Saying Goodbye to Britain—Part III

I wasn't expecting this to be a three-parter, but I guess I have a lot to say about Britain. After all, it was my home for three years. It might seem like a brief span of time, but it was crammed full of so many experiences, both good and bad, that it seems like a lifetime. I was grateful for the few days Chris and I had together to revisit the south of England, as it brought back so many of those good memories for us.

Chris' Backyard

The coast of Cornwall is a special place for me. Back in 2008, Chris and I had explored different places along the western coast. Though the seaside villages were quaint and cozy, it was the old stuff which appealed to me the most. When you come from the American Midwest, where the oldest building in your town is 150 years old, the age of ruins in Europe can boggle the mind. To my utter delight, on that trip in 2008, I found out that Cornwall is steeped in Arthurian legend. I've never been particularly big on the whole King Arthur legend, but the mystery surrounding it has always intrigued me. Though it's widely known that such a person didn't exist, there are elements of truth to the legend. No doubt there were real people and events which inspired the story of Arthur, Lancelot, and Guinevere. As so much information was lost in the Dark Ages (the early Medieval Period when few written records were kept), we will never really know the true story of Camelot. Still, visiting places like Tintagel Castle on a high cliff above the sea, it's easy to envision it as the residence of a powerful king and his sorcerer. Tintagel is hands down one of my favorite places in Britain. It ticks all the boxes for me with its rambling mix of Roman and medieval ruins and cliffside/island location. Tintagel also comes with a cave, named Merlin's Cave, underneath the castle. There's a narrow cave corridor you can walk through to get to the pounding sea. There is also a nearby church on the cliff with a graveyard which sports weathered Celtic stone crosses. There was something about that humble stone church that spoke to me back then, and I went in to kneel before the candle-lit altar. I had been the only one in the church at the time; Chris had stayed outside. I could hear the pounding of the surf against the cliffs, as well as the howling wind. I didn't utter a prayer in that church, rather I soaked in the feel of the place. There is no doubt that Tintagel resonated with something inside of me, and its one of the most inspiring places I've been to. There's a story inside of me I still need to write about what may have happened in this dramatic setting.

So why I am bringing this up, seen as how Tintagel wasn't on our itinerary this time around? I suppose it's to evoke an air of mystery and wonder when describing Cornwall. It really is a magical place. Though my husband grew up in Cornwall, he fails to appreciate the history of his home county. Chris is more of modern history enthusiast—anything after the French Revolution. Kings, castles, standing stones—bah! Ancient history. I suppose when you grow up surrounded by ancient ruins, you might have a blasé attitude about the age of things.

After spending the night in Newquay, we headed back through the interior of Cornwall. Inevitably, we ended up in Liskeard, Chris' hometown. We stopped at Moorison's to buy some lunch, then we drove through Chris' old neighborhood. He paused the car outside of his mother's house. She may have been in there. We played around with the idea of paying her a visit. After all, I have never met the woman. The less said about that situation the better, as I respect Chris' privacy concerning his family. However, I think it's safe to say that if I didn't meet my mother-in-law then, I will never meet her.

We kept driving and ended up at a park at the end of the street. We sat on the swings and ate our lunch. After that, Chris drove us to the Minions, a wonderfully named village on the outskirts of Liskeard. I wasn't sure what there was there to see, as we started walking across what seemed like a barren moor. There was the chimney from an old tin mine in the distance, serving as a reminder of Cornwall's industrial past. However, as we continued on, we came to a standing stone ring. The Hurlers, Chris told me. Stone circles can be found all over Britain, though none quite as impressive as Stonehenge. Stonehenge is the only one you have to pay to see, and is protected behind a fence (thanks to the hippies who kept trespassing on private land). It's quite fascinating to come across these rings in the middle of a field with no fence and nobody around. You can touch the stones and lean against them and do whatever you want, though I think it's safe to say you can't dig them up.

According to Wikipedia, the Hurlers are actually three separate stone rings. There isn't a ton of information on them, other than they seem to be aligned with the sun. I circled them several times, touching them (I've read books on ley lines across Britain, and though I can't fully subscribe to the idea, it still doesn't hurt to think these stones have special powers), before we continued on towards a pile of rocks. The pile of rocks turned out to be quite a massive assemblage of rocks called The Cheesewring. I suppose this geologic wonder is named this because some of the rock stacks look like cheese presses (though I've never seen a cheese press so I couldn't tell you how accurate this is). Now that I'm studying geology, I can tell you how cool these formations are. Essentially they're slabs of granite that have been weathered, resting on top of each other like a stack of plates. I wish I had had some knowledge of geology back then to really appreciate them. To have a rock formation in the middle of a field is quite remarkable. There must have been some heavy-duty weathering going on to smooth the granite into layered slabs. Sedimentary rock, yes I can see. But granite? I can only imagine that this part of Britain had been underwater at one time. Maybe I'll go back there someday and study them closer.

As it turns out, there is a lot of granite to be found in Bodmin Moor, the area outside of Minions. We followed a path that led us to a series of rock quarries. One of the quarries had been filled with water. Chris said that he used to swim there when he was a kid. In fact, this whole area had been his playground as a kid. This was unbelievable to me that this was the first time I had heard about stone rings and piles of rocks in his backyard. What did I say about blasé?

Now the only thing I have left to see in Cornwall is Brown Willy. That'll be on our next trip through.

We made the long trip back to Salisbury, driving by Stonehenge but not stopping (we have seen it up close and personal twice, plus you can see if from the motorway). We opted for a night of reliable comfort at the Premier Inn. We have stayed in countless Premier Inns on roadtrips across Britain, and they have never failed to provide a comfy bed with the best duvets and pillows around. Also, Chris and I are suckers for the Harvester, the chain restaurant which comes attached to just about ever Premier Inn. A family-style carvery, it's not the most elegant of places, but when you're on the road, it's just what the doctor ordered. This was to be our last night together in travel-mode for a very long time.

One Last Goodbye

We rose early in the morning, before the sun, to return the car to Heathrow. From the airport, we entered the world of mass transport, the thing that has always turned me off about London. The Tube—I hate it. It's convenient enough (especially after living in Manchester where the trains run every hour, which means if you miss one, you have a long wait until the next one), but it's the maze of the underground and the heaving mass of humanity which makes me uncomfortable and out of my element. I found it daunting the first time I was in London; I found that if you pause for just a second, you risk getting mowed over. Chris loves it. London is the whore he constantly longs for. He's an absolute natural in the city, blending into crowds with ease, whereas I'm claustrophobic and anxious about flowing with the human traffic. I will never get used to it. Needless to say, I was relieved when we ascended from the rat hole of the Tube and passed through wide green openness of St. James Park to Buckingham Palace. We had some time to kill before catching our bus to Manchester, and the Queen's residence is close to Victoria Station. We joined the crowd of tourists at the gates and watched a guard do his pointless paces. It was the first time I had seen this exercise. It looked utterly ridiculous to me. Funny how tourists see this and somehow think this encapsulates British culture.

Chris was happy to revisit Victoria Station as it brought back so many happy memories for him (not so for me), and we found our bus to Manchester. We could have taken the train; it would have been quicker. But we were looking to save money, so it was one last bus journey for us. We had done this bus trip before, against our will, when we had flown back from Greece and had been redirected due to Eyjafjallajökull in Iceland erupting. Instead of Manchester, we had landed in Gatwick and been put on a bus to Manchester. It had been a long ride then. After all our bus journeys through Asia, this one should have been a piece of cake. But, for some reason, the last leg of a journey is always the longest.

It was bittersweet when the Pennines came into view. We were back in the North, the cold, hard, gritty North. Yes, I suppose that the North is harsh when compared to the green, gently rolling hills of the South. I suppose I always picture it sunny in the South, though this is just a dream scenario in my head. When I think of the North, I think of rain, red brick, and abandoned mills. Of course, the North is so much more than that. Manchester is a cultural hub, particularly with its music scene. Who doesn't know about Madchester—Manchester's cultural heyday? Well, I suppose I didn't know much about it while living in Northern Illinois, but boy did I learn about it after living in Greater Manchester. Manchester taught me so much about music; I came to appreciate music I hadn't listened to before: The Stone Roses, The Verve, Happy Mondays, Joy Division, New Order, James, The Smiths... well, I suppose I knew some Smiths' songs before leaping across the pond, but I never knew they were from Manchester, nor did I care. But now when I hear these bands, I hear Manchester. I hear the grit, the industrial grind and the red brick. And I love it. I fucking love it. If nothing else, Manchester opened the door to different types of music for me, and offered a new catalog of bands which I had been secretly craving (and no, I'm not including Oasis in there—pretentious wankers).

As the bus followed the spine of the Pennines, I felt a draw to the landscape and also sense of dread. My time in the North had been tainted from the start with psychological trauma (and a serious physical injury). I remember returning to Manchester in 2009 after spending a month in the States. As we drove through the wet, dark streets of Ashton-Under-Lyne, a severe depression descended, and an immense feeling of dread. This had to do with where we were staying at the time, in Dukinfield, which was Ground Zero for my trauma. I felt a prisoner to northern England and to all the bad memories. Thankfully things got much better after moving to Mossley, my real home-sweet-home in Britain, that quaint storybook village on the edge of the Pennines. Just getting away from red brick made a huge difference to my sanity.

It would be interesting to see what kind of effect the North would have on me after all this time. I have a different perspective on things, and Alaska has pretty much restored any sanity I might have lost. I also have my faith in humanity restored. For a long time, I felt as if the North had chipped away at me, much like the weathered granite in Bodmin Moor. I was hardened and roughed up. Perhaps I still have an edge of hardness, as it's something I will always carry with me as a souvenir. But being toughed up is a good thing as well; I don't go prancing through life like I once did, thinking that the world was all rainbows and butterflies. Of course, living in Alaska, some of those butterflies and rainbows have returned, so I have a bit of both sides now, which is a balanced way to be.

I can't say how Chris and I spent our final moments together. We stayed a few nights with his sister, Danielle, in Ashton-Under-Lyne. Her little rugrats kept us entertained and exhausted at the same time. Chris had an interview in Manchester and I went for one last visit to Mossley, climbing that impossibly steep hill in order to visit people and places I had come to love.

It was one more goodbye at the airport, as Chris came to see me off. In a history of airport goodbyes, this one was significant, as we didn't know when we would next see each other. I felt confident that we would play our roles successfully, and Chris would receive his Green Card in due time. There was a long journey still ahead of me, and for Chris, who would be navigating the maze of American bureaucracy. But there was a long journey behind us as well. Not just our world travels, but the time we had spent together in Britain. The pubs we had sat in, the drinks we had shared while engaging in hours-long conversations, the nights out in Manchester with friends, the music festivals, the spontaneous vacations in Europe, the road trips, the countless miles traveled together...

We had come so far. And still had so far to go.

 

Saying Goodbye to Britain—Part II

We woke in our cozy room in Bournemouth. A light rain fell outside, which may have been a contributing factor to our laziness as we watched TV and sipped tea. British hotels all have electric kettles in the room, along with a basket of assorted teas, and sometimes even biscuits. This was part of the vision I had entertained in Asia, crossing a room to prepare a cup of tea. It's amazing how significant those little things can be.

In Search of My Ancestry

Now that I was leaving Britain, it was time to make a very personal trip. I've always known that I have strong English roots. Ironically, more English blood flows through my veins than Chris' (he's a mix of Russian Jew and Scottish). Due to the Lane side of my family keeping accurate and detailed records, we have a family tree which goes back to the 1630s, when my English ancestors landed in New England and helped establish the town of Hingham outside of Boston (my mother's side kept a family tree as well, though it doesn't go back quite as far). My oldest ancestor is named William Lane who, according to the family tree, hailed from Dorchester, England. So, it was time to pay Dorchester a visit to see if I could dig up more information about this William character.

A rainbow greeted us upon arriving in Dorchester. This seemed an auspicious sign; I felt a trove of treasure would be found at the end of that rainbow. Indeed, Dorchester is geared for genealogy searches, mostly due to the Dorchester Company and the Great Migration. Just to give a brief history lesson—when Puritans came under persecution in England, certain preachers rounded up their members with the view to set up colonies in the New World. Companies were formed, such as the Plymouth Company and the Dorchester Company, which were supported by landed gentry (landowners and prestigious members of the community). There's a good chance that William Lane was on one of the first boats over to America, under the guidance of John Winthrop. Though there's a good chance this ancestor of mine was a Puritan twat (Greg Proops comically pointed out in one of his acts that England was more than happy to kick these fundamentalist weirdos out), there was also a good chance that he was of high rank in society. After all, I've been raised with the Lane urban myth that we are all somehow related to Ann Boleyn. Somewhere there is a royal link. I was hoping to find that link in Dorchester.

Chris was more than happy to help me on this search. We started off at a museum, but a helpful lady there pointed us in the direction of the History Centre, just down the road. We hit the jackpot as far as records were concerned. There was an archive library where we thumbed through books and poured over microfilm. There were a lot of false starts, as Lane was a rather popular name, and many Lanes had filtered through Dorchester on their way to the New World. I did find a blurb in a book with the mention of a William Lane from Dorchester, who, with his family, departed from Weymouth on the Hopewell in 1635, to land in Massachusetts Bay.

I still searched for that royal connection. By some thorough digging, I found that there was a Maud Lane, the daughter of Sir William Parr, a relation to Catherine Parr (Henry the XIII's sixth and final wife). I was not able to link Maud Lane to my ancestor, William Lane, but at least I found a royal connection. It wasn't Ann Boleyn; it was Catherine Parr, who fared much better than poor Ann. Ann had more notoriety, yes, but I'll settle for Catherine. But the link isn't concrete. There were a lot of Lanes kicking around in southern England in those days. Perhaps the most famous Lane was Sir Ralph Lane, husband of Maud Lane (Parr). He was one of the first English explorers in America, looking to colonize Raonoke Island in North Carolina (he didn't succeed). Knighted by Queen Elizabeth, he held a position in Parliament for Higham Ferrers. What's Higham Ferrers, you may ask? Why it was a small town in Northhamptonshire. Maybe it's a stretch, but it certainly sounds familiar to the town William Lane helped found in 1635. Higham, Hingham—see the similarity? Ok, it is a stretch, I admit that. One may have nothing to do with the other. But there's nothing to suggest that Ralph Lane isn't my ancestor. My grandmother Lane used to speak about an ancestor of ours who founded a colony in America. I'd like to believe it, even if I can't necessarily prove it. I'll keep looking, as more information is available on the internet, and I find this genealogy stuff so damn fascinating.

The British Seaside

We left Dorchester with a sense of accomplishment. Dorchester and the surrounding countryside is gorgeous, especially when the sun is shining. Between the white poofy clouds overhead, and the poofy clumps of sheep across stretched green hills, England was looking very storybook again.

Chris had a hankering for fish n' chips. The best fish n' chips in the world, so he said. As he's always going on about British fish n' chips being the best on the planet (they'd better be, considering Britain doesn't have much else going for it culinary-wise), I was looking forward to our lunch stop in Beer.

Beer—isn't that a great name for a town? Though we didn't consume any beer, we ordered two servings of fish n' chips from a shack and sat on the beach in the sun. British beaches aren't the best, since they mostly consist of pebbles or cobbles. We didn't go running barefoot into the water; in fact, the wind was quite brisk and we had to bundle up as we sat there. But it was still a perfect moment. The fish n' chips were good, though a bit on the greasy side. I've always found the British style (served in one huge battered fillet) is heavy. When the breading flakes off, it comes off in one grease-laden piece. Also they give you the tiniest of forks, like a fairy's pitchfork, to eat with. It makes stabbing the chips (fat fries) easy, but is rather impractical for fillet of fish. Still, with a bit of malt vinegar and a squeeze a lemon, maybe some tarter sauce (and a side of mushy peas if you're lucky), British fish n' chips are indeed the best, especially when consumed on a beach in the sunshine.

Our stop for the night was in Plymouth. We had booked a room at a hostel, though we requested a private room. Located in a line of row houses by the Hoe (yes, the Hoe), we were set for a night out. The Hoe is a seaside promenade, elevated on a cliffside above the sea. This stretch of the city offers fantastic views across the water, and also a bit of culture with monuments and statues. The most famous person hailing from Plymouth is Sir Francis Drake, the English navigator and sea captain commissioned by Queen Elizabeth to circumvent the globe. As this was a day for ancestors, Chris proudly stood by the statue of Drake, claiming his bloodline. Turns out his family has their own version of the Ann Boleyn urban legend.

It wasn't a crazy night out in Plymouth (though if you stay out late enough anywhere in Britain, a crazy night is almost always guaranteed). We revisited a pub we had sat in on that legendary first road trip through southern England. It's a nautical-themed pub right on the Barbican, the harbor area. The streets in the Barbican are brick, narrow and sloping, and lined with quaint buildings which date back to Mayflower days. This particular pub looked old enough to entertain Pilgrims, or more likely, pirates. Old, leatherbound books adorned the nook where we sat, the exact same spot we had sat back in 2008. We had fallen in love back then with our flirting and conversation. This time, perhaps there was less flirtation, but the conversation was flowing, despite having spent the last six months together. It felt good to be back in Britain, for both of us.

The next day we continued along the coast, heading to Cornwall. Cornwall is like the Maine of England: farmers and fisherman, and the wild, wild sea. And sheep. Lots of sheep. Cornwall can be considered its own country, as its distinctly different from the rest of England. Though it's technically a peninsula, with the Tamar River dividing most of Cornwall and neighboring Devon, it can feel more like an island with its isolation. Culturally, Cornwall has more in common with Wales than it does with London. This is because with the Roman, Anglo-Saxon, Norman invasions, the Celts got pushed to the fringes of the island. Like clans in Scotland, they have their own tartan (yellow with black). They also have their own language (though not really in use), and more importantly, the Cornish are the creators of the Cornish pasty.

We were dying for a pasty by the time we got to Marizion. This was a new place for both of us. Even though Chris grew up in Liskeard, a mere 9 miles from the coast, he had never been to the tip of his home county. The attraction in Marizion is St. Michael's Mount, the counterpart to the more famous Mont Saint-Michel across the English Channel in France. Though smaller, it's located on a tidal island with a causeway. Having been to Mont Saint-Michel (one of the wonders of the world, in my opinion), we were delighted to find the similarities. We ate our pasties on the beach (the weather was on our side once again) and jumped across the channels of water. We didn't bother to walk to the actual Mount (which is a castle and a chapel, unlike the walled city of Mont Saint-Michel); it was impressive enough from a distance.

Our next stop was Land's End, on the tippy tip of Britain. This is great place to watch surf pounding cliffs and stare out across the giant blue stretch of water, envisioning the Statue of Liberty thousands of miles away (though I think we were looking more towards Spain). Land's End is popular for hikers looking to walk England end-to-end, the other "end" being in John O'Groats, Scotland. Chris and I have both entertained the idea of doing this walk. It's approximately 1,200 miles in length and takes about 3 months to complete. The tiny museum at Land's End features the profiles from some of these hikers. There was the guy who ran it in 9 days, 2 hours and 2 minutes, the world record. My favorite was the guy who hiked it naked (quite a feat considering British weather). Looking at the photos and the smiles on their faces, you think that it's a walk in the park. Britain is flat, right? Wrong. Dead wrong. Britain has hills, which are really ancient mountain chains. Chris and I attempted part of the Pennine Way back in the summer of 2009, and we found out just how tough these "hills" can be (that was the trail we had to abort when I sprained my ankle). You never know, maybe someday we will tackle that end-to-end walk, but only when Britain undergoes a drought. (Hiking in rain day-in and day-out, to me, is a form of torture.)

The sun was on our side. It's to be noted that Cornwall boasts the best weather in all of Britain. If Chris and I decide to retire in the UK, we're retiring in Cornwall (there are even palm trees!) St. Ives, our next stop, was drenched in sunshine. Neither of us had been to St. Ives before. Perhaps we had avoided it in the past because of the crowds. It seemed that the whole population of Cornwall had gathered at this seaside artist enclave. But then again, Brits sure do appreciate the sun when it's out. They go bonkers for it. As Chris and I enjoyed another meal of pasties, we sat on a fine-sand beach and watched locals and tourists alike soaking in the sun. Ice cream sales catapult on sunny days in Britain, as it's an unspoken rule that everyone must buy a 99 Flake (a vanilla ice cream cone with a Cadbury Flake jammed in). Oh, I do love the British for this though, even when it's 40 degrees and blustery, they'll sit there with ice cream cones. And their tea. Yes, in Britain they bring tea to the beach. Crazy stuff.

Our stop for the night was in Newquay, Cornwall's party town. At least I was led to believe it's a party town. I've never seen it for myself. It must be some kind of myth. Chris and I hit the string of bars by the water's edge and ate and drank with a subdued crowd. It was Saturday night and moms were out sipping wine. Chris was a bit disappointed, as I think he wanted to relive old times. He had gotten together with his brother earlier, driving to a midway point between Newquay and Liskeard. I was glad that they had had a chance to catch up. With Chris moving to the States, it was uncertain just how often he would be seeing his family.

Everything was going so smoothly on this goodbye trip around Britain. The travel gods were blessing us, though they were making it hard for me to be leaving all this charm and beauty behind.

 

Saying Goodbye to Britain—Part I

We were due back in Britain for October 10th, our anniversary date. By that, I mean our wedding anniversary date; not our travel anniversary date. We had bought a flexible RTW pass, which is the way to go when you're traveling without a fixed itinerary. Though we had purchased our round-trip tickets from London to Bangkok (via Dubai) with six months between, we had planned to change the return flight for a longer stay. But, as you can gather from previous posts, due to a mixture of travel fatigue and dwindling funds, we stuck to the original date on our return flight.

 

Okay, so we didn't get our full year abroad. Boo hoo, right? Not at all, as there is only so much you can do while backpacking. There are only so many restaurants you can sit in, so many beers you can drink, so many beaches you can lay on, so many temples to explore. Perhaps it was because of our age—we felt we’d done it all and were feeling a bit jaded. In fact, that last push through Laos and Northern Thailand had been brutal for me. I was lusting for something different; a cultural experience from the opposite end of the spectrum. Because of this, Alaska was all that more appealing. I was itching to get on the road, driving across the open swath of country, heading into the great white north.

 

I had booked my ticket to America, from Manchester to Chicago, allowing a few extra days in Britain. This was brilliant, as Chris and I could take one last whirl around the UK together.

 

It's to be noted that Chris was going to be staying behind in the UK while I returned to the States. There was the little matter of obtaining a Green Card—a process not to be taken lightly. Chris had started the process before we left on our travels. Now he had lots of paperwork and a daunting interview ahead of him. My job was to set up a place in the States, to have a permanent address and adequate income to support him. This meant no dilly-dallying on my way to Alaska. I was focused in my goal to set up shop. After months of luxuriating in the sun, it felt good to have the drive to get things done.

 

Although we didn't know how long we'd be apart (the Green Card process can take a very long time), we were both confident in our roles. Chris would be staying with his sister in Manchester, thus saving money for America. He had an interview for an accounting position at the airport. I had my phone interview with Mountain Market as soon as I got back to the States. Alaska wasn't entirely set in stone; it depended on me getting a job. The more research I did on Haines, the more apprehensive I became. With a year-round population 2,500, this was by far the smallest community I’d ever lived in. And the isolation was a bit staggering. Though there was a road in and out of Haines, the nearest sizable community was Whitehorse in the Yukon, a four-and-a-half-hour drive away. There was also Juneau, the capital of Alaska, but that was either a plane or ferry ride away. In fact, Skagway (population 900) is Haines' closest neighbor, 20 miles away as the crow flies. But to reach it by road, you have to head north through the Yukon and British Columbia, about a six-hour drive. This was all fascinating stuff I was finding out. All this had me nervous, but at the same time I found it thrilling. Wasn't this what I wanted—something completely different from the north of England? Well if it was different I wanted, Haines was the place for me.

 

All this was on my mind as we took the long flight from Bangkok to London. Flying Emirates, the time literally flew by. We made a short stop in Dubai, but this time we didn't leave the airport. As we took off, circling over the city, we finally saw all the sites we had failed to see on the ground while we were slogging through the streets. We saw the Burj Khalifa (the world's tallest building), poking into the sky like a steel icicle; we also saw the Palm Islands, the man-made archipelagos shaped like palm fronds. I can honestly say that Dubai is more impressive from the air than it is from ground-level.

 

Landing in Britain was significant. It was like coming home. After living in the UK for three years, I’d become accustomed to life there. I thought in pounds instead of dollars; I weighed produce in grams instead of ounces; zucchini had become courgettes and jelly was something you put in a trifle instead of on a sandwich. It had taken a long time, but British life had started making sense to me. And now I was leaving. This last roadtrip around the UK really helped me to realize the love-hate relationship (but mostly love) I have with this country.

 

Anniversary in Hounslow

 

Chris and I had always gone big for our wedding anniversary: first anniversary: Paris, second anniversary: Wales, and—get ready for this—for our third anniversary: Hounslow. You might hear of Hounslow if you're flying in or out of Heathrow Airport, as you might pass through it in a taxi or by bus or train. But Hounslow isn't really a place where you stop. Though Chris and I have passed through this slice of Britain countless times before, this was the first time we had actually made it a destination.

A great number of Heathrow workers live in Hounslow. According to Wikipedia, over 50% of residents were born outside of the UK; walking around, it's easy to believe that. This was amusing to us, after traveling through Asia, to find Hounslow so densely packed with culture. We felt we were the only white people on the street, heaving our bags past Indian takeaways and shops.

Our hostel for the night was located on the second floor of a pub. We were back in British-style brick buildings with dark decors, with a long, narrow hallways and series of doors. I've never understood the door-thing in Britain. Why so many friggin doors? I noticed this on my first visit to the UK. Every hotel we stayed in had doors on top of doors. Was it a fire code thing, or do Brits just like the feeling of being closed in? I've never received satisfying answers to these questions.

We were weary after our long flight, touching down in Heathrow around 7pm. After hauling our bags through the streets of Hounslow, we weren't up for a lot of celebrating. The pub, though British in design (with the characteristic dark paneling, worn carpet, elaborate row of taps, as well as Boddington's beer coasters on the tables), had an unmistakable Sikh flavor. I suppose the Bhangra videos playing across a giant screen helped with that effect. We ordered kebabs with chips—food we had not found in Southeast Asia—and tucked in while watching Sikh versions of the Backstreet Boys moving en troupe across the screen. These videos held our rapt attention; the women were astoundingly beautiful while the guys in turbans and pajama pants showed off their MC Hammer moves. Chris and I agreed that, ironically, this was the most cultural experience we’d had in awhile.

I was back in Rum-and-Coke country. There's something about dreary, rainy weather and a dark pub interior which makes this cocktail such a delight. Before Chris and I clinked drinks in celebration of our anniversary, I swirled the ice around in my glass with a tiny straw. My consternation turned to ebullience as I realized the water was safe to drink. This was a huge revelation. No more worrying about getting sick. No more sizing up a meal, wondering what bugs might be lingering. No more worrying about the haunting effects of certain meals on long bus journeys. We’d stepped over a threshold of comfort and security. We were truly home. In Hounslow, yes, but home just the same.

Our beds for the night were adequate. Perhaps we could have gotten better accommodations for our anniversary, but London is the most expensive place on earth to spend a night. We had our own bunk bed in a room shared with others, but the beds were comfy and we were exhausted. There is something so good about British beds, with their fluffy white duvets and pillow-like mattresses. You just sink in and there's instant comfort. The cold, rainy weather is always ideal for sleeping, and you just slip into the soft folds and get whisked away to the land of slumber. Who cares if you're woken in the middle of night by drunk wankers? It's all so terribly British.

Road Trip

In our brief time together, Chris and I have explored a lot of Britain through road trips. As everything is so close and historically significant, there is a lot to see on this island without covering a lot of ground. For our last road trip, we decided to stick to the south, doing a loop through Hampshire, Dorset, Devon, Cornwall, and Wiltshire before catching a bus up to Manchester.

After hiring a car (hiring—even after all this time I'm slipping back into Brit-speak), we headed west into the countryside. It was good to have the hum of the road under us. It felt like freedom, to see what we wanted to see and to have control over the speed of our journey. There was also a sense of privacy that we hadn't had in our travels, singing along to the radio and loudly poking fun at one another. It was reminiscent of our very first road trip together through Britain. Incidentally, our first road trip had been similar to our goodbye trip, the sites being just slightly different (Stonehenge and Bath the first time around; The New Forest and Dorchester the second). But we were revisiting a few places too, namely Cornwall and Plymouth. The images of these places are seared into my brain where good memories lie. It was on the road where I had fallen deeply in love with Chris. Yes, I had been attracted to him before, maybe even more than attracted. But it was on that first British road trip where Chris had opened up and thoroughly charmed me with his wit and intelligence. Funnily enough, his grand epiphany happened on this first road trip as well, as he had touched my arm on the highway outside of Stonehenge while I slept. That was when he realized he really loved me (isn't that a lovely story?). That trip cemented in our minds that we were meant to be together. So revisiting this journey, or some aspects of this journey, was significant as well as bittersweet, for the Atlantic was going to be separating us once again.

On the first day of driving, we passed through the New Forest, a sparsely populated area in Hampshire. It's the only place in Britain I know that is covered in large swaths of forest. Most forestland had been transformed to moors through the ages as residents chopped down trees for firewood and construction. This seems to happen on islands more often than not. Anyway, there is something incredibly romantic about a British forest. You get the sense of Robin Hood and noble ladies on horseback. The trees seem to whisper secrets of the past. Yes, there is something particularly magical about the New Forest. The light is magical, as well as the wild ponies that freely roam through the forest. And there's a quiet feel to it all, away from the rest of southern England.

Chris and I had spent a few days exploring the New Forest villages a few years back, while visiting the Salisbury area. Okay, I'm getting giddy with history, remembering these places. Sometimes I really wonder why I left England for Alaska. Alaska has the beauty on a grand scale, but pockets of Britain are so utterly charming it makes you kind of delirious. Anyway, the villages of the New Forest—they are like places out of a storybook. Of course, the tourist industry capitalizes on that. For instance, the town of Burley is known for its witchcraft; shops and pubs are all witch-themed. This can be seen as cutesy, but it's also taken seriously, as many Brits have identified with the old pagan ways. Towns like Burley would probably not go over well in America, but they are well suited for rural England.

It was raining pretty hard so Chris and I didn't linger long in the New Forest. We did stop at Lyndhurst where we went for a walk to stretch our legs. We ended up at an old church where we happened across the grave of Alice Hargreaves, the real-life Alice from Lewis Carroll's novel. This is what I mean about Britain—you literally stumble upon history; it's simply everywhere. Shops and cafes in Lyndhurst are geared towards Alice in Wonderland, with names like "The Mad Hatter Tea Room." This may nauseate some, but after Southeast Asia, it seemed charming all over again, like seeing Britain through a fresh set of eyes. To get out of the rain, Chris and I popped into a cafe and ordered a pot of tea between us. To sit and sip tea and look out at the rain is an essential British moment. Tea and rain go together perfectly. I can't tell you how many times I've hurried through the rain, on my way home from work in Northern England, craving a nice cup of tea. I suppose I still do this to some extent, though the charm isn't quite the same in America.

Pulling out of the New Forest, heading towards Dorset, we stopped at a Tesco supermarket. Reintroduced to the abundance of the Western world, we were the proverbial kids in the candy store. Everything was recognizable to us! Things we had been craving on the road were now at our disposal. We loaded up on cheese and wine and continued to our hotel in Bournemouth where we dined in style on our soft fluffy bed while watching British TV. I ask you—does life get any better?

Closing the Loop

We took a boat across the mighty Mekong. This was a significant journey, as it meant that we were returning to Thailand, where our Asian adventure had begun just 5 months before. We were finally reaching the end of our travels.

This couldn't have happened at a better time. I was running on fumes. There was nothing inspiring, nothing new under the sun for us to see. We had considered stepping across the Thai border to Myanmar, to just take a peek at another culture and to add another country to our list, but we were too exhausted to even bother.

Our bus ride from hell to the Thai border had taken eleven hours. Our next leg was to Chiang Mai, in Northern Thailand, another seven hours away. We were put in a minivan, where I tried to sleep the time away, but I couldn't shake my discomfort. My ankles swelled up like balloons, giving me much-dreaded "cankles." This should have been an indication that our bodies needed some serious rest and relaxation, but against our better judgement, what did we do? Sign up for a two-day trek into the hills.

The Last Great Adventure

Why did we do it? Why did we push ourselves this way? I suppose we were on automatic, and sensing adventure, we'd just sign up for whatever came our way. After all, we approached this trip like a job. It was our duty to experience as much as possible. Nobody said this would ever be easy.

Chiang Mai is the tourist capital of the north. Backpackers gather here to engage in all kinds of activities. Like good backpackers, we joined the fray. A hike into the hills, spending the night in a village with a family, not to mention a plethora of other activities—we'd be fools not to do this. Come on, one last adventure before heading back to the real world.

The groups for these hill trek tours were small. Chris and I were put with a young Italian couple, who fortunately, were very friendly. Sat on boards in the back of an open-air taxi, we were transported through the lush landscape.

Our first stop was the Karen village. Perhaps most people associate the Karen with colorful photos of women with large rings around their necks. This is somewhat true, as this tradition is still followed, but only by the subset group of Kayan. Though the majority of this tribe live in Myanmar, a good number of them have migrated to Northern Thailand, where they now make a profit off tourism. I was excited to be visiting this village, but that excitement soon turned to feelings of discomfort as we walked around. The women were on show, like animals in a zoo. Sat in booths, they had little interaction with us, weaving and displaying their crafts. Nothing about this experience seemed very authentic. We didn't have to ask to take photos, as it was expected of us. None of them made eye contact, they just went about their business while we snapped pictures. The photos were spectacular, don't get me wrong, it was just the lack of interaction which was unsettling. There was something unmistakably exploitive about it, and I felt apologetic as I focused my camera lens on each of their faces. There were only women in this "village." A number of them had the neck rings; the older they were, the more rings. I couldn't help but feel claustrophobic looking at these contraptions. I have a problem with tight collars; I can't image what it would feel like to have all that weight around my neck. At first glance, it appears that these rings cause the women to have long necks, but in actuality, the weight of these rings push down on their shoulders, deforming them. For this effect, the rings have to be put on when they're children, when their bones are still forming. There were young girls rambling about with stacks of rings. As they get older, no doubt more rings will be added, until they're old withered women with giraffe necks. It would be impossible to take these rings off at this point, as their necks would no longer be able to support their heads. They were thus prisoners to these contraptions. Yet another example of how women suffer for perceptions of beauty.

A happier experience came by way of the Snake Show. I'm one of those people who don't mind snakes. In fact, one of my favorite photos of myself is me posing with a python draped around my shoulders (this was way before Britney Spears; she must have copied me). I've knelt before cobras in the Jemaa el-Fnaa in Marrakesh; I'm totally okay with that kind of thing. So I didn't necessarily get the heebie jeebies from watching the Snake Show. It was more entertaining than anything, especially with the MC sounding like Leslie Chow from The Hangover movies, his voice villainous, yet when drawn out, it was oddly seductive. As guys dangled snakes at the audience, techno music would be playing, interspersed with the MC going, "Helllooooo, how you?..hehe... kiss snake..sexy sexy...nice kiss...hehe...wow, so crazy." The Snake Show—not quite ready for Vegas, but entertaining nonetheless.

After a few more stops, it was time to get serious. We were dropped off on a trail where we met our guide, a young guy named Wit. I don't know how witty he was, as he openly admitted he was suffering from a hangover. This was good, as I wasn't the one to be bringing up the rear for once.

The hike was pretty heavy-duty—uphill for four hours. Chris and I, no strangers to sweat, were perspiring on a whole new level. Every inch of fabric clung to my body as if a tidal wave had just washed over me. Chris actually took a picture of my face, the hue of red found on my skin was that impressive. It wasn't just the heat, it was the humidity which was forcing drops of sweat out of every pore. It was like hiking uphill in a steam bath. My goodness, I couldn't wait to reach the village.

We reached a refreshment stand near the summit of our trek. 7-11 was scrawled in marker across a styrofoam cooler. And yes, it was as good as a 7-Eleven as it served ice cold cans of soda and beer. We were relieved to see the prices were decent and downed drinks in an effort to put moisture back into our bodies. From that stand, the village wasn't far. The hard part was over.

The village was authentic and basic; no electricity, wooden huts on stilts, children and farm animals milling about. Our sleeping accommodations were located in a wooden hut, and consisted of mats and blankets on a wooden floor with mosquito nets draped around. We were sharing this space with the Italians. This was so rustic; I was fearing the bathrooms. Fortunately the facilities were modern, with flush toilets, so at least I got to cross that off my worry list. What was fervently put on my worry list were the spiders which inhabited the wooden bathroom stalls. They were furry and about the size of my hand. I asked the guide about them. Though Wit had limited English, he took a look at one of the spiders I pointed out, and he went after it with a stick and told me "Bad, bad." So great, venomous spiders in the bathroom. Perfect.

We showered in makeshift bamboo stalls. I've enjoyed better showers, but this was adequate to wash off the sweat and leave us feeling somewhat refreshed. There was no entertainment in the village, so we were left to sit on a deck to watch the children. One of the kids had a pet beetle which he kept on a string leash. There were also balloons to bat around, so we did this with the children until it was time to eat. Wit had prepared for us a simple meal of curry and rice, which we ate while sitting in a circle on the deck. It was all so simple and perfect, especially as the sun went down and Guilio, the Italian, strummed for us a song on a guitar that had been procured from somewhere in the village. A fire burned in the middle of our circle, and it felt very camp-like. The stars came out over the balcony of trees, and the insects began their mating song. Yes, it was all starting to look so romantic.

Then it was time for bed. Though sleeping on mats sounds pretty harsh, it wasn't too bad and I thought with my dire exhaustion, I'd be asleep in no time. Well, once again, my body decided to fuck me over, denying me the sleep I so badly needed. Chris was snoring beside me; he evidently had no trouble catching some Zzzz's, though I was embarrassed about his snoring with the Italian couple just a mosquito net away. So what do I do when I can't sleep? I pee. Repeatedly. The first time was horrid enough, as I had to leave the hut and descend some stairs to get bathroom stalls; not the easiest of journeys. Then I had to pee in a stall that was harboring venomous spiders. I made the trip as quickly as I could. Nestled into my spot beside Chris, I thought that wouldn't be any further hindrances to sleep. But I couldn't get the thought of those spiders out of my head. There were huge gaps in the bamboo boards of our hut. There was absolutely nothing that could keep the spiders out of our blankets. My skin crawled through the night, and of course, that fear only perpetuated my need to go visit the bathroom where those spiders were most definitely waiting for me. This psychological game of spiders put me in a strange frame of mind. I got up to go to the bathroom again, and as I was sitting there, sweeping my flashlight around the edges of the stall, the beam swept across a questionable figure that was incongruous to the boards. There were telltale legs, and bubbly eyes, and mandibles. One of those bloody spiders was behind the door handle. The fucking door handle! This is seriously the stuff of nightmares for me. I remember working in the cornfields as a teenager and being locked in the outhouse with its resident wolf spider (a game that the boys loved to play). I had freaked out then; I was desperately trying not to freak out in this village in the middle of the night. I calmly unlocked the door with my foot and edged it open. And then I booked it up to the hut. I knew I wouldn't be sleeping after that, so I hung out on the deck, watching the clouds move past the full moon. The sky was quilty with poofy clouds; very beautiful. I had to ask myself how the hell I had ended up here. I mean really—how the hell did I end up at this spot in Northern Thailand? This wasn't a bad "How did I get here" moment, but rather a philosophical one. Who am I? What is my place in this universe? Is there some meaning to all of this? Despite all the spider-madness, thoughts were running deep that night.

Having suffered another sleepless night, I was ready to crash. Thoughts of fluffy white duvets and sparkling clean bathrooms danced on the periphery of my mind. But comfort wasn't in the books for that day, for once the sun rose and breakfast was eaten, we were off on another hike. Thankfully, this hike was mostly downward, but it was still long and ambling. It was another sweat-fest. We came to a thunderous waterfall where we all took a dip in the cool, refreshing waters. I didn't want to change into my swim suit, so I went in fully clothed. The waterfall was quite powerful, with tons of water pouring down all around. I could only endure the fringes of the waterfall. After looking up and imagining a tree, or a log, come barreling over the edge, I booked it back to the safety of the rocks.

We finally made it back to transportation. The hiking portion of this tour was over. This came as a relief, but the activities kept coming. First we had an hour-long elephant ride. This was very different from our elephant encounter in Malaysia. In Malaysia, we were just giving bananas to banana-weary elephants, and pretty much observing. In Northern Thailand, you can be seated like royalty upon one of these gentle beasts. Chris and I sat astride one elephant, and the Italian couple were on another. A handler guided our elephants down a track. This was more exciting that it sounds, for the track was steep and narrow, and I could envision Dumbo taking a wrong step and tumbling down into the river (I guess having a horse collapse on me when I was child doesn't help visions like this). Thankfully Dumbo was used to the route and brought us safely to flat ground.

The next segment of this tour involved white water rafting. My psyche was incredibly fragile after my night with the spiders, plus fears of waterfalls and logs and tumbling elephants. If I was going to die on any of these activities, it would surely be on the whitewater rafting bit. But surprisingly, the rafting was the activity I enjoyed the most. All I needed was a rush of adrenaline to get my system revved. I couldn't stop whooping and hollering as we made our way through the rapids. This was the height of fun for me. I wanted it to go on longer, but downriver we transferred to bamboo rafts, which took a top-notch rafting experience down to zero. We floated on these bamboo rafts, our butts half-below water. It was more an experience of slow sinking than it was rafting. But this was our last activity, and we were on our way back to Chang Mai. We had done it. We had survived this last little adventure. And now... it was time to sleep.

Running on Empty

I slept for days. I was so lethargic, I could barely crawl out of bed and force myself down the road to get food. A corner was turned where I couldn't process any more travel. I wanted nothing more than a bed and the comforts of home. To imagine myself waking up in the morning and preparing a cup of tea was the height of comfort to me. To not have to get dressed and walk down an alley, dodging motorbikes and vendors, but rather to cross one's own living room, to one's kitchen, and put the kettle on, while wearing pj's and slippers—this was my new version of heaven.

We stayed in Chang Mai a few more nights. Nothing incredibly notable happened. The city itself is impressive, with its city walls and cool backpacker vibe. But I was done with all that. Slippers and a cup of tea—that was what was on my wish list.

There was one morning where we woke up early to catch the Presidential Debate. This was 2012 and it was Romney against Obama. I had missed Obama's first term in office; I didn't want to think I had missed the Obama boat all together, so I was keenly interested to see how this debate would go. We caught the debate on CNN, and were sorely disappointed with Obama's performance. He seemed to be half-asleep through the whole thing, whereas Romney spoke with passion and conviction. Come on, Obama—I advised him across the miles—you can't be resting on your laurels. You got to be fighting for your second term. I was worried what America might be by the time I returned. I had heard that Obama was falling out of favor due to his lack of initiative. Thankfully, that first debate was not indicative of the rest of his campaign, and he fought in the following elections.

Just a jaunt down Memory Lane here—that election in 2008. I was just finding my political footing in this world (having grown up politically neutral) and had caught Obama-fever. That was the first election I ever voted in. It was also the first election I followed with interest. I actually cried when the votes came in from the west coast, and it was blue across the board. What a moment of pride. The world celebrated as well; I remember Chris telling me about the reaction in London at the time. And now that Obama is ending his reign, I am happy that America gave him two terms. It may be too soon to tell just how he stands as president against all the rest, but I think history will judge him favorably.

Ending Things with a Roar

So, travel-weary as we were, we had one last activity up our sleeve. And this one would be worth dragging ourselves out of bed for. We were going to Tiger Kingdom.

Despite the extravagance of the price, our expectations were low. Yes, there would be tigers, that wasn't in question, but would we get to pet and interact with them? Though Tiger Kingdom says they don't drug their tigers, I still envisioned comatose, or at the very least, sleeping, tigers. Perhaps we could crouch next to them for a photo, but that might be the extent of it. With these low expectations in place, Tiger Kingdom was the stuff of magical dreams.

The tigers came in four sizes: smallest, small, medium, and big. We signed up for the smallest, small, and big. First up were the smallest. We were instructed on how to approach and handle these three-month old tiger cubs. We learned never approach a tiger from the front. This surprised me, as I'm used to animals that like to smell you before they accept your presence. Not so with tigers. They like a back approach. They also like their bellies rubbed, and their paws held. We were admitted into the cub pen, where cubs were running around and frolicking with one another. Right off, I could see that this was great stuff with lots of opportunities to interact with the animals. As rolly-polly as they were, we could lay across them and play with their paws. We had to keep clear of their faces, as they could tear us to pieces, even at that young age. They were about the size of a full-grown dog, and their paws were as big as our hands. As cute as they were, they were still dangerous beasts. We had to keep that in mind, even as they were flopping around us and stalking their litter mates. I couldn't believe that we were just sitting in a jumble of tiger cubs. It was just too unreal! I could not stop smiling or laughing.

We moved onto the bigger cats, and these were a bit different than the cubs. Since tigers sleep a lot, they lay around in the shade all day, which is what these particular cats were doing. The handler was more on guard here than the handler with the cubs. These were seriously big beasts. We did our usual thing, which was to lay against the tiger from the back, smiling for the camera as the pictures were snapped at a ferocious rate. My once-in-a-lifetime opportunity came when the handler told me to touch the tiger's balls. "Really?" I asked him. "Yes, yes," he assured me. "He likes it." So I touched the tiger's balls, and his tail swished and curled, as if saying "More please." It felt slightly wrong, but I can say that I've actually tickled a tiger's balls.

The big cats were effing huge, approaching the 18-month mark. Eighteen months is the cut-off, when the tigers become too unpredictable in their behavior to interact with tourists. After that they're sold to zoos or other facilities which handle big cats. This sounds horrible, I know, but at least these cats are cared for and safe from poachers.

I can't adequately express the exquisite beauty of these creatures. Being able to lay against them and inhale their scent and feel them breathe is almost a spiritual experience. We could hold their paws and tails, and pet and stroke them (just not their faces) and they accepted our presence. If I know cats, and I think I do, I know that they don't allow you to do anything to them that don't like. These cats seemed pretty content. We ate up so much digital space with our photos at Tiger Kingdom, but it still wasn't enough. Probably the highlight of my life right there.

Back at the Beginning

Even though the tiger experience had momentarily awakened us from our travel lethargy, the weariness was back as we headed back to Bangkok. We took a train, and I can honestly say that I don't remember anything from it. Like those big cats, I was sleeping like 18 hours a day.

Checking into our guesthouse on the outskirts of Khao San Road, I spent most of my time in the room. Chris ventured off a few times on his own to shop for souvenirs and to enjoy a few last cheap beers in the tropical heat, but the thrill had long worn out. Last minute shopping trips were for practical items. On one trip outside our hotel room, I decided to buy a pair of Diesel jeans, as I was more than ready to throw out my collection of backpacker garb. Buying a stylish pair of jeans in Bangkok is not a problem; buying jeans for a Western-size ass is the problem. The poor girl who waited on me in the store was like, "Biggest jeans we have" as I squeezed into a muffin-top-producing pair. I decided to get them anyway, just in the off chance I might lose weight. Which leads me to the subject of weight—why had I not lost weight? I mean, I know this blog makes it sound like we sat around and read and drank beer a lot, but traveling is exhausting business. We walked a lot. And I mean, a lot. Also the heat and humidity should have had an effect on us: loss of appetite, body looking to shed unwanted insulation. Not to mention all those stomach bugs. Why were we essentially the same weight we were when we had first touched down in Bangkok? It doesn't seem fair. At least I know that if five months through Southeast Asia won't help me to lose weight, then nothing will. I won't even try dieting and exercise.

And now, for the final tally of our epic six months of travel: nineteen countries, two major illnesses, one corneal ulcer, one volcano trek, two elephant encounters, one boat ride with dolphins, one cremation ceremony, one tiger ball-tickling, one night with spiders, countless gongs donged, many great meals, and a collection of photos and memories to see us through the rest of our lives.

Would I do it again? Hell yes! 

Pushing Through

Sleeper bus time again. After the panic we had experienced on the motorbikes through the streets of Hanoi, a sleeper bus wasn't looking so bad. It was crammed to the rafters with other tourists looking to make the trip to Laos. Our seats were tucked in the back on the first level, which seemed ideal for nonstop novel reading. This bus journey put all the other rides to shame—a whopping 24 hours on the road. A sedative would have been appreciated, to spend that 24 hours in blissful oblivion, but alas, nothing is ever that easy in travel land, and we just had to endure this journey.

We had to backtrack down the length of Vietnam to Vinh, and then across to the Laos border. As we moved inland, I noticed the bathrooms getting progressively worse (there was no bathroom on our bus, even though it had been promised to us). This may not be a big deal for a guy who can pee in just about any situation, but for me, this was the stuff of nightmares: crouching over a cement hole amidst spider webs while watching for perverts, as there were no doors on the stalls. There was one bathroom we visited in the middle of the night that had no light, so I had to stumble in and estimate the location of the cement hole, hoping I wouldn't fall in.

By this time, I was wearing travel fatigue like an extra rucksack on my back. Since Hue, I had been heavily entertaining the idea of moving to Alaska. Crisp, cold, air, abundant space, and American comforts appealed to me more than anything I was experiencing in Southeast Asia. As far as I was concerned, I was wanted to fast-forward this whole process, closing the loop in Asia, just to make it back to the States so I could pursue this Alaskan dream. For this, I wasn't overly thrilled to be heading to Laos, one of the poorest countries in Asia. It was just something to get through.

Dentistry in the Third World

Vientiane, the capital of Laos, is a nondescript city, if it can even be considered a city. There were no skyscrapers, just a bunch of squat cement buildings. Perhaps there were a few architectural remnants from the country's French colonial past, but there was nothing to whip our cameras out and take pictures of. Despite this, Vientiane has its good points. For one thing, it sits astride the Mekong, so many of the outdoor cafes are on the waterfront. Also, there is a laidback quality to Laos' largest city, in stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of other Southeast Asian cities. Tuk tuks are available, but the drivers are usually asleep or ambivalent about obtaining business. There is no coercion from vendors to buy things. Chris and I couldn't quite determine if it was politeness on their part, or just laziness (the more time we spent in Laos, the more we figured it was laziness).

Sadly, I will only remember Vientiane in connection with my tooth crisis. This tooth had been hurting since Bali. It wasn't a cavity—it was a dead tooth. This tooth had been problematic since the very start, from the time it first poked its pearly white nub through my gum. With strange discoloration and a soft spot, it was destined for a root canal. With a root canal and cap completed, it should have been the end of the story for this molar. So why was it causing this incredible pain? I had visited those fine dentists in Ho Chi Minh City who took X-rays and shot me a thumbs up. What was going on? I could no longer ignore the pain, especially now that an abscess was forming.

Abscesses are no joke. My uncle died from letting a tooth infection go. Not immediately, but the infection spread to his kidneys, which led to dialysis and ultimately, death. So I take tooth problems incredibly seriously. Unfortunately, I was now in Laos, probably the most third world country I’d ever been in.

Chris and I walked along the Mekong, asking for a hospital. It surprised us how little English was spoken by the locals. Of course, we were in their country, and they were speaking their language, but still, it was baffling. You'd think that a word such as "hospital" would be known universally. Not so.

We did end up at the hospital where I went through some strange process, filling in Laotian paperwork. None of the nurses spoke English, and none were friendly. I kept pointing at my tooth, but nothing was getting through. I just wanted to get antibiotics, for God's sake, I wasn't looking to get anything major done. Because of the language barrier, Chris and I gave up and walked back to our guesthouse. On the way back, we came across a dentist's office. How perfect was that?

The dentist's office was a bit disconcerting, as it looked shabby from the outside. We had just come from a sleek, modern hospital, so this drab shack looked backward and archaic. But I was desperate, so I poked my head in. The dentist, a nice older man, spoke English. At this, I was relieved, until he sat me in his chair. The instruments looked like something that you'd see in a Victorian museum of medicine. The chair itself looked like it had been installed in the 70s. I sat there, noticeably nervous, as he popped (what I hoped were) sterilized tools into my mouth. At least this guy understood that it was a dead tooth, so he wasn't looking for a cavity. He tapped on it a bit and looked around the gum. "Cracked root," he told me. This was the most sense I had heard concerning this tooth. This news was somewhat of a relief, but nothing could be done for it. He handed me a few antibiotics and, bless his heart, brought me bottled water to drink. He had been so gentle with me and understanding towards my fears in his office. I think the whole visit, including the supply of antibiotics, cost about $3.00. Thank goodness for this dear man. Now we could continue on with our travels.

Tubular

Along with a handful of other tourists, we traveled by minivan to Vang Vieng. Where Vientiane was sleepy, Vang Vieng was alive with tourism. This place is famous on itineraries for one reason only: tubing. Not just any tubing, but drunk tubing. It is party central for the backpacking crowd.

The idea is quite simple: rent a tube at any of the rental shacks in town, take a minivan to a point in the Nam Song River, get in said tube, float several kilometers down the river to town. An easy process. I don't know why I was so nervous about it.

Up until recently, bars abounded alongside the river, offering booze for tubers. A popular activity was to stop at each bar, down a shot, then zipline back into the water. Sounds fun, right? Yeah, and dangerous. Before we arrived in town, we heard about an Australian guy hitting some rocks and dying. Because of this, the bars had closed down. Still, there were plenty of warnings in our guidebook about dangers in the river. This time around, Chris was the one who was more apprehensive. He was considering going kayaking instead. I was the one who pushed the tubing. After all, what was the purpose of coming here if not to tube?

Upon setting up our tubing adventure, we were informed that the river was low. This was good. Less chance for calamity. We boarded a minivan with a group of other tourists, then we were left to do our thing. Nobody would be guiding us, or helping us out; we were on our own. Once we put our tubes in the water, it all made sense. The river was flowing at just the right speed so we got the sense of an adventure, but we never felt we were out of control. No work needed to be done; we just had to sit in our tubes and enjoy the scenery, which was fantastic by the way. The green mountains reminded me something out of Guilin, China: steep-sided and fuzzy. The whole thing was quite enjoyable. There was none of the party scene; we floated past defunct bars, slides, and other backpacker-pleasing contraptions. We didn’t see a drop of booze anywhere, and this suited us just fine. In fact, we floated along with an older German woman and her daughter, and three young Japanese boys. This was far from the frat boy vibe I had feared. We chilled out for about an hour until we came into town. Local children were frolicking naked in the brown churning waters, unconcerned about tourists floating past.

We came to a huge cement slab that we figured was the end of the road. We heaved ourselves and our tubes out of the river and went in search for some refreshment. Along with the Germans, we sat outside at a cafe and watched the river tumbling past. It was a peaceful setting, though I was a little put off by the older German woman changing from her swimsuit to her underwear in front of us at the table.

Besides tubing, there isn't a lot to do in Vang Vieng. There are plenty of bars and restaurants catering to the backpacker crowd. "Friends," the TV show, is ubiquitous in these places. I had read that in our travel guide, and found it to be entirely true. It doesn't matter what time of the day it is, "Friends" is playing across multiple television screens in Vang Vieng. I suppose this adds a laid-back feel, as you can just chill on a cushion and watch whole episodes while downing drinks. But I couldn't spend all my time watching "Friends." I had business to take care of.

It was now getting serious, this setting up life in America. I had been in constant contact with Tamsen, who was persuading me to come to Haines, Alaska. She had informed me that a place called Mountain Market was looking for workers. With my catering background, this sounded ideal. I did what I could at an internet cafe to find out information about this place. They featured homemade, healthy meals and baked goods. Plus, there was a health food store attached, featuring organic produce and products. An organic shop, in the middle of nowhere, Alaska? This was brilliant! The menu for the deli looked good, as did all the photos of smiling faces. And the setting of Haines! Wow, it was all so spectacular. Mountain Market sounded right up my alley, so I filled out an online application. I had the worst time with the Laotian keyboard, but I eventually got my resume submitted as well as a letter to the owners. I pretty much asked them if they were willing to take a chance on me, considering I was still in Asia. Surprisingly, they said yes. They were looking for a deli manager, and I sounded ideal. They would do a phone interview with me as soon as I got back to the States. Alaska wasn't definite at this point, but it was getting closer all the time.

Laidback in Laos

We took a minivan to Luang Prabang, our last stop in Laos. It's to be noted that minibuses are the main method of travel in Laos. I think this has to do with the roads, which aren't exactly in stellar condition. There are no highways connecting these tourist places. Instead, there are dirt or gravel roads winding through mountains. I thought motion sickness would be a certainty, with all the hairpin turns, but I found the journey to be very pleasant, despite the bumps and slow pace. The scenery was lush and gorgeous. Tiny, rustic villages lined the road. Nobody seemed to care that we were passing through. There were no hawkers or children looking for handouts, even though these people looked to be living in poverty.

Luang Prabang is considered to be a cultural hub, on par with Ubud or Hoi An. It was larger than we had expected, and for this, we got lost on our first night. Finding nothing catering to tourists, we ate alongside locals at an eatery. Long tables were lined up where families or workmen ate, slurping noodles and beer.

The next day, we obtained a map and found our way to the cultural center, located on a peninsula between the Nam Khan and Mekong Rivers. Temples like jewels were strung alongside the water. At this point, we were more than templed-out, but Chris had read about one temple that might rouse us from our temple fatigue. Wat Xieng Thong was its name, and it was located up a set of steps on a hill. It didn't overly wow us, with the usual golden Buddha statues and altars, but there a was gong to dong, and a jeweled elephant head, as well as demon heads. There were young monks in the yard, and this was the real highlight of this temple, as Chris got to arm wrestle with them. I couldn't take any photos of this event, but believe me, it did happen.

There was a real chilled-out vibe to Luong Prabang. You could sit all day one of the rivers lining the river. And seriously, sometimes it took all day, as service was incredibly slow. It's hard to complain though when the food is decent and the setting is nice, with fairy lights and fountains. But, just to stress the level of laidbackness here (translated as lazy in many cases) the waiter at one of the establishments actually had to use a calculator to determine our change. Our meal had come to Kp17,000; we handed him Kp20,000. Chris and I couldn't help but exchange confounded looks as the waiter scrutinized both the bill and the calculator. Perhaps the laidbackness extends to mental lethargy in some cases.

We found an absolutely lovely Western-style bookstore just down from our guesthouse (with real books, not bootleg copies!) This was needed, as I was on my second book of the 50 Shades series, and I was getting really angry. I had read the first book out of curiosity. And yes, it passed the time on long journeys. But this second book really had me upset. Why was I reading this crap? The sex scenes were laughable and boring at the same time, and the dialogue tags were atrocious (Christian was either murmuring or mumbling) and Anastasia's goddess was always making unwelcome appearances. Plus, the writing was just… bad. "Why do you hate the English so much?" was a question asked to E. L. James on a Twitter interview. Why indeed? I’d had enough. I left the book in our guesthouse for another traveler, or even the maid, to pick up. Meanwhile, I was moving on to more fulfilling literature: Tess of the d'Ubervilles. Christian Grey has nothing on the lascivious Alec d'Uberville.

The Bus Ride from Hell

We purchased tickets on a VIP bus to Thailand. Though our expectations weren't high, VIP still gave us a bit of hope. It was another long journey, and we wanted it to be as comfortable as possible. We were told that the VIP bus was broken. Of course it was. We were ensured that the replacement bus was VIP as well. Well, if that was true, I wonder what a regular bus looked like. Probably something with chickens and goats and strapped-on luggage.

Besides one other tourist, we were the only foreigners on our bus. I took the aisle seat, which was quite unusual, as Chris usually let me have the honor of sitting by the window. The seats were padded and comfortable. We were also offered a blanket. So, perhaps this was VIP? It was hard to believe that all these locals had coughed up money for VIP. A bit suspicious, but there was nothing we could do about it as we headed off into the night.

I was almost ecstatic to be seated upright. I was done with sleeper buses. Give me the hum and vibration of the road and a headrest to brace my neck against, and I'm good to go. I was somewhat aware of the driver playing his music loudly and a woman up front clearing her sinuses, but I thought I would be in dreamland before I knew.

I became aware of someone puking in the aisle across from me. Not once or twice, but repeatedly. The first few bags got tossed out the window, and the third was tied to his chair, swinging with the rhythm of the bus. The sight of milky puke in the clear bag, moving back and forth, was almost enough to induce my own vomit. The smell, the sight, the sound… I closed my eyes and desperately tried to make it dreamland.

As the night wore on, the driver turner turned up his music. Perhaps it was to keep him awake, or to drown out the woman clearing her sinuses. I honestly couldn't fathom why this woman had chosen these surroundings to work phlegm out of her sinus passages. The song "The wheels on the bus go round and round" would be replaying through the night in my head, and the ride became more and more surreal.

We made several stops. The first happened earlier in the night. As all the seats were filled, I felt relief that it would be easy cruising for the remainder of the night. So, needless to say, I was confused when the bus stopped and a huge crowd of people boarded. Stools were procured and soon these people were sitting in the aisle. A lady with a baby took a seat between me and the puker. Did the baby cry? Of course it did! Though the lady did her best to keep it quiet. I felt sorry for her. I felt as if someone should offer her a proper seat, but nobody did (including me). All the while, the lady up front continued to clear her sinuses with pig-like grunts, and the driver felt it was party-time, driving the volume of his music to eleven.

The time was 1:30 in the morning. I was far from sleep and had had enough. There was nothing I could do about the people in the aisle, but I had reached a tipping point with the music. I got out of my seat and (I don't ever, ever do this) approached the driver and asked him to turn the music down. And thankfully, he did, though I had to wind my way around all the people in the aisle. This was beyond ridiculous.

Did I mention the state of the bathrooms on our bathroom breaks? Perhaps the less I say about that the better. Every time we did stop, though, there was a mad dash for the front exit. You would think that there would be some orderly process involved, seen as how there were people in the aisle. But no, people in proper seats tried to squeeze past those sitting in the aisle. This created a jam of bodies so that almost nobody could get out. I would have considered it amusing if I hadn't been so cranky. I couldn't help thinking that with brain power like that, it's no wonder that Laos still has third-world status.

Dreamland was elusive that night. It was with a great deal of relief that the sun rose and we came to Huay Xia, the border town on the Mekong. As we had several hours before having to catch a bus on the other side, Chris and I climbed a hill to visit a temple, stretching our stiff legs. We watched the monks performing their duties, but more importantly, we had a good view of the land across the Mekong. Thailand. I couldn't wait to be there and done with this whole thing.