New York is an impossible place - an overbuilt island with a nasty climate, horrendous traffic and . . .magic. What's not to love? Our day trip to Manhattan was typical John and Laura - last minute. It was post Christmas and very cold after a snowstorm. The sky was bright blue and the wind was piercing as we stood at the bus stop in John's New Jersey hometown - Kearny. I, weak and pathetic after years of mild L.A. weather, huddled in a nearby store while John, the native, stood in the cold without gloves or scarf. He deigned to wear a hat, at least. I had in my pocket $40, an American Express card and a lipstick. Oh yes, and a one use camera. Little did I know we wouldn't be back in Kearny for almost two days.
We took the excellent DeCamp Buslines bus over, warm and comfy. I watched the gritty landscape pass by, crumbling and winter-cracked overpasses, plenty of graffiti, salt-beaten cars. This is not a romantic way to get to NYC but a warm one. My dad the Scottish immigrant actually arrived via ocean liner and his first sight of America was of the Statue of Liberty. He even passed through immigration at Ellis Island. Now that's an arrival in New York. We got off at the grungy Port Authority where a taste of the winter wind had even John admitting he needed a scarf. He bought a post Christmas bargain for $6. One thing you can do and want to do in New York is walk and we were soon warm enough as we marched out into the late morning and headed to the Metropolitan Museum. The place was thronged with families off school and work, plenty of art students and a well-organized staff. I was finally warm and very reluctant to get into the long coat check line and surrender my security blanket, but the line moved fast and we soon had our coat tags and dove into the crowds. John knows his modern art and we visited a lot of his favorites after an elegant snack in the caf. The American Express card got its first of many uses there. We then traded off putting up with exhibits for each other. I examined the vintage baseball card collection for him and he joined me for the costume exhibit, focusing on the Duke and Duchess of Windsor's elaborate clothing. God those two could really dress - but then again maybe that was all they really had to do. . .
A couple of hours in a museum was plenty for us so out into the air we went. It was warmer at last. I hadn't been to New York since a lone high school trip many years before, so I had to see some of what I had seen before just to compare notes with myself. Central Park was easy since it borders on the Met. Yep, still a big beautiful park. In winter kids were sliding down the modest hills and dogs romped - well they were dogs whose owners lived on the park so maybe they sashayed. The Plaza Hotel was also on the list of places to revisit. The lobby was as lavish as I remembered but it seemed smaller. Do all things shrink year by year? Or are they so big in your memory the present can never match the past?
New York is one of those places where the present does exceed the past, because it always has something new to show you. Last time I had done three theater shows, had a carriage ride through Central Park, visited the Statue of Liberty and Empire State Building, watched the St. Patrick's Day parade, all in four days. So this time I could relax, right? Well why relax in New York? We had cellphone numbers for our respective friends and were secretly grateful when we couldn't reach any of them. The night would be ours - the plan was to catch a late bus, train or something back before they all stopped running. Rather than the subway, we used our all day transit passes and took the aboveground buses, which may not seem hip but run all the time and stop at convenient places. Cabs are not the necessity you might think they are. John wanted to show me the Village, one of the places where he had lived during his 6 years in the city. Dusk came quick and our first stop was an Internet caf to check email. That's when the idea to stay over started brewing. Maybe we could get some kind of online deal for a last minute hotel for that night. We mulled it over at venerable McSorley's, a beer-only bar where women were not allowed until the '80's. The waiter remembered John and found us seats in the raucous holiday crowd. We somehow ended up at a table of college friends reuniting after stints in Arizona - or were they all headed to Arizona? The beers were flowing and the facts got fuzzy. They took our picture - recording us for posterity in the kind of winter get-up we'd never be wearing in California. McSorley's serves two kinds of beer - light and dark, both their own brews. Snacks consist of cheese, onions and hot mustard. And, oh yeah you have to order beers in sets of two, no splitting. Sawdust on the floor and dark wood complete the picture. After the beers it seemed to make sense to stay over and spend a great New York night without worrying about catching a bus back to New Jersey. We booked the Soho Grand for an okay rate and knew one thing for sure: at last we would be sleeping on a smooth surface after four sleepless nights on a sheet stretched over lumpy rocks - otherwise known as the ancient family guest room mattress.
Before the Grand was dinner - we decided to walk around and look for a likely place. John has no trouble asking local-looking people where they like to eat and they were happy to help. What's this rumor about bitter New Yorkers? Of course I was introduced as the visitor from L.A. so they had all the more reason to be sure I got something besides sprouts, tofu and sunflower seeds. We stopped in for raw oysters and champagne at a small but packed restaurant. It got to be around 9 and we figured we had a shot at getting into Balthazar without a reservation. Sure enough, we only had to wait about 45 minutes at the bar, pacing ourselves on the drinking by this point, believe you me. Dinner was quite wonderful, though I let myself get talked out of a local fish - cod - and talked into Chilean sea bass, which is unavoidable in L.A. restaurants The waiter had obviously spent his childhood pushing cod around his plate and pretending he'd finished it. John's ravioli was phenomenal and led to him to keep perfecting his pasta and ravioli from scratch.
We rolled to the Grand with no bags to check in - I didn't even have a purse. I don't lug purses around as they are a drag to carry and a magnet for muggers. We stopped at a bodega and bought a toothbrush, toothpaste and contact lens solution for me - $9, not a bargain but who cared? We then hit the hotel and noted the hopping scene at the bar - and walked right past it. We fell into bed and slept blissfully - though by morning's light we discovered the room was tiny. Didn't this used to be an old SRO hotel? They certainly didn't increase the room size when it was converted to a profit center. John pointed out the view from our window and what it was missing - the World Trade Center. Solemn moment.
We got a late check out and debated what to do. Well, eating was going to happen, but first some great walking and a truly wonderful cup of coffee at a place we ducked into. Don't ask me the name. New York is teeming with picturesque side streets with tiny cafes, shops, galleries and what not. We ended up at Veselka around 2 p.m. This is a classic Eastern European restaurant at 10th and 2nd Avenue. I got stuffed cabbage and borscht and even went for dessert. We read the NY Times at our window table and watched the world go by. But the break was over. One of the people we were to meet at last returned a cell call. Okay, I admit it, we turned the phone off for hours so as to be unreachable. I mean, ahem, conserve the battery. We arranged to meet him in midtown and walked all the way (40 blocks or so, but John the native assured me they were the short blocks, not the crosstown blocks). The walk took us across the strange diagonal which Broadway becomes and I started to get a feel for the geography of the city, something that's hard to do in a cab, bus or car. We met my friend for drinks at another guys' bar with an after work crowd culled from Wall Street. John had a White Russian that seemed to be made with maple syrup. More of a beer and scotch place I guess.
Then it was time for a hellish run to the Port Authority, both needing to find a bathroom and desperate to catch the bus in time to make it back to Jersey and a long-arranged night with the family at the Scots-American social club. Back in Jersey, Manhattan was a vision across the water again. John's brother-in- law Joey kept the wine and beer going as it was his night to tend bar, but after the night before we kept it light. I persuaded my native hosts to go back to Manhattan the next day, this time to hit the Natural History Museum. We drove over with John's Pop at the wheel of his car, nice enough to drive to a city he hates. He used to have a sidewalk stand in the Village, where John sold his original paintings as well. He reminisced about those days, and the really old days, when he met John's mom at a Catholic dance in 1949 and by age 18 was married.
We tried for close to 25 minutes to find parking near the museum and actually succeeded. Pop and I were on the lookout for a spot while John napped, still catching up on sleep after another night back on the lumpy mattress. He woke up just in time to find a spot for us, claiming we needed his expertise. Okay, but who drove up and down ten square blocks until we found an undiscovered street? Now I was feeling the real New York. Scour the place for parking or pay the astounding rate of $24 for 2 hours. Pleased with our find, we trudged to the museum where a huge line meant we could not possibly get in. What to do?
How about a trip to Hoboken? But first I felt I had to see Ground Zero. It was a crisp December Saturday as we edged through typically hellish traffic down to the tip of Manhattan. Everyone had warned me that it was just a big hole in the ground surrounded by a chain link fence. We couldn't park or get much closer but circled a little. I could see the fence was decorated - and perhaps still is - with tattered mementoes of the dead. Pictures, ribbons, poems, posters. A faded picture of a young woman stays in my mind. She is smiling in a stiff pose; maybe it's some kind of studio shot. I glimpsed hawkers selling shirts, flags and buttons - the post Christmas vacation crowd had a festive feel but I didn't get close enough to feel the other vibe I knew was there. The sad one. And the angry one.
So it was back through the Lincoln Tunnel to Jersey. We toured Hoboken, where both John's parents were born. We drove past Sinatra's birthplace, very well marked and easy to find within the two square miles which is Hoboken. We then prepared to double or maybe even triple park, per tradition, outside Biggie's Clams. It was a 1940's social club/illegal gambling joint that served food so good it had become mostly a restaurant by the '50's. I had raw clams on the half shell and was very content. East coast seafood is cold water seafood, somehow brinier and crisper than the Gulf seafood where I grew up. Maybe there is an argument for cold climates after all.
We were soon back at Pop's, greeted by his cat Duke, standoffish as ever. The guys had managed to find a New York Times for me after three tries at local Kearny newsstands. They watched football and I read the paper. We drank hot tea and ate cake and it was hard to imagine that the high rises of New York were so close to this cozy middle class street. There was more eating that night. Italian food, of course. Huge portions for your average gavone - Italian for what I had become on the trip -someone who eats everything in sight. But, New York in the winter is made for eatingwhen in Rome.
Laura Glendinning is a travel writer and Content Director for www.threedayweekends.com
ANY BREAK IS A GOOD BREAKLaura Glendinning
There is something about that extra day tacked onto a weekend, be it a Monday or a Friday, which turns a getaway into a mini vacation. Of course three day weekends are a state of mind. One hree day weekend trip my boyfriend John and I took to Vegas started on Memorial Day Monday and ended on a Wednesday. We tend to take breaks just before or just after big holidays - you get better rates, better service and a lot fewer crowds. That trip we skipped our usual easy bargain booking for midweek Luxor (always clean, excellent bathrooms) and made a blind Hotwire bid on a Vegas Strip 5 star hotel and ended up in the mind-boggling Venetian for an unheard of price - under $100 a night including service fees. Lots of California people fly to Vegas, Tahoe or San Francisco, but we seem to end up driving to our breaks, partly because the dog kennel we use is right off the 10 freeway and often on the way, partly because getting on the road means the vacation has already started. When you add up getting to the airport early, parking, waiting to board, being inspected, then collecting baggage at the other end, you are practically at the same number of travel hours. And on the plane, we don't get to eat one of John's patented toasted sandwiches. Somehow, the way he makes the sandwich means I actually eat mayonnaise, a substance I usually detest. Driving against the traffic (everyone else was heading back from the weekend away and oh what a stream of headlights we saw crawling along) we were hypnotized by the flashing lights of an outlet mall/casino combo at the border - Stateline, Nevada - and stopped in. Great bargains for men's wear, not so great for women's wear - but we didn't do a thorough search.
On that Vegas trip, we dragged our battered garment bag, with a freshly broken strap, across the lush marble-floored lobby, looking like refugees. We entered our suite-like room - with its canopy bed, step down tv lounge and huge marble bathroom (two sinks, a shower and a huge tub), pulled out the nice champagne we'd brought along in our cooler, pulled out our travel champagne glasses (if they break we don't care) and put on the plush robes the Venetian provides. A cable movie and champagne shook the dust off the road trip. The next couple of days in Vegas sometimes means the spa for me, for sure the sports bar for John, and our search for the stranger slot machines to play. The Ripley's Believe It Or Not slots actually reward you for answering trivia questions. Vegas is not really about thinking, but the times we've played the game we've gotten a few interested onlookers impressed with our ability to pull facts out of our brains. We toyed with the idea of hanging around the machines having a cocktail and helping other players answer their bonus questions but decided against it. Along the strip, the Barbary Coast has maintained its original kitsch, sandwiched between lush hotels who doubtless are sporadically trying to buy them out. The tables there are friendly and attract a mixed crowd of fairly low stakes players. Like, a lot of hotels, dealers display where they are from on their name tag. A tall, blond Czechoslovakian dealer at the Barbary Coast took John's blackjack stake away with breathless speed and efficiency. Was she paid by how many cards she dealt? She was so fast that the dealer at the next table actually seemed mad at her for ruining everyone's fun. His attitude was This is the Barbary Coast, we don't do that here. Good thing the sports book paid off for John phenomenally.
If you're into food, Vegas can be frustrating. Bargain buffets notwithstanding, to-order food is often pricey and mediocre. You can always count on chains for consistency (Vegas has branches of California Pizza Kitchen, Wolfgang Puck's, Chin Chin, and tons more), but part of a vacation is to try something new. We found two gems last visit. The two new places were both at venerable Ceasers, a survivor from the Rat Pack era which keeps re-inventing itself and staying near the top of the competitive heap on the Strip. At the Palm restaurant (also in NY and L.A.) there is a businessman's lunch for $15.95 - choice of soup or salad, choice of fish or filet mignon (!), and coffee. Wines by the glass are pricey but excellent. One of Caeser's food courts features such offerings as good southern bbq, roasted turkey sandwiches, and above average pastries.
As for dinner, we can't resist our old standby - The Four Seasons' Verandah restaurant. Their three course dinner special for around $30 is a great deal - cooked by a chef (not a kitchen worker), and always with a carefully designed menu. One night we learned there was most definitely a chef on hand as the man himself - beefy and affable - came out of the kitchen to talk when we had a question about how he made such perfect fish. I still use his halibut recipe - hot pan on the stove top, almost finish the fish, then transfer it to a cold un-oiled pan in a hot oven - but I digress. Even during the very hot summer, night time outdoor dining at the Four Seasons is quite pleasant, as you can sit by the pool. It's hard to come by quiet in Vegas, but here you get it - there is no gambling in the Four Seasons. If you want to gamble after dinner at the Verandah, the hotel is joined to Mandalay Bay by an air conditioned lobby.
We left town the next day, stopping at Ceasers , our new casual dining spot, for good coffee for the road - and contemplated a last attempt at the Ripley's slots. We decided to skip it and call it even when we learned the valet parking outside the coffee shop was free. We got on Interstate 15 and joined the weekday throng of truckers headed into California. Traffic was light 'cuz thanks to driving an off time. We cruise to Interstate 10 and can't be at the kennel soon enough for the dogs. I am sure the dogs know when we are getting close but I always call the kennel keeper to warn her. Humans need advance notice for what dogs already know. The sound of an approaching car sets off every dog in the kennel but the barking settles down once the fellas see us and know they are hopping in the convertible and heading home. Bert the shepherd sits in the middle facing forward to make sure we are following the right route. The other two mutts, Buster and Louie, lounge in the back, hanging their heads out the window, the kennel already forgotten. We never make the trip home without a few kids waving and pointing at the funny people with three dogs.
At least picking them up involves a lot less guilt than dropping them off, but sorry boys - there will always be another three day weekend ahead.
Laura is a travel and screenplay writer living in Los Angeles, CA. She is also content director for www.threedayweekends.com, a on-line travel site.
TrekShare - Crashing a Laos Wedding - Part 2Joseph Kultgen
Public Service Announcement: Drinking and driving is bad. With that said Ive drank and drove a few times in my day and have puked in the back of cars while someone drunker than me was at the wheel. My question wasnt meant to be judgmental but rather compassionate. They were drunk; the streets were dark and littered in potholes. When all is said and done I know I would have jumped on the back of either of their scooters. I just needed assurance that we werent going to take some drunken steroid infested crotch rocket ride reminiscent of high school. Youve got to hate crap like that.
The next portion of our conversation seemed to flow like there was no language barrier at all. Ton explained that he was careful to make the necessary judgements to drive safely. This wasnt one of those times when someone drinking shouldnt drive. This was one of those times a person uses his judgement correctly. The idea of harming himself or another person was foreign to him. This appears to be the norm in a society built upon few enforceable laws but harsh penalties for living. His outlook was refreshingly unique. Most of us live in a world where we arent trusted to make our own judgements. He has no choice.
I soon discovered upon exiting the gala that it had never been their intention to drive. The party was just down the street. The energy reached a fevered pitch as we rounded the corner and entered the rear of the brides house. I walked stoically onto the back patio with my head held low. I do this for a variety of reasons. The primary reason I do this is in my everyday life is because I find if I look up the craziest wacko will undoubtebly engage me in a conversation.
I did it in Laos as a sign of respect. Bowing is an integral aspect of the salutation and this way I was half way there. The depth at to which you bow and the duration all reflect your position in life relative to the person you are addressing. The corresponding hand positions are difficult if not impossible to master by anyone except for the natives so I dont suggest trying. Just keep your head low and dont look someone in the eyes unless you are given indication that its appropriate to do so. Two more reasons to keep your chin low. Lets just say that walking into a communist country like a goddamn red, white and blue peacock perpetuates certain stereotypes that affect our relationships with other countries. The second reason is simpler. People taller than the mean height of 53 will ultimately take a roof of the house to the noggin sometime during their stay in this vertically challenged land. About 40 people were comfortably dispersed in 4 primary groups. One group was inside the house and used the back patio door to supply food, drink and a constant flow of new people to the party. One of the people in this group was Ponds wife who we unfortunately didnt get to meet. She was too busy working behind the scenes. I assume its a traditional bonding time for the mother, bride and her girls.
The second group was dancing around a tree just brought out by a woman from inside the house. It was the Lamvong dance, except they were all circling the tree together. It was a small space so I can see why. The third group was a table of primarily older men drinking and a rare 2 smokers. Not many people smoke in Laos and this was the first time I saw anyone smoking in such a public space. I greeted what to me looked like the oldest guy at the table. I would say he was about 48. This is old in a country with an average life expectancy is 54 years old. He was also one of the smokers. Yeah right. Smoking kills. We grabbed two seats at the ends of the old-guys table and spurted out kop chi li li another 30 or so times.
A fourth group congregated along a makeshift bar situated behind us on the perimeter of the lawn and street. This is where the guys who brought us to the party set up camp. Within about 6 seconds of sitting down a 1/3 full glass of BeerLao was between my eyes. I took a drink and watched my friend Paul try to explain that he would prefer soda water. It was basically a long-running joke at this point into our 5-day Laotian trek. I cant explain how foreign the concept of abstaining from drinking is to the Laotian people. Laotians dont have any concept of not drinking because of personal choices. Many people dont drink often because it doesnt bode well with their health, but this wasnt the case. Lets just say it wasnt the first time people would be brought into hysterics upon a toast from Pauls soda water. It only got funnier each of the 25 additional times he declined a drink.
Being able to consume and abuse almost anything at our discretion is not the situation in Laos. There isnt the same kind of access to external factors. Their gentle personalities and suspicious nature is a reflection of their lack and oftentimes desire of material goods. This is ideologically different than western capitalism principals that are slowly being adopted since 1990. Not to mention the U.S. did conduct a secret war in 1973 that left it the most bombed country of the Vietnam War. I know you probably dont want a history lesson, but the rational was to cut off the northern trade routes of the Ho Chi Min Trail in order to curtain the spread of communism. There I said it. A few short minutes later a sharply dressed Pond walked into the party. He wore a purplish blue iridescent silk oxford with the sleeves rolled up. Both his wrists were tightly wrapped in a white cloth rope traditional Lao boxing style. He looked like a bad ass as he sat down between me and Paul. Pond quickly got offered a drink from one of the 4 people who were circling the table like vultures looking for sober victims. A variety of drinks were being served. Variety, however, is a relative word in Laos. No apple martinis or cosmos - just whiskey and beer. Up until this point I had only drank Whiskey Lao and Tiger whiskey, which appear to be the two competing, brands. At 8000 kip ($.80) per bottle I was happy to see the party upgraded to a bottle each of Johnny Walker Red and Black. One woman also carried around a pitcher of diluted whiskey and water. This is what you drank when you wanted to stop drinking. The great aspect of drinking in Laos is the one glass rule or in this case one glass and one-shot glass rule. This ensures that when you are given a drink you pound it immediately. In general when drinking beer in Laos the person who buys the 40s-esqe glass bottle pours a drink for himself before offering the glass to the surrounding people. This is brilliant for 2 main reasons. The beer stays cool and fewer dishes are made for our bride throwing the party.
Pond, myself and the rest of the people at the party continued to drink and speak in whatever means we possibly could. A lot of time was just spent laughing enjoying the collective moment we were sharing together. Paul excused himself after the party turned into an alternative version of the century club. One drink per minute for 100 minutes. It was probably during the 58th minute when the food came to the table. Traditional Lao drinking food. Rather than pretzels and buffalo wings the Lao people make extraordinary hot mango salads to entice drinking. Id eaten a super hot mango salad in Thailand just days before so I was aware what I was in for. The dish was passed immediately to me and the elder at the table began aggressively coaxing me to take a bite. I grabbed the spoon and took a small bite hoping to overt their attention. This really didnt work. Now I was being ostracized for my lack of bite. The elder took the large Chinese soupspoon and started burying it deep in the salad. His eyes and the 12 other leering pairs made it apparent I needed to bring my game to the table. I grabbed back the large spoon and made a single aggressive swoop into the salad. The spoonful of salad I pulled out was about as much as the spoon was designed to hold. Unfortunately it is nearly impossible to dump out any overabundance from the deep metal spoon because of their high vertical edges. Not much else to do but take the bite. I dont remember what happened for the next 3 minutes. I do remember about 3 minutes later feeling like my head was going to spontaneously combust and that I had probably not been breathing for the three minutes prior. Once my eyes rolled back around to the front of my head I noticed a very concerned elder offering me a shot of whiskey. This is only the second time in the evening I refused a drink. Instead I opted for an outstretched glass of BeerLao. After a quick shot of beer I lunged for the shot of whiskey and then a glass of diluted whiskey. Its a pretty amazing situation when a shot of whiskey is smoother than a hot mango salad. In retrospect I should have taken the shot first. These guys knew what they were doing. Im pretty sure Paul had returned by this point to witness my hiccuping frenzy caused by the ridiculouslly hot food. The guesthouse was locked and instead of waking up the owners twice he opted to come back to the party. What a considerate guy! The night progressed in this standard fashion for a while until Pond excused himself from the table. Much of the rest of the table cleared at this point and headed in separate directions.
Group #4 hanging out by the back bar was still in full stride. It was time for the friends and youngsters to take the reigns of the party. One of the 10 or so twenty year olds was strumming a guitar and a variety of other guys were intermittently interjecting lyrics. We werent going to leave the party without listening to some tunes. After the first few songs the guitar was extended our way. Paul was always up for hacking out some obscure song that no one in Laos had ever heard of. To be honest unless you knew Betterman by Robbie Williams, a little Nsync or the its a hip - a hop - a hip song they probably would have no clue. Paul broke out a funky upbeat song that got the crowd clapping - although at a very different beat than the song suggested. Next we broke out Creep and some of the guys joined us in singing the melancholy mumbling of Radiohead. It was probably the loudest we ever sang that song. Pretty soon DJ Jacky Joe was at the stereo plugging in burnt CDs from Malaysia and Thailand. Most of the music was completely unfamiliar to me, but there was a couple of compilation CDs that caught my eye. I recognized 2 songs. The Final Countdown by Europe was the first track and I hadnt passed this song by since 1985; so why start now? The crowd seemed to like my selection based on the amount of air guitar I saw being played. Next up was a little Beat It by Michael Jackson. Unfortunately this was the worst karaoke version of Beat It Ive ever heard. In retrospect the complete lack of knowledge of Michael Jackson has got to be a good thing for any society. The party slowly unwound into a sparing match between a 4-foot tall Bruce Lee fanatic and myself. After a few tornado kicks, a mock punch to my nuts and a lot of posturing it was time to go.
This experience opened my eyes to a country that first started allowing Westerners to enter in 1989. Our knowledge and experiences are skewed by the boundaries and institutions we place ourselves. It was wonderful to escape to a place where those boundaries are outside any field I have ever walked.
2003 TrekShare LLC - Reprint with Permission.
Joseph Kultgen is co-founder of www.trekshare.com and has been writing the monthly newsletter - TrekNews - for the past 3 years. He is a contributer to STA Travel and Gap literature as well as a co-creator of TrekTV.
TrekShare.com - Crashing a wedding in Laos - Part 1Joseph Kultgen
Any reasonable person would think it slightly off-color to crash a wedding. When that wedding happens to be in Laos
who is to say if its inappropriate or not? Whom am I kidding? I was well aware of the potential drawbacks of dropping in on an event that I was clearly not invited. It
wouldnt be the first time leering eyes would be cast upon me as I casually pressed my way up to the buffet table. Lets regress for a minute. Some people might not know what the word crash means in the first sentence. For those of you who have been sheltered from large community centers/bowling alleys for the duration of your lives I can understand. Its been my experience that a bowling alley in the same venue as a wedding reception brings out the largest proportion of uninvited guests or what we like to call wedding crashers.
That certainly wasnt the case here. No bowling alleys in Laos! In particular no bowling alley that doubles as a reception hall. This of course is not a researched fact, but Im willing to bet anyone 100,000 kip that in two weeks you couldnt find any sign of the leisure sport of the drunk. Lawn bowling doesnt count. For all I know lawn bowling or occe ball is their national sport eclipsed only by badminton and a game of hands-free volleyball played with a wicker ball. The name eludes me almost as much as the skill needed to play the sport. The truth is I was hungry. A traditional Lao massage administered by blind women in the late afternoon completely wiped me out and I had just woken at 11PM from a 4-hour nap. If youre still reading this you might wonder how does one get wiped out from a massage. Arent these things supposed to be relaxing? Yeah and no. Primarily NO in my case. It appears that the muscles from my toes to my thighs dont like to be physically manipulated away from the bone as the massage suggests. For a mere 30,000 Kip or $3 US an hour massage from a skilled therapist seems like a great deal. That is if sometime in that hour you dont burst all the blood vessels in your face from wincing so hard. If my therapist hadnt been blind Im pretty sure she would have thought she was killing me. I would have felt like a puss so I broke out the yoga breathing and prayed not to succumb to hyperventilation.
Regardless, it was now 11PM and if I didnt move from my guesthouse quickly there would be little chance of finding any late night eatery in Luang Prabang. Places tend to close after the electricity cuts at 9PM. Things looked bleak upon leaving the guesthouse. There didnt appear to be any lights, tuk tuk drivers or for that matter people in site. There was, however, a clear path of music being generated from beyond the cement building horizon.
Sounded like a party. Parties oftentimes have food. So off we went. At this stage of the story I introduce you to my friend Paul who spent most of the duration of the night within earshot of me. It became clear to me as we rounded the first corner that the music was definitely coming from this street. It was time to move beyond my usual sloth like pace caused by the extreme heat and humidity. I could see a few motor scooters in the distance coming and going. As we got closer it became evident that this was the real deal. People were hopping on their Chinese mananufactured motor scooters in suits with beautiful Laotian women draped over the backs. They sit sidesaddle because their silk skirts or sins wraps tightly down to their ankles. A quick decision was needed as we approached the entry gate. Just walk in slowly and pretend Im not with the poorly dressed vagabond to my side. This wouldnt work. We entered the gate, saw about 20 people sitting at tables and another 30 or so under a wooden canopy dancing to live music. I noticed there werent any people doing the drunken hook-up stager that are so prevalent at weddings in the states. The vibe was comfortable, respectful and fully devoid of my wedding experiences. I made a b-line for the 15-foot buffet table. It was definitely the path of least resistance. It was obvious that everyone had finished eating at least 2 hours prior and the table was in the process of being taken down. Seemed fairly logical that I grab a spring roll and dowse it in some spicy papaya sauce before it becomes a leftover. Before I could even put the first bite in my mouth a pair of women rounded the table and handed us all the utensils we needed. Kop Chi Li Li or thank you spewed from mouth about 100 times in the next 3 minutes. They either liked the way I pronounced the phrase or had giant hearts because their smiles stretched from ear to ear. The buffet had what appeared to most of the staples of the Laos diet. There was a type of yellow chicken curry, some spicy beef, spingrolls, fresh vegetables and a giant vat of sticky rice. Within seconds of loading up our plates the two drunkest 20-year olds at the party pulled up four chairs for us. One for our plates and the other for our asses. Before even taking my first bit I had a 1/3 glass full of BeerLao between my eyes.
This is where the story takes a dramatic twist. It is not because I started drinking. Thats a little later. The twist is because this story is being composed for Break Magazine and they dont allow any references to drugs or alcohol. Therefore I have written two versions. The one where I drink myself to a point where I believe I can understand the Lao language is the version you are reading. Although we were given utensils I chose to forego the westernization of the land and eat using the dipping technique utilized by most people. Three bites in and once again a 1/3 full glass of BeerLao is between my eyes. The young man offering the glass was pimped out in a black tuxedo and appeared to be the kind of guy whom you should accept a drink from. Another kop chi li li, a swig from his glass and we were friends. I pulled up another chair for the special guest and we began to speak. The conversation took a slow start. Not because of tuxedo man, but rather because I had been so used to talking to people who spoke absolutely no English, that I was conversing like a trained monkey.
Shortly into the conversation I learned Pond was indeed the honored guest at what I learned was his wedding. The handsome 24-year old had just been hitched and he oozed elation. As I scarified down my food I learned he works for the Lao government as an AIDS educator. He also told us about a cousin of his who lives in NYC and his desire to my town. My door will always be open. Laotian men usually marry in there twenties. The bride is usually younger. She will most likely be from the same village and will probably be related in some degree because most villages are small. Couples choose each other, but the heads of both families decide when the couple will marry, where they will live, and what bride price must be paid to the girls father. This is usually in currency, although in olden times it was in livestock or grain. The grooms family delivers the bride price to the brides father on the day before the wedding. The grooms relatives parade to the brides house with gifts of food, tobacco, betel and so on. The groom makes his formal request for the bride. Her family, after a long-winded, purely ceremonial show of reluctance finally agrees. In the presence of a bonze or village elder, the couple is officially betrothed. The next day, the groom and his relatives again proceed to the brides house, where they make a great show of fighting and bribe their way into the yard. The groom must persuade the brides sister to wash his feet before he can ascend the steps to the house and claim his bride.
Divorce is rare in Laos, partly because each marriage concerns everyone in two large, extended families. If a marriage is dissolved, the bride price has to be returned, and there are endless complications concerning inheritance and land use. It is much more sensible to compromise. Working things out, in general, is the Laotian response to almost every conflict. Isnt that a novel idea? In the background we watched the nucleus of the party dance. Thankfully there are no traditions of the Marquerena or chicken dance in Laos. This is one of the things Im happiest about. Tonight they danced the Lamvong. Its a combination folk dance and courting ritual. Girls dance in place with short, rhythmic steps, while boys weave circles around them; no one touches. The faces of the dancers are completely expressionless, but their arms and hands wave in complicated patterns expressive of love and devotion. Frankly, unless you are Laotian, you will end up looking like a queen doing this jig. The groom apologized to us that the party we crashed was almost over. He insisted we accompany him to the parents of his wifes house for an after party. The two guys sitting next to us indicated that they would escort us to the party. Pond cordially dismissed himself and affirmed our attendance.
As soon as the 48-ounce bottle of BeerLao was cashed we would head out. As the pace and the amount of the beer in the glass increased I decided to engage the transportation question. I was pretty sure these guys had scooters. Frankly Im not a big fan of riding on the back of those things in any situation. In addition, I was positive both these guys were half in the bag. Through struggled words and gulps of beer I asked our new friends about drinking and driving.
Joseph Kultgen is co-founder of www.trekshare.com and has been writing the monthly newsletter - TrekNews - for the past 3 years. He is a contributer to STA Travel and Gap literature as well as a co-creator of TrekTV.
