In The Seaside Town That They Forgot to Bomb

February 24, 2009
Nha Trang

I was sitting at the rooftop bar/restaurant of my excellent guest house in Nha Trang, talking to a group of 20-something dudes from British Columbia. They asked me what beach I'd been to that day, and I replied, “the one up the road, you know, Nha Trang beach as in, the town we're visiting?” One of them said, “oh, you mean the dirty beach?” I hated to admit it, but he was right. The beach was filled with litter.

Located in the south central coastal region of Vietnam, Nha Trang is the country's most popular beach resort. It is a fairly sizable city, with a booming tourism industry. It's touted as the place to relax on the beach and frolic in the South China Sea. Watersports abound: jet skis, parasailing, wakeboarding and kitesurfing outfitters all line the beach. Scuba dive centers and snorkel tours are never far from where you're sunbathing, sleeping, eating or walking. Mega hotels like Sheraton and Marriott are here, and the town is littered with local hotels, b&b's, resorts and guest houses. In all, it's a nice vacation town, catering to Vietnamese as well as foreigners. The beach itself has a panoramic view with mountains behind and islands off the shore, reminding me of Santa Barbara minus the oil rigs and Orient Bay minus the naked people.

I had gotten into town by way of DaLat, a less than charming mountain retreat to the southwest. While DaLat did nothing but make make me want to leave it, the journey to Nha Trang was worth the side trip. For five hours, we wound through some of the most scenic countryside I've ever seen, with each pass more beautiful than the next. We wound down from high mountains into hilly farmland peppered with the different green hues of spinach, lettuce, herbs, artichokes, even grape vines, all growing harmoniously with palm, banana and rubber trees. Occasionally we'd come across terraced rice paddies. The landscape was dotted with extremely rural communities living in simple wood houses, sometimes surrounding a village well. Power lines run through the hills, running water does not. It was all strangely familiar, this scenery. I'd seen it perfectly replicated a hundred times in films and photographs, except for one striking difference: in 2010, the only fires burning are for cooking or trash. There are no bomber planes, guns or explosions. It was serene and peaceful, and would be hard to imagine the streams around here running red if I had not seen it in so many movies. What was not hard to imagine, after seeing the simple housing structures and way of life, was how an entire village could be razed in seconds. It was an odd feeling, cruising through a countryside where so many lives were lost in the not so recent past. (But then again, I've never thought about the Revolution while tubing down the Delaware with a cold beer in my hand, so go figure.)

As Nha Trang was my main destination in Vietnam, the place I had planned on spending the most time to relax and sit in the sun while New York was being pounded by a relentless winter, I was excited to arrive here. The hotel I'd carefully chosen based on reviews did not disappoint. It's really amazing what 25 bucks can get you here. My room was spotless and comfortable, even had a rattan couch and two plants. While the few blocks lining the beach are relatively chill (save for the constant hum of motorbikes and touts peddlling their wares, “Layyyyydeeeeeeee you buy somesiiiiing”) the town is actually a city, and fairly large. The main airport is a former US Air Force base. Aside from that, I could detect no other war leftovers. Not a single monument, not a strip of barren land, no remnants of a concrete bridge or bombed out buildings. Perhaps most notable was the absence of Vets. They were a dime a dozen in HCMC, and usually came in two types: the ones who stayed for the girls or the ones who stayed for the drugs. Most of the guys that I came across were visually troubled and I kept my distance. I expected to run into a major veteran population here, but strangely, saw none. Either they don't exist, or they were far from the beach. If this town saw any major battles during the war, there is zero evidence of it today.

From afar, you can see the green-blue waters dotted with islands and fishing boats, gleaming like a crayola color waiting to be named. Upon closer inspection, I was disappointed to discover straws, plastic bags, banana peels, confetti, cigarette butts, all you can drink party boat flyers and other such debris on the beach. It reminded me of Point Pleasant at 5 PM on any given Sunday in July. It was pretty scenery, but as a beach destination, a bit underwhelming. I had read about a pristine strip of sand and was not exactly finding it. I rented a chair none the less and tried to focus on the view. Not long after that, I was taken aback when a local took a piss, right next to me, into the sand. I wasn't sure if he was trying to offend, or if that's just how it was done in Nha Trang. I had been trying to be as least touristy as possible (buying fruit from the locals, not eating hamburgers, not getting shitfaced drunk, not complaining too much, etc.) but this was where I drew the line. It was pretty gross.

Perhaps I'm being too harsh. Nha Trang is a fine town and I had a good time there. It's just that it could have been a beach town anywhere, and was not quite as stunning as I'd hoped. It was not unbearable in its filth; just a bit unsightly. I learned that beach clean up is every few days so my first impressions were based on 3 days worth of litter. I still went to the beach every day and enjoyed each one. I had some good meals and met some nice people. Anyway you look at it, still beats working!

Leave At Your Own Chosen Speed

February 21, 2010
HCMC to DaLat

I decided to break up the trip to Nha Trang with a detour to the mountain town of DaLat in the Central Highlands. It was advertised by my bus company as a 6 hour ride northeast of HCMC. In Vietnam, as this trip would teach me, pick up times and estimates are vague at best. You're at the whim of your driver and his cronies. Not five minutes into the trip and the only whitey on board, I knew six hours was a fantasy.

The conductor, who looked to be about 19, did not speak a lick of English and was a prick to boot. I tried to ask him a question and he flatly ignored me. Just walked away and pretended I was invisible. Yep, this was going to be a long ride. As we got underway, leaving the city and hitting the open “highway, ”we were clipping along at the steady pace of about 5 miles an hour. I don't know what the metric conversion is, but it's damn slow. I stood up to see what the problem was. Maybe an accident? No traffic up ahead. I had a window seat and craned my neck to check out the scene to the east. All clear. After 10 minutes, we stopped at a roadside stall selling baguettes. It was not a stop for us to purchase any, however (and I would have; the bread is good here). We picked up a random man who loaded everything but the kitchen sink into the luggage compartment. As that was right beneath my seat, I took inventory. Cases of water, boxes of mangoes, something in a cylinder that I hoped was not flammable, a duct taped box containing God knows what, and a tiny backpack, which he brought with him on board. I would not have been surprised to see a basket of piglets loaded beneath. And that is how we proceeded for the next two hours, picking up random passengers at random (as in clearly not bus stops) places along the road.

Once into the drive, the road began to climb steeply into the hills It was not as scenic as I'd hoped. Lots of shanty towns lined the way, which meant lots of garbage and all its wonderful odor. A girl got on at one point halfway through the trip, and I was happy to have her company. She spoke pretty good, if formal, English and seemed eager to practice it. She was good company, and ran interference with the surly conductor until she passed out and kept knocking her head into my shoulder for the next three hours. She also took my mind off the hairpin turns and dirt roads that thankfully our driver was not taking at break neck speeds. It was still a little sketchy. Four wheeled vehicles have the right of way here over two (and over pedestrians for that matter), so the driver basically had a constant hand on the horn, as a warning for anyone on a motorcycle to get out of his way. At one point I counted; 45 loud beeps in 60 seconds. Couple that with the Kenny G that our conductor was blasting at brain damage inducing volumes and I was pretty happy my ipod was fully charged.

The Rough Guide to Vietnam says that the North and South agreed to leave the town of DaLat out of their war, as it was such a fine hamlet in the hills. Why, I cannot understand. While its mountainous surroundings are scenic, the town itself is nothing more than a run down ski town in the off season. It reminded me of Hunter or Tannersville, NY, but with none of the charm. My guest house, the Nice Dream Hotel (insert PeeWee joke here) which I foolishly let the bus company in Saigon book for me, had a kind of a Shining vibe. It was almost totally empty, and was dark and dank. My room only had windows that opened into the hall and the smell of mildew was sickening. I'm sure the going rate was 8 bucks a night, but I had already paid 20 and was none too happy about it. They refused to move me to another room, so I was stuck there. Thankfully it would only be for a night.

Aside from a very tasty meal and a chance encounter with a loopy hippie lady from New Mexico, this side trip was a bust. Total waste of time and money - - the lake didn't even have any water in it! I went to bed early, eagerly awaiting my 7AM pick up for the beach.

TEST

can anyone reading this email me if you get it? i cannot access my blog site; wondering if it's been censored.

Didn't Even Have to Use My AK

FEBRUARY 20, 2010
Ho Chi Minh City

I had wanted to take a day trip to the Mekong Delta, which included a long boat ride on the river out to the tributaries at its end. It is the only way to really see how those fishing communities live, and is said to be quaint and picturesque. I was disappointed to learn that it was a 12 hour excursion which included a 3 hour bus ride there and back. Since I would be leaving Saigon the following day on a 6 hour bus ride to Da Lat, I opted for the closer and shorter trip out to the Cu Chi Tunnels, about 60 km from Saigon. The War Museum had really been enough for me, but I also had exhausted much of what there was to do in the city, and I knew an organised tour was likely a good way to meet people (I was correct).

During the war, The Viet Cong used an underground system of tunnels to combat the US and South and the government has turned them into a huge tourist attraction. They lived in these multi-level tunnels, spanning over 250 kilometers in an area known for being a hotbed of activity, for several years. It was guerrilla warfare at its finest. While these tunnels provided somewhat of a safe haven from napalm and agent orange assaults, it also allowed the fighters to create and plant thousands of hideously imaginative traps designed to capture, maim and kill GI's. The War Remnants Museum makes a deliberate and unapologetic spectacle of massacres, tortures and other war crimes committed by the Americans, many of them called out by name, rank and photo. They are portrayed as villains of the worst kind. Here, at the Cu Chi Tunnels, the very same barbarism is praised and glorified when committed by the VC (and to the tune of “Phoung Nguyen, hero of Viet Cong, killed 342 Americans! Made many prisoners!”). I immediately had a problem with the logic, but decided to keep that sentiment to myself, and also to maybe say I was Canadian if asked. Our tour guide was a funny little guy who knew I was from NY; the armed guards and proud members of the Communist party, I sensed, were not.

Speaking of the tour guide, he was a chipper young fellow named Hui. He probably wasn't that young actually and I thought only after we parted to ask him if he'd been born during the war. (The men in this country age oddly. Hui could have been my age, or older, or he could have been 25. My guess is the former.) He hopped on the mini bus like a streak of lightning and started talking a mile a minute. He was met with a a tough crowd: 4 twenty somethings who had just taken a 10 hour taxi overnight from Nha Trang and went from the taxi to this bus, a couple from Ireland who I later shared beers with, 2 young Germans who had the unfortunate seats of front row (3 across including the driver), 6 surly Turks and me. Hui was annoying but harmless, cracking jokes and singing, just trying to loosen up a bunch of tourists who had no interest in engaging him. I kind of felt bad for him.

About an hour into the journey as I was willing him to shut the hell up, he stopped cracking jokes and broke into some old war song. Amazing how a crowd can be captivated by somber song somehow befitting the surroundings. Now he had our attention and, song finished, began to talk, somewhat seriously, about the war. He said that his father's family was from the South but that his mother's family was from the North, and that there was some serious bloodshed due to the family's division (here's where I started questioning his age), and that it was an all too common story for everyone living in the south of the country today. I listened to a few more details and then he said something interesting, seemingly addressed at me since I had told him where I was from. Apparently a tourist from France asked him if he hated the Americans, assuming he would say yes. He told me he replied saying, “No. I hate the French. They started it all,” with an immense sense of pride. He followed that up with a glass-half full sentiment, that the war provided him with a good job for which he was thankful, as the government paid for him to go to school and learn English to be a certified tour guide, and that in 10 years Iraqis would be able to earn a decent living doing the same thing as him. Not sure I agreed with him, but it was food for thought.
We arrived at the tunnels and the tour started with a propaganda film, followed by some government comedian who told us, in all seriousness, “is true story, is no bullshit” that Americans would get stuck in the narrow tunnels because they, “smoke too much marijuana and then eat too much hamburger,” as he pointed to the diagram of the bloated GI stuck in the tunnels with the enemy coming at him from both directions. Followed by a chance for us to climb into a secret hiding hole (I declined) and pose for a photo. And then we heard a giant blast, which was undoubtedly a gunshot. I thought it was a nice touch, the battle ambiance. Fast forward to a lot of meandering, displays of myriad VC traps and bombs, and we were at the tunnel entrance. I walked down a steep staircase into the first room, which was well lit and led off into a lower, darker, and very narrow tunnel. As I get claustrophobic and am afraid of the dark (plus we were told that the 2nd and 3rd levels of the tunnels had been closed off to tourists because someone had died down there), I turned around and climbed back out. All the while listening to gunshots off in the distance. It was an erie and unpleasant feeling. My fellow tourists who completed the run of the tunnels that were open to them all emerged gasping for breath and telling me “you made the right choice, mate. Wouldn't want to go down there again.” Off to the gift/ice cream hut and what do you know – an entire artillery of US weapons was right in front of my eyes. That shooting we'd heard was real, and for sale. You could have your pick of guns, AK-47, M-16's, they even had a rocket launcher, though I hope that one was just for show. The prices for ammo were steep; you paid by the clip. The Turks in our group were all about it and scurried off donning schoolboy grins. I, on the other hand, had absolutely zero desire to handle a gun that belonged to a dead American, let alone shoot anymore bullets into this landscape. We sat and ate our bootleg King Cones to the sound of automatic weapons.

Back in the afternoon heat of Saigon, and I was ready for a beer. Luckily, so was an Irish couple who had been on the tour. We found a spot on a semi-busy corner and sipped Tiger beers as we watched the afternoon traffic grow heavy with cityfolk returning from their Tet holiday.

I'd have to say, it was a good day.

Do You See What I See?

February 19, 2010
Ho Chi Minh City

A couple of days ago, I didn't even see what I saw. That is, while looking through the purplish lenses of my stylin' new fake Salvatore Ferragamo prescription shades. Before leaving home, I had come across a thread on a Lonely Planet message board about bargains to be had in Saigon. One of them was prescription eyeglasses. Considering the main reason I started wearing contact lenses was to have the ability to don several different styles of sunglasses, this was news I was happy to discover. So, on my second day in Saigon, after a leisurely morning of sitting in the market and eating breakfast (a giant shrimp, pork and sprout omelette that you tear apart and then wrap in lettuce and herbs & dip in hot and sour sauce, taco style – delicious), I jotted down the name and addresses of a couple of eyeglass vendors and set out to find them.

I had thought about bringing my Marc Jabobs frames with me to have filled, but the limited space in my pack prevented that. No worries though, this city had pantomime models to please anyone's taste. Gucci, Fendi, Armani, Ray Ban, whatever your pleasure. I settled on a pair of pretty decent Ferragamo knock offs, not because of the name (I actually am not a fan of counterfeit goods, especially shades) but because the color, size and shape were perfect. The fine folks at Sol Moscot in NY reluctantly gave me a print out of my prescription, so I handed that over to the man behind the counter. His English was limited, but he seemed to understand the numbers just fine. Then he informed me of the price. The frames were 300,000 dong. The cheaper lenses were an additional 250k, scratchproof and UV protected, 300k. I weighed the difference (less than $5 USD) and opted for the deluxe model. Total price 600,000 dong or about $31USD. Total wait time, 2 hours (thus confirming my theory that the eyeglass market in the States is the biggest racket around).

I'd seen a bit of the city the previous day, so with 2 hours to kill, I decided to hop a taxi (still not brave enough to get on the back of a moto, but my time would come soon) to the post office, said to be both beautiful and functional. The beauty part (a remnant of French colonialism) was either closed or the guard did not like the way I looked. He directed me around the corner to the newer, functional part, which was as drab as you would imagine. It also seemed empty (I feared it may still be closed on account of Tet) save for three women and their hundreds of boxes that I almost plowed into upon entry. At first it didn't make sense. ALL of these giant boxes couldn't belong to these women, what could they possibly be sending...and then I took a second glance. The giant boxes were stamped with the Marlboro logo. The hundreds of smaller boxes they were filling (which Uncle Ho was happily selling to them at about 50 cents a box) were perfectly proportioned to fit exactly 4 cartons of cigarettes. Ever heard that saying “Smoke 'em if you got 'em”? Well, I don't got 'em. I haven't had a cigarette since November. But Huy Thuy Nguyen in San Jose, California is about to get a very large shipment.

The War Remnants Museum is walking distance from the post office, and while I was initially not interested, I decided to check it out. It is strategically located across the street from the Reunification Palace, and you can spot the blades of a giant chinook US chopper from a block away. There were also several different size U.S. tanks and fighter planes on display in the front yard of the museum. I noted a few bullet holes here and there, but for the most part these downed planes and captured tanks were in good shape. One could almost mistake it for the Intrepid. Then you go inside.

Propaganda is, for the most part, always extreme, one-sided and at times outright untrue. This museum was a fine example of the extreme and one-sided. The tale of the “American War” is told in photos, and they are the most extreme photos I've ever seen. The untrue part, however, seems missing. Rooms and rooms of gruesome photos of death and destruction don't lie. They were right there in front of me with dates, photo credits, and some deliberately un-candy coated hyperbole on the fate of their subjects. Either there are some photos that were just too unpleasant to publish in America in 1968, or Johnson's press secretary buried them before I was born. Regardless, couple that with the exhibit on the prison atrocities committed by the South/States on the North and previously the French (a real life guillotine complete with red stained head collection bin, the infamous barbed wire tiger cages), add the agent orange “oddities” wing, and I'd had enough.

Upon leaving, I wondered where all the beggars were. When I visited the SR21 torture prison in Phnom Penh, the block was surrounded by beggars with all sorts of crippling malformations, burns, amputations, etc. I'd expected much of the same here, especially agent orange victims. There were only a few touts selling old zippos and coconuts, and the omnipresent moto taxi guys. I made use of the latter (thankfully, they all carry a spare helmet) and set off, breath held and eyes closed, into Saigon's rush hour to claim my shades.

They were ready, polished, gleaming even. I was a little late getting there, and I could tell the optician and his mother were waiting on me to close. I removed my contacts and he fitted me with the specs. One look in the mirror, and I loved them. Everything inside the shop was hyper crystal clear. I strolled out towards the central market and my hotel, feeling like the most fashionable backpacker in town, when I realized something was off. I almost fell face down to the concrete over my own feet (which looked to be Yeti sized) twice. The depth perception in one eye was not right. I felt like I was walking on the moon. I turned around, but the vendor had already closed. I figured I could will it to work, new glasses are always weird and if I covered each eye, separately things were perfect. I wore them for the 20 minute stroll back to my guest house, narrowly avoiding being mowed down by a family on a sooter. An hour later, I was curled up in bed in a fetal position with a serious migraine. I had just gotten rid of the previous day's headache, and this one was far worse. I suppose the moral of the story is you get what you pay for, but I have a sneaking suspicion Sol Moscot is to blame. They massively screwed up my prescription a year ago, also inducing migraines until it was corrected. I wonder if they gave me the wrong numbers. Maybe I'll look into an actual eye exam in Hanoi. In the meantime, I can only sit and admire my bargain glasses from afar.

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PHOTOS!

Doctor, Doctor, Gimme the News

February 17th, 2010
Hong Kong


Following a week of serious overeating, unrelenting jetlag and too many Tsing Taos to mention, it was time for a health check up. I was actually feeling pretty good thanks to the combo of walking Hong Kong's hilly landscape and the outstanding spa at our hotel. I don't remember a time when I willingly got up at 7AM, let alone got up at 7AM to swim laps. The old Sheung Wan area of HK houses a long row of Chinese medicine shops (adjacent to vendors touting exotic dried creatures of the sea. Did you know that scallops turn orange when they are dried? Now you do.). Lonely Planet recommended one of these shops that has doctors on site to diagnose your ailments and write a prescription to cure them. My walk in appointment went something like this:

ME: “I get headaches and have a weak stomach.”
DR: “Show me wrist.”
I handed over my wrist.
DR: “Pulse Weak. Show tongue.”
I stuck out my tongue, remembering that I have a giant permanent gash in the middle of it from an accident with my former tongue ring and biting into a pork chop the wrong way.
DR: “Hmph. Do you have thirst?”
ME: “Not chronic, why?”
DR: “You have no problem with appetite. Maybe eat too much.” (Now he was beginning to get somewhere. It was like he knew me.) “ Spicy food no good for you. Take this tea 2 times and you will never have headache again.” Considering I've had a headache of some form almost every day for 20 years, the doc had just dished out a tall order.

And with that, he wrote me a prescription that I'm sure included dried toad skin and deer testicle, among other things. We all handed the chemist our scrips and were told to return in an hour for the meds.

In keeping with the healthy theme of the day, the best way to pass the time while our prescriptions were being filled seemed obvious: foot reflexology. HK is almost polluted with neon signs of feet, so we picked what seemed to be the most reputable foot joint in the neighborhood (meaning they had the biggest sign and several floors of an office building). Lucky for us, they had a private room for 4 at the ready. Unlucky for us, the air conditioner was blasting (HK was freezing and I was not dressed properly) and my foot masseuse had ice cold bony little hands. I knew I was not exactly in for a treat.

So dug in they did, and quite literally. We suffered through 50 excruciating minutes of foot torture. Knuckles were ground into my heel, thumbs pinching my toes, too much pressure releasing what must have been gallons of toxins considering the extreme pain they caused on their way out. At one point the pain was so bad I got nauseous and almost puked. Once it was over, though, I felt like I was walking on pillows. My sinuses were clear and I was ready to go take my medicine.

What the doctor ordered, exactly, I can't tell you. It was written in some ancient form of medical Cantonese. What I can tell you is that it was not two asprin and a bowl of chicken soup. Instead, out of the thermos was poured a thick murky dark brown brew, almost the color of Guinness but with none of the appeal. It was piping hot, and tasted like I was drinking a mix of sewage water and leather tanning chemicals. They gave us these candies to ease the intake process which barely helped us gulp the tonics down. I was sick to my stomach for the next 2 hours. Gio almost thew up. Veronica got an instant headache. Michelle, who was actually sick with flu like symptoms, felt instantly better. Maybe that's the ticket – go see these guys when you're actually under the weather.

We all got a dose of goods to take away, said to be drank the next day. While the prospect of never having a headache again was intriguing, I was filled with relief when one of the teas spilled and we were forced to toss them. A hot toddie and two lychee martinis was my prescription for eradicating the muck taste from my mouth. Sometimes, self medication works wonders.

The next day, as I was walking around Saigon in the blazing heat, I was hit with a crippling headache.

What's Mine Is Mine and Not Yours

February 14, 2010
Hong Kong

That is, except when you and your gangster cronies take it from me and make it yours.

Chinese New Year coincided with Valentines Day this year, and Hong Kong was ablaze with hearts and flowers and young kissing couples as well as lanterns, dragons, firecrackers, babies dressed in red, kids with furry tiger hats and lots and lots of people out for the holiday. Perhaps most crowded were the malls. Hong Kong is littered with malls: multi-level, on top floors of high rises, in the subway. Food courts are a cheap and easy way to feed the masses, and man, do the locals congregate there.

One such mall was the passageway supposedly leading to the metro stop near the famed Peninsula hotel. On the first day of the new year, we had walked down to the southern part of Kowloon, near the water, to scope out a spot for the evening's parade. Streets were blocked off with barricades along the route, which made crossing particularly challenging. One thing to be said of the Chinese – these folks don't have much concept of personal space and they have no qualms about pushing and shoving to get wherever it is they are going. I was getting used to it, so I thought nothing of it when a group of well dressed young thugs got in our way at a crosswalk. Their rudeness was maybe a notch higher than the norm, but I just assumed they were being obnoxious idiots, as packs of teenage boys often are. The crossing of that intersection led not to the subway, but into an underground shopping center maze, whereby we stopped to watch an impromptu lion dance. I spotted the boys from the street also watching the dance, and assumed they were tourists just like us. Quickly realizing that this mall did not, in fact, lead to the tube stop, we ascended the stairs. Lo and behold, the same group of boys were again seemingly going the same way we were. I know one of us got shoved walking up the stairs and we were all commenting under our breath about what brazen assholes these kids were. 20 seconds later, we were on the street and my little purse had been de-velcroed and unzipped and my blackberry was gone. My friend's bag was also unzipped, but nothing had been taken. The luck of the tiger was with her. He obviously forgot about me.

In that instant I wanted to run down the street with a machete chopping off the faces of anyone with spiky hair, and had rage fantasies of finding and kicking in the teeth of each of those 4 little shits. In fact, if I think about it long enough I still hope they all get run over by a bus or stabbed in the throat. Save for a bug net in Thailand, I've never been robbed before. It is an awful feeling. Hopefully the Mongkok Acid Man gets them (incidentally, there is a madman running around the area of town we stayed in throwing acid on people from the high rises above).

But of course, they were long gone before I could do anything about it. So a day that had started off with some exquisite dim sum and a great mood detoured into the Tsim Sha Tsui police station. I assume this kind of thing happens often as there was a designated theft desk. Not only did the police not need to see my passport (I didn't have it with me, so that was a good thing), they didn't even ask for a description of the culprits. 15 minutes later and I was less one Blackberry, out of all my contacts and personal information, and in possession of a Hong Kong police report. Funny how an hour earlier I was commenting about that being one part of the city I hoped never to see. Not as auspicious of a start to this trip as I'd hoped. In fact, quite the opposite.

Hopefully my insurance will cover the loss of the phone. The years of contacts and lack of technology unfortunately cannot be so easily replaced. (I'm writing this in Vietnam, where Facebook is illegal. If I had my blackberry, I'd be able to access it. No such luck on a laptop.) Somewhere out there, somebody in Hong Kong has a list of all my friends and colleagues. If they are looking for even a little retribution, they have my blessing to start by prank calling Dave Mustaine.

VACATION, ALL I EVER WANTED

How does one embark on a four month trip around the Asian continent? In my case, the answer is this: with a blizzard. Following a week of loose ends, tipsy goodbyes and frantic last minute packing, the departure date for my grand adventure coincided with a healthy dose of February snow. Naturally, since my travel plans were at stake, this was no meager dusting. Instead the weather gods (though I personally blame Al Roker, just because I can't stand his post gastric bypass face) decided to unleash a massive nor'easter, complete with blizzard conditions and hurricane force winds.

News of this storm broke on Monday, with my flight scheduled to leave on Wednesday afternoon, the predicted thick of it. By midday Tuesday, Bloomberg had closed NYC schools. The UN shut down. Newark Airport closed. Airlines were canceling flights left and right at JFK. My friends' flights were already canceled and rebooked for the next day. Cathay Pacific, however, merely bumped my flight by 2 hours and left it on the boards for a Wednesday 16:00 departure.

It was a curious predicament, but over the river and through the slushy Belt parkway to JFK we drove. The airport was a veritable ghost town, with only 3 flights scheduled for takeoff that day. Checked in, hugs exchanged, security screened, snacks purchased, celebrity flight companions noted (NJ hip hoppers Naughty by Nature), and it was time for boarding. The snow was so thick we could barely detect an outline of the 777 behemoth from the window, but onto the Jetway abyss we all marched, got situated in our seats and waited to pull back from the gate.

4PM departure time came and went. We waited for an announcement. My watch read 4:45 when we were told the pilots were “trying to figure out their options.” We waited a bit longer for clarification of that statement, though I suspected that just maybe the raging blizzard outside could possibly be a factor. We were shown dinner menus and given some water, and still we waited. 'Round about 5:45, we were told there was a fuel issue and something about the JFK grounds crew being ill prepared. We waited more, somewhat befuddled, in silence after that masterful tidbit of nebulousness. 6:30 rolled around and we were informed we did not have enough fuel to reach Hong Kong and would now be diverting to South Korea (!), where we'd refuel and get a new crew. That flight time would be about 13 hours, plus 2-3 on the ground (during which we were forbidden to disembark the aircraft) and there was no set departure scheduled from Seoul to Hong Kong. Speculations began on the fuel scenario (I found it highly suspect), babies began to cry, I tore into my salami and provolone sandwich and wrestled with a piece of fat lodged between my two front teeth for a bit. Some apple juice surfaced from the rear of the plane, the Naughty by Nature dudes in coach ran interference with Treach (NBN frontman and star) up in business class, but in all we were just relieved to know we'd be getting away from the gate and up in the air.

At 7:20 or so, the pilot told us that the delay had been caused by negotiating the airspace fees with Russia and North Korea, but assured us it had been settled and there was but one bit of paperwork to go. We pulled back from the gate and the deicing of the plane started, which should have lasted 20 minutes. After an hour and deicing completed, we were stopped yet again by an unruly passenger who wished to deboard due to inclement and unsafe weather. (Guess he was in a blind coma when he left his house, drove to the airport and boarded the plane in said inclement weather.) Pilot made a generic “weather is safe to fly in” announcement, copilot soothed the surly traveler and we were just...about...off...

But then we weren't.

Cathay fed us some more bullshit about China (now I know Hong Kong is still technically autonomous and likes us Americans, but Cathay flies all over mainland China every day.) rejecting our request to fly over their airspace AND JFK closing the necessary runway due to snow (snow? Really?) AND the crew having exceeded their workable hours limit. All at once. It was after 9PM. We had been sitting on the plane for over 5 hours.

They held us lowly coach people on the plane for at least another half hour, while preferential treatment was given to the folks up front. They were vacated from the terminal before we even deplaned. A minor uprising was narrowly averted when the crew tried to get the NBN posse out from the back of economy class before the rest of us. Sorry boys, but we were down with NO P.P. by then.

One stale turkey sandwich and treacherous bus ride back into Manhattan later, and I was sitting in a room at the Grand Hyatt with no info on my rescheduled flight at 1:30 AM. The traveler in me was understandably cranky and frustrated. The hotel bar was closed. So, instead of braving the streets around Grand Central in the middle of the night to find a martini bar, the publicist in me perked up. I called the news.

Today during flight check in, I gave the NY Post a story and got my fellow travelers to dish as well. You can read it all here. (Now I know how my artists have felt all these years when they called me freaking out “I was on the phone for 20 minutes and they ran one line!” ) Genius word twisters, maybe, but hey, at least I caused the airline some embarrassment and hopefully some hefty fines. More importantly, I kept my temper in check long enough to chronicle my first day of adventure while cruising over the polar ice cap at 37,000 feet, onto what I hope proves to be a most auspicious start of the year of the tiger.