the answer is no

a question u get often when describing tales of travel to exotic places, is did you get laid yet?

while certain friends of mine seem to always find a new play-mate whenever they're away for even the briefest period of time, these tend to be women who are obviously hotter than me. Call me a romantic or a pussy, but i generally require a chunk of time to fan the fire. My pickup style is not enhanced when everyone you meet will be strapping their bags on and leaving just as quickly as they arrived.

once in a blue moon, there's obvious chemistry and you win the girl without having to liquor her up or club her over the head. this seemed to be the case when I met Galit, a cute Israeli girl, traveling the world like the entire rest of the Israeli population who have just completed the armed forces. those of you who scored high on the SAT's are already doing the math and have deducted that this must make her just 21. therein lies the problem. actually, I could live with the huge age "gap", if that word even is applicable for this massive divide. while i hardly fault her generation for thinking that flashdance/risky business attire is their contribution to fashion, her youthful number was never really an issue. somehow, me being a little more than twice that is somehow less cause for celebration. I was born in 64, her in 88.

if you're a guy, this probably sounds like a high-five moment. Let's crack open an ice cold one! Woo-hoo! Female friends will surely roll their eyes in unison and groan. Grow up already. Hu lo ritzini. my sincere apologies if you are offended by my selection, but besides being young, Galit is fun, cool, curvy, tall, tan and lovely, a little like the girl from Ipanema. I would be as intrigued had she been in her 30s or 40s which would make us a far less preposterous pairing. im no pedophile, but who doesn't like a young sweet thing?.

chasing younger women also comes partly from necessity. choosing from my peer group is not usually an available option. Its the 20 somethings that are out and about, traveling the world, unattached and who wanna party. 30 somethings come with their boyfriends in tow. the two couples I met were either planning an engagement or looking to buy a house together. mazel tov to both, but as the last single guy I know still on the hunt for a girl, this is of limited use. people in their 4th decade are by and large absent, either at home raising families, or possibly going on singles cruises for the 59 and under set. I will sooner swallow poison. It skips to the next generation, 50 somethings njoying their empty nest, or showing the world to their teenage children who'd rather be back home on their playstation, tho i am technically closer to this group celebrating half a century, my life is still rooted in stuff that appeals to kids.

which brings us back to the girl. a former officer in the army, now free to explore india, maybe dabble with an illegal substance or two, try to figure out what she wants to do with her life, or at least what tattoo she will get. and open to having a few wild experiences before settling into traditional life. or so it seemed. following a couple of late nights of lengthy conversation, easy laughter, shooting stars and the cliche'd walk on the beach, we end up in an all-out public make-out session more appropriate for a college freshman... which she will be next year. By the time we stumbled out of the private cabana from the very swanky Sankara club, the pillows were overturned this way and that, making it look like a lot more had transpired. but that was as far as we i'd get. by all appearances, it looked like a beautiful line drive to right field. people who know me well will recognize that I'm using sports terminology I barely understand, but everyone knows the rule is NOT to get tagged out at first.

Galit was constantly running the numbers. during a brief breather in an otherwise passionate kiss, she notes the following: "when I was born, you were older than I am now". yes, quite right, now shut up and put your tongue back in my mouth. earlier, she had described the men she dated as older, but the fact that I'm within a couple of years her folks was a little beyond her comfort level. id like to point out that im in fact two years younger than those geezers!

i had a really nice room with a view of the beach and the sound of the ocean, but this was not sufficient to keep the romance going into the wee hours, all naked and sweaty under the sheets as i had imagined the evening might go. i asked her to stay, but she wouldn't spend the night.

we spent some time the following day, but not the same as the flirty day prior. laughable first dates was one of the conversations we had and hers seemed to follow a prescribed formula: all start apprehensively, and always involve the ignoring obvious red flags and her 6th sense. so i cant say i was shocked when my phone buzzed with a freshly minted text and not the warm and fuzzy kind. in it were words 'I'm really sorry', and the :( face. In the course of a couple of days, I went from complete stranger to gross PDA violator, to the top of her really bad idea list. sucks, because i actually really liked her, and she was not simply someone i wanted to lay a couple of times and forget. cest la vie.

everyone says 45 is supposed to be the new 35, but perhaps ive got to figure out how to make this minor adjustment on my passport.

hook 'em

one of the awesome things about southeast asia is the $5 massage, and ive been taking them pretty regularly without incident. but what kind of massage do you expect to get at ten o'clock at night? well, this place had none of the obvious tell tale signs. No tacky neon, strobes, smoked mirrors, or scantily clads inviting you in. it was staffed by middle aged people wearing very practical, if somewhat dowdy clothes. maybe that they had me pay up-front was a red flag. anyway, the girl who entered my room after I'd changed into the supplied shorts was young and cute and while I can't say she was dressed like a ho, the little black dress she wore seemed a lil sexy for the job. her name was mee and she was 22 or so she claimed. mee could be the equivalent of bambi or emerald or any other obvious stripper type name and i wouldnt get it.

The massage started off as usual, though it seemed like there was more of that karate chopping you do after a bunch of serious bodywork and less substance. she did that thing where your neck is cracked on either side, and with adequate skill not to actually break it. Halfway in, she quits working and climbs on top of me, suggesting some of the ol' boom-boom. Given the dirth of offers, tho purely a business proposition, the come on didnt feel half bad. The pricing is as follows: sex on the massage table, or back at the hotel room, I couldn't quite understand which goes for 400,000 dong (the local currency), or about $25, 300 for oral pleasures, and 200 for your basic hand administered happy ending.

First I said no, which she pretended not to understand, so I tried, "married" pointing to my ring finger. This explanation might have held more weight had the digit actually sported a band of shiny gold. Finally, I tried "girlfriend", which she finally understood, made a crying face and stopped trying. While she quit pushing her wares, getting her to resume the regular massage was another story. She half heartedly rested a hand on my sholder while using the other hand to text a friend. I took the phone from her and put it under the pillow, but she just put her arms around me. While it was less than the massage I bargained for, i decided that an innocent cuddle was acceptable to pay for, even tho this was just a way for her to do as little work as possible. it ended the minute there was a knock on the door, an hour to the min from when she entered my room.

getting away wasnt quite so easy, as she basically baricaded the door, asking for money. I guess you're buying their time, however u choose to use it. I threw a fifty thousand note on the bed and when she went to get it, I let myself out. By far, the least impressive massage I'd received thus far, so she really didn't earn the $3 tip.

OSHA would not approve

Knew I would see this, just a matter of time. Guy riding on the back
of a moto holding a giant sheet of glass. Accident would be gruesome,
but by the looks on everybodys faces, it's business as usual.
that expression, "only in NY" does not even hold a candle to the crazy shit
u see here. For instance: guy working on contruction site, hoisting
materials up, walkng on the frame of the building barefoot.

breakfast of champions

costs just a buck. I'm not talking a minuature box of rice krispies u cut open and pour in 1/2 a cup of milk. Buzzing restaurant, serving at least 100 and more waiting outside to get in. I pont to something that looks tasty, and I am rewarded with a huge bowl of soup with a huge chunk of fish at the bottom.

All these street vendors with tasty snacks for around half a buck. Grabbed a sandwich with little bits of fried mystery and veggies on French bread, a little styrofoam take awy box of corn and dried fish, with something crunchy and sweet like corn-flakes as a topping, ice coffee with condensed milk available from little old ladies on most busy intersections. or go to one of the big corporate looking chains, like highland coffee and pay the $3 for a latte it would cost at home, your choice.

if you get it on the street, you will be sitting on a chair that would fit a child in kindergarten. when they see a big westerner like me, they will often double of on the flimsy chairs. at fresh squeezed juice places, recycled water bottles of yummy carrot juice or any other of a dozen varieties are tempting. and now I'm having gelatto in order to avoid walking in front of a wall of moving traffic.

somehow it works

Someone elses opinion about the insane traffic. Really, I thought, as I considered crossing a street with a heavy flow of never ending traffic with no traffic light to aid the timid pedestrian. I watched a Vietnamese guy negotiate his way across, waving to be seen, walking between hundreds of vehicles that just barely miss him. Anywhere else, and this would be the sure sign of a
lunatic. Call belview and tell to bring one of those spiff white jackets that tie in the back. In a few min, he has crossed the street in one piece, but I am not in the least bit encouraged.

I eye the nokbox cafe with floor to ceiling plate-glass windows on the corner overlooking the intersection and decide to sit it out up there for a little while. I will count casualties, and if the number is relatively low, perhaps I will continue in the direction I was heading. Alternatively, I can forget about all my worldly possessions and get a guesthouse on this side of the busy street.

I make the motion of wanting to wash my hands, and I am handed an individually wrapped disposable towel on a plate with ice. whatever.

why I don't own a tv

Boring day, spent at kenney brewers coffee, a cross between starbucks and Duncan donuts. Totally lame spot, but I needed their free wifi. Awful Muzak with a kenney g feel. Spent at least 6 hours there, sending out resumes for teaching jobs. Wore me out so that I stumbled home in something of a crummy mood. A drink out with friends, or even maybe some strangers might have fixed things. Instead, headed home, thinking that maybe a shower or nap would perk me up, but I got stuck in front of the tube. When I'd finished the first movie about dumb criminals with a shitty exit stategy, it wasnt too late, maybe just after ten, and thats when i should have pulled myself away. Instead there was something called the beast about a russian tank lost in Iraq, and the Comander who gets crazy on power. By that time, it was past midnight, and I thought too late to wake up the woman who has to let you in and out of the front door. its not a hotel where you dont give a shit about the poor slob who has to man the front desk in the middle of the night. living in a guesthouse, which is just a fancy name for renting some family's spare room means that you wake up grandma every time you come in late. Just when I was on the fence. a will Farrell movie about skaters came on and I was soon hooked on the moronic plot. This pretty much killed any plan to explore, meet and greet, chase wimin or just let the barman your stand in for an actual buddy. Writing the blog, watching asian music videos,
reading the lonely planet about this city, nothing has made me tired, so I watched the carry grant/katherine Hepburn film set in france where everyone is murdered in the pursuit of rare stamps. 4 movies, it's almost 5am and I'm still not even tired enough to close my eyes. But I'll be plenty tired-tomorrow.

slumming saigon

It was clean, cute and had a comfortable bed, at at $15 a night, probably not the cheapest i could score, but not going to break the bank. Guest houses are stacked one next to the other, so if I had wanted to, I could have checked out a couple of hundred places, but there’s always a business on the ground floor which the family running the place lives above, so the rooms available are often up on the highest floor. each lot is the same 15 feet wide, like NY tenements, and its kind of hard to believe theres enough room for a stairwell, but they somehow jam them in. Lots of little old two story dwellings with elderly people living in them, right next door to 10 story glass clad sliver towers. others are chinese style, that is to say tacky as shit, horribly overdone with columns and garish chandeliers. A handful have super chic styling and their narrow little lobbies could double as trendy cafes, but I’m not the sort to pay extra for a flat screen TV.

this area known as the Backpacker central is on the sight of where the train depot used to be. Tho the trains no longer run, the central station charm remains. Staying in the local equivalent of 42nd and 8th, youre an easy target for petty scams. It’s not long before you tire of getting solicited. Stuff as innocuous as touts trying to get you into restaurants with menus that forgo local dishes for all varieties of western standards, like burgers, fries, fish and chips, spaghetti and full English breakfasts. Frequent offers for weed. Mobile hookers are nothing new I guess, pages and pages of every cities telephone directory dedicated to escorts. here, the ass business consists of very young looking girls who get driven around on the backs of motorbikes, in one case the driver being a grandmothers age. makes an already sketchy biz even more unappealing. Also sad are all the children trying to sell you gum. There are also many varieties of people who are severely disfigured being wheeled about in hopes of getting spare change.

Street vendors sell some pretty tasty treats. by day, you will periodically hear a loud recording, kinda like the mister softee truck, which encourages people to buy sticky rice pastries. late nite, stir fried noodles and meat is popular, as are places to get a big bowl of pho. guys who ride around slowly on bicycles rattling something, means they give massages. Although they don’t have any kind of tables, I think you either invite them up to your room, which doesn’t seem particularly safe, or take your massage lying in the street, a park bench, whatever. Other guys have an over-sized set of old metal scissors that they open and close repeatedly. Can’t even guess what service they offer. Late night tailoring or knife sharpening? anything is possible in this weird place.

warm welcome

One my last day, I get up at 6am to make it back to town which I had not missed one bit, grab my gear and hop the bus to Vietnam. 12 hours on the bus not normally something you look forward to, especially with a case of the shits, but fortunately, they seemed to stop prety regularly before an emergency ensued. Bus cost a mere $13, or about a buck an hour. By the time we pulled into vietnams most populous city, I should have been rested, other than the carpal tunnel in my thumb from tapping this blog into my phone till i ran the batteries dead, but I was still weak from repeated visits to the toilet. this put me not in much of a mood for the throng of people trying to get your attention when everyone got off the bus. I ignored the lot, walking past as if I knew where I was heading, taking the first place I could find. one woman was trailing me, going to follow me to whatever hotel i chose and request her cut. I told her to go away, and she replied in broken, but fully understandable english: Fuck off. i live here, go back to your country. welcome to saigon.

life in sihanoukville

its the day prior to new years, and a cutie who has just checked into the same place tells me shes been looking for a hours, so i feel OK about my choice. Kay looks like the girl next door version of scarlett johanson from her early films, improved slightly with an english accent. I hope to run into her again and I do about a week later when she’s checking out. She said it was a quiet new years with her boyfriend, and that they were in well before midnite. Jeez, when did traveling become such a byo type of affair?

My plan from the get-go was to slack all thru xmas and new years, then hightail it over to Saigon right after the new year. on jan 2, I packed my things and left em at the front desk, telling them I’d be back a little later. No need for my heavy pack, with highly inappropriate winter coat purchased for travel in Scandinavia and equally unnecessary doc marten boots strapped to the outside, or my laptop or the mess of power chargers since i was just traveling a few kilometers up the road to check out a beach i heard was pretty before leaving. 5 days later I returned from the peaceful, secluded section of a beach called Otres. Wearing the same clothes somehow doesnt feel so bad, when everybody else does the same. You may not smell especially fresh, but its super easy to recognize people youve met when they remain in the same getup.

Little thatched huts cost $6-10. theres no electricity so the lights run for a few hours off generators, the hum somewhat concealed by the sound of the ocean. By ten, most places go dark, other than joints run by the french or english who keep their bars open much later, since they themselves are always drinking at them along with many of their own countrymen.

This too is something of a couples paradise, nothing to do but lie in hammocks, feast on barbecued fresh catch for about $4 and screw. Traveling solo, I get to experience 2 of the 3 which is really not a bad percentage, only skewed wrong.

new years on the beach

there’s a little dread before embarking on New Years alone. A real “here goes nothing” moment. While I was am definitely situated in an area that caters to western travelers, with every business serving the needs of white people (just a single sighting of a black chick, though I read that beyonce and jay-z’s recent visit to dubrovnic has put Croatia on the list as an in spot), Internet cafes, laundry, book exchange, stores where u can fill ur iPod with new music for $1 an album and travel agent after travel agent, walking just half block in the other direction takes me to a street fair with a ferris wheel and thousands of people who couldn’t care less about backpacking culture. all vietnamese here.

Guard rails-shmard rails; only an unmarked wooden crate keeps you from getting close enough to being smacked in the head by one of the rotating cars, which would kill a person instantly. On a stage, comedians were doing a skit, and while Its unlikely that I’d understand even a word of it if I lived here for ten years, it was easy to laugh along to the silly sounding voices they were making, though I couldn’t tell for certain if that wasn’t just the weird sound of Khmer. Food stalls were selling all the usual, noodles with nasty bits of unidentifiable meat parts. If eating an ear turns your stomach, this is not for you. While i will take my chances at a restaurant, and have generally been delighted with meals priced at the very reasonable rate of $2-4, market purchases, while cheap, get u what you pay for. Not feeling particularly adventurous, I tried a steamed bun, which was filled with sweet paste.

while mildly entertaining, it was time to get my party on. I took a moto to victory hill, thinking that the strip of bars full of graying middle aged men and throngs of young girls and boys employed in the sex trade might be fun leading up to the midnight hour. Instead I wandered immediately into a European couple I’d met earlier on the beach, dressed smartly, sitting in the front table at a spanish restaurant. while I couldn’t refuse the invitation to join them, you just know that this very pleasant mid 30’s duo would be yawning at 11:30, and calling it a night at a quarter after 12. i was somewhat relieved to have company on new years, but what i could really use is a larger posse, where im not the 3rd wheel, or a wingman. I stayed for appetizers and a glass of wine, but then ditched them, finding the same crew of drunk French chain-smokers at a place around the corner that had been there on a visit days earlier. An older guy in a wife beater with tattoos inked before they came popular for cute suburbanites was buying all drinks, I was told, so I had a couple on him. But all conversation was conducted in François, and I soon tired of the many toasts I was obliged to take part in, having no idea at all what was being cheered. Long live the kkk! To bestiality! Toenail fungus for all! and I’d have raised my glass!

Was getting close to midnight and I had clearly not found the right party or crowd. Grabbed a ride to Shivas Place, a large venue down at the far end of the beach that I was told had a more local scene and possibly a more desirable female to male ratio than the sausage fest on hookers row. Definitely true, but what was not mentioned was that the average age hovered in the teens. Place was packed with young kids dancing to Khmer versions of hip hop.

When its fat geezers with local sweethearts, you know it’s a business deal, but its hard to say whats up when its young douchey white guys sport lovely cambodian girlfriends. Meantime im receiving a different type of unwanted attention from gay Cambodians, on acct of wearing nail polish. Ok, my toes are painted too. Seemed like something fun to do for new years. who can resist a $2 for a mani-pedi on the beach? I don’t stay long.

Small time fireworks were shooting out to the water, further polluting it, but producing a pretty effect. For the very first time, motos are helpless, unable to maneuver around all the vehicles that are blocking the road immediately after the festivities. I opt instead to walk on the beach which is totally littered with styrofoam take away containers. crabs, shrimp and lobster, their shells all littering the beach have little to celebrate for this holiday. The air is thick with the smoke and the smell of little grills that old ladies carry around over their poor shoulders, using one of those wooden bars that allows u to support an equal load on either side. something youd expect a cow or donkey to haul. fish kebabs, 5 for a buck fifty. a bunch of cambodian students who are chowing down on the same snack invite me to share their table and beers. they get to practice basic English, I’m told their names which are a series of unpronounceable sounds. They don’t seem to have any trouble with eli.

its 1ish when I finally hit the cluster of bars with western travelers and the possibility of meeting some new friends i can actually converse with. sadly, I see none of the women I’ve flirted with during the preceding few days in the sand. but more disturbing is that I am already fading. but im just getting started! the name of the club is poorly named Nap Bar. how I’m going to power thru the fatigue involves nothing illicit. southeast asia is the home of red bull which supposedly gives you wings, but apparently, I wasn’t the only one thinking this and they were all out. Though I have nobody to share it with, a single drink costs a buck, while I bucket of Mekong whisky and coke that could get a half dozen people loopy is just two dollars fifty. Purely based on value, I order the massive serving that comes with a handful of straws and try to make a dent in it. I offer it to everyone around who looks thirsty, sharing spit with a variety of euro strangers. they are all around twenty and are too young to have many communicable diseases, I tell myself. At the line for the bathroom, two girls offer to hold my bucket while I pee and are gone with it when I return. I am relieved in both respects.

somehow, thru the winning combo of dance and alcohol consumption, I’m no longer tired. I hit the last bar, a place called utopia, whose logo is the same as the orthodox union of rabbis, which determines which foods are up to the strict laws of kashrut. It’s the good-housekeeping symbol of orthodox Jews, without which, the food item is considered treif, or verboten. good enough for Gentiles, but does not live up to a “higher” standard. All similarities to my jewish upbringing end right here. Big open air bar, with dj booth pumping rave music, and a flaming torch lights and lasers light the dance space. When the sun rises, those of us remaining on the dance floor strip down to our undies or bikinis or swim in all their clothes. While the pool looked alluring by lantern light, daylight proves how murky the waters are, making me wonder how often dudes get urinary tract infections.

the girl I’m dancing with is a tall blond in a bikini, her only attire for the entire evening. within minutes of our first dance, she makes it clear that she won’t sleep with someone she just met, and that if I so much as tried to touch her, she’d slap me. When not dancing half naked in the clubs of Cambodia, she practices law in England. Its new years eve and her birthday, but I don’t even try to kiss her.