The Yesteryears of Library Cards

Today I read my Bill Bryson book on that ever-so scenic drive to North Manchester, Indiana, and in one of those pauses in concentration when I gazed at the book cover, I realized, "Why did I buy this book?" Oh, I'm very intrigued by the book, don't confuse that. But these days, with my new minimalist attitude towards belongings, I hate holding onto books (other than favorites) after I've read them. I hate spending money, and it's not as if I gain adequate compensation from selling my finished books back to Half Price Books.

When my childhood was filled with trips to the library, long afternoons browsing books and magazines, and sitting in untouched nooks of the stacks with a riveting Roald Dahl work, I wondered today where that compulsion went.

When did the library becoming an after-thought?

Is it the crackling of the clear plastic book covers that causes distaste? The sour memories from caffeine-facilitated all-nighters in college? Fear of the Dewey Decimal System? This made me wonder, "How many of you sidestep Borders and your local discount bookstore for the convenient cost-efficiency of the library?"

One Year Ago Today

One year ago today, this began.

I'm thinking back to the all-nighter I pulled before I guzzled a glass of micro-nutrient drink, piled my bags into the car, and left out of the old (and now non-existent) Indianapolis Airport for Milan, Italy. I'm sad and happy and all sorts of amazed.

How on Earth did I wrangle another RTW experience while still in the wake of the last one. And though I've been battling this concept for the last month (oh gosh, I don't deserve this...wait, maybe I do...naw, I'm un-deserv--O.K. I earned this...and so on), I've landed on grateful, humbled, numb, and overwhelmed.

The last 365 days have been nothing but travel-soaked and incredibly productive. I've grown astronomic amounts with the embarkment, every day of overstimulation, and the decompression in America where I've chewed on my global experiences with fermented values and beliefs. With all the many ladies who have asked me for advice and inspiration to do their own solo RTW, I surely hope I convinced even one to make the dream happen ASAP for the sake of their own development. Not that I believe I've grown as much as I ever will from one year, but at times I feel as though I skipped a year or two in the maturing process and came out a solid individual.

And so tonight, on this Cinco de Mayo, I'll treat myself to a beer or three (domestic unfortunately) and cheers to personal dreams being accomplished and the growth of the individual thanks to travel and experience.

Side note: As it is the end of the month, I am in the process of gathering contributions to the charities I've been moved by. This has been a sad month with the passing of Evan Witty, my friend and fellow volunteer with Cambodia's Hope, and I want to make it easy and convenient for anyone to offer something for his initiatives and passionate endeavors. If you are interested in sending a donation, get it to me and I'll send it off (or give you information on how to do so).

Indy Local News Covers This Girl

I remember the excitement in elementary school from making it on the local TV channel during our Indian and Pioneer reenactments; oh, what a thrill. However, today was infinitely cooler as I took a very “Alice in Wonderland” wide-eyed gaze around the WISHTV set. I was probably just projecting, but those anchors and backdrops looked crisper and more vibrant than the rest of the visible world (must be because they’re in High Def).

After speeding through Indianapolis on a Sunday morning (mistakenly wearing flip-flops out the door and having to meet my mom half-way back home for a shoe switch-a-roo), I went from the entrance to the set’s black couch in about 20 seconds flat. No preparation. No verbal briefing. No quick powdering of the nose.

I watched coverage of the swine flu and local weather forecasts from my dark corner of the set, amazed I had a reason for being there to contribute, and was eventually joined by an anchor who quickly went through the upcoming questions.

I didn’t know where to put my hands. I saw my dark silhouette in the crew’s monitor. The lights illuminated my formerly creepy corner and revealed a set as high tech as the rest of ‘em. My lips started twitching, but knowing that would definitely show up in HD, I looked at my interviewer and mentally checked out. Luckily, autopilot kicked in.

Eventually, the lights dimmed, and I was shaking hands in closing. Unless my mind regenerated a completely fictional last three minutes of life, I actually believe I didn’t mess up! Even my brother, the one most excited to tell me my flaws in a humorous manner, complimented my comfortable and clear dialogue.

Success? Sch-wing!

Only regret: not wearing lipstick. Hello, No-Mouth.

Insert Pun using word "May" here

And then there's May - the beautiful month of blooming things and excitement for the freedom of months ahead. So how does one prepare for the STA World Traveler Intern in the final stretch?

April and its Many Pleasures

The STA World Traveler Internship is becoming a dot on my horizon now, within viewing range and getting bigger and more omnipresent in my daily life with each globe rotation. And if you've been wondering how I am preparing for this experience, I guess you haven't been following my blog. Wa waaaaaaa...sad. Well, I've been building my domain from its humble roots at blogspot to where it is now, a whole lotta pages of stuff. And with my previous trip still hovering in a cloud above my head like unprocessed thought bubbles, I've been busy putting that experience in an oak barrel for further fermentation before its eventual publication (in book form, baby!).

In the last couple weeks, I've had some thrilling moments, all in the name of travel and enjoying the Motherland. With this focus on "being where I'm not", I often shrink out of the social picture or adopt the ways of penny-pinchers to increase my spendings for future trips abroad. Oh, but not this time.

Road Trip to Des Moines

Two weekends ago, I decided to honor a promise I made to a certain sorority house in Des Moines, Iowa, one which graciously offered incredible support for a girl they didn't know in a contest that thrived on public outreach. I called up my travel buddy, Garrett, a Semester at Sea friend, and asked him if he was doing anything that weekend and wanted to fly to Indy for a road trip. Within hours he was booked, and within a week we sat in Broad Ripple (a neighborhood/the Indy Mecca of all things party-like) at a dimly-lit Egyptian restaurant talking strategies for shocking our friend, Alexis, tomorrow in Des Moines. Alexis is another Semester at Sea friend, my potluck roommate, and my ultimate travel companion. She knew I was coming but didn't know about the impromptu Flight of the Garrett.

The drive across three "I" states went from flat to flowing and chatty to hilarious. Needless to spell out in eloquent script, she was happy with the Garrett surprise hidden in the truck under my Dora the Explorer pinata and then immediately led us to our afternoon activities of outdoor paint fights and formal affairs (yes, it was a quick turnaround of cleanliness and demeanor, but we're professionals).

Day #2 in Des Moines consisted of finding Garrett's pants, eating excellent BBQ, and loading into a purple party bus with $250 worth of canned, bubbly goodness. These Drake University sorority girls put on quite a show in the middle of the bus, bringing along stuffed squirrels, skis, and funnels galore, and I couldn't help thinking how interesting American undergraduate culture would seem to anthropologists from foreign lands and times. We laugh at the cows on the streets in India thinking, "Why is that necessary?" I wondered the same thing while rolling through downtown in a crammed bus, sipping chilled beverages, watching others drink and high velocity and volume, and listening to Flo-rida's obsession with boots and fur. What a weird world we live in.

Little 500

The World's Greatest College Weekend. I challenge all to refute this statement. And though I will consider the point that it's delusional to believe without a doubt your college traditions are superior to others, I will speak firmly for myself and say I truly had my greatest Little 5 experience this time around.

Indiana University holds a bike race every spring where Greek and independent teams compete for pure glory and risk the bones in their body for our awe of the athletic spectacle. This time-honored tradition had apparently been in my blood for years prior to my actual attendance, as my father was on the steering committee for the events in his stint as a Hoosier. Of course, I don't bike, and neither does my dad, but we sure do enjoy watching things go in circles; and by things, I mean finely-tuned human machines on Schwinn bicycles.

As evolution would have it, the athletic event named Little 500 (standing in the shadow of the Indy 500 motor race 60 miles away) quickly transformed itself into a week-plus of gluttonous binge drinking and the active pursuit of making this guzzling action creative with varied activities (e.g. Greek events, massive themed house parties, strategic bar hopping, outdoor games, personal challenges, and the "early bird gets the tequila worm" mentality). Once again, the sight is one that simultaneously inspires awe, disgust, belly laughs, amazement, and disbelief.

This year was possibly the best because of my mastery in selecting venues and juggling my circles of friends. I had no idea I would could enjoy the bars on the busiest nights of the year (GO TOWNIE BARS!), hang with my favorite people (thanks to an unexpected, melodious blending of high school and college pals), experience new sides of my four-year home (Hello, Bloomington breakfasts), and all the while feel generally pleasant (life hasn't been the same since I found the "turn-off switch" for imbibing). I'm growing up and learning the tricks, learning who I like to be surrounded by, and understanding my own familiarities with new eyes.

On top of the weekend's perfection, I reaped once again the wonderful benefits of being an applicant in the STA pool. I got to meet up with a fellow Top Ten'er, Bob Fawcett, and boy did we have a good time. Friday night we met and exchanged a good amount of chatter at my new favorite townie bar, The Vid, discussing videos, potential life plans, experiences at IU, and all things deliciously travel related. Saturday night, however, brought on a whole new range of excitement with new townie bars, traditional Bloomington cocktails, night rides in pizza delivery trucks and a pre-dawn hang session in what most Hoosier students would entitle "Hippy/Creeper's/Skater/Don't-go-there-ever Park."

The most notable perk of this awesome encounter happened with our lingering stance on the curb outside the bars, where we conjured plans to ride in a very rumbly, intimidating truck parked nearby. Item #1 on my Life List keeps me always searching for the ultimate truck bed experience, but unfortunately Bloomington on race night is no place to challenge the laws of the State of Indiana. Instead, we asked the pizza delivery guy who owned the fantastic truck to take us along for his next delivery in the truck cab.

"We just want to see the town and go on a little adventure."

After showing us his teeth could pop out of his mouth (wow, they were in his mouth, and then all of a sudden they weren't!), he offered us a ride. We then proceeded to get our brains scrambled with the sudden acceleration of his loud engine and exchange looks in the backseat that screamed "Ridiculous!" in polite silence. It was a short adventure, but it left us laughing for a while as we eventually wandered towards People's Park for a chat that led into Sunday's sunrise.

I have finally found people that do what I do, share my oddball passion, and I thank STA once more for creating a venue for travelers to find each other and share what gets them going. Which leads me to my next pre-departure activity...

Lunching with a fellow Applicant

I'm not the only one who loves Yat's, Indianapolis, and traveling. After watching Jackie Knowles' application video for STA WTI, I thought "Yikes!"...I've got intense competition in my own 'hood! Though we don't share picket fences, Jackie and I share a side of Indianapolis, and we became in contact thanks to our Youtube videos.

We met up this week on an awesome weather day for an outdoor dining experience at our favorite eatery and exchanged travel stories that thrilled us. Jackie has had a slew of ballin opportunities, and lunching with this girl solidified my goal of reaching as many of those like-minded travel enthusiasts (applicants or otherwise) to contribute to the journey ahead.

It's really occurred to me now that the Youtube responses for the Internship are a coagulation of amazing minds that could make the trip mind-boggling in reach, motivation, and coverage. Just as I encouraged Jackie, I want to reiterate to anyone reading, "COLLABORATE!"

Wow. And that was just a week and a half in the Midwest. Not too shabby of a place, my friends, not too shabby at all.

My Brush with Controversial Cambodia: Day 189

There's such a thing as a hostess bar in Cambodia. It's an establishment that offers libations, snacks, and the most salient feature of spry, young Cambodian women, available for modest companionship and eye candy. With such a gag-evoking reality of child prostitution and sex tourism in this country already scarred with unfathomable [recent] history, I was very careful to approach the idea of nightlife in Phnom Penh. It had been a long time since I participated in after hour activities, especially with anyone resembling a travel buddy or friend, and with two weeks in this relative hub of excitement, I thought it was a necessary experience. I also had to see what this hostess situation was about. Evan understood and shared my outlook on Cambodian nightlife and offered to introduce me to this unique experience. The ride to the bar occurred after an incredible downpour that flooded the streets to levels beyond my comprehension. Our tuk-tuk driver had to get off his seat and push his vehicle (with us still in the back, lifting our legs from the incoming water, because he wouldn't allow us to get out and push with him) until he passed through a thigh-high water situation at the intersection of two roads.

I was stunned this amount of water could puddle together with buildings and storefronts lining the streets, as if the water level displayed the correct ground level and the driver walked in some sort of quicksand below. Evan kept his feet elevated, hoping any minor cuts wouldn't get infected as one had the previous week (which he had to keep soaked in bright purple iodine). The moment was surreal and simply hilarious. I'm disappointed the lighting didn't lend to some telling pictures.

I was already quite sauced before we entered the first watering hole, a hostess bar that was vouched for and legitimate by standards unbeknownst to me. I said "yay" to a Long Island Iced Tea and sat at a U-shaped couched where Evan and I were soon thronged by women of high school age or older.

With daily gigs of encouraging consumption and making witty conversation with travelers, these hostesses were skilled in language. They understood the complexities of humor, based in languages and cultures foreign to them (a laudable skill, as I learned in Italy). I guess in a sense they were the Cambodian equivalent of geishas.

The awkward feeling in my gut led me to act oblivious and just start ordering food while throwing out jokes and anecdotes to anyone listening. Eventually I loosened up and began chatting with the girl next to me (who was only nearby because she, along with the others, was enamored with Evan and his care for the Palm Tree kids).

She had a son who suffered from elephantitis of the testicles. He was roughly two or three years of age. She flashed a picture out from her pocket and showed me his face and worn frame. This woman had no reason to tell me this sad truth of her life, as she knew I wasn't there for special companionship or to buy her drinks. She wasn't even the one who brought the topic into conversation.

Looking around at the other tables in the bar, I realized we were monopolizing about 80% of the hostesses on duty. They flocked to our table in hopes of hearing Evan's attempt at speaking in Khmer and chatting as friends. The rest of the tables were occupied by twos, one traveler to one woman, and the game at play was flirting. It was like we made it to the backstage party and bypassed the controversial showing of "You Like Me. You Buy Drink."

Approaching this outing like a foreigner made it easy to judge, but I then took my own understanding of nightlife in College Town, USA and applied the same eye. Aside from the drink incentives and hourly wages paid by the bars, the social scene in both countries seemed eerily similar. Girls go to bars. Boys go to bars to find girls. Girls try to get guys to buy them drinks. Guys buy girls drinks to encourage further conversation and companionship. And at the end of the night, if two people like each other, they can choose to exchange numbers and stay in contact with one another. And some day, when feelings blossom, who knows?

The next morning I awoke in an empty hotel room, shivering from the billowing AC and listening to the MTV channel I had fallen asleep to. Since we weren't planning to be back from our night out before 9pm or after 5am (when the gate would be locked), we rented a $10 room each with all the essentials (TV, AC, personal bathrooms and soap). Lying in that bed, I listened to the newest works by Keane and Lil Jon and began to anticipate the boat loads of new music I would encounter once back stateside.

Evan and I waltzed back to the orphanage in time for a double fried egg lunch with the kids, and their looks of confusion as to why we were just returning from the evening were refreshing. Luckily, the Palm Tree kids are among the few in Phnom Penh (and Cambodia) who see the world with fairly innocent eyes. Most were never exposed to the professions of the night and had trouble understanding why we went out on the town the night before. Even though our evening activities weren't scandalous and were for the pursuit a unique cultural experience, it made me happy to know they were protected from the burdens of their demographic.

Except for one new girl.

Srey Nith arrived at Palm Tree only a few days before I had, and her patchy English and mysterious personality made it difficult to see where her mind would lead her actions. Word on the playground was she had been taken from the despicable child sex tourism game. Her brown eyes and toothy smile conjured mischief, and I wished terribly that we could speak a common language. But instead we spent many minutes and hours drawing pictures and saying simple English and Khmer phrases to enable some better communication.

She often mentioned her boyfriend or a boy she liked, pointing off to a group of older guys and saying a name I wasn't familiar with. I'd question what she meant and upon hearing her insinuate actions and thoughts above her maturity, I immediately shut them down with friendly disapproval. I wanted her to know, if she was saying those things for acceptance, it wouldn't work for me. Instead, I showed enthusiasm with each new statement she learned in English, and her constant quizzing of Khmer phrases helped my skills immensely. She sang for me with English lyrics she didn't understand, and I wrote them out on a whiteboard, during an impromptu tutoring lesson, so she could realize what she was indeed singing about.

She had a do-good heart hidden in a battered shell, and I found her to be one of my most intriguing friends at the orphanage. It pained me to hear when trouble went down by her doing. With the "physical education" and mature lectures she received in her short lifetime thus far, I can imagine her thoughts of entering a new place filled with men she had to seek approval from. And seek it she did, but in a way neither she nor the young boys she touched were aware and ready for.

The next week, five boys at the orphanage were a bit quieter; one of which was my self-proclaimed "little brother" who used to climb up my torso like a tree to hug and kiss me on the cheek but now shied from my taps on the shoulder. I spent the next days slowing building the boys' trust back in females and solidifying their beliefs that I was there to do no harm or embarrassment to them. It was a slow process, but thankfully, I got the smiles and the hugs once more.

For all the good we do or think we do in the United States, I hope citizens are aware of, thoroughly disgusted by, and prepared to flog any of the Americans that makes up the quarter of the child sex tourism industry around the world (and 40% of Cambodia's red-light market).

And A Bucket I Did Make!

I got going fast. I guess it was all that sleep I got last night...really got my juices flowing today. Sometimes I need a little help remembering the vast expanse of possibility this world holds for us. And to make it a little more interesting/motivating, I'll keep you up to date on the developments and steps toward making those dreams come true (for those who give a rat's arse). Check out my ever-developing Life List...

Lindsay's Life List...thus far

Bucket. Life. Whatever you want to call it.

Lists.

I love lists.

More importantly, I love using paper to pen-scribble in a way that makes me feel productive and successful. I've tried to make a "Bucket List" many times and have a small one I refer to on occasion. However, it is in no way extensive and truly reflective of my life goals. I do very much believe in the first item on the list (1. Hitchhike in the back of a rickety truck with chickens, goats, or other nervous livestock).

Upon reading this article, I decided I may attempt to grapple this task and see if it feels like the right task for me. If I get annoyed with the concept and scrap my developments in anger and frustration, you'll know by the lack of posting on such a topic in the future.

As I begin my soul-tapping exercise, I dare you to make one yourself...or if you cannot commit to such a high level of responsibility, leave a comment documenting one of the possibilities on your non-existent list. If you are having trouble getting started, a few people have published their life goals for your ridicule, admiration, or klepto-tendencies: Mighty Girl, John Goddard, or the Whole Darn Community.

My Friend, Evan Witty

There are a couple reasons why I've chosen to live my life the way that I do. The unpredictable coming of death is a major determining factor that leaves me feeling helpless to the forces of nature. When traveling to distant lands and seeking adventure make us more vulnerable to risk and danger, but statistics claim most accidents and fatal situations happen close to home, I can't help but believe in living like you have no control over your own time; so I've stopped living a comfortable life that lends to such a mentality. By doing so, I hope to improve my quality of life to a measure that cannot be surpassed, one that doesn't stop sopping up beautiful moments while leaving nothing but good things in the wake, making my time of death a welcome occurrence when it arrives as I've deferred nothing for that non-existent future. I say all this because I lost a friend today, someone I knew 12 days in total but held dear nonetheless. And though 12 days is but an infantile blip in the timeline of my existence, this friendship began and proceeded as the best ones do: as a traveler friendship.

Arriving in July to a city, country, and continent he'd never visited, Evan Witty began his time as a long-term volunteer at the Palm Tree Orphanage in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. When I met him in November, he had become a staple figure on the grounds, knew every one of the 100+ children by name (names not easily absorbed by a Western mind), understood their personalities and tendencies, and had grasped an incredible take on Cambodian culture from both an outsider's and an insider's eyes. He revealed a lot to me about a country I was ignorant of and welcomed me along in his own experiences both at Palm Tree and around town.

Though many times as a volunteer we were confused as to our part in the grand scheme of Palm Tree, it was understood that Evan was there to become inexplicably linked to the kids and make wonderful things happen, both tangible and emotional. He had goals for his fundraising efforts and knew his place there. As a result, he was deeply respected and sought after for guidance on a wide range of issues.

I needed him dearly to break the barrier that had formed around me in India. I hadn't been exposed to the familiar in so long and hadn't felt a hug from home since July, but when he told me he was a Midwestern boy, whom had experienced the wonders of Indiana University's Little 500, knew mutual friends, held leadership positions in his greek organization, and loved being away from the comfort of the United States, I felt at ease, finally. And with traveler friendships and the ever-present expiration date, we got to know each other fast and in ways that sidetracked the common small talk of two ships passing. He showed me how to call home for an hour for less than a US Dollar, enabled my experience of the Cambodian nightlife, and acted himself in a way that compounded my sense of purpose and possibility for the things I hope to accomplish in life.

Since Evan was lousy at correspondence, and thankfully made that known to me before I left, we didn't get to speak after I left at 5:00am on the morning of November 13th, 2008. He made sure I woke him up to say goodbye, exchange contacts, and promise to meet again once we were both stateside. And honestly, I was still very much looking forward to that meeting after his summer flight back to Chicago; I thought about it many times, imagining conversations over beers or a baseball game where we discussed the kids and his future plans for probable humanitarian work (since he was meant to care for others).

I made a CD with my videos and pictures of the kids I thought he would appreciate. I wrote him a letter, hoping to help him in whatever task he was working on. Those were only just being delivered this week with the arrival of Terry Kellogg, one of the founders of Cambodia's Hope, and I'm sad I won't get the chance to further any initiatives he started or had dreamed up.

I awoke with a shock when I rolled to my side to look at my phone; one e-mail from Marvel Kellogg stating Evan had passed in his sleep. It's hard to shake that confusion off when a friend never wakes, especially at the ripe age of youth, and I am bitter that this has happened to friends of mine more than once.

There’s a certain awe I feel toward Evan Witty and his now legendary heart and determination to do good for the kids at the Palm Tree orphanage in Cambodia. As a guy with a great deal of education, charisma, and experience, he could have moved into a powerful job path and made monetary success his mission. But he found more appeal in living with 100+ kids in a country he had no ties to. He wanted to move people and make physical and emotional necessities available to anyone. With that desire and an experience such as the one he had at Palm Tree, his life work was destined to be hugely impacting and awe-inspiring, and I'm so sorry we don't get to witness his next steps. But he passed with people who loved him and he loved in return, in his sleep on the beach in Cambodia. As unfair as this whole situation is, that irreversible fact has a peace that adequately reflects the dignity Evan deserves to receive.

I will continue to think of his dreams for the Palm Tree orphanage and stay a part of the children's lives, keeping in mind Evan's work and what he would want to happen for the future. If you knew Evan or were moved by his humanity, please check out his cause on my page documenting Cambodia's Hope. Those kids are deserving of more devout workers like Evan, so if you are looking for a way to impact something wonderful with your time or funds, this would be the place and the cause. And if you do decide to become a volunteer for Palm Tree, I'd love to pass on the tips I remember from Evan that will make your experience complete.

Wow. I Really Liked this Article.

Makes me feel so...legitimate.

Is the long-term traveler really nothing more than an immature child in others’ eyes? Not a curious soul seeking answers but rather an intellectual teenager, ignorant of the future and focusing only on the pleasure of the moment? I hope so, but not for the reasons you may think.

Turner hit it square on. Check out his entire post on Vagabondish.

The Sunglasses Tell All...My STA Introduction

Introduction #2 and more content still to come.

It feels like an honor to be an STA WTI for this summer 2009. Get to know a little more of what I'm about, and I hope you feel very encouraged to follow our journeys and be an active part of the trip!

Beautiful, no? Any questions?

A Roundabout Introduction, Urkel-Style

STA asked me to make an introduction video. This is what my mind conjures up...

As an STA World Traveler Intern for this summer, I think you'll see enough of me over time. But maybe you'll get a better idea of my cheeseball antics if you see where I come from. http://www.nomadderwhere.com This is dedicated to the talented Jaleel White and his beautiful interpretation of the comical nerd.

Do you get me now? Really? You need more than my brother's open-mouthed smile to know my true essence? Well, don't worry. This is just the tip of the creative iceberg.

Scouring my RSS Subscriptions

After over a week of neglecting my personal newspaper (a.k.a. beloved RSS feeds), I weeded through the hundreds of entries awaiting my perusal and found some good anecdotes and ideas to infiltrate your brain. Read on, curious ones.

Nomadic Matt makes an interesting observation. Is it possible to travel too long? I'd rather not say.

I'm so sorry, Italy. Priceless lives and culture, all in one hit.

Frugality...as a way of life? Preposterous!

A lot of ladies have contacted me recently asking about safety troubles as a solo woman abroad, and I always report a lack thereof, besides the obvious budget travel woes. Gennaro of Enduring Wanderlust proves my point with his piece on the increasing number of lady globetrotters.

Answers to the question of why we can't stop moving. Aw gee thanks, Fresh New Life.

I surely could have used this list of factoids while rolling around in my bed in Varanasi with a nasty gastro-fiesta going on in my body. Go Green Travel Green tells us, folks, to rub lemons on a cut, eat honey in the desert, and eat horseradish to fix the damage you did to your liver the night before.

This makes me consider bringing along a red overcoat and wide-brimmed hat. If someone knows a good place to get such accessories, I will wear them. You can quote me on that. And that...and that.

Brave New Traveler, a Matador magazine for the inner workings of a traveler, recently put out an intriguing article on defending cultural norms as an outsider that gets the hamster running up there.

Live Uncomfortably is the documentation of a guy who does the unaccustomed everyday, in order to break the cycle of routine and boredom...all in the name of personal growth and being interesting. I found his 27 Things I've Learned While Traveling worth a look, namely these two...
- 13. There is no wrong or right course in life. It’s all about you. Don’t let anyone tell you the path you’ve taken or are taking is wrong if you’re happy.
- 26. We are all experiencing the same thing but interpreting it differently. Those who can interpret and explain their experience in the simplest language possible will gather a crowd.

One Week Job sounds like it would give potential grads some much needed hope for an interesting future. Sean Aiken graduated from college and didn't know what he wanted to do for a career. So he traveled around North America, working 52 jobs in 52 weeks. I'd say its worth a look-see.

Two dudes hitchhiked to every state in the great US of A in 50 consecutive days. I wonder if chickens were ever involved. Hitch 50

This guy's goal of setting his foot in each nation on the planet in one year is laudable. Give it up for Graham Hughes and his Odyssey! Oh, and by the way, he's not allowed to fly.

And lastly, nuggets for thought taken from the Brave New Traveler article, "Would you be a perpetual traveler or a world citizen?"
- A perpetual traveler is…a person who designs their life so that they’re not the legal resident of any of the countries in which they actually spend most of their time…. Whatever the reason (for becoming a perpetual traveler), it means disowning your allegiance to your home country without giving it up to another. It means becoming a citizen of your own empire.
- While a world citizen is…someone who decides to stop seeing the world as something segmented by nation, and look at it as the home of humanity where we’re all entitled to enjoy, and mandated to be responsible for, the territory of each nation. The world citizen doesn’t see any sense in national citizenship and decides to stop seeing things through the lens of patriotism or from the perspective of the country they grew up in.

The Transition to Useful: Day 187

As often as one would see a road sign or a mailbox on the highway in America, in Cambodia, one sees the reoccurrence of signage displaying political loyalty: Cambodian People's Party, Funcinpec, and oodles others adorning the mouths of people's driveways. Besides these brilliant blue beacons, all the world is green. Families construct roadside eateries and offer a good meal to any motorist en route. On this stretch of road connecting Siem Reap to Phnom Penh, the world looks to be a cross-pollination between tropical farm villages and elegant stretches of undisturbed patty fields. The TV on board the vocal little bus resonated melodious Khmer tunes along with karaoke music videos, which everybody seemed to love. I couldn't bother looking much at the screen with such a wonderland going by. It was a beautiful ride, aside from the sporadic, nonsensical horn usage, but I happily sat back and crunched on over-flavored Pringles and roadside spiral pineapple, enjoying strong tastes for the first time since the wicked gastro-spell.

Upon reaching the capital of Cambodia, I sat waiting in the misty spray of the open-air bus station. For the first time in seemingly ages, I was expecting someone. The relentless taxi drivers attempted to snatch me up for business and take me to a location I had vague and confusing directions to; however, I trusted the warnings of volunteer coordinator, Jennifer, and stayed put until they eventually came to find me.

Evan, Zan, a Palm Tree worker, and a Palm Tree child (both with names I'd rather not butcher by wrongfully spelling here) found me negotiating with a motor bike driver, and I was relieved to see my name printed on a sheet in their hands and hear the American twang in their voices. We rode to the orphanage and exchanged the initial conversation points (I being incredibly excited to be around people who spoke English and they looking forward to a new volunteer to enlighten the dynamic) before finally rolling up to the salmon-colored walls of the oasis.

The immediate hugs upon reaching the Palm Tree Orphanage warmed more than just my arms and legs. That kind of human contact was something my body and mind felt deprived of, without me being consciously aware of it. This establishment is often visited by Americans and Western volunteers, and the kids have learned what to expect from some of these visits. Some bring mad amounts of gifts to be distributed to those they connect with most. Others are there for the long haul to make a real impact in their lives, and vice versa. I came to make some friends, get a feel for the place (Palm Tree and Cambodia), and offer up my skills and services for the greatest amount of good. It was interesting to see how my relationships with the kids evolved after that first meeting.

I don’t believe in traveling the world to kiss babies. And I don’t immediately pity and coddle kids just because they are kids or because they are “less fortunate” than I. When I meet someone, I hold them to the same standards as I do any new acquaintance; if they have a good soul, they are a part of my circle. And even if they hide their character behind real angst, the gut instinct detects the good nature that allows humans to connect beyond language and cultural barriers.

Upon getting to my beautiful shared room with a bed and AC, there was an immediate concern to wash some clothing, seeing as I had absolutely no items ready for wear that wouldn't require a Hazmat crew to unfold. The ladies at the orphanage insisted that I fill a laundry basket and let them do the work. I refuted it a little before realizing it would probably be offensive to do it myself when they offered.

Our first meal in the little pagoda was a chance for Evan and Zan (real name Susannah, but none of the kids could swing that name around regularly) to explain how this place works. Out of the corner of my eye, I checked out the kids as they simultaneously gave me the once over. There was a definite dynamic and strong, preexisting relationships between the orphanage, the kids, and the American vagabonds, and I had to figure out how I would mesh into it without disturbing the "chi".

That night, as the sun set hard over the city, a busload of SASers pulled up to the gates. The fall voyage of Semester at Sea had docked in Saigon, Vietnam that week, and a select few students made the jaunt to Cambodia on a school-sponsored trip to see Angkor and the Palm Tree. My voyage (Spring 2007) was the first to frequent Palm Tree as an experience, which is how I came to find out about this place, and the odd sense of deja vu that swept over me upon seeing the next generation of globetrotters was more like time-travel than anything else. As most of the students came charging into the mob of children blowing kazoos and spraying silly string, one girl approached me as I stood to the side, under an overhang out of the rain, and asked if this was my orphanage. I laughed and told her I got here about four hours before she did. "I'm just getting into the swing here."

"You look so familiar! Have you been on Semester at Sea before?" "Yeah, Spring 2007. It's so weird to see you guys coming through here; I was you over a year ago!" "I SAW YOUR VIDEOS! I knew I wanted to do Semester at Sea a year before we left, and I did intense YouTube research on all the ports. I watched all your videos and remember you had two good friends: a really cute boy and a really tall girl." "Ha, wow, I just traveled with them in June in Europe! That's Alexis and Garrett. This is so odd that you know who the are..."

It's encounters like this, and the experience of actually going around the Earth's circumference ever so slowly, that constantly and continually inspire me to say, "It really is a freaking small world."

Upon day one, my purpose at Palm Tree was tested. The volunteer setup is completely based around what you want and are willing to do by your own initiative. I began by just hanging out with some kids and becoming a part of their dynamic. I sprawled across a table and started coloring something that would get them interested in me, but when my buddy, Sal, tested me in an effort to apprehend the community crayons for himself, I had to take the first-day-babysitter stance and show them I saw past the cute eyes and teardrops. I knew he was aiming to see how far he could go with my naivety to get what he wanted. I stood firm, and he wandered around the grounds crying to everyone that he “really loved crayons.” Later that evening before bed, he emerged from the depths of his dorm to sit by me, timidly before snuggling up to my side. He was my boy for the rest of the stay.

Scars and quiet faces. Burn marks and troubled pasts. One would never know what happened to these kids before they came to Palm Tree unless one of the administrators opened up the filing cabinet. These children don’t exude pity or anguish. They fall down, scrap their knees and get back up to laugh some more. They crawl up your leg as if you were a tree in order to give you the biggest hug and kiss they can muster. They play in the monsoon rains with their bikes, metal lids, and each other, and even though their diets don't consist of protein shakes or much calorie-packed sustenance, the energy levels never die from 5am when they rise to 9pm when their final giggles disappear in the air of Phnom Penh.

My arrival coincided with a major switch in the academic regimen, one that made me do an Austin Powers ankle-flicking jump when I realized the massive teaching manual I lugged around the world would come to good use. Cambodian children attend half-day government school, where they wear uniforms and speak in their local language of Khmer. The lucky kids at Palm Tree are also provided supplemental education for the other half of the day, where they attend classes on the grounds with teachers employed by the foundation.

These classes, once conducted in Khmer, were now being changed to an American school system and taught in English. Middle/high school textbooks printed in Kansas and the Great Plains were photocopied and dispersed to the children, the younger ones receiving the earlier chapters with the older students only getting the latter chapters of the book, without the introductions to vocabulary they didn't know. The teachers also understandably had a rough transition ahead of them, now challenged to teach subjects like math and history in a language they may or may not be fluent in. Evan, Zan, and I spent our days trying to offer as much support as we could possible give.

On the first day of the new system, Evan and I walked into a classroom filled with kids and lacking a teacher for that session. Seeing that their schedule said “Chemistry” and the textbooks went far above their heads, we created a dynamic lesson off the cuff by pouring water on the floor, knocking everything solid in the room, and squeezing ice cubes until they melted on their hands. While I tried to draw a propane tank on the whiteboard, Evan ran out to buy supplies on the street: powder for orange drink, a chunk of ice, a balloon, water bottles, and other teaching essentials.

By the end of the class, the kids learned that chemistry was about liquids, solids, and gases, and Evan and I were pooped, yet invigorated by the idea that we taught kids about science in a language they didn’t know. Those little successes every day, every hour made me feel so alive and needed in this world. I attended every class I could, eight a day, until the kids went on vacation.

A Cartoon Tiger, a Phone Call, and a New Bambina

The Long and Short of STA's Announcement for my 2009 WTI spot.

My mom got me hyped up on Tuesday, explaining how STA would probably contact the ten and/or the interns the day before the big announcement. Tuesday quickly went from a low-stress, jam-packed day of watching little ones run around to one of terror and excitement for my future. With a heart truly set on this opportunity, I had to made evacuation plans for my sanity, in case I did not receive the golden ticket. I believed my heartache would need intense therapy and an immediate distraction. Two children leaned on my arms and lap while I tried to shade a cartoon tiger and explain the effects of 2 and 3 dimensions in drawing. It went completely over their heads, but I like to pretend I can impart knowledge and appear intelligent to those decades younger than I.

The phone rang, and I nearly soiled myself. I felt sick, the sensation of vomiting pending on the yay or the nay that awaited me after pressing the green phone symbol on my big, bad mobile. I thank the sweet spirits of debilitating anticipation that Kristen didn't make small talk before announcing I was one of the interns. Glee.

My knees nearly buckled, and I had the strong desire to lie down on the floor (a regular Clark pastime and relaxation technique). The kids stared at me in confusion, and I was reminded of a Schoolhouse Rock song upon seeing "the whites of their eyes". Not much verbal communication happened after that from my end as I was experiencing a plethora of tingles and jingles and a flashback to my middle school stuttering days.

Now, when I got my first big part in a play, my parents heard the message on the phone machine before I got home from school. Upon getting my acceptance letter to high school, the parental units gave me the knife to open the envelope. Mama called with the results of my college acceptance while I was away on a school trip with Papa Bear. Never have I had the opportunity to utterly shock my parents with incredible news...until now.

Telling the Family

I got in the car after work, screamed in sporadic staccato, and drove home to sit on my big secret before I concocted a plan. That night I had a very important dinner with the family, one that will be a fond memory forever with the announcement that my brother and his beloved lady were having a girl. My parents insisted I drive us to the restaurant, a bad idea considering I was completely distracted, but I managed to get in only a few near accidents without bursting the thought bubble hovering over my head.

Pulling him aside from the bar at the restaurant, I told my brother in order to explain that I didn't want to stomp on the thunder of his big night. He and Allison, the oven of the bun, then went to the dinner table to unzip their jackets and reveal shirts reading

It's a Girl!

Kicks to my shins implied I needed to announce my big thing, so I placed my phone in front of Mom as she told a story to the table. The phone displayed a message from the "team" wishing congratulations, but she got too carried away in her own recountance to notice my hint for many minutes. Ian laughed at me from across the table, as I had to continue refreshing the backlight, but an eventual eye wandering down to the table caught a glimpse of "Congratulations", and she stopped mid-sentence to scream, hug, and shed a lone tear.

I'm an aunt and a very lucky lady. Thank you for the opportunity to work my bootay off for all of you.

Day-by-Day Itinerary of my World Traveler Internship

I have a fun time visualizing my future expeditions by checking out the intensely filtered, unique perspectives found on Flickr (click on the photo for the credit), so enjoy this interpretation of the dream locations on the itinerary.

Dallas

Day One we fly into Dallas/Ft. Worth Airport and meet for the very first time. The marketing team will pick us up and escort us to the Hotel Palomar for a swanky couple evening's stays. Afterwards, a little downtown time is in the mix!

Day Two will be jam-packed with Head Office shenanigans. Company meetings. Equipment, itinerary, and assignment overviews. A memorable lunch out at Olive Garden, and dinner and drinks with the team once more. Man-o-man, what a day.

Day Three brings us back to STA Head Office to make some hilarious films, join the marketing meeting, and eat lunch with the big wigs at Senior Management. After all those great times, we head off to the airport to time travel across the International Date Line towards our first destination: FIJI!

Fiji

Day One in Nadi (pronounced Nan-di) where we meet the group and leader then board a local bus for the rural Fijian village where we'll volunteer, all while using our free time to explore the countryside, which includes lush gardens and peaceful Hindu temples. Or, we may head to the markets to snap up a bargain and sample some Fijian fare. I'll have a Fiji water, please? Ha...right.

Days Two through Thirteen are all about Teaching and Building, two delightful pastimes abroad. We'll also play games withÂ kids, share meals and jokes with the project team and attempt to become valued members of the community. Learning about the Fijian culture and discovering the area, by getting out beyond the village, will surely be an unmatchable experience.

Day Fourteen takes us back to Nadi to board a plane for the next stop, the Australian Outback!

Australia

Day One and Two we land in Sydney and marvel at the coolness of the city. The next morning we're out to Alice Springs to get settled before the Connections tour.

Day Three takes us from Alice Spring south to Yulara, where we'll spend the afternoon exploring Uluru, a.k.a. Ayers Rock. We'll be sure to check out ancient caves touched with Aboriginal paintings and learn about the oldest culture in the world (wah wah woo wah!). A birdy says the sunsets at Uluru are amazing, so the cameras will be clickin'!

Day Four we move from Yulara to Kings Creek for equally breathtaking sunrise views of Kata-Tjuta (The Olgas) mountain range! I guess we get to next discover the 36 domes and learn about the unique plants and animals here. Then, off we head through red sand dune & desert oak country to Kings Creek Cattle Station!

Day Five we return to Alice Springs because this working cattle/camel station is the largest exporter of wild camels in Australia...hmm, what an interesting topic for a video. I'll try not to piddle from excitement as we prepare to hike the canyon rim to see sites like the Lost City, Garden of Eden, and North and South Walls.

India

Day One is a day for Delhi, when we will arrive in our hotel and get all situated and such.

Day Two we tour the city! Exploring Old Delhi will be all about visiting the stunning and historical Jama Mosque, the ornamental Red Fort and the Raj Ghat (a moving memorial to Mahatma Ghandi). Also there are plans to visit the new landmarks, stopping at India Gate, the Government buildings, and Qutub Minar victory tower. Who knows what else will go down on the town.

Days Three and Four take us a-wandering to Jaipur, the legendary "Pink City", which is blessed with a wealth of wonders. Here we'll see the pink, delicately honeycombed sandstone windows of the Palace of the Winds, the Observatory and the Maharaja's City Palace. A huge perk is also seeing the Amber Fort, out of which a visitor half expects seeing Indiana Jones swing.

Day Five we find ourselves in the middle of India, in rural Abhaneri, to see a step well and to enjoy some lower-key life.

Day Six is Fatephur Sikri, a magnificent 16th century Mughal city known for Jama Masjid. Then, we get comfy in Agra for the next glorious day.

Day Seven we pay homage to the Mughal forces of genius by visiting Agra and the awe-inspiring Taj Mahal - one of the man-made wonders of the world! There will also be time for a visit to Agra Fort, which is supposedly a site often overlooked but not to be missed.

Days Eight and Nine we will squeeze the last bits of joy out of Delhi-time and prepare for the heat and hilarity of DUBAI!

Dubai

Days One through Four and we're chillin' out in Dubai, relaxing and enjoying ourselves and some well-earned free time before heading to the bush!

East Africa

Day One and Two on the African continent will be spent getting settled in the bustling center of Nairobi, Kenya.

Day Three sends us off to Arusha to rest and relax before the "bush".

Day Four sends into the bush where we visit Lake Manyara, a fairly wooded game park with a soda lake in the middle. Tree-climbing lions are said to be found here!

Days Five through Seven we fly off to the middle of nowhere, via the archeological site of Olduvai Gorge, "The Cradle of Mankind," to visit the world famous Serengeti National Park, one of Africa's premier game parks. We'll surely enjoy the multitude of animal and bird life while cruising through the acacia-spotted savannah, keeping a look out for the "Big 5" once again and taking in the vastness of the Serengeti plains. This adventure will be accompanied by Elton John and his beautiful soundtrack additions to The Lion King.

Day Eight and Nine we journey to Ngorongoro Conservation Area and will truly experience the thrills of the crater floor as we take in our final safari experience viewing the high concentration of wildlife. This place is an animal utopia and a location out of a dream. After lunch, we break camp and continue to a hotel in Arusha, a vibrant and colorful town with bustling markets.

Day Ten Chris and Lindsay do Arusha. Asante-sana East Africa, and we are out! Next stop: South Africa!

South Africa

Days One through Six we start in Cape Town doing all of the above: Long Street, Volunteering in townships, Hiking Table Mountain, and visiting Stellenbosch wine country.

Day Seven we dive with sharks...and then recover from the trauma in Hermanus.

Days Eight through Ten are all about adventure sports: bungy jumping and sky diving. Plettenberg Bay is home to many a crazy adrenaline junkies and some incredible beach.

Day Eleven marks the end of our garden route trip in Port Elizabeth.

Greek Islands

Days One through Three are all about getting settled in Athens and enjoying the great shopping, sun, and glorious AC as we create videos from trips gone by.

Days Four and Five bring us to Paros with our group. We're tanning, swimming, beaching, reading, shopping, drinking, eating. You name it.

Days Six and Seven scare me. They mean I have to stay up all night partying, surrounded by expensive libations and pretty people. Alrighty, I'll give it a whirl.

Days Eight and Nine we bake by the pool and adore the sunsets of Santorini. Walking on volcanoes and riding donkey may or may not be on the agenda...more may than may not.

Scotland

Days One and Two will be all about getting settled in Edinburgh, Scotland. I love these low key days. They are sure to be godsends. Edinburgh is the capital of Scotland and has a lot to see and experience. Maybe we can walk the Royal Mile, picking up souvenirs from any of the great shops along the way. Oh, and I’m sure we’ll check out the castle and drink a pint or two!

Days Three through Five couldn’t be cooler with a visit to the Scottish Highlands for an adventure that’s sure to resemble a Bear Grylls episode! Eh, probably not. But we will see castles, mountains, lochs (lakes), and experience Scottish food and drink, like Haggis and whiskey. I plan on throwing Chris into Loch Ness and bait the legendary creature. He eats Cali meat, I’m sure.

Ireland

Days One and Two of the last destination will be bittersweet, nostalgic, and Guinness-soaked as we live up Dublin, Ireland. Oh, sure, we’ll enjoy Dublin Castle and all the other good sites, too.

Days Three through Seven we will be immersed in a raucous adventure around the south and west coasts of this beautiful country. I’ll probably be tempted to cry the whole time, thoroughly emotional due to the end of the WTI experience, but man will we have a lot to look back and dream about forever. Yes this trip is sure to bring enlightenment and a sense of lifetime fulfillment. I'm on board.

Stop. Collaborate and Listen.

I now interrupt this Big Journey travelogue to talk about my STA final video and upcoming web development. But fret not, because I will pick up with my travels in Cambodia, Thailand, Japan, and Hawaii upon the completion of this madness called the "final round".

The Indy Video

For those of you coming from other worldwide destinations, Indianapolis seems like a barely noticeable bump on the map. For those of us coming from towns of 13,000, it's a Mecca of development. We inhabitants often make fun of Indianapolis and its available opportunities, holding it up to the same light as NYC to point and laugh, but we also get very testy when people come down on this city that actually has a lot that keeps us completely content.

Given the objective to highlight a local spot in town and convince STA travelers to hit it up, I decided it was going to take more than a good eatery to make budget travelers flock to the Circle City. I took my cameras and traversed the entirety of the capital to find Indy's best, knowing fully well that I had in my back pocket my favorite spots and events that would cause any outsider to come a-running. And documenting just one of the three gems wouldn't be effective in letting people know how multi-faceted this place truly is. Crossroads, indeed.

Joe is my favorite cook in town. The day I asked for my staple B&B (black beans and caramelized, only to hear it was no longer available, was the day I lost hope in the culinary efforts of mankind. Luckily that dark period didn't last long, and my favorite is back on the blackboard menu.

My friends and I have envied the boys who work here for years, wishing we could get the chance to spoon out this fresh grub to the eclectic, young crowd of Broad Ripple and beyond. Unfortunately, those who grasp the opportunity to work with Joe never let it go, so turnover in this restaurant's roster doesn't often occur.

Cajun creole, freshly made each day, doesn't seem like a uniquely Indianapolis type of fare, but Indianapolis doesn't really have a food style. We are a blend of every nationality on this spinning ball, and every once in a while a local joint pops up that showcases the dedicated, sophisticated, and multi-cultural taste reflecting that fact.

The frequent diners at this establishment are truly appreciated by the staff and get the kind of special treatment neighbors give neighbors (not to be too down home and cliche). Everyone at this place calls me "Winnie", from the Wonder Years TV show, and they all say it as though they were the first to come up with this revelation every time. I guess it's flattering; she was the idolized girl-next-door. But man did she have some bad bangs!

Yat's. Put this on your "Must Consume" list.

The Slippery Noodle Inn

The superlatives: The oldest Bar in Indianapolis. One of the Best Blues bars in the Country.

What's this place actually like? Sit outside on the patio and enjoy the tasty bar food and drink while enjoying a part of downtown that feels more like a small town street corner. Sit inside and watch biker dudes smoke their Lucky Strikes, laugh about their daily trials, and smile at you when they realize you're filming them for a video segment. Feel the warm embrace of their toothy grins and further suggestions of awesome bars in Indianapolis. Harley guys are sweethearts.

John Dillinger was the typical 1930s bank robber/gangster, a notorious man who claimed Indianapolis as his hometown. He and his automatic-wielding posse used the west wall of this building for target practice; the slugs are still visible in the bricks today. During Prohibition, whiskey and beer were produced in the basement. The offices of today, on the bar's top floor, used to be the whorehouse for the patrons. Oh, such interesting and classy history.

Wandering the maze of hallways and hideaways on the bottom floor is an eerie experience when coupled with the thoughts of former slaves hiding where liquor bottles now stack. The Slippery Noodle, which shares parking lots with Union Station, was a part of the Underground Railroad. Gravel crunched under my feet as my waitress graciously showed me around, pointing out the original wooden doors that hid the worrying eyes from happenings during the Civil War.

Now, I love a good, frosty beer, but this whole package makes driving the half hour into downtown seem completely worthwhile.

Indianapolis Motor Speedway

May is big in Indianapolis. Crazy people are out running around downtown in the nation's largest mini marathon. Others prefer to take on the hectic parking scene and the sometimes aggravating task of opening lawn chairs in order to be among the 300,000 spectators of a parade only trumped in grandeur by the Macy's Turkey Day and Rose Bull parades.

My kicks come from joining a group of friends and becoming one with a half million koozie-grasping, checkerboard-wearing sports fans on race day. The Indy 500 is the world's largest single-day sporting event (the single-day inclusion is to sidestep the shadow cast by the Olympics). If you've got a seat on Turn 1, never let it go. You may even find yourself in the background of an MTV Japan newscast or sitting next to the resident big shots in Indy.

People like me, though, are all about the infield. Be prepared with your sunscreen, cut-off jean shorts (a.k.a. "jorts"), and a cooler on wheels. The more checkerboard paraphernalia you have dripping from your sweaty frame, the better. ESPN2 has it all wrong; it's not about the cars going around in a circle, it's the cultural immersion into a fun-loving crowd of race fans on Indiana's biggest day of the year.

The New Website

In the coming weeks, I will be dropping my beloved blogspot for something more substantial. Nomadderwhere will wander on and find a new home elsewhere. The new site will include videos, blogs, photography, links, and maybe even additional information if the need calls for it. I tell you this because I like people who read. I like people who read my posts down to the bottom (you!). I like people who believe the world is bigger than the US of A...and like to read about that.

Angkor Thoughts Anchor Awe: Day 180

My hair fluttered in the wind on the back of the hired tuk-tuk. Driving twelve kilometers into the Angkor jungles, the amazing Cambodian air was cool and luscious, yet upon stopping it instantly created a "stick" factor that made me look freshly emerged from a pool. I even wore my Bayern Munchen soccer jersey in order to avoid the unfriendly cling and sag of wet cotton. I loved it. My driver friend and I were on a quest to see massive, ancient temples and wander the jungles littered with hidden landmines. I didn’t care how terrible my entry photo looked on my ticket stub or that I had a "moistache". The earth was red, the leaves were electric, and stone towers were on the horizon. Every explorer wishes to discover amazing locations themselves without the help of a guide book or treading an already "beaten path." But the reality is that we often travel because we've heard things from previous travelers and want to see for ourselves the wonder they witnessed upon discovery. The real trick is trying to blind yourself to the ambiance created by word of mouth and imagine that first moment of awe that shakes the timeless traveler to the core.

There are many UNESCO World Heritage sites and major city landmarks that receive a lot of hype, yet never surpass their reputation, in my eyes, when experienced in person. I was let down by such structures as the Eiffel Tower, the London Bridge, the main tourist drag of the Great Wall (until I illegally branched off and went along the crumbles), the "romantic" canals and piazzas of Venice, the Forbidden City, and more.

But not the Angkor temples.

Virtuosity. The human capacity for perfection. We as people are obsessed with seeing, feeling, hearing and tasting the best accomplishments of mankind. It's one of the main pulls on us to look elsewhere from our home bases to find something better or different than what we know. Child prodigies in music, gorgeous cathedrals in Italy, or practiced chefs that write the book on their specialty, we know how to measure the rest in a genre if we know what to compare it with. And when one dips their senses into an ambiance orchestrated by many virtuosos simultaneously, enlightenment is almost within reach.

"Fly on little wing." Jimi sang my favorite melody through the buds in my ears, as I placed my bottom atop a mound of elephant-lain stones. Pulling out my journal, I jotted the things that elevated my spirits to the status of "inspired."

Some time in the early 1000s, the people in this part of the world wrangled wild elephants into hauling massive chunks of the Earth's crust together and chiseled their mark with great cultural and artistic pride, displaying a skill level hardly matched one thousand years later. The expanse is vast; the design incredible. Even the bite of the slow "cattle herd" atmosphere isn't strong enough to deter from Angkor Wat's isolated magnitude.

I was in the presence of greatness, evident by sight and the tactile touch of its elephant skin-like surface. The dampening rain or the dew-filled air revealed colors reminiscent of a riverbed cross-section: murky olive greens, smears of light rust, cold tint-less gray, thin browns and streaked tan. The stones were earth-toned rainbows, and between the stone corridors and colonnades wove the solemn monks, decorating the steaming enterprise like half-melted popsicles.

Like mountains, these elaborate religious complexes take what mankind and Mother Nature dish out, and they come out more resilient on the other end. I saw the main temple of Angkor Wat as having a face, one so wrinkled, jaded and too old to even roll its eyes at the shutter-happy, grouping tourists in matching hats.

And when all the tourists got in close to squint and contemplate a bundle of Angkor-inspired questions, I thought to myself, "Are we all trying to look like we discern what we see?" Have we all read the history and the books on ancient architecture? Have we all decided to pretend like we look amused, even though the humidity is directing us to take the obligatory shots and evacuate ASAP? There's a reason we all trek out into the personally unknown to see for ourselves the things of this physical world.

Why do I do it? Understanding others and the path of humanity helps me understand myself and the next inch of my path. Some times I'm barely aware of where I am, but one look sends my internal thoughts a-spinning.

Those who were able to delight in the wonders of Cambodia while on Semester at Sea all brought home a t-shirt from the roads of Angkor that I envied. I left my earbuds in, sunk my hands in my pockets, and moseyed the stretch of vendors outside Angkor Wat to peruse their goods in search of such a find. One woman sitting in a lone chair called out to me saying she liked my style, maybe not so much my clothing choices but my nature as I strolled the local "strip mall," and we began chatting. I told her friend I wanted to buy some t-shirts in bulk for a good price and proceeded to get 8 shirts for roughly $10, while showing off our grins to each other and enjoying the game of the haggle. I had a little posse of women in my periphery all there to giggle at something or offer their own brand of souvenir. I took one up on a sweaty bottle of water and walked away content with all my purchases.

The relentless saleschildren tried to coax me into other painting stands, but only one man summoned real appreciation and praise. I found a guy that not only took his art seriously but was selling the work of his master, both artists finally breaking the molds of the mass-produced Angkor artwork. With all the cash I had left, I invested in the master and had the piece quickly rolled for transport to avoid the heavy showers that soon lacquered my hair to my face.

Angkor Wat, Angkor Thom, and a jungle filled with rock piles; I wandered like I was a very damp Lara Croft in the very structures that inspired the movie's plotline and destination. I stepped from stone to stone to the grand pathway in front of a monkey temple and time traveled to the moments when the buildings' grandeur was at their pinnacle.

While my toes baked in my cracking flip-flops, I was mesmerized by the ringing I couldn't place. Looking around for a row of monks with little clinking bells, I thought I was a little bit crazy for hearing things so foreign in the middle of nature. After asking my driver, busy chowing at his favorite open air restaurant, what they were, he enlightened me by spelling out the word he had trouble pronouncing, "C-I-C-A-D-A-S."

I joined my driver for lunch of Khmer soup at the restaurant/trivia zone for the wandering saleskids. "What is the capital of Madagascar? Do you know the population of your own country? If I know, then you buy something from me!" Many of us were made fools of based on the knowledge we lacked in our own world geography and by children who were skipping school in order to profit from these impromptu quizzes. I sat in the back, very torn by how I felt about these kids and their daily routine, hoping this wasn't evidence of their necessity-imposed priorities but that they just didn't have school in the afternoons.

When my stomach churned, letting me know it would soon be quite aggravated, I climbed on top of a pile that marked the site of a dilapidated temple and sat for one last experience before I bid the jungle farewell. It was atop this mound that I finally could form the descriptions I was feeling of a place so enlightened. I began to sing under my breath the song I paired with this leg of the journey in a video: Lauryn Hill's "Miseducation". The cicadas provided the starting note fittingly in the key of "C".

The driver and I burned diesel as we flew out of the jungle. He offered me the name of his brother in Phnom Penh if I ever needed a ride anywhere, and I thanked him for the comfort he provided every time I turned to the parked taxis in search of my kind chauffeur and saw his easy smile.

That was all I wanted to see. That's the only other thing I wanted to do in this country besides hang out with some kids. I booked a bus for the next morning, recovered in my room and took to an empty Thai restaurant for some grade A service and tasty fare. The boys served every glass or dish with an outstretched right hand and a gesture of respect with the left, presenting me with two extra treats I didn't even order in the name of hospitality. When a personal fan materialized to waft a calming breeze in my direction, my mind solidified, "Siem Reap is stellar, clean and homey, from the initial breath to the ride out of town."

Soulja Boy in Cambodi'ya: Day 180

I sat watching a Champions League soccer game on the restaurant's TV, dangling my flip flop from a shaking foot and hoping a Cambodian beer was in my immediate future. No one waited on me, and I look around to see that every frat boy backpacker had been served and content for seemingly hours. After waiting about five minutes, the slate of my mind was wiped clean, and I stood up rather robot-like and walked towards the street, much like Forrest Gump before his cross-country running spree. I said to myself, "I sure hope this city is safe."

I walked with a notebook in hand, clasping it nonchalantly, yet tight enough to keep my dollar bills and Cambodian riel lodged within the pages. Taking a left, I passed by some roadside eateries still blazing their lamps for business. I held my pant legs above my ankles to avoid the slowly disappearing rain rivers that earlier washed a layer of sand across the pavement. I couldn't get over the purity of the air. I felt comfortable, instantly at home.

Walking by many restaurants and bars, I found an illuminated chalk sign that said: Happy Hour 5pm - 10pm. My kind of business. I barely looked both ways to cross the street and landed in the doorway of my new favorite establishment. I quickly ordered a pint of Angkor for less than a dollar, and the ecstatic young barkeep ran across the street to fetch the brew. I guess this bar wasn't stocked with the local beer of choice. Odd.

When I first walked in, the young man at the counter smiled without hesitation and showed me to the closest chair to the street for public viewing. He muted the Arsenal game and turned on his mix CD of popular American hip-hop. Soulja Boy's unmistakable "YOUUUUU" resonated throughout the bar. One look at his face, and you knew he was deejaying to impress. I felt incredibly compelled to stand up and teach him the dance, a bit of a cultural exchange, if you will; however, something compelled me to stay seated and continue to laugh to myself, writing down the things I was experiencing while sipping on the frosty mug.

The restaurant across the street closed up, and workers flocked to the sounds of Usher and Lil Wayne coming from our watering hole. A young woman sat alone on a barstool, sipping her drink with a smile plastered on her face. Being in Cambodia as a newbie, I immediately believed she was there to get free drinks, make a new friend, and cash out in the morning after making a load from a local or foreign businessman. Chances are she was a neighborhood teenager in need of a wet whistle, and I'll stick with that interpretation until I reach cold cut proof of the other.

I bade my new friends adieu and returned to my $10 a night luxury suite for some light-hearted merriment. Cambodian TV is an insomniac's paradise. Never have I laughed so hard at the tube than when I delighted in the fashion, karaoke, and Thai soap opera channels at the Green Lantern Guesthouse. There is great fascination in those parts with watching uneventful music videos about a boy and a girl longing for each other and singing along to it, karaoke-style. It's entertainment for the worldwide masses. I burst into laughter (audible from two rooms away, at least) at the melodrama of the soap operas I couldn't even understand. And fashion TV transported me from my guesthouse in Cambodia to a sorority common room or a Californian cocktail bar.

Lying there on my stomach with a pillow propping my gaze and a remote poised, the experience seemed a somewhat lazy, albeit fulfilling, approach to the act of cultural osmosis. The programs' hilarity and fuzzy reception were constant reminders that values, geography, technology, tastes, and desires can and do space worlds apart, meanwhile giving travelers a reason to keep going. What is mainstream at home is a delightful import elsewhere, and those treasured pastimes of distant lands are our special windows to other worlds with a dash of foreign charm.

Anyone coming to the United States looking for culture will either be smacked by it or have to whip out a magnifying glass to find it, but as a techno-centric society, all a traveler would have to do to see our values and humor would be to turn on the TV. Does that mean my experience in a different country could be enlightened by observing their local tube offerings? And at a time when so much is accessible from a simple hotel room or a satellite receiver, the question of why one should go and spend and weather and endure on location never ceases to probe.

As evident by my ramble, it can be very hard to describe even the most subtle realities of traveling abroad to those who are back in the solid mindset of home and the familiar. The nomad's world is an academic one, and with every hour comes a challenge to the things already known or believed. There is no rest for the mind and its running list of values, which is why one becomes wiser and fulfilled but less happy and wearier while wandering without fail for months on end.

I fell asleep to the sounds of a downpour outside my open window. The world was being flushed clean. Cambodia was a clean pipe when I awoke the next morning.

Luxu-Reverse Culture Shock: Also Day 179

Individual TVs with touch screen features, jam-packed with the latest Hollywood hits. A Thai meal paired with real silverware, a cloth napkin matching the pattern of the place mat, and true customer satisfaction. I just described the experience of flying with an Indian airline. Surprised? My eyes were slathered with awe once I left the Kolkata airport, having not seen high quality anything since coffee hour in Qatar. I flew Jet Airways. My standards for air travel are now exponentially higher. I wandered the new Bangkok airport. I now know the super-human extent of modern architecture. I walked onto the tarmac at the Siem Reap airport in Cambodia. I could smell rain and the pure air of a tropical haven. I finally remembered what air could smell like. I was officially out of India.

Rain. Rain! Warm rain that recalls the vast memories of beach vacations on Caribbean islands. I looked for the ocean, knowing we were hundreds of miles from one. It was astonishing, the amount of water the air could hold, and all of it was fresh and without evidence of trash or dung-fueled bonfires. Though I've never used an oxygen tank, I imagine the sensation is something like what I felt in my lungs as I descended the stairs of the plane: wet velvet coating the tubes and filling all alveoli with down feathers, without the supposed suffocation side-effects.

I smiled as my shoestrings licked the tropical rain puddles. The sounds of the engine were muted by the winds. My country count ticker clicked: 39.

Life returned to being slow and understandable. It was without any trouble at all that I found a taxi driver whom would not only charge a reasonable cost but didn't exude a shady air, openly chatted about Khmer culture, and drove me around town in search of a suitable guesthouse within my limited budget.

Five star hotels rocketed out of the earth on all sides, and my eyes flickered with the light of a dreamer. This place was nice. This place was clean! I would have gladly walked barefoot or had dinner on the curb of the main thoroughfare. Rith, my new friend, laughed and continued to navigate the flooded streets without a blink, follow the rules of the road, and go the speed limit. Heck, there were speed limits again!

Rith (which is pronounced in no way like it appears) took care to inquire at each guesthouse for vacancies and keep looking when the inn turned me away. Once an open room revealed itself, he remained on the ground level to make sure I was satisfied then gave me his card for future service and parted into the night. The glistening teeth of his smile as he left reminded me; the unprovoked smiles from Africa were back. The Midwestern girl in my nomadic shell rejoiced.

There was a moment before I left my room in Darjeeling, when my bag was packed and strapped to my resting frame, that I took a deep breath and realized the transit days ahead of me. I knew I wouldn't be comfortable until my room in Siem Reap materialized and my proximity offered chances for Angkor temple explorations. Flopping my bag onto the floor and landing on one of my two queen sized beds covered in comfortable bedding, that moment reoccurred to me. A deep sigh left my unburdened being, signifying the other bookend to the journey between. I was finally put.