Not Your Typical Day

December 26, 2010….. I’m airborne. Again.

Leaving Eastern Cape. South Africa’s Wild Coast. I don’t want to leave. Not yet. Two weeks was not enough. I already miss the horses. Miss the people. Miss the comradery.  I don’t know how it happened. Or, how I even planned this. But, how blessed am I to have spent my Christmas with such a diverse, loving, open and active group of people from all over the world. I mean truly.

Commercial break. What is up with these pilots. They have verbal vomit and need to shut it. The pilot just announced that this plane had technical difficulties. They had to do an emergency landing in Durban to fix the plane. He’s trying to make up for lost time and said we should be arriving 40 minutes late, “If things go well.” What do you mean, “IF things go well???” Is he expecting something NOT to go well at 20,000 feet?

Now, I’m watching an airline attendant play with oxygen masks. Is anyone watching this? No. The masks are all tangle. She looks annoyed. Very annoyed. She’s untangling it and staring at a woman. Wait. The oxygen is for the woman. And, why is my heart racing? I’m feeling nervous. OK. She’s put the oxygen mask on all the lady. Is this what the pilot mean when he said, “if things go well?”

Point is, I’m sad to leave the horses. Kei Mouth. But, I can’t write anymore. This flight is one big, fat buzz kill…. I’m out.

December 4, 2010

Bangkok to Nairobi flight on Kenyan Airlines comprised of the Asian and African delegation – Chinese, Japanese, Indians, Africans. The minority passengers were your Europeans and Americans.

Fascinating to watch each country’s personal space policies. Meaning, who pushes and shoves in a line to go nowhere. Guess who won the push and shove war? Chinese. Hands down. They may be small, but they’re fast. The Africans were not at all pleased with this pushing.  But, what do expect in the land of 1.3 billion. China is sooo going to eat Africa one day….

I had a window seat in toilet class. Next two two African ladies wearing their traditional garb. Since I’m American and don’t push and really don’t care, I was one of the last to board the plane. I smiled at the ladies and pointed to me seat, indicating, “Yes, tallgirl squeezes in there…” No reaction. They just stared at me. Didn’t move.

Did they expect me to crawl over? I pointed again. They just looked at me. Fine. I’ll first find a bin for my bag and then throw these long legs over the two of them. That should get their attention. I opened all the bins. Full.

Now, everyone is staring at the tall, white girl. Why is that? We all do it – staring intently as people struggle with their luggage. No one helps. It’s like we have this attitude, “We had to shove, squeeze and s– so should you…” I kept opening bins. Full. Now, I’m at the toilet. Well, that’s not going to work. I found a bin full of soft duffels and purses. I know I could rearrange and shove my bag in.

Knowing everyone was watching, I was deliberate and slow. Why rush. Why look like a fool. Why not teach them the art of patience. Right. I was actually praying that my zipper was closed, my sweat mustache goes unnoticed and these random bags aren’t full of rancid juices.

About two mins into bin reorganizing, an African man stood up and opened another bin. He moved his luggage around and made room for my bag in less than 15 seconds. He was probably fed up with my proper, patient, methodological maneuvering and wanted me out of his sight. That, or my sweat mustache was dripping. No matter. I thanked him. And, thanked him. Everyone still just stared with blank expressions.

I walked back up to the ladies. Point again. Smile. Point. They don’t move. I tilt my head to the side and said, “Excuse me, that’s my seat…” They roll their eyes. Talk in their language. Still, not moving. I noticed my seat was loaded up with their purses, blankets and crap. The seat arm was up and I realized, the woman in the middle was overweight. Looks like there will be some snuggling tonight.

I waited. They finally moved. I wiggled myself in and sat. It’s now 1 AM. The flight attendants start their song and dance. OK. This is not your Asian airline with beautiful, coiffed young girls in suits and heels. Nope. Kenyan Airlines’ flight attendants look more like backers for Miami. All very large men. Don’t think I’ll be asking them for an extra blanket…

I was exhausted. Before curling up with my plastic, blow-up pillow, I checked out the movie options. My remote was broken. Looks like sleep it is… I tried to turn sideways and press my body up against the window. But, was unable to turn for the lady next to me was large and in charge. When Mr. Line Backer walks by, I’ll be requesting a glass of wine or two. I mean, can’t pass up free vino….

Wine came. I gulped it. And, closed my eyes, praying the plane arrives safely to Nairobi. I just hope I don’t wake until we hit the Kenyan coastline.  It’s only 9+ hours away… Think I’ll be ordering a third glass.  The women next to me is growing…

I made it out of Vietnam! The whole passport/border control gig at the airport was uneventful. So uneventful that they did not check my passport, visa or asked me to undress. Impressive for me. Even more impressive for future terrorists. I’m just happy I’m up in the air in route to Cambodia. That sounds very, very strange to me. I mean, Cambodia???

Before I go any further, I do want to announce that I DID receive my ATM and Credit Card today – Day 5. Ultimately, FedEx did their job. Delivering my cards on time so I can do the American thing – spend more $$$.

Taking in these last few days. I have not had time to journal. But, I do feel compelled to share a little about about Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon). It will be brief.

The adventure junket ended in Halong Bay. The three of us returned to Hanoi to catch flights to our next destination. For Tour-burn, it was off to Siem Reap, Cambodia to tour the temples . For me, it was Ho Chi Minh City – for more cycling. No resting for this pelvis.

When I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City, I noticed all the signs said Saigon. I was confused. What is the proper name for the largest city in Vietnam?

This is what the locals told me….Saigon’s name was changed to Ho Chi Minh in 1975, after US bolted and Viet Cong ate Southern Vietnam. The folks in S. V-nam haven’t taken to the name – or communism for that matter – and still call their city Saigon. People in Northern Vietnam – taken to communism – call the city Ho Chi Minh. But, when you’re checking luggage at the airport, the AIRLINES call it Saigon.. Yet, the AIRPORT calls the city Ho Chi Minh. We’re back to confused communism, Vietnamese style…

If you ask me, which I’m sure the Vietnamese welcome my opinion, I prefer Saigon. Has nothing to do with communism or the embalmed bearded man. The name Saigon sounds more exotic. Has more energy. Seems eccentric. Fitting for a city with 6 million motor-bikes and 10 million riders. Think about it. Say Ho Chi Minh City and what comes to mind? For me, I picture a desolate, dusty Indian Reservation being corrupted by gambling. Not exactly fitting.

Focus. What did I do in Saigon for 1.5 days? Took to peddling. Wanted to see the city and tour the tunnels. Sam, the bike guide, arrived at the hotel at 8 am. I had the routine down. Grab a helmet. Raise the seat. Pop some pills for pelvis relief. And, start peddling. Our destination was the Cu Chi tunnels, built by Viet Cong to fight their enemy – their South Vietnamese brothers and our troops. Jungle warfare at its finest.

I want to share how V-nam tourists’ materials describe these famous tunnels. Needed some tweaking so I made some edits:

The Cu Chi tunnels are a historic revolutionary vestige and the base for the Viet Cong in the Anti-American resistance during the American War…. Tunnels were used as a place of eating, accommodation, meeting as well as unique battle formation, which took its part in the fight against the enemy for saving our country.

It was also the place where over 20,000+ of our soldiers were killed. Take a look at the pictures below of the tunnels… Small. And, the government expanded the tunnels 40% so tourists could crawl though to experience the full effect. Let’s just say, my H&M black leggings now have holes in the knees. Had to crawl. There were NO tall people in Viet Cong army. Or, fat people for that matter.

Other “must do” tourist attractions at the Cu Chi tunnels included shooting your choice of guns – AK 47, Automatic machine guns, pistols, riffles… Pay the dude $5 and fire away. I opted for that AK 47. My shoulder will never be the same. I hit my target, thanks to taking riflery at summer camp… Only in America, can kids grow up learning to shoot weapons at camp. I digress..

After tunnel crawling and rifle shooting, we jumped back on your bikes. I popped some more Advil. We toured through the country side of Saigon. I noticed group of people gathered in the distance. Sam slowed down. Stopped. He said, “Stop. Try this…” I whipped my leg over the bike seat and missed. Pain again. I limped up to the group of people. Notice furry creatures in cages. Furry creatures were rats. People are lining up to eat rat. Doesn’t get much better than this.

Rice farmers catch the rats in their fields and the women sell them on the side of the road. And, here I was the tall foreigner scared of something they ate. Damn straight. Scared is not the right verb. It’s more like repulsed. And,vomiting was not part of the day’s scheduled activities.

So, here’s this cute woman in her PJs. She’s about 20 or so. Her kids are running around half naked.

Her job is to grab the dead rats in the bucket, and with a pair of scissors in one hand, cut off the legs, tail and head and toss the body into another bucket. The next woman wearing Pjs, grabs a knife. Opens it up. Pierces it with a stick and cooks it on an open fire, on the side of the road.

Now, if you don’t want to eat now, you can always just buy the no extremities rat. The Pjs women plopped the rat in a clear plastic bag. And, off you go on your motor-bike or on foot with a rat in hand. Kodak moment…

Saigon by Night

Sam struck a cord yesterday. He complained how foreigners come to Saigon just to tour the war, talk about the war and leave thinking about the war. They don’t want to see the NEW Saigon. He said, “Saigon is not war. Young people don’t even know about war. Business people don’t care about war. War is old. I want show you Saigon not for tourists.. Tonight…” I’m IN!

So, off we went on his motor-bike to see the NEW Saigon. This NEW Saigon is suburbia.

We’re talking four or five story homes. Lawns with sprinklers. Screened windows. Streets with speed bumps and stop signs. Sidewalks for people. Gate guards. This is NOT your one-party, communist controlled country. It’s Reston, VA. It’s Lake Mary, Florida. It’s reeks of wealth. It reeks of inequality. It reeks of excess.

Sam: “Homes here are $1 million to $2 million US. Pay in cash. We don’t trust Vietnamese dollar. People here invest in gold for years and years. People rich. People here are government workers. Shipping. Textile manufacturing. Work with US…Work with China. Rich…”

Me: “People are sitting on $2 million in cash? No bank loans, home loans, car loans in Vietnam? Not even credit cards?”

Sam: “No. No credit cards either. We save. We don’t understand how you buy on credit card. We know each penny we have and spend everyday. I save between $1,000 and $2,000 US a month. Took me two years, and I bought my house with cash. Saved everyday…”

We zoomed passed homes, town homes and apartments ranging from $250,000 US and $2,000,000 US. Sam continues to be amazed only ONE family lives in a house with four or five rooms and three bathrooms. He screamed into the night, “Look! Only one family… Look! Only one family. This family only have 2 kids. And, four rooms. Have three stories. Only one family! Look! Only one light one. Whole family in one room. Look!”

In Vietnam, they squish a family of four, six or eight – we’re talking grandparents, aunts and uncles and randoms – into a one story house with just two or three rooms. He’s amazed by space.

I was amazed by paying in cash, investing in gold and automatic garage doors. I bet these families have washer machines, dryers and bleach. NO underwear, sheets or Pjs were hanging from these pricey windows. How bad did I want to knock and use their washer machine and dryer…

We cruised on over to his neighborhood. He wanted to show me his new house. San was proud. He bought his home two or three years ago. It has 4 rooms and he rents THREE of them to families. We darted through dark streets. We turned left on a dirt road filed with water. He said, “this is temporary. Govt. building a 20 story apartment building at end of my street. Next to my house. Take 2 years. A lot of flooding now. Putting in new sewage system…water…very good for me.” Yea, not good for me for this nasty sewage is forming a new life on my clean jeans.

By this point, he has proposed. When I said, “We just met…little early?” He changed tactics, “Then, you come and live with me. You single. I single. Same age. It works.” I said, “Oh, is it that easy. You single. I single. Boom, that is it.”

He said, “Yes. Easy. I like you. When you see my house, you will know.” That is a lot of pressure because I can’t insult his home for I feel certain he lacks closet space, kitchen counter-tops and water pressure. We pull up. I see two pad locks on his patio door. Barb wire around the roof. Home sweet home.

He unlocks the first padlock. Then, another one greets us on his front door. I giggle inside. When he show’s me his kitchen, he’s proud it is NOT attached to his house. He said, “Too messy. Too smoky. It’s better out in patio.” Fab.

His house is nice. Clean. One bedroom downstairs. Two working bathrooms. No closet space. Super-small fridge with space for only a twelve pack of Coke Zero. And, a Buddha shrine to boot. The decibel level of the construction site and padlocking the doors would drive me to drink. I just don’t see Sam’s home as my final resting place. Don’t feel it. I tell him as much. He really looks sad. I’m not taking time to analyze this one…. I’m about to land in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. The capital.

Last night, over 300 people were killed in Phnom Penh. Trampled. I saw it on CNN this morning. They say too many people were crossing a bridge? I don’t know the details yet but it is bad. Cambodia government said worse crisis since Khomer Rouge. The dude that killed over ¼th of the population. That’s hard to swallow.

Welcome to Cambodia. Two for one. Killing Fields. And, Killing River. I just hope they let me in…

Where am I? Back at the center of balance and harmony. Beijing Airport, Terminal 3. Blogging. Finally writing… Terminal 3 is my place.

Last night was a night for my travel history books. The Hilton Beijing Airport Hotel welcomed me for my birthday. After resting at the zero star hotels across Asia, I’ve realized I’m made for this type of living. We’re talking about shower heads over 6 feet tall. Water pressure strong enough to rinse hair conditioner. Springs, not plywood, for a mattress. Oversize pillows on a King Sized bed. White linens recently pressed. Clean robes falling to Tall Girl’s knees. Working hair dryer expelling heat not air. Soft toilet paper to last more than 2 days. Working lamps and working electrical sockets. Unused, recognizable brand named shampoos and soap. Hog heaven baby! Heart the Hilton.

Pure relaxation hit as soon as the Hilton’s automatic, magical doors ushered me into a lobby built for giants – Ghangis Khan would be proud. It was here, the brain shut off. Muscled crumbled. And, I exhaled. Ahhhh… Clean….Silence…Alone… I’m starting to like people again….

Getting to the Hilton Beijing Airport Hotel was not easy. When traveling via trains, planes, automobiles, boats, bikes and taxis, expect the hardest and longest path of resistance. Especially in those countries that have over 2,000 characters in their alphabet. To minimize arriving in pools of sweat, I enlisted the help of the front desk lady at the Beijing Hotel recommended by Gap Adventures. I told font desk lady where I needed to go. She never heard of Hilton. There are five or six Hilton’s in Beijing – never heard of it. This was going to be fun.

I showed her online where the Hilton Airport Hotel is located. Her only role in this was to translate directions to the taxi driver. She nodded. I assumed by her nod she relayed this information to the taxi driver.

We’re making good time to the airport. Not much traffic – for Beijing – on a Sunday. As we approach the airport exit, taxi man slows down. My internal “not a good sign” radar goes off. Here we go. Taxi man starts to mumble. Talking into his ear piece. I gathered he called a friend to figure out where the hotel is located. Lost in translation. I know where the hotel is. TERMINAL 3 – My home away from home. I could lead you to the land of order, balance and harmony in darkness…

He kept talking. I booted up my laptop. The last stop on the internet super-highway was Beijing Hilton and I hoped Firefox saved the page. It did. Thank GOOOOOD. I pulled up the map. Showed the driver. He nodded in enthusiastic relief. Yes, he had NO idea where this hotel is located. Don’t get it. Hotel lady and taxi man talked for a good 3 mins before I got into the car. What did they talk about? Climate change? North Korea’s national “I heart communism” military parade being broadcast in Chinese TV? Chinese dissident receiving noble peace prize? Overcooked dumplings?

Yes, its the Anglo that gets us to the Hilton. I would have walked at this point. We pull up. A Chinese young lady greeted me in perfect English. Another young man opened my door. White gloves on the car door, ensuring I don’t bump my head. Young lady with a tight bun wrapped in bows and rhinestones hands me a taxi card. Not knowing what to do, I handed it to taxi man. She laughed. “No. It’s for you. It has the taxi name and number on the card. If you accidentally leave something in his car, we can call him for you. He will bring it to you. I guarantee it…” she smiles. She’s wearing red. Favorite color. I’m confused by this level of service. Mind is entering into happy, calm, zone. Can feel the transition as I step from mini-taxi into the Hilton built for giants.

Commercial break. On plane. Chinese Southern Airline. Flight attendant just said. “We’re waiting for one passenger. Please be patient. And, refrain from smoking.” Shit. I hope this is a non-smoking flight. Get ready to gag. When is the last time you heard about smoking on an airplane? Oh my… Also, the nicely dressed Chinese man sitting next me opted not to shower today. Not sure if it BO or Chinese cooking grease. Flight is only 2 hours and 55 minutes. Just going from Northern China to middle China. Big ass country.

Back to Hilton.

Little lady asked me if I’m a World Hilton Member. Hell, I am now. I smiled – and said, “my step-brother works for Hilton, so…the answer is YES BABY!” Fiona – another young, smiling lady with a bun laced with bows and rhinestones- enthusiastically greets me…

“Ms. Day. We’ve been waiting for you. Happy Birthday! Today is your special day. We have a cake for you…”

If I would have known about this type of reception, I would have whipped out the red lipstick AND eyebrow pencil. Then it hit. That’s right. Guess who called Beijing Hilton Airport the day prior – my Southern Mama. She had a “lovely chat with this very friendly woman who said she will take care of me.” I can only imagine the conversation from a NC, Southern bell and the Chinese guest services manager. What Fiona heard was Mom was taking care of everything. Hey, that works for me! This is not what Mom had said. But, I’m going with Fiona.

Mark, my stepbrother, got me the family/friends rate for he works for Hilton in Orlando. ROCK STAR! I don’t even want to know how much this would cost otherwise. I’m so grateful to him and Susan – his cute wife – to help me reserve a room. I’m bringing back a surprise. Soap from the Hilton in Beijing…

Chinese bell man escorted me to my room. I walked in. Smiled. Body is entering the land of Zen… The air condition even has FREON. The other hotels claim air-condition, but they opt for the fan only. Life is getting better by the minute.

Bellman left. I just say and took it all in. The mini-fridge is not only cold, but quiet. One thing I can not get used to is their idea of refrigeration. I get why they don’t sell milk, yogurt or cheese… It is unnerving when you reach for a water or COKE Zero from a mini-market fridge and it’s warmer than hot. Fridges in China are for storage, not coldness.

The bathroom – well, I could move in. A SITTING toilet and a faucet with both hot and cold water. A tub to hold a 6 foot girl. And a bathroom window facing the flat screen TV. You can bath and blow dry while watching the BBC. Life can not get much better than this.

Wait. It can. My other goal is to mail – they use the word post – a few things back to the states. I’ve purchased a few things along the way – like Polish furry boots – and picked up a few times – rocks from Petra. Hilton has a business center on floor 2. I walked in. Greeted by a tall – five foot six – smiling, Chinese lady with a bun, bows and rhinestones. I told her I needed to mail a few items. She looked confused. Switched the word “mail” to “post.” She understood the word post, yet still looked confused. Hilton has trained her in the art of customer service – meaning, listen, find a solution and charge the customer. My type of proactive, guest service system I support.

She made a few calls to EMS and DHL. Express mail is the best way to go. Yea, most expensive. I told her, “I have a date with a spa so I’ll be back in 2 hours. It’s in your hands. You are the expert.” She smiled. I did a birthday dance. When I came back, she told me it would cost $100 to express mail. Nope. I’ll wait to Bangkok to do the 4 week pony express for much less.

In route to the spa, I pass a REAL gym with REAL equipment like a treadmill, free weights, TVs…. The works. My overachiever goal had me in there first thing in the AM. FYI. Did NOT happen. I walked into Spa room. Dark. Cool. And two overly friendly, giggly Chinese girls with buns in bows and rhinestones greeted me with flowers and tea.

First thing out of their mouth, “Happy Birthday!” Fiona – front desk girl – gave them a head’s up on my arrival. LOVE this place. Proactive baby. They both agreed before I even saw the menu that the Red Wine Spa was for me. Like the sound of this. But, wine in China is 50 to 80% proof. Are they going to bath me in it or do I drink it? Either way, pulled the American thing – need to be in control and see my options – and asked to see the spa menu. I was really just looking for a manicure. Cuticles have not been tended to since July 9, 2010. It’s time.

Cuticles will need to wait. No manicure. Just wine disinfecting. Chinese massages. Acupuncture. Facials. O’well…what is a birthday girl to do. I asked for the deep tissue massage for 90 mins and 30 min facial. Glass of wine will work too. My pores need to be drained of Chinese pollution. Fibi was my lady. “She’s the best…”

We kicked started the relaxation gig by washing my feet. I felt uncomfortable for my feet have been wrapped in wool socks and hiking boots for the last 6 hours. They are NASTY. I took off my shoes and apologized. She just giggled. The Chinese like to giggle. Meanwhile, the oversized copper bowl was filling up with steaming water. She gently placed in the water pink rose petals with three scoops of green powder. She lifted my feet and set them in the water. DAMN. Hot mama. I smiled. With an exfoliate in one hand and more grainy, green powder in the other, she worked over my two worn out stubs, mandated to hold up my 6 foot body.

Next on the docket was a shower. She requested I shower first. I had to agree. I walked and walked earlier in search of my Oba-Mao t-shirt. I can only imagine the pollution I’ve accumulated. When I washed my face, my skin felt grainy from the dust. Chest too. After showering and swaddling my body in a warm, fluffy robe, I waited.

Within 30 minutes of the massage, I was out cold. Asleep. Probably snoring. I have never fallen asleep on a massage table. Especially in a foreign country. Oh, one other thing. The face hole on the table, guess what greeted me? A warm bowl of water with red and pink rose petals. When my eyes opened, petals and fresh sent of flowers greeting me. On the other hand, in Petra, Jordan for the “Turkish” massage, I was greeted by mold and scum. Love Hilton!

The facial was interesting. I was expecting a high powered mirror to deep clean every pore. Nope. It was more of a face massage with apply every oil and lotion from “France.” She exfoliated a few times. Then, spent the rest of the time giving me a face and head massage. I fell asleep again. Who falls asleep in a facial? My body was so tired. I do this. That is, run hard with little sleep for a week or two or three, and then my brain and body shut down. I need to be quiet and sleep for 10 to 12 hours then I’m recharged. Today is recharged day.

After spa, I zombied back to my room. Within minutes, the phone rings. New front desk girl, Julie rings. She has my cake and a present. OK. Come on up!

Five minutes later, she arrives with the CHEF and three other Hilton employees with a cake in one hand and fresh purple and white flowers in the other hand. Tears came to my eyes. Am I really about to cry… Was it because of the service or shear embarrassment of imagining my Mom negotiating a cake in her Southern-drawl English? The best part was their rendition of the Happy Birthday song. Bad. None of these lads will make it on Karakee night at the local Beijing bar.

I asked them to sing it in Chinese. They all looked relieved. And, just as embarrassed. We clapped. I think they wanted to stay… Not sure what the protocol is. I led them to the door for my next stop was a tub, beer and cake. Check the box. Filled the CLEAN tub with yummy water. Drank my beer. Cut some cake. Soaked in silence. I was tempted to turn on TV for I have no had English news in weeks. Why start now? Silence.

All I could think about was my blog. How to write about the fact that my soul is made for fine hotels and customer service. I’m no longer cut out for 5^th class Chinese trains, sleeping six to a compartment with no door, sheets encrusted with old food and bathrooms where you need to use a mask and gloves to enter. I had to giggle for if were ever to run for office my opponent would have a field day on my “love for fine things” – clean sheets, customer service and birthday cake. But, I’ll be brave and put it out there. I like nice things. I like nice people. Political career is now over.

Last night, I cuddled with FOUR oversized, fluffy and firm pillows. A mattress with springs. And, clean, WHITE linens. I watched Addicted to Love on HBO with Meg Ryan and Ferris Bueller Day’s Off actor. (Forgot his name). Never seen the C+ movie. No matter. Meg Ryan’s hair and make-up is what captivated me. Perfect in every scene. Her character is a “grunge” or one of those “avaunte guard” tough girls. Tough girls don’t devote an hour a day applying eye shadows and eyebrows. And, another two hours styling hair. And, Meg Ryan’s wardrobe was so cool and stylish. Man, I must be craving new clothes. I’ve been wearing the same four long sleeve t-shirts since July 11^th. I also want her eyebrows and hair. I have all of these high hopes for my style upon my return. I’ve already given up all forms of instant coffee and replacing it with ground coffee beans. I guess my next “big thing” is to embrace daily hygiene and fashion. Got to love what traveling does to the soul…

Commercial Break. Chinese Southern Air is serving lunch. I’ve already got some coffee laced with heavy cream and extra sugar. I’m on a roll. What’s in store. Wow. For those that sleep, flight attendants leave a sticker requesting you ring the bell for lunch. The Chinese business man next to me is going to town on his food. He’s slurping up the rice and chicken while using a fork. I swear if he hocks a luggie, I’m going to scream. For whatever reason, I assumed slurping only happened when using chop sticks. Wrong. Lunch was rice. Chicken. Yogurt with a straw. Dried apricots. Mixed vegetable with tofu and peanuts. All good… Glad to see a fork again. Oh, and alcholog is free… All you can drink.

Back to Hilton.

This AM, woke to sunlight. That’s right. Pollution, midst, fog – whatever you want to call – has enveloped the city. Thick stuff. It rained last night. Air is clean. Sun is out. Vitamin D is in the air. Puts a smile on my face. Checked out of my favorite hotel in the whole wide world – Hilton – and headed to the airport. At airport security, I was greeting by young girls wearing bows, buns and rhinestones. They all have the same hair style. Here these young girls – wearing all black. Black jumper. Black thick belt. Black boots. White letters in Chinese and English on their back saying Security. But, THEY even have sytle. They spice it up with their buns, bows and rhinestones. Super feminine security. Why have I not noticed this until now? Julie – your Mom would be psyched to see so much glitter in one place.

Next stop is Bangkok. I have my passport photos ready. Thailand requests passport photos at immigration – or so they say. I’m in Bangkok for a few days, then off to Bhutan. Can I just tell you how much I HEART the Hilton? I need to be their paid spokesperson in Beijing… Thank you Susan, Mark and Mom. Birthday at the Hilton was the BESTEST!

Just throwing it out there. I could move into the Beijing airport. OMG. I’m a Libra.  THRIVE in harmony, order and balance. This place is built on those principals and then add some architecture genius, high end retailers, Disney codes of happily moving people, yummy restaurants and customer service, you’ve got Beijing airport baby. Tallgirl was built for this place. OMG. I just can’t stop smiling.

Signs telling you it’s going to be a 7 minute walk from one point to your gate. Their TSA security actually moves people through in a fast, precise and efficient manner…No taking off shoes. No liquid bullshit..They care about technology.

Oh, they speak English. Have a TCBY fro-yo cafe that sells BEER. Don’t tell, just had a large peach with extra sprinkles and a beer. Sounds nasty, but I’m just smiling… Oh, the little TCBY girls, spoke English… When taxi man dropped me off, had greeters to point you in the right direction…It’s Walt Disney, Chinese style.

I’m not shocked for I assumed China, especially Beijing, would bleed with order. The opening ceremonies of the Olympics screamed that loud and clear. Actually, frightening the living shit out of me.  Focus here…What I’m trying to say is, I’m in HEAVEN.

Coming from sighing Russia and mayhem Mongolia, this is a shock to the system. My internal balance is being restored. I’m drawn to clean, straight lines. The color red. Quality. Fine things. Over sized, artsy windows. Accessible, clean water. Working electrical outlets built into the floor. Free WiFi. High ceilings, making me feel petite. Signs in English. And, no clutter… We’re talking Clean…clean…clean.. Damn… Bring it on China. My soul is waking up.

The drive here was orderly. I was expecting billions of cars. Horns. Chaos. None of it. Five to seven lane highways. No horns. Using signals to cross lanes. Where am I???

Off to Shanghai in a few. I have a feeling that Beijing’s order is Shanghi’s chaos… Yes, I’m flying.  Toss the trains for 48 hours please.

Facebook is down. So, my blog will have more random observations.

By the way, last night was Young Bucks goodbye dinner.  We had Peking duck…never had it.  I’m a fan. Add another animal with feathers to my diet…  Will be back in Beijing in 14 days….

Views from my hotel window this AM..Around 5:30 AM… Pollution Central?

My side of the room… BIG mess…Hotel in Beijing..

And, lift off! LOT – Polish Airlines – is in the air in route to Warsaw with final destination — land of Peter the Great – St. Petersburg, Russia.

Excitement. Apprehension. Wonderment. Those are the feelings right about now. I’m just relieved I made my flight because we’re off to a rocky start. I hate typing those words since my travel day has just begun. It’s 6:28 AM my time or 12:28 AM (EST).

My head hit the pillow around 1 AM and I woke around 3:30 AM. Taxi – Audi station wagon – wisked me to Krakow airport around 4:30 am. My taxi drivers is the same dude I bribed to drive me to DHL only weeks ago. It was nice to see his face. Safe hands… At least for the next 29 minutes or so.

Ok. So, my final destination is St. Petersburg, Russia so one would safely assume that I would be departing at Krakow’s international terminal. Makes sense. Right? I need to learn whenever I “assume,” I’ll wind up lost or screwed.

Taxi man drops me off. We wish each other “good life” and my feet briskly carry me to the international terminal It’s cool out. I have 2 t-shirts, jacket and scarf. Try to wear as much clothes as possible so they won’t charge me extra for baggage weight. Every ounce counts here.

It’s 5:05 am and the the place is DEAD. My flight is to take off in an hour. The only airline operating is Lufthansa – those folks are going to Munich. Hmmm… I don’t understand. I don’t even see a LOT kiosk or LOT gate. There’s no LOT.

I stand in the mini-airport and just look around. I inhale. OK. What am I missing here. I’m tired. Unlike Beirut, signs are in English. No LOT. There are a few stragglers hanging around – think homeless or old men up all night – and a few stragglers in line for Munich. I walk outside. Does LOT have their own terminal and in my haste of wishing Taxi man “good life” I walked in the wrong door?

Nope. No LOT terminal. I walk back in. This time my breathing starts to get heavier. I look at the time. My flight leaves in 50 mins. I spy some security dudes, lazily strolling around, heads down, in deep conversation. I walk behind them. The rollers on my bag echo off the walls.  They take no notice of the frantic hysteria on their tails…

“Oh, excuse me… English… do you speak English?”  They keep walking. I say it again, “only louder with a higher pitched tone.” They turn. “English?”

The taller, darker one says, “Yes.” I show him my flight itinerary.  He just stares and smiles at me. It dawns me he can’t read.  “Can you tell me where I check in for LOT? It’s going to Warsaw at 6 am. My final destination is Russia. Can you help me?”

He pointed to an office door with a LOT sign. I smiled. Good. Can’t imagine checking in at an office, but at least I know LOT exists. The sign said it does not open until 5:30 am. It’s 5:11 am. I’m clearly in the wrong place. I get in line at Lufthansa.  Airport people know each other. They know the system. Security – another story. Plus, they have to speak basic English.

I wait. Wait. And, wait.  People in front of me are going to the States and something is wrong with their VISA. Shit. It’s VISA again… I wait. Stare at the time. My eyes scan for LOT people. LOT badges. LOT anything. It’s 5:16 am. What happens if I miss my flight to Warsaw and then to St. Petersburg. I know what happens – but I’m still have time to fix this.

My hands start to swell. Mouth turning dry. These men line up behind me with 7 or 8 foot tools. Looks like they are carrying canoe paddles. Their loud. Polish. Speaking in constants. I can’t hear them. My eyes pour in the back of the family in front of me. Come on lady, le’ts move it. Do you have a VISA or not?

It’s now 5:20 am and the LOT door is still closed. The women moves. I smile. The Lufthansa kid smiles back. Thank you lord! I tell him my situation. Annoyance emerges. He said, “you are at the wrong terminal. Warsaw is domestic. It’s 500 meters.”

Flashback to High School crew days. Is 500 meters the entire race or the sprint? I asked, “can I walk?” He repeats, “it’s 500 meters.” Looks like I’m sprinting. The clock now says 5:26 am.

I inhale. Clasp by bags. And, haul ass through the vacant terminal. Out the door. Run into another security teen. I ask him, “Domestic?” And point. He nods. Smiles. Nods. Damn, he doesn’t speak English. He has that look.

Down the sidewalk. Keeping my head down, I start to pace my breathing.  I tell myself — no pain in shoulder or hand…there’s no pain… I notice the sidewalk is made out of the same bricks I used to pave the shed floor at Habitat.  I feel comforted by the bricks.

Stay focus. Around the corner, there’s a building. Is it? Nope. Cargo. I trot by. Next building is big. It has to be it. Nope. It’s security. The sidewalk is dark. No lights. No cars. I keep trotting. You have GOOOOT to be kidding me. Am I going to get friggin lost trying to find the domestic terminal in airport the size of Burger King. Prespiration. My stomach growls. Legs are tired. Heart moving to fast. Break it down to the obnoxious fast walk thing where the hips are bouncing back and forth. I’m willing my backpack rollers to turn faster and faster. I round the corner. There’s light. Stairs. And, the red lights “domestic.” Made it! Now, let’s hope the gate is not closed.

I see LOT. LOT exists. There are 2 people left in line to check in. I exhale. My throat is so dry that I begin to cough. Now dry heave. I’m dry heaving. Fab. The nuns look at me.  My eyes are watering.  I’m doing the controlled dry heave.  Where is my gum. I have no liquids for I’m about the go through security. Gum. Grab the gum. I pawn through my backpack, trying to control the urge to  barf. Clearly, I’m not in shape. Gum inserted in mouth and throat goes from sand paper to soft scrub. I step into line acting like everything is “cool.” Of course I didn’t just trot 500 meters to catch a domestic flight to Russia.  Who does such things….

I’m checked in. Gate guy wishes me a “good life.” Second time I heard it this AM, and it’s only 5:48 AM. The line for radiation is 20 feet. (Don’t know meters). I line up behind a nun. I look at the sign of “what not to carry on.”  They’ve listed kayaks,canoes and martial art weapons like brass knuckles,  nun-chucks and bayonets.  I sooo wanted to whip out my camera.  I mean a Kayak?  Did someone try to convince them that it would fit in the overhead space?   What is a nunchuck?  Of course, I read numb-nuts.  I could not stop laughing.  I mean out loud giggling.  I pictured the whole numb-nut and kayak scene.  Thank you God. My anxiety level is slowly resuming normalcy. Throat is secreting moisture on its own.

It’s 5:55 AM and my flight leaves in 5 mins. I’m next through the strip search of security. Two pilots and four flight attendants que in behind me. I make it through the pat down. It’s 5:57 am and I jump on the bus to take me to the LOT plane. I sit. It’s quite. One other late comer is on the bus. The bus does not move. Seriously. Am I on the wrong bus now?

It’s 5:59 am. I’m about to stand up, then the flight crew boards the bus. Please don’t tell me that’s our pilot. The bus lurches forward. We round the corner. I look out the window, searching for a LOT plane. We pass the security building, cargo building – the buildings I just trotted by moments ago. We head to the international terminal. Yep. You guessed it. Bus stops at international terminal only 60 or so feet from my launching pad only 30 minutes ago.   I knew from Poland to Russia was international.  Well, I got a quick jog on the way to the flight.   That’s all I can ask for.

I board the plane with 10 windows along with the flight crew. It’s not our pilots, just stewardess.  The ride along pilots butt in front of me and grab all the first class seats. I make my way to the back of the plane tuck my knees in. We lift off – the world is slowly waking up. I think about today – the people that will leave this world. The people that will come into this world. The people getting a promotion or the ones getting  terminated. The people who will go hungry another day and those who will embrace gluttony.  The people who want to be heard and those who are silenced.

Today is a beautiful day. Full of hopes. Full of fears. Full of life. I’m so blessed to be flying thousands of meters, feet and inches above watching God unfold this day to me. I’m gearing up for Peter the Great and Putin.

The cabin is quiet. The flight attendant hands me a 6:39 AM snack. Princess cookies! Love them. Today is going to be a good day.

I landed in Warsaw. We were welcome with another dose of radiation and a pat down.   I found a cafe that served hot sandwiches, across from my gate and started humming “Last Christmas” by George Michael.  I ordered a latte and a sandwich which I prayed was not drenched in mayo. I realized Warsaw muzak is playing an eight-track of GM for the next song is Careless Whispers. I smile.

As I sipped my coffee and stared, I tuned into the sophisticated ladies sitting next to me.  One woman is from Bulgaria woman looks like Olivia Bensen from Law & Order SVU. The other two are older – blonds – and are Lebanese. I believe they live in Beirut. A Bulgarian woman is asking them about Beirut. My ears perk up.

Bulgaria woman asks, “I haven’t been to Beirut. They wear regular western clothes, right?” They respond, “Why of course!” She goes on, “Well, I went to this party in Bulgaria. These Lebanese women were there. They had scarfs. But, then they were dancing on the tables. I was like, WOW!  WOW!  This was a Lebanese woman. When they moved fast the the scarfs came undone.”

Beirut lady, “The West side of Beirut is more progressive. You know in France they are doing a lot of questions about this. They are not letting people cover their face. And, the Muslims are upset.”   Bulgaria woman is silent. She is not going there – not giving her opinion. Conversation changes to weather.  I applaud her.

Bulgaria woman continues on…”They are educated in Lebanon, no? Women are educated. I met women in Kuwait.  They are not educated. They are covered but can’t read. In Lebanon, the woman are safe. They can work. It’s comfortable. They are safe. They have more freedoms than in other countries. Men don’t bother them.  They are safe.”

Bulgaria woman, “I did not like LA. I like San Diego. I like tan. It’s not good for the skin. But, in moderation. It’s good.”

Bulgaria woman, “Your husband is tall? That’s good. It’s nice to be tall. Tall is good.”

Beirut woman, “I was model. They come to my house to ask if I could model. I was tall. They come to my house to ask my father.”

Bulgaria woman, “ I was 16. This man comes to my house. I look Arabic you know.  He was Arabic.  Older.  I have curly hair, dark and the Arab uni-brow.  You know, the Arabic look…. He brings my father rice. He says he wants to marry me. My father got angry. Very angry. He angry with me. 16. Not married at 16. Nooooooooo…  I’m not married now. I’m 38. Yes, I look young. It’s because I’m not married, no?”

Bulgaria woman, “I have a cousin who is married to a rich Lebanese man. Very rich. Yes, she’s still married. Doctor of a very rich woman. My cousin, very beautiful woman. She has no choice. She has to be beautiful or husband gets mad.”

Bulgaria woman, “I want to have kids. But, it’s not so easy. When you’re older. But whatever the God Will. Whatever the God will. I need to find a prince… But, there are no prince. I look, but no prince. Maybe I don’t need a prince.  Maybe I just need a baby.  I’m a nurse.” Lebanese women agree.

Bulgaria woman, “I like different things. I communicate very easy with people. I like travel.”

I like traveling too. Listening. Asking questions. Curious…. So, curious…. Another George Michael song – You’ve Got to Have Faith. They’re about to call for my flight to St. Pete. Need to brush the tooth, apply lip gloss, touch the VISA and “load’em up.” We’re off. Next blog will about landing and getting to the hotel.  Wish me luck!

Sack Attack Update.

Received the over-sized backpack posing as a suitcase late last night in Krakow, Poland.  The Israeli storm-trooping teens turned it inside out.  Looks like they snatched a packet of bill control, pair of wool socks and duct tape.  Interesting combo.  I don’t want to think about why.  Clearly they long-term borrowed it in the name of security.

There is something unnerving knowing someone one – or a whole group of randoms – has pilfered through your things.  I wonder how they analyzed me based on my stuff?  They could safely assume pregnancy is not an option b/c of the 7 month supply of BC.  And, I must be one for headaches or in pain with the 200+ IB Profin pills.

Hmmm…. I bet they had a field day believing I’m super type-A with the my fashions safely sealed and secured in vacuum packed, Ziplocks.  They may possibly believe I’m organized – but little do they know.  I’m sure they laughed when they came across Magic Jack adapater connected to a 1980’s phone.  Yes, I’m carrying a full size phone bought at Wal-Mart for $5.99.  If they open the green, meshed make-up bag, they would sigh and will me to invest in some clean brushes and even upgrade the Maybeline eyeliner.

By unsealing my clothes, they would see I stray from short-shorts, micro-minis, tanks or anything causing a farmer’s tan or skin cancer.  They might even assume I’m a Muslim or Jewish poser – certainly not a Britney Spears, no-clothes wearing Christian.    Oh, I could go on…

What matters is that I have clothes to wear and garden gloves to sport next week as I TRY my hand at building homes for the impoverish Polish with Habitat for Humanity.  That’s what matters.  And, I do want to note I have stripped away all stickers and anything that says Israel.

I’m over them.  And, I hope they OD on my BC.

Made it to Poland.  Listening to drunk’en fools clapping to accordion playing outside my hotel window in Krakow.

Trying to digest jumping Jordan and irritating Israel. Major editing of observations is recommended if I ever want to step foot in the middle east….Hey, I may find out that I don’t want to go back after my ongoing security “incident” at the Tel Aviv airport…

Let’s say, I made it out but my over-sized backpack full of unnecessary items was deemed a security risk and is under observation. Maybe I should have kept the J&J first aid kit and the pound of prenatals and ditched the sulfate-free shampoo and over sized Ziplocs. I’m dreaming of clean undies and a toothbrush right about now.

I knew I had Israeli security risk written all over me. Let’s face it…The tall, sweaty blond shacking up at the catholic monastery now 4-star hotel… drinking ONLY Palestinian beer…channeling the THORNBIRDS as I oggled over tall, hunky priests… going undercover to photo AK47 totting teens… starring at ringlet- wearing Haredi Jews secretly smoking cigs…opting to flirt with dirty, Dutch boys in lieu of the wrathful natives…..and being forced to smuggle pastel yellow gardening gloves bought in Beirut for a Habitat for Humanity project in Poland.

You can see how the deck was stacked against me.  I was going dooooown….So,  when those tempestuous teens running airport security laid their eyes on the pretty pastels – BAM, they immediatly thought military contraband.  No joke. A kid actually said this to me.  D.O.N.E…

Yes.  Need to edit – a lot.  So, give me a day.  I plan to post Jazzercising in Jordan tomorrow and Israel thereafter.

Party onward.. Maybe I will go and see what my fellow Polish friends are cheering about outside my window first…Maybe not.  I’m super stinky.