Big in Japan

Japan is probably the hardest country to write about. It’s difficult to revisit without past impressions leaking into the present, impossible to separate it out. I have to articulate how things have changed rather than how things are. And Japan, it being “my country,” is especially difficult. I’ve been here a handful of times. My father is from here. My parents lived here for a very short span in my own lifetime. Of one member of a trio on the ship, it’s easy to point me out as the one who looks different, Asian. It’s easy to mistakenly associate me with Japan, especially for an outsider.

But Japan still holds so much novelty for me; I don’t understand the language, the culture and all of its invisible intricacies, the roads, the routes, though I manage to put on an impressive show for those completely foreign to it. And though my friends, American as they are, sense a tinge of orient sun in my skin, I naturally feel more white than Asian, and the Japanese would agree with my judgment. Long story short, Japan is a strange place for me to be, like the abducting beams from competing alien spacecrafts are both working to spirit me away, all the while dangling sweet fruits and confectioneries from the top of each portal so that I feel equally enticed to enter both. Or something like that.

As another introduction to this segment, and an additional representation of my “identity crisis,” I will relate to you a story, a true story, of something that happened to me on the ship to precede our arrival in Japan.

This story concerns the dean of Semester at Sea, named Leonard Schoppa, and his wife-accomplice whose name has escaped me for the better. Dining with them, seated around a round table, are a few spectators. Then there is me, standing where a waitress would stand were she serving them. Relevant back-story: In preparation for arrival in each country, Semester at Sea calls the students together in the main lecture hall for an hour-or-so long briefing on foreign customs and attractions and currency-exchange and so-on. A student or two from the ship joins two students from the next destination to relate their own experiences and provide advice, etc., and Leonard Schoppa, a curly-headed brunette whose body matches the thickness, length and width of a pillar, was the man in charge of rallying students for this service. And being the charitable person that I am, I approach this Japanophile Leonard Schoppa to inquire about being involved in the “pre-port,” as they’re called, for Japan. The following is the conversation that ensued:

CHARITABLE STUDENT: I’m sorry to bother you, but I was hoping you could tell me how I could get involved with the cultural pre-port for Japan.

LEONARD: (Points one finger into the air and lifts another up to his mouth to show it is too full for speech. Eyes cross as he chokes down lumps of potatoes.) You know about Japan?

STUDENT: Well, my dad is from there, and I’d say I’ve spent a good amount of time there, too.

LEONARD: (Smiles a smile that will persist throughout the dialogue.) Great, great.

STUDENT: So I was wondering if there are any topics you’d like to have covered, or if the speakers can just talk openly about whatever they find interesting?

(Student leans on nearby railing as Leonard turns away for a

time to share his smile with his meal-mates. Leonard props an

elbow on the railing and twists his torso to face the student.)

LEONARD: Well, (Ahem), Judging from your appearance, I’m guessing you’d like to talk about anime?

STUDENT: (Baffled.) Well, actually, I would say I lack even the slightest—

WIFE-ACCOMPLICE: (Delighted.) You look just like Sailor Moon!

STUDENT: Uh—

LEONARD: Does she ever!

(Student scans the faces of the Schoppas’ company and finds them

all wearing the painted smiles of a circus ring. Student grips

railing, tests her arm for the strength needed to pry it from

the ground for a weapon. Not enough. Student kindly retreats,

resolving to never associate with Japano-phillic administrator again.)

It’s true that Leonard Schoppa is not the first to relate my appearance to that of the Japanese cartoon variety, what with the very un-Japanese wide eyes and modest mouth at rest, the crescent-moon squint and mouth that stretches across the whole face when smiling, but I expect more from an academic dean of an international voyage, much less a man who lived out his boyhood in Japan. Does not his breadth of knowledge extend beyond anime? And to so openly pass such judgments—it’s just tactless. So this is the position from which I am entering Japan, a country I fit into only by caricature.

Now that I’ve set the climate for this entry, I’ll get to the good stuff. Of course, it is exciting to re-visit a place after being thrown into the vast, exotic jungles of other countries; now I can show people around, explain transportation, see my parents who are currently living in Tokyo. Japan is still my favorite place, in a sense, and there are plenty of good things to say.

As a more modern country of those we visited, the entry process in Kobe is much more involved and takes about three hours for everyone to disembark. Luckily, those on organized field trips (including myself) are let off first, so I am stuck between the gates for only half an hour or so. I track down my group (consisting of friends Kelsey and Jen, and fifteen-or-so others), led by my professor of two classes, Paul Groner, and after chasing down my mother via payphone to organize our meeting in Kyoto, we’re off.

Exiting the building, the sounds and colors surprise me. Leaving a place, (as I left Japan last December), I expect everything to be covered by a big dark cloud that preserves the dignity of the area until I can return with the power to roll back the shroud and see it again, with less color. But nothing is dulled at all, everything is bright and new, but familiar. It is a wonderful feeling, overwhelming, and I revel in the excitement until we arrive at the train station and everyone starts bombarding me with pleads for help. The ticket machines are covered with weird writing!

I enjoy making myself useful then, to share my secret-society-of-Japan knowledge and impress people as I help them along. As expected, though, everyone makes monkey bars out of the handles lining the train. And I, wanting desperately to swing, remain loyal to the secret society and its rules by staying seated. Some passengers stare at them, horrified by their poor manners, others direct their eyes forward to avoid confrontation, and the last few sleep, heads slowly bobbing with the bumps in the track.

Travel from the port to our destination (Toji Temple) in Kyoto is a bit more complicated than I had expected, requiring three transfers between monorails, bullet trains, subways and trains.

Snafus are many in the Kobe station as we all stop by a sushi stand to order lunch, everyone both unfamiliar with the choices and unable to read the menu. I make recom-mendations, as does Paul Groner (who spent a decade studying/researching Buddhism in Japan), and eventually, the food is nicely laid in bamboo boxes and wrapped in plastic bags. The next halt comes at the bullet train ticket counter as everyone struggles with one rehearsed phrase: Kyoto ni kippu hitotsu onegaishimasu. (One ticket to Kyoto, please.) Meanwhile, I worry that I sent my mother along too early, as I haven’t anticipated my journey to be so slow. So, after the bullet train to Kyoto, as everyone confusedly goes about securing their tickets to Toji, I rush ahead to meet my mama.

And what a joyous reunion! After months on the open sea, in unfamiliar lands, a hug from my mama is just the ticket. And having been at that station before, seeing that the McDonalds, curiously tall and slim, has remained in its place across the street, is a refreshing sight. Twenty minutes later, the rest of the crew finally arrives. What took them so long, I can’t understand. I proudly introduce everyone to my mother who, whiter than some of them, managed to make it here without a hitch. You go, Mom.

Down the street to Toji Temple we go. The walk is exactly as I remember it, same colors, same number of people on the sidewalks. Professor Groner takes us into a temple museum stocked with religious statues and scrolls; the most impressive of all are towering statues of Komokuten, a humanity-guarding king, surrounded by flames and backed by bright vermillion paint. A few statues of Yama, the Hell God, catch my eye, too.

The next stop is Tofuku-ji, a Zen temple. Everyone gets lost trying to find the “San-mon Gate,” until we all collide somewhere in the middle. Once we’re all herded together, Professor Groner leads us down a bridge to paradise, a small forest replete with every shade of living plant from yellow to deep red. The curve of the tree trunks leads the eye to a narrow river streaming over a polished rock bed, the end of which I can’t see from here. It is everything nature should be, serene but lively, though the temple’s name led me to be disappointed when tofu is, in fact, nowhere to be seen.

Seeing this arrangement proves to me that the Japanese know aesthetics. How else can I explain why koi are the only fish that don’t trigger my gag reflex? And for a person who isn’t particularly moved by nature, here, the intricacy of the trees, of even the simplest green things shooting out of the ground—it’s all ornate but bold and pronounced at the same time. Someday, I will build a hut here, take a vow of silence and pick berries for breakfast. Not yet, though. I’m not ready.

The temple’s closing brings us to the end of our field trip. Mom and I accompany a lovely ship sociology professor Christine Wernet, (who was also one of my roommates at Dakshina Chitra). After dining on the very traditional ramen and udon, I escort the professor back to the ship to ensure her safety while mother returns to her own Kyoto inn.

Later that night, (unbeknownst to my parents! Shhh), after running across countless fliers for this spectacular Welcome, Semester at Sea! event, the crew (Kristin, Drew, Kelsey, Chris and Scott) heads into the city of Kobe to see what it has to offer. The short monorail trip into the town is directly followed by confusion, as it turns out none of us knows how to read a map. After fifteen minutes of walking, we come across a taxi driver—the only car that has passed our way in minutes—and I do my best to explain our predicament. His speech is sloppy and accented, so I eventually give up trying with him. A group of four hip-to-it girls walk our way, and I stop them to ask "where da party at?" but they don’t understand me. All is not in vain, though, because were it not

for these girls, our map would still be upside down; our destination lies on the opposite side of Kobe station.

Defeated, we seek consolation in a neon lit convenience store. The candy and chilled beverages surrounding us do the trick, and we leave the store with renewed hope. (We may or may not have been holding and sipping malted chu-hais.)

Without much trouble, we find the bar advertised on the flier. We waltz up the stairs, proud members of the Semester at Sea group, but upon reaching the top, a bouncer explains in his very poor English that the bar is full, and we have to go away now. So I, working my dual-citizenship, beg (in Japanese) to be let in, and magically, he grants none of us entrance. Is he not impressed by my dexterous tongue? The answer: No, he is not.

Foiled once again, we collapse down the stairs and continue down the street where a slew of SAS kids are loitering American-style. A bouncer at the nearest bar is yelling at them to scatter, or the police will come and and ticket them. So they, American-like, remain in place, drinking their canned beers on the sidewalk louder than ever. Here, I find myself at another awkward juncture. Do I knock cans with my vulgar crew? Do I pass by quietly? The answer: I approach the horde, laugh and yell as I pass through the center, and ultimately pass them by.

On the other side is an attractive maybe-Japanese girl, about my age, holding a sign for a nearby bar. She stops us in her perfect English and asks us about our stations in life—what is this program? where are you from? where are you going? etc. She and I form an instant bond as we realize our mutual connection to UC Davis. She is recently graduated from there, and I am to be an alumna of the university in the next year. In the bar, we find even more to be excited about: As Japanese majors, we know the same professors; we share a number of mutual friends, including my ex-boyfriend who happened to date her best friend; and we lived on the same street, though at different times. So naturally, she buys me every drink I have that evening (at a greatly reduced price, I’m sure, as her boyfriend owns the bar). Unfortunately, she leaves early due to a prior engagement, but what she leaves me with is surely worth the untimely parting: a sense that Japan is more of a home than I had recognized, and a new Facebook friend. One can never have too many.

The following day is for a much anticipated tour of Osaka, my old stomping grounds. With myself as the guide, I bring a few friends (Kristin, Chris, Kelsey and Scott) to the central area of Shinsaibashi, the highlight of which is El Pancho Mexican Restaurant. I first discovered it when studying abroad in Kyoto; it was an hour away, but very much worth the three trips I made there. Especially now, after three months of shippy food on board, or traditional food in port (save for the best pizza of my life in Namibia) everyone is in the mood for Mexican.

The area itself provides a wonderful taste of Japan as well; the main station exit leads to a sort of tunnel lined with clothing stores, cafes, and Hello Kitty décor. As we stroll down the walk, full-bellied, we pass the often visited Shakey’s Pizza Buffet, familiar shoe stores. And at the end, the bridge that gave Shinsaibashi its name (bashi meaning bridge), the carousel over the river with a cartoon god nested on top. Then, passing the tall buildings at the end, the view that struck me so the first time I discovered it. Restaurants, each with its own mechanical mascot, greet the passersby; the crowd, twice as busy here, is amplified by the shouts of young girls and boys in the doors of their restaurants, calling us inside. The energy here is intense, and I am thrilled to find that my friends love it as much as I do.

After absorbing all of the energy we can hold, we depart for Kyoto to meet mother at Sanju-sangen-do. Among the least interesting temples I have been to, Sanju-sangen-do (lit: “hall with thirty-three spaces between columns”) takes thousand-armed Kannon, arguably the most popular Buddhist deity—probably because he is of the more merciful type—as its centerpiece. Surrounding a large golden statue of him are one thousand more statues of him, though smaller—about life-size. Around those statues are twenty-eight more, of guardian deities. Naturally, Japanese visitors pay homage to these deities for their own protection by placing gifts at their feet, things like money (concealed in envelopes, of course), candles, and oddly enough, un-Buddhist sake. And the sake, apparently, is drunk by the monks or by laypeople, the empty bottles returned to their places before the deities. It is true that Japan appears more traditional than other Asian countries at first glance, but religiously speaking, they are surprisingly liberal (especially with libations).

Kiyomizu-dera is next. In my first visit last year, I met it with indifference; as the first temple I visited in Kyoto during my study abroad stay, I assumed that my parents arranged the trip there only because of its proximity to the school. It was attractive, to be sure, but I was more interested then in the tens of souvenir shops along the road. It was only after visiting other temples in the area, and in other areas, that I realized how impressive the shrine is.

Returning now, I find it all so charming. The colors are perfectly balanced and arranged around the buildings, though it all looks so natural in display. The height at which it is located allows for breathtaking views all the way around. In the center is a deep gorge and a full landscape of trees; from one extreme, I can see the cityscape of Kyoto; and on some concealed hill slopes hide themed sanctums to memorialize deceased children or pray for health. It is especially nice to watch my friend’s expressions as they wander through.

When it becomes dark, we head to our inn, Ryokan Nakajimaya. It looks exactly like a house in all respects, though a bit larger than a traditional Japanese house, with extra rooms for guests. We are greeted at the door by an adorable Japanese woman, nearly a foot shorter than all of us, but with the verve of a teenager. She leads us to our bedrooms up a very steep set of stairs, very clearly designed for a small Japanese foot. The rooms are closed off with rice paper screens, coated with thick tatami floors, and are surprisingly sizeable. Four of us (me, Kristin, Kelsey, and Emily who is yet to arrive) take the girls’ room, and the other three (Scott, Chris, and Drew who is also yet to arrive) take the boys’. Scott, with a football player’s physique, has to fold halfway over to pass through the doorways. Freed of our luggage, we go to dinner. This traditional city calls for another traditional meal: Okonomiyaki (lit.: “what you like, grilled). Attributed to the Kansai area (Kyoto, Osaka) of Japan, okonomiyaki is a sort of savory pancake of egg, flour and vegetables, (meat, too, if desired), and I have yet to meet someone disapproving of it. Topped with green onions and sweet Worcestershire-like sauce, this dish can be customized to all tastes, (except for Yoshi’s, but only because of its gluten content).

After dinner, we retire to our respective inns. When we awaken the next morning, we poison our purified bodies with a McDonalds breakfast. McMuffins and McGriddles—filthy in every country. Mom met us on the corner in a cab, scooped up our luggage, and in two cars, we depart for the Kyoto train station to take a bullet train ride to Tokyo. I have been on bullet trains, (or as Japanese call them, the shinkansen), but I am always astounded by the ride. It is the closest to teleporting I have ever come, the world whizzing by through the window, and smooth smooth smooth all the way.

The problem comes later, after we’re off the train, when it comes time to board another train to a smaller station in Shinjuku, where my parents live. As with all mother-related messes, I get more frustrated than I should as Janet realizes that we mistakenly deserted some necessary train tickets in a machine, and proceeds to freak out Janet-style. Voice elevated, feet stomping, arms flinging wildly about her like streamers, she sifts through her thoughts aloud and walks in circles. “We'll have to buy a new ticket! What’ll we do…what’ll we do!” Her mumbles silence our advice, but eventually, she has no choice but to follow us as we walk away, back to the machine to explain our situation to a station attendant (we are foreigners, after all). As expected, the blue-capped gentleman is very understanding, opens the ticket machine and returns our lost tickets to us. Job well done, team.

*(I include this anecdote not to embarrass my mother, but simply because it is among the more memorable Japanese happenings.)

My parent’s apartment, owned by the university at which my father is teaching, is extravagant for this country. It contains not only a carpeted bedroom, but two carpeted bedrooms, a carpeted living room, and a clothes dryer! Unheard of. This dear domicile tells me that my father must be a very important man.

That evening, we meet my cousins (Akiko, Kaori and Yoshiko) in Harajuku, where Japanese fashion gets out of control. Girls in Little-Bo-Peep outfits, boys with every imaginable color in their hair—it is plain absurd. As soon as everyone scans the area, we head toward Shinjuku, a more modest area, where we settle on a restaurant called Jonathan’s for dinner. If food belongs to families, traditional Japanese being one, McDonalds being the other, Jonathan’s would fall into the latter. Their plates are all western dishes with a tweak, and not necessarily a good one.

Upon leaving, we stroll the main street of business towers and clothing mega stores, then head to Shibuya where we entertain ourselves on the bottom level of a department store. There, we reap the exotic savory and sweet samples offered by spirited salespeople and indulge in Fuji apples and green tea ice cream, both of which are exponentially tastier than the American copies.

Sayonara to my Japanese cousins, then it’s off to Asakusa for us Americans. The non-cousin few (Kelsey, Scott, Chris and Emily) are staying in a hostel there, so we center the night’s activities around a few block radius, including Tokyo’s oldest temple and a karaoke bar.

We spend the next few hours in Shunjuku at my parent’s house, to sleep, then it’s right back to Asakusa for a most magical day. Though a couple of us are hesitant at first, as soon as we’re cruising down the main street on our bicycles, everyone is elated. Even Scott whose knees hit the handlebars, Kristin whose butt hurts, and Drew who insists on racing everybody cannot deny the bliss encircling us.

We stop at a multi-building grocery store for fruit, sushi and mochi then continue through the gates of Ueno Park for a picnic. We find a secluded refuge with a roof of tangled, leafy branches; on one side of us is a humble temple with one monk idling by the entryway; on the other is a pond with the kind of marshy bottom that yields lotus flowers, lily pads and deep-voiced frogs. The boys get rowdy, picking fruit from an overhanging tree and pitching it at one another. The girls eat, hearts full.

On our way back to the bike rental station, on a winding route, we happen upon a pond rimmed with paddleboats of all kinds—rowboats, pedal boats, swan boats. Naturally, all of us go for the swan boats, except for Chris who tries his hand at the rowboat. He paddles backwards long enough to get frustrated then trades his boat in for a swan. We skim along the edge of the pond then sit for long increments to nibble on the last of the mochi and rice crackers. When we’re tired enough, we return the boats and ride on into the gloaming.

Our last stop comes as we discover a walkway of craft andantique vendors. But we bore quickly, have a group picture taken before a fountain background, then return to the bike rental office by means of busy shop-filled avenues and intersections.

Kristin, Drew and I part ways with the rest and depart for Shibuya. There, we are to meet my parents and a certain half-Japanese boy with whom I grew up, more or less. Our parents were friends somehow, and in every visit to Japan, my brother and I played with the boy (Jack) and his sister (Emi); our ages were perfect, Yoshi two years older than me and one year older than their oldest (Jack) who’s two years older than his sister. It’s funny to see now how differently we’ve ended up, as Jack and Emi spent most of their childhood in Japan and went to America for college. Yoshi and I are undeniably American, born and raised. Seeing Jack now is like seeing how I could have been, and to be honest, it makes me a bit sad. His Japanese is perfect, obviously, and mine sucks.

My parents leave, and us kids go to a ramen shop, then off to a few nighttime attractions in the area. In our romp, we encounter a few SAS kids, which is a bit disappointing because I am reminded, after almost a week of freedom, that I am no more than one of hundreds of foreigners who is here by consequence of others’ hard work. But I would like to try to be. More, that is. Be more. Anyway. We dance a little at a place called Gaspanic as some very inebriated Japanese people try to make friends with us, then we sprint to the last train and barely make it home.

The next day is a very sad one indeed. We are leaving Japan.

The ship is berthed in Yokohama, so after saying bai-bai to Otosan (Dad) and Okasan (Mom), all of us (Kristin, Drew, Scott, Kelsey, Emily, Chris and I—what a tight little clan we've become) meet and take a half an hour train ride there; with our bags tucked on our laps or resting on the shelves above, our heads bob slowly with the bumps on the track, and we are exhausted from all of these long days.

But reaching Yokohama, the journey is not yet over. A friend of mine from Davis, Josh Shiau, is studying at Meiji University so we meet him for lunch at (surprise!) a ramen shop. The place is so small that we have to sit on our luggage. This being my third ramen meal, I am starting to notice differences between them all. This particular bowl is less flavorful than last night’s, but saltier than the first. I wonder if there is any demand in Japan for noodle connoisseurs.

Our journey ends with the last slurp of noodle. We say goodbye to my Chinese-American friend who blends in surprisingly well here with his small stature, sharp suit-style dress and thick glasses. Then, after picking up a final few Japanese goodies in the very impressive port building, we board. As soon as I'm back on the ship, I start planning my next trip to Japan. Everyone can't stop talking about how much they love Japan, and that makes me very proud, it being "my country."

Big Trouble in Big China

            China: a potentially magnificent country whose splendor is clouded by too thick air, asphyxiating air which colors even the most resplendent hotels, temples and skyscrapers grey. Of course, many people consider China to be tenacious in its allure, breathtakingly beautiful as opposed to just breath-taking, but after three days of suffocating, I have reasoned that China is simply not for me, that my lungs will surely collapse if my escape weren't as soon as it is. And it is clear that I am not the only sufferer, as a number of other tragedies have befallen our tightly knit American clan since our arrival, adding to the leadenness of the grim air, and this slow decay brings us to Beijing's Temple of Heaven.

            Awaiting our departure for the temple on a bus, we receive the devastating news of our lost comrade, Kurt Leswing, and our inert wake-up-at-six-am-every-day lethargy quickly pours out of us in violent tears, streaming from hotel to Xuanwu. As the mourners hobble off the bus, heads bowed, arms find their ways into the arms of others, wrapping themselves up in another's seeking warmth, seeking solace, seeking peace. We arrange ourselves in a circle—which, as it happens, coincides with the Chinese representation of Heaven as a circle—and have a moment of silence for Kurt, during which we hear the playful chirps of Chinese men and women capering over the temple gates.

Not knowing the extent to which it is necessary to pay my respects to a deceased friend, I resolve to remain doleful throughout, at least, the day, to demonstrate how deeply his death has affected me, but it's difficult here. I have been told that Taoism, in addition to other eastern religions, focuses heavily on familial piety, especially after death. It has been emphasized, more specifically, that the practice of mourning is incredibly important; if not genuine in heart, it should at least be believable in semblance. But in either case, great attention is paid to lamentation, be it sharp memory, an expensive funeral, or keening wildly at the committal. But I don't know what to do—haven't learned the rules of mourning in America—so I allow myself to cry, silently and behind sunglasses, good for nothing in this sunless country except to hide behind.

As we file through the temple's gates, I sense that the air hanging over Temple of Heaven land is vastly different from that outside; it carries music, dancing, singing, laughing—absolute vitality. It grows increasingly tiring to retain my cynical attitude as I watch small and sprightly men chasing after badminton birdies, couples gamboling about in a choreographed social waltz, chain smokers snickering on each side of a mah-jong or chess board as crowds watch over their shoulders, and music everywhere, emanating throughout the area without ever giving away its origin. This energy urges me to drop my stubborn will, to give up everything and let life run its natural course without propelling myself into despair, or angst, or otherwise not-quite-authentic responses. Cry if pressure builds behind the eyes; laugh if enlivened bubbles rise at the base of the throat; smile when instinct naturally lifts the corners of the mouth; don't force anything. How appropriate, for this Taoist temple; I am being pulled into that natural harmony known as wu wei, the effortless one-step-will-follow-the-other mindset that reigns in any passive yet receptive mind.

As we continue on through the temple, it seems that the same adjustments are occurring within my classmates; those whose eyes had drained themselves of fluid are now being wiped dry, and some are even smiling, taking pictures, jumping into hackeysack circles with strangers. It is clear that our natures, as humans, are prone toward happiness, or are, at least, desiring happiness, and even a great disaster can be subdued when a person wholly sheds his will and gives himself over to the spontaneous external world. And Taoism seems to be designed for such dispositions, especially in contrast with Buddhism, the religion with a marketing scheme appealing to anyone who believes that the world revolves around suffering. Taoism may incorporate some similar concepts—such as emptiness and detachment—but it does not carry the same severity on which Buddhism seems to pride itself; rather, there seems to be more trust in the positive, natural flow of organic energy that will minister to everyone willing to open himself to it. While both "religions" may be working to cure the same illness, the two work from opposite sides of the attitudinal outlook line.

Though Taoism as a religion is somewhat hidden amid the busy crowd, it is obvious that there is something much deeper going on: first, I have to remember that Taoism is as much a cultural tradition as it is a religious one, incorporating philosophy and ethics which ordain "the way" life should be lived. As such, this temple feels unexpectedly inviting and lacks the strictness inherent in many religious institutions I've visited, particularly Western Christian influenced churches, but also Buddhist temples in the countries before China. And Taoist emphasis on health is particularly obvious here, with circles of fluent dancers and squares devoted to tai chi—every participant balanced and natural in his movements. It is remarkable to see Taoist votaries gathering in masses for this productive custom, all braving the cold to meet and exercise together; I can't say that I have ever seen any religious practice so easily applied and integrated into ordinary life.

After passing through the first surge of tai chi-ers, we see a few more groups scattered throughout the area, but the focus is now shifting to the buildings themselves. Unfortunately, given the nature of Semester at Sea excursions—to check as many sights off the tourist list as possible in the least amount of time—the Temple of Heaven is subject to strict time restrictions; thus, only one building of the three fit into our itinerary, this one being the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests.

Sitting atop an expansive, raised square—the Chinese representation of earth—with thirty some stairs leading up to the platform, the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests is splayed out like a Victorian ball gown, delicately embroidered and king-sized. Though I never see the other buildings, it is difficult to believe that they could outshine this three-tiered colossus, tastefully dressed with classic golds and blues and pinks over a coat of heavenly blue at the top and red toward the base. Under each tier are whipped cream-textured ridges, lifting up the skirts like tulle under a dress which give the circular—Heaven—hall a very full appearance. This arrangement symbolizes the relationship between Heaven and Earth—the round building positioned augustly atop the square—and the building itself is capped with a golden ball atop a rod as if to attract lightning or penetrate the heavens.

After having visited the Disney influenced temples in Malaysia, it is almost confusing to see such a simply ornamented edifice. The bareness of color—a coat of blue and red to cover the whole structure—is perplexing, and the uniformity of the accents is unexpected. It is clear that the designer knew his palette well, knew which details fit where; he hid the more complicated carvings in the shadows of the tiers, veiled the detailed paintings beneath those. The spareness is striking, and the size of the building does most of the bragging.

What I don't entirely understand, however, is why such a tremendous building was built for the purpose of praying specifically for good harvest—wouldn't a less imposing, more natural looking tower have been more fitting? I do suppose, though, that the three-gabled circle design is relevant, as it encompasses the Chinese depiction of Heaven. First, as I have already mentioned, by the circle shape, and also by the three tiers that, as I learned from Professor Groner himself, are symbolic given their likeness to the Chinese character for king: (王) three horizontal lines (Heaven, humans and earth) intersected by one longer vertical line (the emperor, who maintains the harmony between the three). So beyond the architects constructing a beautiful building, they were also smart in considering Chinese language and culture in its design.

At this juncture, it seems that everyone has found this temple to be a suitable distraction from the news; students stand, arms akimbo, mouths and eyes wide, staring up at the sublime structure before them; others poke each other on the shoulder urging them to take a closer look at this carving or that stroke of paint; everyone is smiling, amazed, and happy, at least temporarily.

After a few photos, I start back down the stairs and see my classmates gazing up at the Temple of Heaven, as if they are considering heaven now that it feels oddly within reach. Or at least this is what I am thinking as I leave, whether I should have vetoed the photography session for a more useful prayer service and appeal to whatever god is responsible for me. But I wouldn't even begin to know what to ask for, because anything regarding Heaven assumes that I will, someday, be removed from the earth and deposited elsewhere, which is a thought I wholeheartedly dread and would prefer to ignore until any time that cannot be called "now." I suppose I could wish for immortality, sought for by religious Taoists, but the thought of eternal aging has never appealed to me. I have often been told—by friends and professionals alike—that I think about death more often than the average my-ager, which has probably accounted for some peculiar facets of my personality and overall perspective, but this is the first time anyone close to me—in age, in life path, in physical proximity—has passed. It's not that I want to think about death now—I have to.

Wu wei has diverged down another road, and I am on the trail of tenacity, vulnerable to bad weather, ill omen, and an agitated mind.

            The sky, which has been mostly eclipsed by the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests, is now visibly grey and murky again as I walk back through crowds of lively Chinese exercisers. It's as if they are in Heaven here, gods playing checkers and smoking cigarettes and tossing balls around, so far from death that playing games seems a good way to spend a life. But I know that they are all subject to the same rules, that they are just trying to follow the Tao and let life come at them without swimming against the natural flow. I am reminded of an essay by Chinese poet Li Young Lee who explained the difference between Eastern and Western perspectives: Americans always talk about walking forward into the future and leaving the past behind; the Chinese see and know the past which lies ahead of them as they walk backwards into the future. Perhaps this fundamental belief is what allows them to give themselves up to the unknowable future, as using one's will to fight it is futile. They are not stifled by the air like I am; granted, they were born into it, but I still feel as if it may be because of my outlook, a persistent anxiety about what will happen in my future that was there even before Kurt.

I re-board the mega bus, thus returning to the tragedies let loose within its doors. I am thankful for its air filtration system which aids me in regaining a clear mind, then notice the number of friends hugging each other in the rows before my seat in the back of the bus. Despite having spent months living among these people, I have never seen such compassion, moderation and humility—the three jewels of the Tao—shared between them, and I am so moved by the sight that I realize I want a hug, too, even though I am not the kind of person who generally seeks physical consolation. I think that, maybe, I need to reconsider my way of living—open up, stop dwelling on the future, hug people more. And re-read the Tao of Pooh.

[The above is an essay written for Zen, which was featured (along with the Dakshina Chitra essay) in Semester at Sea's "Academic Gallery" that nobody went to! Hurray!]

[The photo was found on the internet, and I presume that it was heavily photoshopped, possible alterations including the color of the sky (brightened) and clouds (superimposed, of course)].

 

I think that about sums up my entire China experience. A few overlooked but important details include:

A brief stop at Tiananmen Square where the phrase "boo-yao" often escaped from my mouth; five-star hotels; being feverish and sore throat-ed the whole time while Kristin selflessly took it upon herself to follow my "but I'm sick…" demands; Peking duck which was tasty enough the first time but not so much the fourth and fifth; delicious hot pot; reserving the whole back seat of the bus for Kristin and myself, and sometimes Per (a curious, rich New York boy who drank much too much); spicy noodles; soy bean popsicles; Mao's face on every wall, t-shirt and deck of cards; climbing the great wall with Drew and skipping all the way down; riding in a dragon boat at the Emperor's summer palace; seeing the Bird's Nest from our a foggy bus window as we sped down the highway; our (me, Scott, and Drew's) leisurely walk back to the ship from town, during which we watched rubber pigs and rats being thrown against the ground so hard they spread a foot around, dolls manipulated by hidden remote controls, calligraphy, and an Asian Woody Allen who effortlessly cut Scott's profile out of a piece of paper and unknowingly inspired my computer's taking on the identity of Scott Rollins.

I liked China just fine but was very ready to leave when I did, as was everyone else, I think.

 

Plus, Japan is next! Oh, goody.

Good Bye, Vietnam

Oh, Vietnam. So close to Thailand, yet so far away. Cambodia was closer, to be sure, but no one thinks about Thailand when they're in Cambodia—Cambodia is enough. But Vietnam, Saigon, with your unruly Ben Thanh market and Pho 2000, Pho 24, All Pho All Pho-king Day, why couldn't you have been Pad Thai and Chatuchak on the river?

But no matter, you were Vietnam, a good place for pearls, for tailored suits and gowns, for Frogger: 4D, for water puppets, for avocado smoothies, noodles and raw eggs. You were fun, Vietnam, but that's all you were. And for only two days, that's okay.

Given my lack of ability to collect memories in anything resembling a linear narrative, I am left with no choice but to summarize—and sloppily, I anticipate—my stay in Vietnam.

I do recall a day at the market with a good group of us, though I can't say exactly who or how many; I can't accept all the blame for having forgotten as it was impossible to hold on to every member in a group from one place to the next, from one market alley to another, and I cannot be expected to remember who was missing, who had strayed, who had been stolen away, etc. And to take from (another) something I wrote for school:

"In Viet Nam, oh boy, you should see, it's just a mess of people, like an emptied can of creamed corn covering the whole city that pops and boils over into markets and alleyways. It snatches up squirming pedestrians, sinks leaden cars and butters the road for swerving motorbikes that will eventually meet and have no choice but to go and hope they don't become cream."

We had pho that day, that I remember, (though even if we didn't, it would be a pretty good guess to say we did), and Kristin and I got caught in the rain as we searched for a shopping strip we'd spotted from a bus the day before (or was it that day?). At a point, Kristin and I were Frogger-ing in the pouring rain under one umbrella from one flooded street to the next and we ended up under a lifted building where a Japanese man stood, possibly waiting for something, and he eventually let us in on a little place called "Zen" which sounded like a nice escape from the rain so we went and were very pleased, to say the least, with what we found there: shops galore! Unfortunately, the store was fashioned after Japan, meaning everything but the tag was the same (to borrow from a Vietnam-inspired proverb: "same same, but different"). That also means that the entire building could be judged as soon as the first floor has been covered, as everything from then on would have frills in the same places, of the same color, etc. So we left, back into the rain, and headed to a tailor shop where Kristin's custom dress was waiting. And in case you're curious, that thing is still floating around somewhere in Vietnam, orphaned and hideous.

As it was my first (and last) night in Vietnam, we all (Drew, Kristin, Chris and I) went out on the back of motor bikes to Volcano, (how I remember the name of that, I will never know) outside of which a (very drunk) set of Vietnamese Americans from Seattle happened to be loitering until they dragged us inside. The ground shook with the music, louder than music should ever be, so loud that the bartender couldn't hear my order, so loud that another bartender couldn't hear me complaining about my drink being served without alcohol, so loud that we left after fifteen minutes, frustrated, deaf, and ten dollars poorer. We took a cab to an American/SAS-friendly bar called Apocalypse Now which was apparently emptier than the night before, (according to Kristin) meaning the SAS kids had found a better place to hang out. But we headed upstairs and danced for a good hour, met Edward Scissorhands' doppelganger, then went home and fell happily asleep.

Next morning was for Saigon Water Puppets under Cheri Vasek, Semester at Sea's theatre aficionado.

The following is a rather inane essay I wrote about the show for a theatre class, (again, the cheesiness factor is inflated "for class"):

Twirling metallic dragons and harlequin gentlemen stole the show at the Saigon Water Puppet Performance, a depiction of daily life and cultural rituals particular to ancient Vietnam. Capering through the water of a humble, flooded stage, these puppets displayed the country's buoyant spirit and tenacity, embodying elements of Vietnamese heritage still connecting modern Saigon to its primeval counterpart—farmers harvesting grain, a grazier rearing his cattle, a peasant boring for water. And of course, the sacred four—dragon, unicorn, phoenix and turtle—who shared the stage for an animated dance manifest four vital life forces: health, longevity, peace and happiness. Add a few fireworks, and here we have a real spectacle.
As my first introduction to the art of water puppets, I could not have imagined a more enlightening experience. The small scale of everything, from the compactness of the room to the modest box stage in the center below, made the entire event much more intimate. I could even make out faint shadows and muted splashes of the performers maneuvering behind the curtain, and though that may have appeared tacky to some, I appreciated the glance at the private goings-on, like the puppeteers were sharing the secrets of the technical operation with me, in a way, as opposed to me just watching puppets gliding autonomously on the water. Not that self-governing puppets wouldn't make a fantastically magical show on their own, but the point seemed to be, at least to me, the puppets' actions and their physical embodiment of traditions and history shared by the Vietnamese people controlling them. And this connection, in water puppetry, could be found not only in the stories, but in the sturdy metal scepter attaching puppeteer, the sovereign controller, to his puppet.
As for the puppets themselves, though my first instinct told me to say they were tawdry and altogether indistinguishable, I can see the advantage of this aesthetic. First, the basic appearance of each puppet can be ascribed to the form in which they were first made: of wood with an unavoidably shiny water-resistant varnish. The homogeneity corresponded to the unity of Vietnam and its people, dressing every puppet in red, green and gold to represent the country's vitality. Then, by demanding little attention to makeup and costume, the audience was forced to study the role of each person based on his physical movement and interactions with other puppets. After all, what separates puppetry from other conventional theater forms (by which I mean an actor on a stage) is the control and detail that must go into body language and gesticulation. It is much more impressive to find the personality in three identical puppets through their movement alone than to distinguish them only by their features. It is also important to note that, culturally, Eastern countries value family and group identity more than the individual; thus, it seems suitable for the puppets to appear synonymous with one another.
So far I have done nothing but praise the performance; not that it wasn't worthy of hearty applause, but I do recall being slightly irked by the distorted, pre-recorded music. As a vital component of any show, music is capable of securing a Tony or, in this case, disturbing the whole production like a clanking metal cloak weighing everything down. The wind instruments blew everything out of order like a steaming hurricane; the drums were so shocking and muddled that it was impossible to distinguish a beat on the snare from a scratch on the CD; and everything else was simply unidentifiable rumpus. If I had the power to change anything, I would have replaced that cacophonous clamor with a live orchestra, seated on both sides of the pool, and playing to enliven the audience rather than just fulfill the traditional aesthetic.
But besides the music, I found the performance wholly entertaining, a wonderful mix of history and theater. And of course, the highlight of the show occurred afterward, after the puppeteers took their bows and demonstrated how to flip and spin the sheeny unicorn, when Cheri V. took the stage and exhibited her natural agility for everyone to see. (Cheri V., I have trouble believing you had never twirled a unicorn puppet before). The puppeteer's post-performance interaction with us showed how invested they were, how skillful and passionate about this centuries-long tradition a person can be even in today's Saigon.

To be truthful, I nearly fell asleep during the performance and spent a good while resting on Kristin's shoulder, but I do really believe that I would have enjoyed it with at least a fair percentage of the enthusiasm displayed above had I not been so fatigued.

As usually happens, I felt revitalized right about the moment I exited the theater, felt comfortable erasing "nap" from my itinerary, and went out to explore the city on my own. (Kristin stuck to the schedule and slept on the ship).

Not knowing where anything was, I walked blocks in the wrong direction until I finally found the post office, and that was only after stopping in every store within a two block radius of the post office asking "where's the post office?" or "stamps?" or "Notre Dame?" (which was right next to the post office) or "cathedral?" or "church?" and even the English speakers didn't quite understand Notre Dame, though their name for it is the same. Baffling. I found it on my own, luckily, struggled to buy some stamps (I still don't know if the postage was correct), then drifted into a shopping mall where I simply looked around with no intention of buying anything (which I didn't, and boy, am I proud). After I left, I walked across the street to a popular chain café (though the name escapes me at the moment—was it Highlands? I don't know). I sat there for an hour or so watching everyone walk by, guessing who was visiting, who wasn't, what people were saying in their foreign tongue, what they were drinking, what the loners were thinking and so on. I can't say I was particularly appreciating the country and culture of Vietnam, but it was surely one of the best travel days. Reminded me of being in France after my Dad deserted me there, when I wandered aimlessly around, over bridges, around churches, lay in parks, drank coffee, watched people. That is how I like to travel.

It quickly became night and when it did I was walking along the main street, kind of lost, knowing Kristin would be trying out a new dress at a different tailor at 5, and though I had been there the day before, I couldn't quite place it in the strip with jewelry store after tailor after underwear stand, and repeat; it all looked the same to me. So I gave up looking and opted to head back to the ship for dinner, and wouldn't you know it, as soon as I had resolved to do so in my head, I passed Kristin, Scott and Eilis on the street. I stuck with them and had frozen yogurt at a place designed like Pink Berry in LA and Swirl (or Cultivé, if you're new to the trend) in Davis, enjoyed it immensely, then went back to the ship to write and send postcards.

All in all, well, I can't say I'll be heading back to Vietnam. It is for people who like big crowds, big, big crowds, and stuffy markets, and noodle soup. Or for those who want to relive their war days—though I can't see how anyone would—as U.S. Army paraphernalia is really a hit in Saigon's capital market these days. Robin Williams may not be there, but the Good Morning, Vietnam t-shirts can be found everywhere. Odd.

Angkor Wat?

Where to start.

For those of you who don't know—which is likely everyone not in my extended family, ship family, or frequent text messaging circle—Semester at Sea is over. OVER. So it would have been only logical for you strangers to assume the voyage is still going considering the blog hasn't been completed, but that is only because the blog was forgotten under the masses of goodbyes and a few new countries; in any case, my priorities shifted and it is only now, after Christmas, that I've found time to trek a month or so back in my memory to write about a some bygone ports—Cambodia, Vietnam, Hong Kong, China, Japan, Hawaii and Costa Rica.

Foreword: (No one to write this but myself, this being a mediocre and unknown blog, so here goes): Consciously or not, I think that the non-completion of this blog rests on a few factors. The first and most obvious of these is that the conclusion of this log denotes the conclusion of the action about which the writing is happening, and this situation is unfavorable no matter which way I look at it. Second—as more of an amendment to the first—regarding this blog as "finished" would thusly make every incident, event, exploit or affair first detach from my immediate self, then isolate itself among other departed memories resting in a large box tagged "SAS," and all of those will only grow more stale over time. This process allows the deaths incurred to die, the love to cease swelling, the excitement to be snuffed out. All of it is so final. (The next reason is still more of an amendment than a new point, but) with the end of the voyage comes the end of the blog, which has received its fair share of praise and lived a happy (but short) life. And I am somehow afraid that now, on this quiet, unwavering land, the writing that once flowed from my fingertips was lost with the sea, that because I'm no longer in the middle of some terribly exciting journey my mind will have noticed the downshift and grown dull and uninspired. Too dull to entertain, too dull to finish. I haven't picked up a pen with the intention of writing since the trip ended—not even to write a letter, which I do often—because I'm afraid of what will happen, afraid that my time (not that I have "a time" to mourn) has ended. With this senior year, college ending, new house, friends gone, thesis thing looming over my head as my constant companion, impending failure, sails in right behind it, any theory thwarting my writing ability will be wholly believable and ultimately deadly.

So now that I've given you my excuses, I can get started on Cambodia.

As people have asked about my favorite ports, without giving it much thought, I say India and Cambodia. Then they ask why and I go on and on about India, and they say, sure, ok, India, everyone loves India—what about Cambodia? But I find that one harder to explain as it's not altogether dazzling, or mystic, or… It was sad. It was simply sad, tragic, really, and I think that may have been its allure. Sure, it was beautiful, but even the beauty was shrouded by something fatal.

Before arriving in Cambodia, we first had to sail into Vietnam and board a plane from there to Phnom Penh ("The Pearl of Asia"; Cambodia's capital; I don't expect you to be familiar with the country yet). As my memory is hazy, I will have to assume we arrived late and immediately retired to our hotel rooms after arriving that night.

Just kidding. I was just informed by cousin Drew that, being Halloween, we went out that evening in search of a masquerade, or some sort of wingding to celebrate our most cherished holiday. We found an alehouse with a pink-wigged bartender and hip tunes and stayed there for a bit while our driver (of his own volition) waited outside. That same kind-hearted man later took us to a series of brothels and similarly questionable establishments, and once it was clear that prostitute hour was to last the rest of the evening, we headed home to get some much needed rest.

The following morning was an early one and we wasted no time immersing ourselves in the tragedy that is Cambodia—to the Killing Fields where Cambodia's own citizens were flogged, shot, hung, trampled, or killed any other way the Khmer Rouge (Cambodian government opposers) saw fit. There were fields for children, for women, for intellectual, threatening men—educators, doctors, writers—and in some, clothes were still embedded in the sodden ground. T-shirts hung limply over tree roots as if they had tried to escape, shoes whose toes jutted out from a patch of grass were still trying to run away. Hack marks in every tree trunk where a child's head was beaten to a board, ropes hanging like living vines from the trees, and a tower that would have been gorgeous had it not been for the hundreds of butchered skulls it held: all of it suddenly transformed the ground I walk on, the layer of earth separating myself from the millions massacred, the dead, into a blessing, but a thin one.

To carry on with the theme, we went to the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, a prison with a purpose similar to the Killing Fields. A Cambodian Auschwitz, if you will. Founded, ironically, out of a high school, the facility made cells of the classrooms and torture chambers of the corridors, then enclosed these all with electric fences, barbed wire and iron bars. Between a thousand and fifteen hundred people would be housed here at a time, each of them forced to utter the names of family members who would be summoned after the prisoner was swiftly exterminated. Given the fertile location, the Khmer Rouge had the means to execute more creatively—not just beating and shooting, but suffocation via plastic bag, (the recently disputed) waterboarding, electrocution, burning and mass starvation were widely popular forms of killing, too. Where thousands fell dead, pictures of their rotting corpses stood for tourists to see, and even the small, blurry photos were the most graphic and sickening images I had ever seen. For fear I would vomit on the recently mopped tile, I exited the room and went outside to the courtyard where, yes, still more had been killed, then I continued to the outside-outside, past the deactivated electric fence, where victims of neglected land mines crept through the alleys with half a leg, half a face. At that point, I could do nothing but get on the bus and sit and wait.

The Royal Palace was next, a stunning plane of silver and gold outside of which a clever many beggars without arm or foot wheeled or lurched before the entrance with postcards or water to sell, collecting Riel and looks of sympathy-stricken horror. I wandered inside the gates with Drew to whom I commented that the roofs looked like they were on fire, each one topped with spikes as would be found on a dragon's back, and he agreed. Beyond the obvious beauty of it, not much was to be found in this place besides puddles, Buddha relics, and a small wooden xylophone orchestra. And for all of you who venture to travel here, good luck finding the silver pagoda. (It's actually gold).

Following this stop and another run-in with incapacitated street crawlers (pardon the interruption, but I realize that I sound condescending and heartless in these descriptions; I'm finding it difficult to create a concise and polite image for such a troubling sight), we made a brief stop at the National Museum. Looking back, I wish I hadn't entered, as I would have been more impressed seeing only the façade, red, on fire, and complete with burly elephant. But inside, hundreds of sandstone antiquities from the Khmer period sat silently, heavily, bored. In the center was a very nice pool, though, with swaying lily pads and koi fish adding color to the place. And my favorite part of the centerpiece, something few of us sailors noticed, was a view from behind two pygmy sized lions with abnormally large testicles, beyond which sat a statue of Yama, the god of death, sitting proudly in front of his pond. A queer sight indeed.

Take the last few paragraphs and sprinkle them with fish, rice and noodles, and there we have Phnom Penh.

Now a plane to Siem Reap, and the saga continues.

Evening number one, the SAS clan discovered "Bar Street," a most delightful strip of bars and shops with heavy (drunk) foot traffic. Europeans, Canadians and Americans filled the streets and windows, each holding a bucket of hooch with a few straws for friend-making, and a merry time was had. That's about all you need to know there.

For the following days' activities, I have for you a short "essay" written for a class ("for class" should by now translate to "saccharine" or "hyperbolic" or "overdeveloped") about Angkor Wat which basically consumed the rest of our time in Cambodia.

Commence:

As we near the end of our voyage, and particularly the close of our innumerable temple visits—with one paper left to write—it has come to my attention that I must now fish out one tour from the purée of religious site images in my memory, one that has evaded the mindless blending-together of the last three months. The prototypical temple appears in my mind, a somewhat hazy canvas of tans and browns foregrounded by some sort of very lush tropical tree and tourists swarming underneath. How do I find a standout in this muddle?

I then scour my memory for other things; forget what they looked like—what were the stories? I clear away the muted temple image and allow a story to form. I see a man, slightly older than myself, with tanned skin and powerful arms. In public, his face is honest and his smile heartfelt, but in his room, he wears the same brooding scowl as Hamlet's Claudius, steely and full of rage. This brute also shares Claudius' murderous agenda: kill the king, usurp the throne. And as Claudius' target was his own brother, so will this man turn against his own family. Now it starts to get interesting.

According to our Cambodian tour guide, in whom I have full trust, Angkor Wat came about when a twenty-five year-old man, Angkor, with most unsettling family ideals, murdered his uncle and proclaimed himself the new king of the Khmer Empire. He went quickly to work on a new project, Angkor Wat, while executing a great number of military campaigns in his free time, most of which were unsuccessful. Despite his failures, however, Angkor's ego never suffered; he thought so highly of himself that he proceeded to name himself after Vishnu, the Hindu god to whom he dedicated his temple. So the newly dubbed Paramavishnuloka enjoyed a fabulously busy life, posing for artists even though the tradition had by then been unheard of in Khmer, and he now lives on in Angkor Wat bas reliefs, portraits and standing sculptures.

After hearing this story, the otherwise forgettable building begins to take on vivid color, As a sidenote, I realize that I have been portraying myself as an overcritical commentator up to this point, so in my defense, I would like to clarify that I am not necessarily closed off when I sightsee; that's not the case at all. But I have found that even if I think I am being riveted by a certain sight or experience, the spectacle, no matter how spectacular it may be, will be promptly forgotten if no supplementary knowledge of the site is provided. Personal and somewhat dramatic tales such as that narrated by the tour guide give life to these mysterious buildings, make me want to study every door, wall and window rather than just skate around the periphery. In fact, I can still relate, in great detail, the pattern in the King's wallpaper in Versailles, as well as the exact hue and depth of the sheets, all because I was told the King used to urinate in the corner of the room. Those are the sorts of details I need to etch a place in my memory.

I can still picture some of Angkor Wat's bas reliefs, for example, as if I were watching the imperious Angkor himself, silently snickering as he carved ribald images of large-breasted, smiling women with stocky snakes peeking out of their skirts. Or the general labyrinth-inspired interior on which Angkor surely prided himself; I can imagine him crouching in a shrouded corner of the most perplexing corridor as he watched his laborers' curses echo off the walls, trying to find the way out. These intricate visions of Angkor Wat comprise one larger, much more interesting view I would have never seen had it not been for the brief historical sketch. And if I could, I would thank Angkor for his brilliant biography, as he is what made Angkor Wat extraordinary.

[Refer to top for image of Angkor]

Some Angkor Wat highlights not included in the essay were: being attacked by fire ants, the spots from which appeared suddenly after hiking around Japan; sinking into saturated soil in the middle of an open field; elephant riding (watching, not participating, as participating is ten less dollars in my pocket); always walking up to walk back down to walk back up again (in every structure), vendors with dollar t-shirts (many of which I now own or have gifted), five dollar paintings (of which I have one, now hanging in my Monterey bedroom), bracelets (which I now wear, a black, pink and blue woven thing with triangles and self-braided ties); adorable, endearing, persuasive children who use tourists for English lessons (with much success); tough, smoky snake cooked bacon-style, but with more pepper (yes, I ate it); sunset from the top of Angkor Thom with a view of the city, bright yellow hot air balloons and people scaling up the wall from below; and of course, the ever-extending profile of Angkor Wat over the river, proudly presenting every color worth having. Well, not really, but it is damn pretty.

So hopefully you can all infer from the above chronicle why Cambodia was my favorite country (with India). I will warn you now that my country-shock ends here, though the fun and excitement and all that jazz will continue on through Costa Rica. Now let's see if I ever get there!

A Tropical Fruit Getaway

Day one in Malaysia I am immediately traumatized. Though it may be true that the dream of a tourist in Malaysia is to see "the real Malaysia," it may not always be what she wants. At a Chinese restaurant, a flaccid, scaly body housing a pair of alert eyes that seem to be saying something sinister through a soupy, sallow patina, "eat me! hahaha," is set on my table on a silver tray, spinning around and around the lazy Susan. Everyone but the professor grimaces and scans the faces of others, then wipes the horror off their faces and eats so as to be polite—to prove Americans can be receptive and respectful. And to our surprise, the fish is good.

After overcoming the next horror—the bill—we depart for the Thai style Wat Chaiyamangalaram temple, home of the sleeping Buddha. Guarding the doors are dragons and phoenixes, posted in the ground like the motorized children in It's a Small World. The creatures—after being caked with garish blues and yellows—are shelled in a thick, extra glossy lacquer that parades as it protects. As majestic as they are, (in their height alone), I cannot imagine these sentinels protecting the temple from anything stronger than a light breeze or a giant, (assuming the giant is too wide to fit between them). I can vouch for the statues' purpose in attracting tourists and locals alike, however, as I catch many a visitor snapping pictures of them, some posing as the animal next to which they stand, and they are a real hit with the kids who treat them as king-sized dolls or climbing posts.

I urge myself to keep an open mind and go inside where I am relieved to see that the glitter and glare humbles itself, now found in the form of aged bronze and brass and small squares of thin gold paper with which the effigies have been painted by believers. After removing our shoes, (which would have been better left on my feet, considering how filthy they are), we circumnavigate the temple—which way is right? perhaps we'll never know. It is in all ways modest, with simple décor, simple colors, devoid of much lavishness as the seventh bodhisattva precept peaches, and the lighting is just right, gently reflecting off the curves of a brass Buddha, the corners of the gold squares, the bends in candle flames.

Around the first corner, and we are walking clockwise now, the feet of the Buddha, complete with soiled, very human toenails, lie unapologetically before us. I cannot see his head yet, so I turn to the wall behind me, dressed from head to toe in color. The bottom half is tiled blue and green, framing an extensive number of shadow boxes housing urn after urn. On the glass covering each is a name and a description of the deceased person, some more personal than others, but all of them carrying an inexplicable heaviness, of the urn itself, the pithy eulogies, the money to reserve each box, the feeling that I'm surrounded by death, dry death, made to look polished and delicate. I wonder how devoted the family was when they burned their parents or siblings and left them in a vase, in a dark shelf, miles and sometimes seas away from home. I suppose it is possible for the deceased to have asked for this burial, but it seems too easy to me, too impersonal.

My grandfather was a bent old man who considered himself a devout Buddhist until his death, and though we never really spoke to each other—he spoke only Japanese, and I, only English—when I was but a wee nine-year-old watching him kneel before my grandma's enshrined ashes, I was amazed by his piety, to her and to the practice. I didn't understand what the stick and gourd were for, and found it especially odd how he made music with it, but I saw the loyalty in his drumming, how the steady rhythm was a sort of prayer, and every day I could count down to the minute he retired to that muggy chamber to pay alms to his deceased wife. How can a person show his love and respect if his family's ashes are on public display in impounding two by two inch boxes?

When jiji died, he was placed next to the rest of the family on a slope of a tall mountain, (the name of which I will not divulge, to keep it free of visitors), the privacy of which allows us to rightfully respect him and plant gifts at the family headstone. I can only imagine how much less sanctified those visits would have been were the path fringed with cartoon monuments and tourists snapping pictures of their children climbing over them. I will admit, though, that the Thai temple's "shrines" are pretty, and I understand that donating, in a way, a family member's ashes to a holy place ascertains the deceased's karmic merit, but it all seems a bit ostentatious to me. Perhaps there is a part of the process I am missing.

Above the showcase of urns are murals depicting the physical execution of Buddhist practices with captions—in English. These initially spark my interest, but I quickly move on given the hardly legible writing and awkward placement of the paintings. Besides, these will later be greatly outshone by the series of Buddha's life images in the Burmese temple across the street, so I will now move on to what I actually liked.

Inside the temple is a man—much like my grandfather, but slightly larger around the waist—who takes me by the hand and leads me to a bronze statue of a rabbit for 1987 babies, which I am. Then he tells me to pray. Having no idea how to do so properly, I ask him for help, but he speaks little to no English, so I motion to him as I used to do with my Japanese grandpa and he eventually catches on. He picks up my left arm by the wrist and places my hand over my heart. For good measure, he presses it into my chest so it is firmly in place. Next, he takes my right hand and pulls it forward onto the hip of the coppery rabbit, and he leaves me there. I look at him hoping he will instruct me further, but he is talking to someone new. I look at the person standing before the dog and she is praying with her eyes closed, so I copy her, feeling foolish and false. I have never prayed before, at least not sincerely. I am only religious when I need to be; when I am in trouble, sick, or particularly worried, I put my hands together and say amen, but never have I prayed when I don't need anything. So this experience is very new for me, and slightly embarrassing, but it feels good to take the focus of myself and wish for the well-being of others who may not be so lucky, whose happiness will never be as tangible as my own.

Shortly after, my social barometer peaks and I feel the eyes of other judges burning the back of my head. Though it may be customary to pray in many countries, I, as an American, associate the practice more with religion than social custom; I thusly assume that my audience expects the same of me, thinking I am trying to assimilate by copying the people around me. The truth is, I do not mind being seen as a tourist as long as I am also seen as receptive and respectful, and I would never expect my mimicking of others to grant me full access to the secrets of Malaysian, or Thai, Buddhism. Maybe it is okay to just wish happiness upon everyone, regardless of race or faith. But the social pull is strong and draws my hand away anyway.

I then proceed to the head of the Buddha, the proud father of the caricatured figures outside—his face beams with plastic radiance, eyes lazy but still emitting the same glare, and he wears a subtle smirk like the sly adult jokes in Disney movies, missed by children but worth another look by their parents saying, "something's strange here…" Which of the three Buddha bodies is this? I determine that there must be a fourth, the kind for tourists, unconcerned with the other three—the real, the celestial, the body of teachings—and more focused on kitschy attractiveness.

We have almost completed the circle when a large group of restless schoolchildren pile in; they are not as focused as the older visitors, but it is obvious that they are at least familiar with the customs, know where to stop, how to bow, and when to pray. I recall my own primary school childhood and can admit that I hardly knew what God was, who Jesus was, and I wonder if my life would be any fuller had I at least been let in on the big secret, seen the inside of a church or a synagogue even if I don't choose to practice. My most religious experiences revolve around Hanukkah and Christmas, and I only recently learned what those are for. Shameful.

After leaving the main temple, I head left to another structure built, consciously or not, to look like a merry-go-round, which does not surprise me. But it is just a statue surrounded by plants, still matching the colors and design of a carousel without the music and movement. To the left is a small, odd plot of farmland ruled by chickens and hens, suitable for an animal-friendly Buddhist establishment, and they welcome us into the next section consisting of two buildings, a jagged U with a smaller building in the center, devoted to housing more urns. These buildings, separated from the main attraction, are without showy embellishment and seem more conducive to paying homage without distractions. I am blown away by how many cases there are, how many dead people must be in that one building alone, and I am intrigued.

Here, I see the attention allotted to family union, but I cannot find Buddhism, in practice or in spirit, anywhere.

The next stop is the Dhammikarama Burmese Buddhist Temple, stemming from a country right next door to Thailand, but without much else in common. It houses murals similar to those found in the Thai temple, but these are much more plentiful and specific, smaller, framed paintings which guide visitors through the major events of Buddha's life—a precocious baby, Asita's prophecy, enlightenment under the bodhi tree, etc. I am unconsciously led to a well-like fountain composed of natural materials, which is both refreshing and charming. Beyond the water is a large open room, organically lit, with classic furnishing that contributes to the mood of the whole room instead of demanding too much individual attention. The only figure that stands out is the Buddha, gold and gigantic, but still, monochromatic, and simple enough to let the eye choose if it will look or not.

Around to the back wall is a series of international Buddhas representing other Buddhist countries, China, Japan and Thailand among others. They are black and simple, almost like a curtain over the white background which, I have just now noticed, is composed of countless white Buddhas, small and aligned to fill up every wall in the room. Amazing how this temple basically follows the same formula as its Thai counterpart, taking contributions from paying visitors, but displays the donations in such a classy way. And the austerity of this place is probably what allows for practice to actually occur, as I spot a monk, robed in orange, shaking a water-dipped, long-stemmed flower over a genuflector's head in blessing. I want to approach the two and ask what exactly is happening, but feel as if I may be disturbing something important.

As we leave, I see the flashy plastic idols guarding their theme park across Burma Lane. I look back at the man being blessed, his gaze transfixed in veneration and prayer, and I am thankful to be witnessing something genuine, or at least less fake than the show across the street. Though it is probably ignorant to think that tourism can be shaken from one building to the next, or to think I know what I am looking for when I ask to see real Buddhism, I like to think that the Burmese temple knows or has at least held on to a more sincere notion of Buddhist beliefs and practice, as I saw in the eyes of the blessed man that Buddhism, in some form, is still alive for some people.

After these temple visits, our taxi van driver carted us to the Khoo Kongsi Clan Hall, which was exciting for all of us seeing as how our professor had shown us pictures of it in class, introducing it as some great historical monument, a treasure. Ultimately, I have to admit that after seeing so many temples within such a short time span, they all begin to look the same. One can only get so excited by the fifth and sixth shiny, red, pagoda-roofed edifice. But I will say this: if this clan hall were my clan hall, I would be damn excited. And so, for the purpose of class, I was forced to elaborate a bit in the essay, pretend that I actually had an impassioned opinion, and because the only opinion I had was based around my wanting the place for myself, I basically projected this attitude upon the Khoo family. Not one of my most shining pieces, but an essay on boredom surely would have been worse.

The forefathers of the Khoo family deserve to be honored for their attention to kinship, though they seem to have already taken the liberty of rewarding themselves with a sumptuous clan hall in Penang, Malaysia. It is impossible to ignore the more recent demotion of family values which have been greatly sacrificed for the rising individual—though I will admit, I haven’t been around quite long enough to prove these judgments and am basing my knowledge on what I have been told every time an elder begins: "when I was young…"—but the Khoo Kongsi Clan Hall, standing majestically amid rows of humbled wooden houses, concretizes that aforementioned intimacy in such a way that societal shifts cannot shake its foundation.

As we approach, passing hordes of men riding solo on their motorbikes, or single women strolling along sidewalks in the rain, the gold trimmings along the curves of the clan hall's roof flame up behind the woven wooden mass of houses and grow exponentially up and sideways like wildfire. The building itself remains hidden until we round a narrow corner, and then it emerges all at once: its broad base; heavy plinths for sturdy pillars holding a looming, dramatic marquee; and a brilliant façade adorned with wall carvings and lanterns and gold. Unquestionably a building for which anyone—even Hearst—would trade his own house. Its stability intimates the sort of security one seeks within his own family and seems to suggest, "family is still here; we, at least, will never be alone like those drifters outside."

I will give the Khoo family further credit for its creativity, as most temples I have seen basically mimic the décor of the outside, slightly inverted to suit the inside of a building. But this zealous clan hall adopted entirely new furnishing for its interior: striking metal bird sculptures; intricate sketches of men riding lions, dragons, elephants; and full color scene paintings on every joist, beam and rafter. This family must have been very proud, and even somewhat self-righteous, to build such an imposing edifice for itself; but again, I say that family pride is greatly overlooked, and despite the vanity inherent in the clan house, it is nice to see a bloodline so rich and hearty that a family devoted so much time to constructing this lasting monument.

According to Wikipedia—shamefully, my only resource—a new Khoo clan temple was constructed in 1844, but was so grandiose, (or so it is believed), that it burned to the ground after being struck by lightning fifty years later. Though it may be a foolish mistake to liken this belief to African religion, I cannot help but be reminded of the strategy behind naming a child so as to not draw the gods' attention to it; Chinese believed that the new clan temple's resemblance to the Emperor's palace provoked the gods and ultimately led to its expeditious destruction, and so it seems that baseless ostentation is an inter-cultural taboo. The ambition behind this project is obvious, as even after that temple was cremated, so to speak, the Khoo family persisted in building a new clan hall, as if the family will perpetually thrive as long as a building still stands in its name.

As a person in the world, I can vouch for the importance of "home," an unyielding domicile that houses people, or collective ideas, or memories. It is a sanctuary, be it a frequently visited church, bar, or a private home, and with the destruction of such an adored shelter comes the subsequent destruction of all it contains—physical, mental or imaginary. And knowing that the Khoo family emigrated from South China—again, to steal from Wikipedia—makes the clan hall all the more powerful in its potential to unify, and even though the building is somewhat extravagant, it is easy to envision the family settling into Malaysia more comfortably with this Chinese style refuge to return to.

As a tourist, I can still appreciate the hall for its pride-suffused ornamentation, far surpassing any private house—save for palaces, which I am not including in this contest—I have ever seen. The Khoos nobly commemorated family precedence in building the clan hall but didn't stop there; it then embalmed it with gold.

Were it not for the too dim lighting inside (probably used to preserve the art) and the distant location, I would surely have chosen this building as my personal palace. As if I will ever have my own palace.

That evening—if memory serves me correctly—I retired to bed early in preparation for a flight the next morning to Kuala Lumpur, a city boasted to have a night life akin to the most happening cities in the world—Hong Kong, New York, Tokyo, etc. This plan was devised only shortly before arriving in Malaysia, after my friends and I realized how cheap the flights were, and after two of us agreed to take the risk of being secret guests in an ultra chic and fancy five-star called the Swiss Garden Hotel.

After a very hectic and confused transfer from the boat to the airport, all of us (Kristin, Eilis, Kelsey and I) were accounted for and boarded the short flight to Kuala Lumpur. The taxi drive to our hotel was significantly longer than the flight, which I don't think should ever happen, but we played a number of childish and wildly entertaining word and I Spy games to the driver's annoyance until we reached our very impressive fountain-fronted hotel. The first KL meal greatly outshone the first Malaysian meal, this one involving soy meat (my most relished of foods), though it will never taste as good as it did prior to Kristin's announcing that it tasted like throw-up. She never lets me be happy.

Our dear Benson's birthday happened to be that day, so we headed to a bar he recommended we "hit up," Luna, which turned out to be worth the short trip there. It was located on the top level of a skyscraper (though I cannot recall the exact number of flights) which offered a panoramic view of the dazzling city below, and all with open windows and an open roof that seemed to thrust you into the sky. And who could forget the pool at the center of it all, lit up by the moon above and the flaming cocktails on the bar to the side.

We ended our evening there and returned home at a reasonable hour—don't worry, Mom and Dad!—only after a brief stop at KFC, the motherland, which has been surprisingly but dependably locatable in every country we've visited. So we had a few chicken nuggets then went back to the hotel where I promptly fell asleep while everyone else took advantage of the free internet, sacrificing sleep for the holy facebook.

Day three was reserved for China Town and delicious food. A perfect day. I found what I had thought to be a hopeless Halloween costume, which, to my surprise, turned out to receive a hefty number of comments at the masquerade ball on the ship, (though it could hardly have been called a ball; it was more of a deflated balloon). And I could go so far as to say that this was my best food day, consisting of a very peanut-y tofu salad for lunch and sashimi for dinner. The perk of hitting only the most coastal cities of every country is that the fish is always reliable. Note: that is in port only, never on the ship. The fish on the ship is deadly.

It was also on this day, this very historic day, that Kristin made the embarrassing purchase of Gossip Girl, Season One. Now those of you who know me at all know I would never stoop so low as to watch trashy high school dramas (i.e.: The OC, Laguna Beach, The Hills, etc.) In fact, I would generally prefer to spend the hours required to watch one season of any such show verbally expressing how much I detest them. But Kristin, that persuasive girl, managed to get me hooked, and we zipped through the whole season in twenty hours or so. And I even found myself fawning over one of the lead characters (Dan, for any fellow fans out there), something I always hear other dumb girls gossiping about, which is most despicable.

Kristin, if you're reading this, I apologize for ridiculing you for your poor taste in television shows. It may still be true that the shows you watch are entirely devoid of substance, but I am now no better than you.

Back to the substance of this thing. Night three, everyone save for me went out and had a lovely time while I went to bed, but not before wasting away on the internet for a couple hours first. It was glorious. This would be my last night in Kuala Lumpur.

The last day in Malaysia, back in Penang, Kelsey and I went on a very romantic date to the Botanic Gardens. It was one of my most carefree, mirthful days, spent eating tropical fruit and soya milk out of coconuts and capering about the jungle with exotic monkeys and Malaysians who treated us like celebrities. I hadn't experienced such fame in my whole life—strangers encroaching from afar, hiking out of their way to come hug and take pictures with us. It was bizarre, and I don't think I liked it. After leaving the gardens, Kelsey and I went on an expedition for lunch food, which apparently was a mistake as it was a Sunday and nothing is open on Sundays. That is, except for Little India, but no one should ever go there after having come from India. I warn you, you will be disappointed.

The final hours in Malaysia were shamefully devoted to that which I have already touched upon, four paragraphs above. I needn't bring it up again.

So, in conclusion, there wasn't much to be done in Malaysia. The food was delectable, but could have be found elsewhere after a bit of searching. In fact, when trying to recall the ports I needed to revisit in this blog, I completely forgot about Malaysia until I realized a void in my mental itinerary. It's may be that I didn't see the right things, but judging from my own experiences, the country made a very little impact on my memory outside of the sweet hotel (to be outdone in Beijing) and the exotic fruit (which was easily trumped by Japanese Fuji apples). Sorry, Malaysia.

So that brings us to Viet Nam. I have no previously composed essays on the place so it may take me a while longer to weave my yarn. Please be patient.