A New Obsession

Lately I've found myself falling more and more in love with travel articles. It's a nerdy obsession, really, especially for a teenager. I just happen to find other people's discoveries abnormally fascinating.

I may not have mentioned before that I love travelling. It's not just because I'm a TCK. Or maybe it is. But anyway, it's extremely thrilling for me. There's nothing that excites me more than the promise of new discoveries, adventures and the chance to be a tourist for a little while. And, above all, I just love flying. There's a certain thrill about being in an airplane that makes me want to do it over and over and over again. You get to watch movies on a tiny screen, eat interesting food, get free drinks, and fall asleep cuddled up in an over-sized sweater. I love it.

However, if I just happen to be stuck in a plane flight that lasts any less than two hours, I usually find myself without much entertainment for that time. (Just so you know, I get bored easily.) Sure, I usually bring a book, but I mean, what's so nice about reading an ordinary book when you're in an airplane? Nah, not my thing.

When I was on my way home from Switzerland this last summer, I found myself confined to the one-hour trip from Bangkok to Phnom Penh without much entertainment - and my book was in my check-in luggage.

Great.

So I found myself, for the first time in my life, flipping through those cheesy travel magazines in the pouch of the seat in front of me, actually reading the articles. I read one, but it was a boring business one that didn't interest me at all. But then I came across an article entitled, "Journey into History". It was by a particular journalist that had traveled to Central Vietnam, to a small, sleepy town that wasn't very popular for tourists due to it's lack of...tourism, but still held the historical grandeur and stunning scenery that so many people crave.

The article turned out to be really fascinating. The journalist obviously knew what he was doing. He described scenery after scenery after scenery, and I felt as though I was there with him, the excitement bubbling up inside of me. I really wished I was there with him. He was incredibly persuasive. But all the same, he described Asia the way that it was - loud, smelly, but full of culture and opportunity.

So anyway, I decided that, despite the fact that this is a totally nerdy obsession, there's nothing wrong with trying to write my own "travel articles" about the places I visit and the things I experience and see. Or I could just share great travel articles I read. Either way, I'm convinced you should be as fascinated with these things as I am. Because, after all, they make you crave travelling and adventure.

"Why I Love Tokyo"

By Andrew Miller
September 2008

Andrew Miller looks back at a lost year in the bewildering and bewitching Japanese capital

Westerners still arrive in Tokyo hoping to find an old Japan of shrines and paper houses, of shy women and inscrutable men. They leave after a week, puzzled and disappointed. Others expect a technological wonderland and find something of that in the department stores of Akihabara, but find something else too, something unexpected, resonant, mysterious.

In my first weeks in Tokyo, the summer of 1994, impression succeeded impression with a rapidity that made assimilation impossible. Other than knowing I was in the capital city of Japan and one of the great concentrations of humanity on the planet, I didn’t really know where I was. As time passed, I seemed to be travelling away from any understanding of the place, to be more and more bewildered, as though I had wondered into a stranger’s dream. Much initial effort went into trying to avoid getting lost or, having become so, into trying to find something – anything – that looked familiar. Each time I left my little apartment in the city’s western suburbs I was never quite sure I would see it again. I would pause at street corners and look back at the way I had come, memorising landmarks but somehow not quite believing in them, as though that blue-tiled roof, or the rattling, pinging pachinko parlour, might have drifted away like incense smoke before I returned.

Summer, hot and humid, is not an easy season in Tokyo. The locals carry little folded cloths to mop the sweat from their faces but staying cool was a struggle. Nights were not much easier. I would lie on my little roll-out mattress, an electric fan whirring beside my head, mosquitoes flying tirelessly above. Some days the air was thick as soup. I longed to escape to the country, to the mountains or the coast, but could hardly be bothered to put on my sandals. Anyway, I was working, moving through the looping guts of the Tokyo transport system, arriving at hard-to-identify places to sing alphabet songs with pre-school children or, in the evenings, to teach English to their older brothers and sisters.

When I wasn’t teaching, I was training. The world headquarters of aikido – ‘the way of harmony’, a martial-art cousin of judo and jujitsu – was in downtown Shinjuku, and by getting off my futon at some unlikely hour of the morning, I could get down there in time for the 8am class or, more heroically, the 6am. Some of my happiest hours in Tokyo were spent in the training hall being hurled around by people who had spent 20, 30, 40 years in the art. The oldest practioners I called the ‘grey belts’ as their black belts, won so long ago, had faded to a ragged pearl colour. Among them were men – and the occasional woman – in their 70s or 80s. I was terrified at first of accidentally killing one of them but soon learnt that I was the one likely to need rescuing.

On days off from teaching, pleasantly weary after my exertions on the mat, I would wander in the curling alleyways of Shinjuku revelling in the ordinary business of the people who lived and worked there: the bar owners, the housewives, schoolgirls in tartan skirts, a monk in saffron. There was a barber’s shop I used to visit where the barber, wearing a surgical mask over his mouth (for his protection or mine?) would shave me – the hairy foreigner – with a thoroughness that included scraping his razor over my forehead, clipping my nasal hairs and plucking the hairs from my ears with tweezers. Hot flannels were laid over my face, then unguents out of curious bell jars were rubbed vigorously into my skin while the man’s daughter used her cupped hands to massage my shoulders. It was not an expensive indulgence – Japan can be surprisingly good value – but I came out feeling like Lucky Luciano.

September means typhoons, and a certain historic nervousness. Days of warm swirling rain, inescapable rain. Everything rots. Then, quite suddenly, the fug of summer is blown away by the first cool breezes of the autumn. As the mornings turned chilly, I would buy a can of hot sweet coffee from the vending machines by my local station, sipping it between the swaying and dozing salarymen on the Toei-Shinjuku line.

When did the snow come? December? February? I cannot quite remember, but have a vivid recollection of walking home one afternoon through the grounds of the Shinto shrine in Motoyawata and seeing a winter wedding, the bride in her silken hood, the groom sombre in his hakama. To keep off the snow, the wedding party carried umbrellas of lacquered paper. The couple, shy and serious, paused for photos then, on wooden sandals, everyone tottered off, while behind them, on the frozen water of the purification trough, the snow continued its soft descent. I could have stayed forever (I almost did), feeding on the city’s casual poetry – a creature lost in translation, but perfectly content to be so.


Note: This is NOT my own work - I copied this from a website, because it's one travel article that I really like. 

Much love,

Sarah. 

Traffic and Rain

I was driving through Phnom Penh at 5:15 in the evening, and suddenly it was as if I was looking at the city for the first time.

It was that dim moment just before dark, when the sun had long since disappeared behind the new cement buildings of the city's outskirts, and the sky wasn't a dark blue - or a dim light blue - it was the color that came in between. It was the typical rush hour time - after 5:00 and before 6:00, and the whole city was on its way home from work. The air was thick with smog and engine fumes, and, just like on every day in the rainy season - there were soft raindrops falling from the darkening sky, pattering down onto the car rooftops, splashing off like little explosions of water. The wind was tugging at my hair, stray raindrops dampening it pleasantly, and despite the 25-degree weather, I felt the gentle chill of the wind in my clothes.

Everything was in this grey hue: the bright colors of the city made less intense by the darkening evening sky. The irritating red brake lights of the vehicles pierced through the colorless shades of the evening, making my my eyes ache, their bright luminescence slightly blurred by the rain.

The Cambodians around me were staring, just as usual, right at me. They didn't care whether or not I felt uncomfortable, or about the fact that they looked like complete idiots looking at me like that. Their curious looks seemed to cover me in a blanket of self-consciousness, and I tried to ignore them. Nevertheless, their questioning eyes never left me, or my body, my hair, my purse, my everything. I knew it all too well. I could practically hear the whispering, judgmental prejudice blitzing through their minds. To them, I was a rich Western woman, going to meet my rich Western husband at home, where I was perfectly content and always happy because nobody ever cheated me or lied to me or was cruel to me. To them, I was all that, and nothing less.

My eyes shifted to the traffic ahead, to the people who weren't staring at me. Rather, they were caught in up in their own daydreams, alone on their way home from work. They were completely oblivious to the world around them. To them, it was an ordinary day, an ordinary evening; just another few minutes in an endless life of trying to "get by".

You can hear all kinds of things on this simplistic adventure: the whining distant sounds of karaoke bars in the city, the drumming vibrations of the vehicles around you, and the all too constant blaring or car horns. I've lived here my whole life, and so I have learned to shut out these all-too-familiar sounds. So all I heard was noise - blended together in a messy, unorganized pile, something that I never learned to love and will forever find I hate. It was a messy, endless maze of traffic: thousands of motos, cars and tuktuks; pushy, rude and intense.

And in the middle of it all: me.

Misconceptions and Discoveries from Asia's "City of Angels"

When travelers set out for Asia in search of an exotic experience, many plan to visit robustly colorful countries such as India or China. As a tourist, you often don’t hope to see larger cities like Bangkok, where modernization is the new norm and the history and culture is fading away. At first glimpse, Bangkok is a messy, overexcited city with a jumbled skyline, dotted with gleaming malls and large business structures. However, at second glance one comes to realize that this sprawling Asian metropolis isn’t just a city on overdrive, with its rainbow-colored cabs and motorcycled taxis, but a haven full of fading historical charms.

My first day in Bangkok was one full of modern stereotypes. On my way to the hotel, I sat in a taxi, wondering at the maze of flyovers, flashy billboards and towering skyscrapers. Overhead, the Skytrain, Bangkok’s rapid transit system, glided by on elevated tracks. The noises of the city: beeping car horns, hasty pedestrians, eager voices of the street side merchants, seemed to envelope me in an enchanting halo of wonder.

The first mall I visited, Siam Paragon, was like an instant teleportation into the western world: gleaming glass surfaces, a giant blast of air conditioning and endless choices of designer goods. The overwhelming prices pushed me to walk on, past the flashy designer logos and up to the very top floor. There, its vast Cineplex spread out before my eyes and I bought a “Blue Ribbon Seat” ticket, a VIP experience mirroring that of a first class plane ticket, complete with snacks, drinks and the most comfortable theater seat I’ve ever laid eyes on. To my relief, I remembered to stand for the Thai royal anthem before the showing, despite the surrounding splendor.

Day two in Bangkok revealed a whole new side to the city. After a vast breakfast buffet at the hotel, I set out on foot to explore. Early-morning Bangkok was quieter, sleepier, than its usual hastiness. I strolled through the warren of streets and alleyways, a bustling haven of cheap food and lodging for the great tide of European and American budget travelers. I passed food stalls, the halo of condensed humidity following me around, the motorcycled taxis locally called “tuktuks” buzzing by on the streets. It was an endless maze of color and culture.

At last I reached my destination: Chatuchak, a vast weekend flea market on the northern outskirts of the city. I entered the huge, chaotic labyrinth of lanes, surrounded by the hustle-bustle of local Thais and tourists out in search for, well, everything. Thirty-five acres of shopping, over-spilling with produce, Chatuchak sold everything from knockoff designer shirts to aromatherapy oils and reptiles. It was full of enthusiastic shoppers, bargaining cheerfully and light-heartedly – the gentle back and forth of price negotiation filling the air. There was an atmosphere of pure chaos, but I was content and excited to purchase my first Thai souvenir.

At lunchtime, after having finally found my way out of the market, I stood out on the street with arms laden with plastic bags, sweat dripping down my spine from the afternoon heat and my stomach growling uncomfortably. Across the street, I could see the unusually tidy food stalls of the Or Tor Kor market. I caught the kind eyes of a food stall owner, pouring curry into Styrofoam bowls for the American tourists beside her. The smells of the food drifted across the street towards me, past the smelly engine fumes. I crossed the road eagerly, and made my way over to the food stall lady. Out of the colorful array of Thai food she offered, I eventually decided on a typical Thai classic: Som Tham (green papaya salad) with sticky rice and fried chicken. I paid 50 baht for it, a price you would pay for a bottle of water in my home country. Unfortunately, my mouth is not made out of steel, and I found myself frantically shoveling in mouthfuls of rice to get rid of the extreme spiciness. Nevertheless, the food was heavenly, and I made my way back to my hotel, content and stuffed to the brim.

My stay was over, despite the fact that I had not seen all of Bangkok’s wooden shop houses and stunning temples, but the two limited sides of Thailand that I had seen had impressed me beyond my wildest dreams. As a traveler, you often fail to realize the perfect balance of culture, history and modernization that Bangkok brings to this world,  but I was able to see past the city where the old is so often torn down to make way for the new – and caught a glimpse of those faded charms that have remained all these years. Bangkok is exotic and colorful, and I believe the rest of the world has yet to discover it.

Beach House (English assignment: descriptive writing)

Last night I dreamt I went to the beach house again. I appeared to be standing just outside the white wooden fence, wearing nothing but my bathing suit and a damp towel around me. It seemed strange to me that I was cold, and that the wind was crisp against my bare skin. It wasn’t the usual balmy, humid breeze. Instead, it was biting cold against my nose and cheeks, sending goose bumps up my bare arms.

The wooden fence was white, but the paint was chipping everywhere. It was like the popular shabby-chic style gone totally wrong. Some areas of the fence were void of white paint altogether.

My gaze wandered past the fence, peering above the splintered wood into the sandy yard of the beach house. The sand was a grimy grey-brown color, small tendrils of it whispering away from each little pile, dancing in the air and disappearing into the gloomy shaded hues of the evening. It seemed alive in the sharp tug of the wind, waltzing around like an uneven cluster of dancers, leaving behind the dirt and lint that polluted it so.

I was suddenly aware of the fact that I was climbing over the fence, driven by curiosity and the need to move some warmth into my body. I landed less-than-gracefully on the filthy sand, grains of it sticking to my wet towel. Like in all dreams, the gentle pain from the fall was vague and surreal. I got up and dusted myself off, the damp grains of sand brushing off of me, carried in swirls by the crisp wind.

I turned towards the beach house, and was surprised to see that it was suddenly masked by a row of palm trees that hadn’t been there before. The leaves of the trees seemed to sag eerily, bending and swaying in the tug of the wind, rustling softly. Usually the sound would have been calming to me, but instead I felt a nagging heaviness in my stomach, pulling at my chest in uncomfortable nausea. My knees felt weak, and I realized what the feeling was. Fear. I was all alone, with a line of dark trees swaying in unison in front of me. They felt like a wall of demons defending their lair of fire, large and intimidating, ready to pounce at my every movement. I found myself shrinking back protectively, never taking my eyes off of them.

I moved forward slowly, cautiously, until I was right underneath the giant trees. They were even more frightening from beneath. Towering high above me, they continued to sway, leaves spread out like menacing claws of doom, threatening me, forcing me to a halt. Every nerve of my body was on edge. I felt the adrenaline coursing through my veins, my brain screaming at me to run, run! But I was completely frozen in place, numb with terror. I couldn’t move a single muscle, despite my mind’s persistent yelling. My muscles were fighting my will, twitching indecisively and complaining about the constant strain between choosing to move and choosing to stay rooted in the same position for all eternity.

Just like in like in all dreams, it seemed to me that I stayed there for hours, waiting for wind to calm down and the trees to finally disappear. But they never did, and so my nerves eventually released their rigid tension. My muscles were vaguely sore from the long battle with my mind, but the pain was pushed aside quickly as my subconscious turned me around to look at the beach house.

It stood there, alone, barely four meters ahead of me, yet it seemed so much further away. It was as if I was looking at it from a distance, watching it grow smaller and smaller and more alone, surrounded by a vast expanse of murky sand. The fence was gone from my vision, as well as the pillars of demons that I had already overcome. The house was alone.

It was not how I had remembered it. In fact, it seemed to me as though I was seeing it for the first time. The sand just before the front porch steps was uneven and bent with dozens of footprints. The steps themselves seemed to creek just from looking at them, splintered edges jabbing out on all sides, threatening to harm any intruder of the house.

Was I an intruder? Confusion covered my mind in a hazy blanket. Of course I wasn’t. This was home, wasn’t it?

My gazed raked over the rest of the house: the wooden pillars of the front porch, weakly supporting the broken structure of the cottage; the veranda itself, chipping white paint everywhere; and the pitiful set of rocking chairs, swaying back and forth as though an eerie figure had just gotten up and left them a matter of seconds ago. The roof of the house was a mere skeleton of splintered wood, bare of any straw or shingles that used to keep the rain out. The windows of the house were dark rectangles of shattered glass, betraying no glimpse of what was inside the house, broken shutters of chipped blue paint thudding incessantly against the sides.

My fear of the place was gone by then, substituted with surges of inevitable melancholy. It wasn’t nostalgia I was suffering from – I knew there was nothing to be done – but somehow I still knew that this place was not the way that it should have been. It should have been different. It was supposed to alive with laughter and color, but instead there was only brokenness and misery.

By then, the last of any spare light from the sky was gone, replaced by a dark, moonless expanse of dark clouds. The wind was colder then, and I wanted to go home. I looked to my left, for the first time catching a glimpse of the sea itself: dark, colorless water, glistening in the limited starlight. 

My Potential Baking Faves

Other than the fact that I'm a teenage girl who (should) normally care about keeping her "thin figure", I honestly don't care enough to give up my insane love for good food. I just can't do it. There's just something so mystical and attractive about stuffing my face with sugar all day long.

So, as this blog is already pretty messed up in terms of following a real theme, I'm just gonna mess it up some more and add in some baking faves of mine. Or, in this case, potential baking faves. This post is all about the baked goods I wish I had time to make.

If I ever decide that I love Oreos, cupcakes, and frosting enough to spend all this time on it, I would definitely make these. Here's a picture, just in case you feel like being tortured right now:

Not only are they without a doubt definitely totally amazingly yummy, but they taste good just from looking at them. I'm officially inspired to make them. Someday.

* * *

Another thing I would definitely wish to do sometime in my life is be a good daughter and surprise my mom with something other than instant pancakes on mother's day. In other words, do something profoundly thoughtful and sweet, requiring above average skill and a little bit of sugar.

Just a tad.

I think a good thing, in this case of emergency, would be to do something like this. I mean, what's more thoughtful and skilled than handmade flower thingies on top of super-cute cupcakes? Nothing, I tell you. Nothing.

I will do this someday. I have to, at least before I graduate.

Hopefully. Maybe.

* * *

And, at last, I have come to a cupcake that kids would like just as much as I would. I don't think I count as a kid, do I?

We all remember that all-too-familiar night around the campfire when we first fell in love with roasted marshmallows, melted chocolate and graham crackers - s'mores.

I, however, being an unusually inexperienced teenager in the art of being normal, only recently had my first s'more and realized how beautiful and not-overrated those things are. I mean, it's like all the world's most amazing ingredients packed into one beautiful, amazing thing.

You can't ever go wrong with s'mores. Ever.

Which is why this recipe sounds (and looks) so sensational. I definitely don't need any more motivation to make this.

Okay. Now I'm hungry.