Not Your Typical Day

Wow!

Two emails from two boys. When it rains, it’s pours…. I make myself laugh…

One from an Arab resembling Michael Jackson. And, the other from a hottie back home.

Though, to be fair, one was drunk and the other troubled. The later, needs a lot of fixing. The former, just needs sobering up. He’s going to wake in a few hours, horrified. It’s great. Been there SOOOO many times. That feeling of, “What did I say last night? What did I do last night? And, who did I do it with?” You can read it into that comment all you want. But, if you know me, it’s usually regretting some form of verbal vomit while being over-served. Not cooool…

A friend of mine asked me why I deleted the headline “Sexy. Sassy. And, Single” from my blog and changed it to Tall. And, Traveling.

First of all the blog program for Dummies made me insert a tag line when launching my blog back in August. First words to enter the brain, were the three S’s. Then, I forgot about it until a few months later.

I changed it because I never thought of myself as any of the words. Sexy is not in my DNA. I interpret Sassy as cocky. And single implies, to me, lonely. And, I certainly do not feel lonely when traveling. People are everywhere. I mean, like cockroaches everywhere.

And, I’ve met so many new friends and teachers of life that the idea of being alone, rarely crosses my mind. More importantly, God is more real to me on this journey than the people sitting next to me in this outdoor cafe. So, the word ‘single’ does not work.

Now, going back to the word sexy. For me, sexy and traveling suggests a lot of work…. like matching, applying wrinkle repair cream and bathing, shaving and fixing a body part every other day. None of that is me. Maybe it’s Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat, Pray, Love, but not me.

So, segway… I just saw Eat, Pray, Love on Emirates Air from Cape Town to Dubai. People have asked, “Wow! You’re single. Traveling. You must be doing E, P, L???” Short answer is, “no…”

First, don’t have a book deal advance prior to my departure. Second, don’t have a new, cute outfit for every day, or themed for every country. Third, haven’t endured a divorce or recently had my heart broken into bits …. promoting me to find myself by learning how to be alone, while in the end, falling in love with some Brazilian hottie.

That is not my story, it’s Elizabeth Gilbert’s. And, how she described her journey in her book was real. Honest. And, it took courage. How Hollywood portrayed her story, was VERY unrealistic. Details are everything.

Now, the things I did relate to in the movie… the chaos of a developing country. Her comment about everyone you met on your journey is your teacher. And, meditating. Praying. And, no longer being in control for God is inside of us all.

Things I had issue with. Julia Robert’s hair. I studied her hair. I mean, paused the movie to get a better look. And, after a full year of traveling, the woman did not have any split ends or dark roots. In each scene, she wore a cute bun or braid. I stopped the movie many times trying to figure out how they made her bun look so damn cute. I know she had a million dollar stylist, but come on, it’s a bun. In one scene, she had four different bun renditions. Her bun people must not have paid attention to detail. I did. I wanted the bun.

Next, who has time for make-up at 4:30 am in India to meditate. And, who wears white shirts in countries where bleach is a rarity and hand washing is the norm. And, who brings accessories, hats, glasses and earnings for every occasion. Packing must have caused physical suffering.

Finally, and most importantly, where are these single….. AND  straight AND super-fine AND fit AND emotionally available AND successful AND tall AND funny AND English speaking …. men? I haven’t seen any, yet…

But, if you look at the premise of her story, where she left her comfort zone to slow down. To go to a place that allows her soul the freedom to explore, to question her contributions, to shed light on the dark bits and to answer her God.  Well, that is a different story.

What’s been interesting has been the majority of solo travelers who are taking one-month up to one-year to have a look at the world are female.  And, range in age from 25 to 65.  And, all have the same story of being overworked, overburdened,  and just over IT. This state of mind knows no border. No color. No class….

We’re from all over – Amsterdam, London, Singapore, Germany, South Africa, Scotland, Italy, England, Sweden, Norway, Argentina, Finland, Poland, Egypt, Mozambique, Ireland…. And, we all yearn to fill our cups with joy to be better lovers, friends, wives, girlfriends, daughters, mothers, pet owners and worker-bees.

But, its this curiosity about how others – not ourselves – think, eat, sleep, love, pray, mother, lead, govern, nurture that drives us to travel, and not go to a spa.  Our soul asks the “why” and “how,” knowing full well we’re here to understand. To listen. To be aware. To learn. And, to carry small pieces in our soul to replenish our joy cups when we return.

So, back to where this RANDOM blog started. My tag line. Tall & Traveling. To me, it is funny. It’s exacting. Literal. Smart. With a dose of ODD.

I mean, is there really something to be learned or said about being tall and traveling the world? Besides complaining about clothing sizes in China, train compartments in Vietnam or leg room in Thailand, not really. And, that’s why I titled it Tall. And, Traveling. It’s aimless with a focused fortuitousness. It’s anything we want it to be…

And, today, this blog is much about nothing… True definition of verbal vomit of the Tall & Traveling.

Jan. 6, 2010

The flight from Cape Town to Dubai.

On Emirates Air. One of the premier airlines of the world, and now I get why. These people pay attention to detail. Like Disney detail… Even the flight attendants’ lips are all painted the same shade of red. Perfectly coiffed. Serving FREE booze with a smile.

What else? Movies are recent. Chairs recline. Bin space big enough for a small animals. Food is digestible. Bread served warm. Full can of coke. And, I was sitting in toilet class. Literally, two rows away from the flusher.

The downside to the flight was sitting a stones throw from a two year old who cried, talked, moaned and cried 10+ hours. I felt like the Twilight Zone, where I was on a flight from Orlando toooooo Hell, where all the kids are either revved up to see Mickey or screaming to leave the little rat. Either way, its surround-sound loudness.

On this flight, the father was in charge. Mom looked like she could not be bothered. I wondered about their relationship. Based on dress alone, they were a conservative, Muslim family. The mother was covered. The father was not. Yet, the father was responsible for tending to his child, not the mother. She watched movies and slept. Maybe they had some arrangement of “she’s yours to Dubai and she’s mine to Damascus.”

Couldn’t figure it out… Made up a lot of stories to by the end of it, I was super-mom and knew I could settle down the little girl. Please remember, this nonsense comes from the girl who opted to mow lawns instead of babysit.

First movie on the docket was Eat, Pray, Love. You can read about my review in the next blog. Imagine that I have an opinion about the movie??!! After EPL, I moved onto a Woody Allen movie called Meet a Tall Dark Handsome Man. Never been into Woody Allen, but liked the title. It was OK. Never figured out who the TDHM is for Anthony Hopkins and Antonio Bandares both come in around 5’7 on a good day. And, I think Antonio Banderas has a rolling eye… So, I’m still waiting. Maybe TDHM is in his traditional costume, waiting for me at airport border security.

Oh, funniest thing happened to me. Apparently, when I say the word “water” it sounds to the South African ear, I’m saying the word “wine.” No joke. First time it happened was at an outdoor restaurant in Kei Mouth.

We’re riding horses. Stopped for lunch. Asked for “water.” The woman did not understand me. I repeated it three times. She said, “wine?” Second time this occurred was at lunch in Cape Town. I asked for “water” and the waiter asked if I liked the “house or wine list?” Well, maybe I looked liked I needed wine, so I ordered the house white. Third time, was on the flight from Cape Town to Dubai. Instead of water, lip-stick lady gave me a small bottle of FREE wine. Since, she handed over the whole mini-bottle, I ordered another once the kid started cranking it up into high gear.

Americans, in general, don’t use a hard “T” when saying “water.” And, we jumbled it together in one syllable. Whereas, British English pronounces the word “wa-ter” in two syllables, with a harsh “T.” So, warning to future travelers, you may be getting a fair share of wine when visiting South Africa. It worked for me…

—————

Just landed at Dubai airport. The immaculate, pressed, gleaming men flanked in their white robes and red-checkered hats greeted me at border patrol. No more green uniforms, these Emirates border patrol dudes can turn out. This meant, there’s bleach in the city built in the sand. So, far, so good.. I’m liking Dubai.

In line next to me, were eight Chinese men wearing germ masks. All of them couldn’t be carriers of swine, dog, avian or rodent flu. I just stared at them and wondered what message they’re sending. Was the message, “your city is as polluted as mine? Or, you don’t want what I have?” The masks made me nervous. And, I just don’t get it…

I’m next in line. And, I’m the one singled out, not the mask fearing men. Can’t figure out why it’s always the tall blond in Arab countries. Do I look like I’m going to hurt someone? Or, is it my adorable allure after sitting near a toilet for 10 hours.

If it’s this hard to get into Dubai, I can only imagine what it is going to be like leaving this place… Israel comes to mind. I exhale. Look around. Roll my eyes. And, try not to look annoyed. I wanted to say, just take me. And, make sure the holding cell has a goose-down pillow and tempurpedic mattress. I’m tired.

So, Dubai border patrol agent called over his twin in a white robe. They pointed at my passport and laughed. I could hear them saying my name. They continued to laugh. Looked around the room. Never looking at me. I followed their gaze. Are they calling in the reserves. I just stand. Shift my weight back and forth. Why smile. No use.

The twin wrote something down in Arabic. Fab. They kept on talking. I stood. Looked around. After much conversation, the young lad in white stamped my passport, smiled real big and said “Welcome to Dubai.” Now, I’m spooked. Wonder if they are selling me into Royal sex slavery? Back to reality. They brought in reinforcements for my passport looks like it was stapled together at the Dollar Store. I get it.

Right now, I’m at the Hilton in Dubai. Waiting for my room. Got here at 7 am and it’s around 9 am. A cute Italian family is skyping next to me. Gosh, I love their accent. I just want to scream out PREGO and Gellato and Cioa Bella! Sounded as if he’s saying Bellini, as in the drink. Start early in Italy.

Irritated with the Hilton for they want to charge me an additional $50 for internet and fruit/pastries per day. I can’t believe the Hilton can get by with this…

And, tell me again WHY am I in Dubai? Oh, to see concrete, kitty litter, steel, asphalt, white robes, and seven-star hotels in their glory…

December 5, 2010

Just landed in Nairobi. Flew Kenya Airways. Started in Siem Reap, Cambodia. An hour flight to Bangkok. Lay over for seven hours at Bangkok airport.  Bangkok to Nairobi was nine hours. Now, a five hour layover In Nairobi airport. Then, a four hour flight into Johannesburg

Brain cells are fried. Muscles spasms in random places. And, a head stuffed with snot. Started off with a $2 Cambodian drug for nose-plumbing and upgraded to the $12 recognizable brand name, Actifed.    I now can breath, but am severely dehydrated.  Perfect addition for transport hell.

Landed 30 mins ago. It’s 6:15 am. Walked the pint-size airport in less than 10 mins and discovered no seats. No joke. I made a home for my bum and backpack underneath the only digital boarding monitors in this airport.

Besides no seats, there are no restaurants. Just twenty or so duty free shops all selling the same things – booze, cigarettes, Kit Kats, Mars Bar and an occasional Kenya t-shirt.

Ouch. Something just bit me. Am I to start the malaria meds now? Or, wait until I land in South Africa. Fighting a cold is hard enough.  It’s time to pop the bug pills now. There’s no purpose in waiting.

Just figured out what I left in Cambodia. You know, I had to leave something. Make my mark. Left the Nokia $20 phone bought as an insurance policy in Vietnam. You see, if my V-nam Visa was illegit and I was taken to a dark Vietnamese cell, at least I had my Nokia with all the emergency consulate numbers.  Nokia was my insurance plan.

OMG. Did someone loose a cat ? Because, one just sprinted by me. Nobody seemed phased. Maybe he’s the Nairobi airport mascot. Or, maybe since he’s not a leopard or cheetah, everyone is OK with itty-bitty kitty. Need to pop bug pills now. Can’t risk getting cat scratch fever either.

Just stood up. Had to. Pain in the pelvis from sitting on the terrazzo.  Back to perusing the airport halls. I saw someone carrying a brown cup.  It looked like coffee.  I picked up the pace.  I spied a line. Of course, I just get in it, assuming the line is for coffee. Nope. It’s a line for Khartoum. Uh, can we say wrong line? Don’t need to go to Sudan. Just need coffee.

I smiled. Acted like I know what I’m doing. And, continued down the hall in search of coffee. Then, I saw it. Amidst the rubble, there was a Java stand. And, this line is longer than the line to Sudan. I hope they take dollars. I did not see an ATM. And, have no clue as to the Kenyan currency exchange. I really just want a coffee.

I see a few scattered chairs and tables. I’ll be back to squatting on the floor. Maybe I will blow up my plastic airplane pillow and sit on that. That’s should look cute with coffee.

Guess what? Java lady took dollars. And, I found a chair. Actually, the chair found me. I was blowing up my pillow and a nice African man walked over. He just picked up my bags, took my coffee and said, “follow me.” He spoke English, so I followed. He put my bag down and pointed at the empty chair, with a small table being shared by three other people. I smiled and thanked him. And, deflated my airplane pillow.

It still amazes me how I just follow people who speak English.

I plopped the body and just stared. My mind was numb. Turned on my lap top. And, just stared. The man next to me asked where I’m going. My head was so clogged with snot that I had to ask him to repeat himself please. I told him, “I’m in route to South Africa.” He said, “I’m from Uganda and going to Senegal.” My brain couldn’t locate Senegal on a map. He said, “it’s 11 hours flight.” I smiled. But, my brain still couldn’t locate it. I hope it’s because I’m just sick and tired, not mentally map defective.

He introduced himself as Mayor Charles, the mayor of a small town in Uganda. Right out of the gate, he asked if I liked politics. I tell him, “It’s a love/hate relationships. I love to hate it and hate to love it.” He laughed. He proceeded to tell me all about being a Mayor in Uganda. Mr. Charles has three main goals:

1. Expand access to electricity from 30% to 50% by next year.
2. Start a garbage collection program. He bought two trucks and needs to train the people and find a dumping ground.
3. Beautify a park for the kids.
4. Expand access to clean water. Only 20% of his town’s population has clean water.

He said he works closely with the UN, NGOs and other governmental organizations around the world. He said, “It takes a lot of time…A lot of paper… But that is ok…My people are patient…” In Senegal, he’s attending a Mayor’s conference…Again, brain freeze on Senegal.

He shared with me the level of corruption in the Uganda government. He is part of the DP party, which stands for Truth and Justice. His party is the opposition party to the ruling party. The ruling party rules by guns and bribes. He claims Uganda is one of the worse corrupt governments in all of Africa. I told him, “All I know about Uganda is a lot of churches go there for mission trips…I assumed, it was one of the least corrupt because of this…” He laughed openly. He really thought it was funny or I was superbly naive. Probably both.

Mayor Charles is young, about 36. His next goal is to become a minister but before he can do that, he wants to achieve his goals. I told him that I worked in DC. And, in my opinion, mayors and governors have more immediate power than the President of the United States. They decided whether houses can be built, trains can stop or dogs can play in a park…

He asked about Obama. He said, “I like Bush. Bush helped Africa. He president to give  most money to Africa – ever.  Help us fight disease. Help with Aids…Bush good.” First time I ever heard that in my travels. It usually, the opposite. Then, he bolted. About to miss his flight to Senegal. Before he left, he asked if I had kids? Married? And, invited me to stay with him in Uganda.

I waved, still trying to remember where is Senegal.

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…

Wanted adventure.  Got adventure.

Entire identity was stolen from me last night. Passport. Visa. Credit cards. Driver’s license. Cash… You name it. Gone. All in the name of shopping. The first time I’ve shopped since I left the land of free press.  BAM.  Talk about buzz kill.

I’m sitting at the US Consulate’s office in Hanoi, Vietnam. Waiting.  Thought now is a good time to start chronicling these last 18 hours.

The US Consulate’s office is what you imagine. Grey blue walls. Gray tile floors. Obama, Hilary and Joe all staring at me – smiling. I’m not taken much comfort in their rosy disposition.  Instead, I want to cry. I need to cry. I feel it in my throat. The enormity. The violation. It’s settling in.

Last night was just adrenaline. Today is –oh shit. I’m in a wanna-be Communist Country with out an identity. I keep pushing my mind to the positive. God is good. I mean, I could be in Russia. I could be in jail in Russia. They they imprison you for being without a passport.

I keep going to the positive.   Well, I could be in China. I could be in a jail in China where I would be a just another faceless number buying my time.

God is good. I’m in Vietnam. This capitalistic communist country recognizes tourist dollars are needed for their economic survival. I’ve got that on my side. God is good.

So, what happened. How in the world am I seeing the inside of one of our nation’s consulates  in a country we terrorized only 35+ years ago.  It goes back to shopping. Two main points here. Vietnam is on sale. And, US dollar is one degree stronger here than other Asian countries. Oh, I almost forgot, the post office is in walking distance from my hotel. The shopping stars aligned. So, I took to the markets to spend US dollars.

Wait. The US Consulate’s office is blasting God Bless America over the sound system. They have a video of clean, happy Americans eating pie, BBQ, riding motorcycles, drinking beer and smiling. Who are these people? I want to be them right about now. Kudos to the video editor for it looks like the US is diversity sensitive. I look around. Is anyone watching the video? I’m the only one. Have tears in my eyes. I love our country. I’m soooo ready to cry right now.

Back to yesterday.

Of COURSE, I was pick-pocketed five minutes away from my hotel. Just bought a bowl with a hole for chop sticks. Yes, liking the chop sticks thing…. I paid with cash. Put my mini-wallet in my backpack. Walked out of shop with three bags. Meandered down the street looking at counterfeit Northface jackets and Gucci shoes. Cruised into the hotel lobby. Reached for my purse. Noticed my zipper was slightly open. Hmmmm.. Yes, I did the hmmmm thing. Felt heart start to race. Felt light headed. Felt sweat. Body going straight into adrenaline mode before I even reached for my bag. Spirit knew I was FUUUU before the mind did.

Breathing got labored. I started to wave my hands next to my face, thinking it would cool me. I took a deep breath and went into search and destroy mode. Dumped everything on the hotel lobby marble floor. Two mini-Vietnamese front desk girls looked on in horror. Words have not been uttered yet. Just crazy flapping of the arms and shit spilled on the floor. I look up at them and bellowed, “Call Ang now. Call Ang. Call Ang. Call tour operator. Passport stolen. Need him here now. OK?”

Within seconds, I’m out the door. Walking as fast as possible – if not jogging – back to the last store. Trying to navigate motor-bikes, taxis, bikes and walkers. At this point, I didn’t care if I were hit because I would feel NO pain. I’m now sprinting. Within minutes, I’m back at the shop. I walked in calmly. I wanted to see the expression of the girls’ eyes – afraid or questioning. If it’s afraid, they are going down. If it is innocently curious, then they are scratched off my “who done it” list. By now, I had a long list for everyone I passed on the street are guilty.

The two girls were helping another customer. One waved. The other smiled and walked over.  They are excited to see me.  They don’t have it. I hastily ask about my wallet? They look frightened now for their store will possibly be named in a police report.  No longer my problem.

I sprinted out the door. I’m actually surprised I found the shop for Hanoi is one big cluster of streets, markets, shops and traffic. Each street looks and sounds the same. Run down French architecture and a lot of honking. I spied a $3 pedicure place. Damn, I wanted to get a pedicure, but now can’t because I have NO money. Not even $3! I’m screwed…

I’m back at the Hotel Serenade in minutes. I shouted, “Where is Ang? Call him? Where is he?”  I called Tour-Burn and asked him for Ang’s number. No, I did not have his number for it was in my WALLET. The front desk lady handed me the phone.  She was clearly frightened of me. I told Ang what happened. Twenty-six year old appeared at the lobby minutes later.

By this point, I’m back in my room. For whatever reason, the hotel hooked me up with an AWESOME room overlooking the streets of Hanoi. Big king size bed and over-sized tub. But, no internet connection. How do I know? Well, I called the front desk. Raised my voice in hysteria about “no internet connection.”

Seconds later the hostess at the restaurant appeared with a cable cord in one hand and hot water for tea in the other. Why can’t it be vodka. After she fiddled with my computer, she declared “Room no internet. Near street and far from router. Cable no good.”

It did not makes sense but I had a solution.  I will take Magic Jack and the 1980’s phone from Wal-Mart to the lobby and work off their computer. I had to call the bank to cancel my life line of $$ and have them reissue new cards ASAP.

It’s around 7 pm. I’m seated in the hotel lobby with my 1980’s phone. French tourists were walking in from a day of touring. They were loud. Ang is sitting next to me –just watching. He won’t leave my side, yet has zero solutions so far. I ask, “I’m sure this has happen before. This is common, no?”   He responds, “First time happen to me… Vietnam is very safe…” Great. Got a newbie here.

On the phone with USAA ATM hotlink. I’m mentioning their name because I’m floored. Here it goes… This is after hours lady…

Me: “Hi. I’m a USAA member. Bank with you. I’m in Vietnam and had my passport, ATM and credit cards stolen. I need for you to cancel my ATM and reissue me a new one.”

ATM gal: “Wow. That is terrible? Where are you?”

Me: “Vietnam. Hanoi. Capital City. Yes, it’s bad. Can you please stop my ATM.”

ATM gal: “Not a problem. I will take care of it. Your new card should arrive between 14 to 21 business days.”

Me: Pause. Shake my head. Brain was screaming, NOT AN OPTION. “That will not work. I need for you to FedEx the new card immediately. I need you to overnight it.  It must be here in 2 days. I leave Hanoi for Saigon in 2 days. ATM is the ONLY way to get any money. Don’t forget, I’m in Vietnam.”

ATM gal: “With international express mail, I can’t guarantee you when it will arrive. You didn’t carry checks?”

Me: Did ATM gal really just ask me about CHECKS? All credibility just flew OUT the door. “Yes, you CAN guarantee international shipping. Fed Ex has a tracking system. Their whole business model is based on the premise of getting random stuff to people anywhere in the world in matter of hours or days – not weeks or months. You pay up the nose. But, they will get it to you. I think there is some confusion here. I need my ATM fast. I need for FedEx to deliver it to my hotel in 2 days. I leave in 2 days…”

ATM gal: “You will need to call Fed Ex.  Do you have a pen.  It’s 1-800-Go Express. It’s an easy number. Tell them you have the $8 option. That is what USAA uses…”

Me: “$8 option? I will pay the $80 option….. And, don’t I need a tracking number before I call them……. And, what I’m hearing you say is if I call this 1-800 number and say “$8” option they will know what I’m talking about? Look… I need my ATM. And, you are a military bank – you have people living all around the world. I’m SURE you can send cards to people within days… I’m positive..”

ATM gal: “Let me check for you. It looks like we can’t guarantee it but there is a chance we can get it there in 4 to 5 business days. So, we’re looking at next week sometime. Do you have a physical address?”

I think to myself. FedEx ships on the weekend too. Has this lady missed the memo on international shipping? And, does she realize she works for an international bank, not some community bank in farm-town USA where Fed-Ex stands for former Federal employees? Yep. This is what you get when working with the after hours on call folks. I WILL be calling back.

Now, I needed to think through dates. Where in the hell where will I be in 4 or 5 days. I don’t even know what day it is. My bottom has been glued to a bike seat for 3 days and, after that, I’ve been trekking for another 3 through the jungles and rice fields of Vietnam. It could be Thanksgiving for all I know. Mind is calm. The day Tuesday pops in my head. It’s the 17^th. So, in 4 days, I will be in Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) in route to Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Couldn’t get any less civilized right about now. And, I’m not staying at a star hotel with a reputable name. So, sending my cards to a random, no star hotel in Ho Chi Minh or Phnom Penh was not an option.

I turned to Ang. I needed to make this kid useful. I asked, “Hey, does your company have an office in Ho Chi Minh?”

He said, “Yes. We do.”

I responded, “Write down the address. Do they speak English there? And, is it a physical location or just a PO box….”

He answered my zillion in one questions. Who knew I could come up with so many questions about an office location… “speak English? Receptionist speak English? Manger at this location? Telephone work at all times…Back up generator during power loss… Open on weekends? Hours of operations? Do they understand what signing for mail means? Have they heard of Fed Ex? Do they have the authority from their manger to sign????” Questions kept coming until I felt assured that this travel agency, Handspan Travel, can handle the signing and holding of an envelop with precious goods. Yes, Tall Girl is still in control, bully mode..

I get back to ATM lady.

Me: “I got an address for you in Ho Chi Minh. Yes, that is right. They use both Saigon and Ho Chi Minh. Today, we’re using Ho Chi Minh…. What do you mean the computer won’t let you put in Ho Chi Minh…what do you mean there is not enough lines for the address…what do you mean the address defaults to ‘Street’… what do you mean that the phone number does not fit…”

Yes, this was the call. So, in my mind, I will never see the ATM card. I need to think of another option. Next was the call to the credit card side to shut down my card. Another dozy. I never thought getting a credit card would be SO impossible. They give them out to students at college campuses. My word, they were mailing them to us when Enron was crashing. Giving them out to people who can’t pay, yet can’t get it to those that can pay. And, you wonder why they are in such a mess. Shock city. Focus.

Call with credit card lady at USAA went something like this…

CC lady: “Glad you are OK. Of course we can stop payment on your credit card and reissue you a new one. Do I send it to your home address listed in the system?”

Me: “No. I said I’m in Vietnam, not Winter Park, Florida. I need it sent to me in Vietnam….that should not be a problem for you are a military bank. An international bank with clients living all around the world. And, credit cards seem to fly by themselves. So, I’m confident there will be NO problem getting me my new credit card in 2 days…”

CC lady: “It normally takes longer. It will be in for an emergency credit card with Master Card. It’s up to them on when they process and send it to you. We ship by FedEx and you should have it in 7 business days.”

Are these people mad? I’m mean REALLY!!!! I have NO money. Nothing. Not a cent. I’m thinking of opening up a Viet-Comm banking account right about now. I’m thinking they can get me a card in an hour, not days and days and days. Unreal.

ME: “What I don’t understand is you are an international bank. And, you can’t get me a new card faster. I need this expedited. I will pay.”

Turns out, she can get it to me – NOT guaranteed” in 3 to 4 business days, if I’m lucky. Turns out that her system allows enough room for the address, but not enough room for the company name. Computers…. UGH. I hung up and decided I will be looking for a new bank. Citibank is everywhere.  This is truly ridiculous. I have no money. Need to figure out $$. So, who do you turn to in crisis situations, DADDY!

I called Dad. It’s after 7 am there. He’s up. He’s probably at work. I got him before he walked out the door. I tell him the situation. Calm, cool and collected, he says, “I’ll wire you money. Western Union. No problem.” What is it about Dad’s and daughters? They have that gene to solve problems of hysterical, emotionally wrecked daughters who are sitting penniless in communist countries.  I felt confident I would be seeing the green back by the next day. Love DADDY!

Ang gets a call from his agency. He informs me that a woman from Handspan Travel will be at the hotel at 8 AM to take me to the US consulate’s office and local police department. Told me not to worry. By this time, I’m not worrying about anything. All I wanted was a beer and some rice. It’s out of my hands. I am no longer in control. Bully, demanding, I’m in control of everything Amanda has been purged. And, it SUCKS. So need a drink because the next 48 hours will be a wild ride.

Ang, Tour-burn and I head to dinner. We opted for a restaurant with windows and chairs over 2 feet tall. I ordered steam broccoli with my dinner. They brought me steamed cabbage. I told Ang – this is not what I ordered. I’m in a mood. Over it. And, I’m fighting for my steamed veggies tonight.

Ang and the waitress go at it. I mean, he is attacking her. She’s attacking him. They get the menu out. I just watch. Mind is checked out. Mind is in a far away place. Ang finally says, “They fry broccoli, not steam. Only steam cabbage.” This would NOT fly in the states. I just nod. Reached for the soy sauce, chillies and chop sticks, and began to consume my steamed cabbage.  No need to ask questions, just salt the shit and move on.

Back at the hotel, I crawled into my super-sized bed. Can’t sleep. Mind races to random places. Somehow my neurons find their way to V-nam police station.  And, V-nam immigration offices…. I think I slept about 2 hours. So, I was emotionally primed when I met – who would later become my travel angel… The adventure continues…