buildings and businesses have been stripped of whatever dignity they once had. It occurred to me that all of the Reality shows on television are all amateur wussy games compared to the reality of life these people have in daily existing. If you were to put a group of Vietnamese or Cambodians up against any of the groups who have suffered and whined about their trials of survival, the American group would have been voted off of the island so fast, there would not be second show, let alone a full season. One hour is about all I could take of looking out the window, since the weaving of our van in and out of traffic was a dizzying experience. Without lines painted down the middle of the road, the entire road is fair game regardless of the direction of travel. The car horn becomes an indispensible tool for signaling other drivers of cars, trucks, motorcycles, and bicycles of your intentions. In Egypt, there was a joke. “What is the first thing in an Egyptian car to wear out? The horn. Here, the answer should be the driver. I think I would rather suffer the trials of Hercules than attempt being a professional driver in this country or Cambodia for that matter. After two and a half hours had passed, we stopped for a ten minute rest break. I could not believe the colossal big gulp drinks my fellow passengers returned with. Surely, they knew when the next break would be. We thought ourselves brave eating a tangerine, still fearful it may be just too juicy for our own good. These people were drinking like camels preparing for a trip over the Sahara. As it was, I had to chant mantras just to keep my thoughts clear of anything that would lead to an unscheduled stop of the van. Ten minutes after leaving the bus station, we where stuck in traffic. The side door flung open and five people jumped into the van. Ron and I clutched our bags tightly. Highwaymen in broad daylight in the middle of a town have come to rob us? Rob us only if we were interested in what they were trying to sell; the five were hawking drinks, fruit, lottery tickets, and cakes. Two blocks later, everyone disembarked from the van, but the driver motioned for us to stay put. Were we the only two going to Ho Chi Minh City? What a strange place to drop off all of the other passengers. Within another block, we were on a ferry boat. As we sailed over the river, an older man who was a fellow passenger returned to the van and started talking to us. He asked me if I had been to Vietnam before. This is the third time in two days I had been asked this question. I am assuming they are asking if I fought in the war, guessing me to be age appropriate. He said he worked with the U.S. Army during the war, but he had not used his English for a number of years. When we changed the subject to the journey, he said that the ride was realistically two and a half hours, but because of the road conditions, it made it a much longer expedition. For the next two hours, the road was so bad, it was like riding the Matterhorn ride at Disneyland while an earthquake and tornado were happening simultaneously. The only thing we did not do was flip over and I can only assume it was because there was so much traffic, there was no room to do a flip. There was not even enough room on the road to flip a coin. The gravel roads had more potholes and pits than a teenage boy with a bad case of acne. Trying to read during this time could cause epileptic seizures even if you were not epileptic; trying to nap could cause the same sickness that affects astronauts in deep space. The mantras in my head were getting louder and more intense as my bladder was doing shake, rattle, and roll for another two and a half hours. But wait, that meant five hours on the road already and this was supposed to be a five hour trip, yet we were not at our destination. Bless Buddha, we did make a second rest stop. I would have rather wrestled alligators than get back on that van, for some undetermined amount of time, but not having a clue where we were and being short on alligators, I acquiesced. It was not until another one and a half hours passed that our senses led us to believe we were close at hand, however, the bus station looked eerily like the original and the two rest stops, so we could not be sure until the driver motioned for us to get out of the van. With the luggage in tow, our vet friend helped us arrange a taxi to our hotel, located in District 1. We agreed on $10.00 for the fare, which was ominous in this very inexpensive country. The drive was like something out of a science fiction movie. Swarms of motorized vehicles were coming from six different directions to one traffic circle with everyone wanting to finally escape it to go in a different direction. Hollywood has never produced such miraculous scene without having a fifty car pile up as a conclusion. I did not fear for our lives nearly as much as I did for the motorcyclists and bicyclists. This is something that should be videoed and put on YouTube, because it really has to be seen to be believed. Egypt’s drivers are pure amateurs in comparison. This city is immense, congested, and makes Las Vegas look like an abandoned playground by comparison. Though there is no plethora of casinos here, the lights and activity certainly make up for it. Our hotel is down an alley. That does not give me confidence. Once we start trekking down the alley, we discover fifteen other hotels and an equal number of restaurants are resident businesses of the same alley. Our room is spacious, clean, and comfortable, but nothing to do back flips over. We are on the first floor, the only room on the first floor at the top of the stairs from the reception desk, so our only window is looking down on them. We checked our alley and the next alley for dining opportunities which range from Vietnamese, Italian, Mexican, Thai, and Indian. We settled on Indian. The food was great, but after we finished, this young woman came up and asked if I wanted another beer, totally ignoring Ron. I said no thank you. Then she asked if she could sit with me. RED Flag, red flag! I simply said I did not think so and she left. I was expecting problems with the bill, but there weren’t any. There were many other tourists there, so it made me more confident in creating a scene if there were a problem. One of the rules of our hotel that is posted besides no explosives is that prostitutes are not allowed in the room. I told Ron if he had any birthday surprise planned for me, he had better nix it. My birthday continues until 8:25 EST tomorrow. I was ripped off on this one with this travel nightmare.

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