Invisible Tokyo Footprints

Tokyo has been skipping around my mind a lot recently. I look at photos longingly--of laughing, drunken friends karaoking, of Shibuya's busy city-streets, effervescent with flashing light and constant movement, of my calmer moments captured on camera at Shinjuku Goen park overlooking a lake blanketed in lily pads. Photos of my messy tatami-mat roomed floor transport me to two years ago--a single, flowery futon haphazardly snuggles the padded floor and a white wall swathed in Japanese flyers collected throughout the months, acts as a constant liason of every memory, like snapshots of my Tokyo experiences.

I miss it. A part of me feels like I have unfinished business there, like I came home prematurely, unready to really be back home and to deal with all of what that meant. Of starting a career, of settling in San Francisco, of being an adult in a serious relationship, and all of what was to come after. I returned for love and don't regret it, even though the relationship eventually failed, like most do, I've come to realize. Often, I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed past those eight months, then I fall asleep with a sigh and the understanding that this is one of those unanswerable questions I will never know the answer to. I miss it. I miss my friends and all their free-spirited idiosyncrasies. I loved how we were all there to experience something new, to learn about a new culture or re-connect with one lost long ago, and in return learn about ourselves too. I only knew them for eight months, many of them less, but they affected my life simply by being present in it and sharing themselves and something sacred with me--Tokyo. I miss them all. I have come to the realization, that I may never see some of these friends again, which hurts my heart, but I know some people are only supposed to be in your life for a short time to teach you something, to leave an impression on you. It doesn't mean their effect on you is any less potent, sometimes more so.

You know those moments you have in life, those special ones, in it you fully realize you will always remember that instant and wish it never had to end. Sometimes amidst them, I even catch myself thinking, this is one of those moments. Don't forget it, savor every last second of it. I've had so many of these in Tokyo. Underneath cherry blossoms in the Spring that billowed down like soft pink feathers, from a new embrace or a familiar one, from brush strokes in Yoyogi park, a whisper under a maple tree, and a day spent in solitude.

I'm returning soon to a new Tokyo. To one where only a few friends remain but my memories of the Tokyo I knew cover the city like invisible footprints. I know it will be different but I hope I will love it just the same as that beautiful city of inevitable possibilities, incandescent skyscrapers, serene temples, Ginza's stern business men complimented with Harajuku's blue-haired teenagers--and after everything feeling like you are a part of all of it, lost among the chaos only to find peace.

Sweet, Savory, Spicy Laos

I think I might be the only person in the world who hasn't read The Secret, but from what I've heard, it's all about being positive. I don't know if I need to read a book to tell me that, and I've come to the realization that lately, all I have been doing is complaining ... about everything. Life is up and down, constantly, and the past couple of weeks, I have been going through a down. It's true you can't really appreciate happiness, if you haven't experienced the opposite. Nothing too horrible has happened, just lots of things that I have to deal with and don't want to. Story of my life, it seems, but I've decided to whole-heartedly manifest positive things, by way of simply thinking positively about everything going on in my life. It's so easy to be unhappy. It takes a stronger person to try to get out of that funk and find the peace within themselves to be content. I know I sound like a hippie, obviously a part of me is, but I think positivity has more power over our lives than we give it credit for.

I do have to say though, the one week me and my fourth-cousin/bff/ex-coworker Shyla made a conscience decision to stop talking so much crap and start manifesting positive things, we both got laid off by the end of the week. The irony is killing me. But maybe, it was some karmic revolution trying to tell us that getting laid off was the thing we were manifesting all a long. It's entirely possible that I tell myself this to feel better about losing my job, but, I've always had faith in the philosophy of everything happening for a reason, and now two months later, I'm about to hop on a plane to Asia.

I was reading up a bit on Laos today in my intensive South East Asia on a Shoestring, my Lonely Planet Bible for the next four months, and I subsequently decided it would be a phenomenal idea to take a cooking class in Laos at the Thong Bay Guesthouse In Vientiane. I know nothing about Laotian cuisine. I don't even think I have ever seen a Laotian restaurant in San Francisco which is ubiquitious for it's multi-cultural food options. I just googled "Laotian restaurants in San Francisco" and literally came up with nothing. I did find this appetizing restaurant in Albany, but it's not simply Laotian food, its Lao-Thai cuisine, which is frankly not the same, though I'm sure their food has many of the same influences. To be honest, I found it somewhat unsettling that Laotian cuisine is so terribly unrepresented in this area of the world and the fact that I don't even know what Laotian cuisine really tastes like. To me, this is tragic; I want to know what every flavor and cuisine on the globe tastes like. I want the smells to be familiar of another place in the world and my taste-buds even more so. It's the way chicken karaage transports me back to my grandma's kitchen in Japan, every time I taste it or smell the intoxicating aroma of ginger and garlic wafting in from the stove-top as the chicken is dipped in bubbling oil. No restaurant could ever compare to the way she cooks it.

I think this class will be my way of bringing back Laos to San Francisco, if I can actually remember how to cook anything when I get back. The way I imagine this cooking class is how Anthony portrays life on No Reservations--full of fragrant spices, happy locals, and fresh vegetables, neatly spread out on a vibrant multi-colored table cloth. Maybe with some fresh lobster and fish and a bucket full of traditional Lao beer to take it all in. Then we bake, grill, steam, fry ... and savor every last heavenly bite at a beautiful outside table overlooking the Mekong river with a blooming array of native flaura and fauna surrounding us. I don't know if it's going to be as Bourdainesque as I fantasize it to be, but it's only fifteen dollars and, if anything, it would be a fun culinary adventure. Plus, I really like how the guesthouse is called "Thong bay." How can you go wrong with that?

My dream Laotian feast

Thong Bay Guesthouse

Sweet Saigon

I've realized, especially in the past couple of weeks, that life gives you many, many obstacles before you ever reach your final goal. My goal being make it to Asia with enough money in my pockets to sustain myself for four months, a passport with appropriate visas, and other things of that nature. Sometimes I just want to ask, why can't things just be easy? Maybe I make it hard for myself, but I've realized for a long time that getting what you want in life is anything but easy. If you didn't have to work for it, would you really appreciate it as much? I dunno, but I do know that I leave in less than a month and that scares that shit out of me. I want to know when the fear will subside and excitement take over. I know this is an opportunity of a lifetime and all my own doing, but I always get nervous when it's time to actually do the thing I've been working so hard for. Whether it be going to college, teaching in Japan, studying abroad in Barcelona ... whatever it is, I'm always more terrified than excited, and I'm lucky if I even get one hour of sleep the night before. Once I get on the plane is when I finally get it, and it's like a needed slap in the face. I always end up having the time of my life. Always.


My first stop is Saigon, and I am ecstatic get a taste of local life with Denny's gracious family who we will be staying with. I want to eat steaming bowls of pho, lots of noodles and BBQ pork, and drink Vietnamese coffee sweetened with condensed milk daily. I also want to finish every meal with one of those jelly, coconut tasting desserts served in some sort of creamy liquid. You know what I'm talking about, especially if you're Asian and/or really appreciate Asian desserts. Denny is really pressuring me to get an Asian perm as well as do a joint series of glamour shots in Vietnam to send as post cards. I'm contemplating the glamour shots, but the perm is not an option. I just don't think it's worth it to have a perm , simply for humor's sake. It would be awesome and hilarious for a full five minutes then I would be pissed that I had a perm and there was nothing I could do about it. Of course, there are other things I want to do in Saigon, other than consume a bunch of amazing calories and get glamour shots. To be honest though, food for me has always held strong significance in my life, not just for it's savory-sweet-spiciness, but for the culture and history behind it. You can learn so much about a countries people by tasting the food and all it's flavors, that is a part of them, and has been, for centuries. I want to get lost in the city, finding myself in unexplored alleys, winding boulevards, and discovering Saigon in my own way, as I always do.

Take me to Paradise ... Please

I can't wait to be on a beach in Thailand. I don't even care what beach it is or if it's even in Thailand. Malaysia, Cambodia, even Vietnam will do ... but I do want it to resemble the photo above, complete with the boat and the little dude eagerly waving at me, with that come hither look that says "let me show you my paradise." Note, that in my head, he's a gorgeous surfer, with a six pack (of muscles and beer), and a hot accent. "Take me to paradise," I'll say in my most sultry voice. In my head this sounds perfect, in reality I am anything but a sultry sex-kitten. I'd most likely get nervous and start laughing then spill beer all over myself or trip on something and fall on my ass. All things have been known to happen--I often laugh when I'm nervous, mostly during inappropriate times, I spill on myself daily, and I trip on everything.

Also, during my fantasy (soon to be reality) day I want to eat fresh lobster and crab and waste all day drinking  coconut water and get tanked off sugary alcoholic beverages on the beach. Then, I want to pass out in the sand only to wake up perfectly golden tan and sublimely happy.

It's so close I can almost taste the over-sweetened blended rum drink and feel the sand in between my toes ....

Sixteen Going on Twenty-Six

I've been feeling a bit under the weather lately. A bout of health issues has predictably been bestowed upon me making me feel like absolute crapola. Literally, all I want to do is curl up in a ball under my goose-down comforter, bury myself in a million pillows, eat ice-cream sundaes, and watch Diner's, Drive-Ins and Dives (don't ask me why I love that show, but it's like porn for the hungry). I attribute all of these issues to stress and myself for not proactively knowing how to handle it. I don't do well under pressure; all my stress, sadness, nervousness, whatever, ends up rearing it's heinous head in the form of stomach aches, colds, extreme muscle aches, bad skin, and just a general feeling of malaise. Needless to say stress is my own worst enemy as is cheese, ice-cream, Mcdonalds, and all things that make my ass even bigger.

I'm getting excited about the prospect of this upcoming journey around Asia, but to be honest, stress is more prevalent in my life now, than excitement or happiness. I think I'm more terrified of the unknown--of running out of money in some random village in Laos, of being kidnapped in Cambodia and forced into the sex trade, but mostly ... of what the hell I am going to do when I get back to real life in San Francisco. I'm bothered by the term "real life." Why can't traveling be my reality? Why can't it be my version of "real life" and my version of happiness? I think it can be, and I know I need to integrate traveling into all of my realities if I truly want to be happy.

My fears all stem from the same place--of the inponderable things I will be forced to face upon my return to "real life." Am I going to be able to find a writing or editing job? Will I be broke and have to move into my parents house (please, God, not again)? Will I move to New York City, go to grad school, or better yet, find my dream job writing for a magazine on a beach off the coast of Koi Samui? I have no idea. That's the issue, but I guess also the thing that intrigues me the most. The risk, the adrenalin of starting something new. That excitement that mirrors my insecurities and forces me to confront them head on. I always told myself I would never let fear be the reason I didn't follow my dreams. I never know where my heart will lead me, but I always seem to follow it anyways--I believe your heart knows where you need to be even if the practicality of your mind doesn't flow parallel to it.

A part of me (my heart) likes to think I can be as free spirited as a hippie in the Haight during the peace and love movement who is in a perma state of "high on life" (and other substances). The other part of me (my head) thinks I need a little bit more stability. I'm almost twenty-six which really just means I'm almost in my late twenties, which means I'm nearly thirty, which in societies close-minded view, means I need to find myself a husband and reer some babies in the near future. I don't want any of those things. Not now at least. Not even a little, and I'm OK with that. But then why does getting closer to thirty, scare the bejeesus out of me? I suppose when I was sixteen, and twenty-six sounded a million light years away--not to mention ancient--I thought I would be settled by now. Maybe even married, with a steady job. Fortunately, my pre-pubescent images of adulthood were misinformed and way too idyllic for my current reality. Regardless, I still feel like I'm sixteen, living in a twenty-six year-old's body ... thank God.

Once a friend told me I looked at life with rose colored glasses. At the time I was offended, because I thought they were labeling me as naive. Now, I couldn't take it as more of a compliment--but I know as I get older, the rosiness is slowly starting to fade and I don't want to lose it. I know "you only live once" is possibly the most cliche saying in the entire world, but to me, in my present state of being, it holds so much truth to my life. When I told a friend I was going on this trip, the first thing she said to me was "you're living!"From such simplicity I found myself unexpectedly overrun with emotion because I realized the truth in it--I haven't felt this alive in ages.

Convincing the Naysayers

The lengths I go to convince others that this trip is a "smart" idea are starting to get ridiculous, almost comical. Honestly, the only person I should have to convince is myself, but predictably, this is hardly the case and it continues to be a constant reminder that my own decisions are never fully all my own. Everyone else wants a say, everyone else has an opinion, and I, being basically the most indecisive person in the world, always rely on others for their opinion on my life choices--which in the end, just makes my decision more difficult and somehow I always end up doing what I want to do anyways. My dad is the main skeptic ... there are a few others, but he is the main man that needs convincing on the merits of my adventure abroad.

A few nights ago, I was having a conversation with my father about my trip, and basically broke the news that I was really going. It wasn't just hearsay or my typical idealistic and unrealistic goals for the future, it was an actual reality. I'm not gonna lie, he freaked. His response was the archetypal paternal response that I expected--"No, you can't go, you have to stay and get a job." After a few minutes of arguing and trying my hardest to stay calm, I found myself throwing a hung up cell phone on my bed and in the exact place I predicted myself to be when I broke the news. Perhaps it's my fault, I should have kept him more informed before I bought my ticket. It's just hard to discuss something with someone if their automatic response to just about everything is always, "NO." I knew in my heart that I was going to go, and somewhat believed that being almost twenty-six would grant me the right to make my own decisions. I suppose he thinks I sometimes make the wrong ones. Sometimes I do, a few occasions in particular that I can admit to and make me shudder. I understand his concern and appreciate it, but I know there are some things about me he just doesn't understand; I sometimes view life differently than he does, and even my sisters (whom he always compares me too when he thinks I'm making a hasty decision). I don't want my life to be solely about getting a job. I love writing and I love the career that I have started for myself; I know I have hardly breached the surface, but I don't think going on this trip will set me back, rather catapult my career to something better, albeit unknown to me now.

I know I don't have everything figured out and my future is unknown, but to me, that is the beauty of this trip. There's this quote I really like by some Israeli Philosopher that goes something like this, "All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware." I love this element of fate that comes with traveling and I have no reservations on the fact that you give yourself over to it when you go on a trip like this. As cheesy as I know it sounds, you kind of just have to surrender to it. The spontaneity and the freedom that comes with it are the reasons why I love to travel. I can't wait to feel like that again, it's been too long.

I just went off on a really long tangent. Basically, to convince my extremely stubborn, albeit love-able, dad that this trips is an amazing opportunity for me, I've made a Power Point slide show that exemplifies the different points on why this trip is an AMAZING idea. It might be the dorkiest thing I have ever done in my entire life. Well, that's a lie; it's definitely not the dorkiest if you include my formative middle-school years. Needless to say, those were not the best of times. I even went as far as to ask friends of mine and Denny's to write testimonials on Denny's character (which is fabulous, by the way) and why he would make a good travel partner for me. It's ridiculous, laughable really, to see the lengths I went on to show my dad that I am a responsible adult. Will a Power Point presentation really show him that? No. No it won't, but it couldn't hurt. Really, what do I have to lose, other than my dignity? I mean, I'm pretty sure I lost that at a frat party in college ... therefore I have nothing to lose.

Hopefully these naysayers in my life will give me their blessing (namely, my dad). I have a feeling they will, especially after they see this Power Point presentation. After all, who can resist cheesy travel quotes and photos of sunsets and epic views from far off destinations--all of which are obviously included in my slide show.

Cake Farts, Really?

I'm broke. If I had wooden pennies, I'd go to the beaver store to buy some crap. Really, that's how broke I am. Ok, so I have something I like to call a "get me to Asia fund," which most people would call a "savings" account; under no circumstance am I allowed to touch it. So I guess, I'm not technically broke, but I don't have any money to spend, so I am. On my search through the world wide web to make a quick dime, I perused the usual job sites, you know, Craigslist, journalismjobs.com, etc. and I happened to stumble upon some seriously ridiculous jobs, one in particular: Cake Farting. Yes, you heard me correct. Farting on cakes to curb some sort of sordid, not to mention perverted, fantasy of blowing out candles with your ass, instead of your mouth.

The subject of the post was way too hilarious not to click on: "Needed: Women to CakeFart for a Website (Handsome Pay)"

How could you not click on that, seriously? And the contents are even better:

"I am looking for sexy women 18+ to audition for a role in cake-farting for a website. This is NOT A JOKE. The audition includes attempts to put out candles in the ANAL instead of ORAL method. The model who farts the longest or creates the rankest, most lingering smell would get paid handsomely. Extraordinary talent such as if you manage to set the cake on fire with your gas are a major factor in hiring decisions."

Apparently, it's not a joke. Also, the longer and ranker the farts, the better. If you can set a cake on fire with your disgusting ass breath, then madame you could be the lucky winner of one thousand dollars. A thousand dollars for being the best cake farter?! Who thinks of this shit, seriously? Who really thinks, wow, it would really turn me on if I could watch a hot chic sit on a cake and then blow a smelly butt bugle all over that sweet thing until the candles blow out! Flatulence is HOT. What is the world coming to? I think cake farts, will soon be the end of man (and woman) kind as we know it.

I Ain't Goin to the Beaver Store

After months of hesitation, contemplation, and a few moments of hyper-ventilation, I finally bought my ticket to Asia. The itinerary is insane. I'm not sure what I was thinking. The only thing I know is that I may be a crazy person and when I get back I might be homeless on the street begging for change in the Tenderloin and screaming drunken obscenities at random professionals in suits outside Lees Vietnamese Sandwich shop--a place I used to frequent when I wasn't a crack-head. I also might have to start stripping at the Garden of Eden to pay rent, where you can "come in and take a bite of forbidden fruit." Or what if I turn out like the crazy old hippie I met in Washington Square Park the other night. He kept on talking about snapping his fingers and transporting himself back to the 60s. (I'm pretty sure he never stopped doing acid) and then said incredibly intelligent things like, "don't use wooden nickels, because they ain't worth a damn. Unless you are going to the beaver store." So profound. Ok, maybe I'm being a bit overdramatic; This trip is not gonna make me turn out like crazy old hippie, or crazy crack-head in the Loin, or a stripper wearing a loin cloth, holding an apple. While hanging out with a friend the other day, he said something that helped me curb my freak out--that this was the best type of debt I could ever be in and it would be totally worth it, life changing really. I believe him and I believe in this trip. But still, was I high and or drunk when I planned this itinerary? Possibly.

I fly into Ho Chih Minh where I meet Denny. From there we backpack around South East Asia for two months including Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, Malaysia, and Singapore. From Singapore we fly to Tokyo where I will revisit my favorite city and one-time home. From Tokyo we fly to Delhi and backpack our way down to Bombay. Then from Bombay we fly to Hong Kong and Hong Kong home ... four months later. I'm exhausted already. Just telling people about the trip makes me want to cry with fear and also pee my pants with excitement. I can't wait. There's so much to do still. Here's a tentative list of things I still need to do in less than two months.

1)Save up four thousand dollars. Yikes. This is the most important, and the hardest.
2)Get all my visas in order
3)Find a subletter for my apartment
4)Move all my crap from my apartment
5)Get shots so I don't get yellow fever, the plague, malaria etc.
6)Get travel insurance
7)Buy random things I need for my trip
8) I can't think of anything else right now, but I know there should be something else here.

Wow. I think I may be having an anxiety attack again.

Anthony Mi Amor

I have a confession. It's embarrassing but I daringly, and whole-heartedly, admit it. I have a secret crush on Anthony Bourdain. It's not because of his Richard Gere-esque grey locks and devastatingly attractive demeanor. He's not conventionally hot. Not at all. Ok, not even a little. But it's something about his bad-ass yet culturally sensitive attitude mixed with a sleeve of tattoos and a perma-cigarette/shot of alcohol in his hand. Honestly, I bet if I met him in real life his breath would smell like an ashtray filled with old cigarettes and tequila that's been spilled on the floor at a Senor Frogs in Tijuana by a drunk San Diego state frat boy named Chase ... with a hint of kimchee. You know, just because of all his travels around Asia. Regardless, I love the guy. Love his show even more--No Reservations. This man has my dream job. Think about it--he travels around the world, eating delicious food from exotic locales, gets drunk off his ass on the local liquor of his pleasing, and after everything, writes about it too! Anthony, if you are out there, hire me. I'll get drunk with you, eat interesting things with you, travel with you, smoke cigarettes with you. I'm good at all those things. I'm pretty sure we're a match made in heaven. What do you say?