Real Talk Archives | Page 3 of 4

The Abyss

The morning I left Sarajevo, my father called me to let me know my uncle was slowly, but surely, dying. He had been a high-flying lawyer in Tuscon, Arizona, actually writing the book on Class Action Lawsuits. I had always liked my uncle as he and his wife were incredibly kind to me on the hand full of occasions we met. He developed early-onset dementia in his mid-60s, to the point where his partners at the law firm he built respectfully took a vote of no confidence and asked him to retire. He was moved into a facility that my father crossed the country to help select.

My father was no stranger to death and dying. He had been a trauma surgeon for over 30 years and had seen many people, the wicked and the righteous alike, take their last breath. When he told me of what was to come, there was a shakiness in his voice that I never had heard before. This would be the first of his siblings to travel to that undiscovered country. I thought of all of it while I looked into the Miljacka River.

I boarded my bus later in the day and went to Dubrovnik. It was very different than Bosnia. While there was bloodshed in Croatia during the dissolution of Yugoslavia, the sea surrounding that town appeared to have washed it clean. There was no rumor of war in this idyllic city. Tourists from all over the world, including myself, walked upon glistening white marble within the Old Town walls, taking in the sites and enjoying our Zinfandels.

Walking to the outskirts of the city, I saw a bunch of people swimming off a rocky enclave at the bottom of a hill. I slowly traversed the steps until I was at a rock formation south of the city. Europe being Europe, there were some topless sunbathers along the crags. I took this as a cue that almost anything would go, so stripped down to my boxer shorts and went for a swim.

I entered the water via the supplied ladder and just floated there for a bit. It was hot as it was summer and I had been walking for most of the day. This beautiful, blue water was utterly and completely welcoming. It was a little cold at first, but refreshing. As I dove, I saw there was a steep drop off probably down about 20 meters. Halfway between the blue and the black, I let out a large laugh, which would just be an exhalation of bubbles. As I looked up to the world from my depths of the abyss, for the first time on my voyage, I felt a sense of euphoria. I was glad I was here, glad I was doing what I was doing, and simply glad I was alive.

I came back to the surface, let out another large laugh as I floated on my back, and regained my composure. I got out of the water, laid on a rock using my shirt for a pillow, and let the sun do its work of drying and warming me. I gathered my clothes, put on my shoes, smiled at the statuesque sunbathers that smiled back and continued my trek back to my hotel. It was some 2 miles away and 200m up a myriad of stairs, yet I did not mind as I was still full of elation of what I had just done.

I returned to my hotel, got to my room, and reconnected with the wifi. All the joy vanished. My father had written me a text message telling me my uncle was dead. For the first time in my adult life, my father did not pick up the phone when I called.

Before I began my journey, I knew that it was a possibility that something might occur like this with my immediate family. When seconds counted, I would be at least dozens of hours away if not days. But I decided I was not going to live in fear of what could happen. When I look back on it, I realize that every day we exist, we are moored to that space between the blue and black. Until one day, a day towards which we are constantly moving, we are bound no more; and may hopefully, peacefully, serenely, float away.

Falling In Love

Do you remember the first time you fell in love?

It starts as an infatuation.

In the midst of it, navigating your own idiosyncrasies reflected in another’s heart.

Learning everything you can about the object of your desire.

It sneaks up on you.

Like ancient Diana upon her quarry.

A quiet voice whispers to you with the noise and immediacy of a twanged bow string, “You’re in love.”

Attraction is different to different people; but once you know, you know.

It is not a choice.

Love flips the switches you have; installed by time, relationships, and experiences.

There was a kindness, a quiet beauty, and a peaceful serenity I felt in her countenance.

While love is patient and love is kind, there was indeed a sword nestled among her pinions.

Her pain. Her suffering. The rivers of her tears.

Yet glinting off that sword was her perseverance. Her love. Her joy. Her spirit.

That is what it is like to fall in love with Bosnia.

Personality Not Nationality

Coming to Serbia, I had some idea of what I was getting into. As the saying goes, the gunpowder of Europe is stored in the Balkans, and I knew their history rather intimately. During my high school years, my classmates and I participated in something called the World War I Trials. The goal was to figure out, through persuasive defense, what nation was least culpable for the Great War. The legal team of Grossman, Wolf, and Gabroy successfully presented our evidence, refuted the counter-evidence, and through a brilliant closing argument by yours truly, we won. Which was a pretty impressive feat considering Serbia had the actual smoking gun. Later, it seemed very strange that when I was defending Serbia for past crimes, they were committing current ones in the Yugoslav Wars. Mass rapes, murders, and other war crimes against humanity were being carried out under the orders of Slobodan Milosevic as Yugoslavia was dissolving.

It was during his attacks on Kosovo that NATO got involved. They strategically bombed Serbia’s national defense building and their state television station that was broadcasting Milosevic’s orders to go out and kill for greater Serbia. NATO did their best to minimize civilian casualties, while Milosevic’s numerous henchmen did everything in their power to increase theirs.

As I walked through the streets of Belgrade, under the flashing signs advertising the Russian behemoth of an energy company Gazprom, there was a palatable disdain for the West. Their defense building and television station were left in ruins with placards enumerating the many civilian deaths and many crimes of the NATO powers. There was even a monument memorializing the deaths of scores of children. It seemed incredibly tone-deaf considering the thousands of men and boys that were murdered in eternally haunting ways in conjunction with the ten of thousands of rapes of women and girls as Serbia was grasping for territory.

And all this lead me to an incredibly fortuitous conversation. My hostel had a wonderful social atmosphere. Instead of being the typical backpackers and students, there was an older demographic. I found myself sharing drinks with an absolutely gorgeous and tall Chinese woman in her mid-40s. She had numerous tattoos, including a sleeve down her left arm. She lived in Shanghai, married but divorced due to his abuse, and decided to see some of the world before heading home to start a business. Another member of this group was a young man in his 20’s from the outskirts of Belgrade that came to town to try his hand at some local rap battles. He spoke pretty good English but could rap in Serbian, Bosnian, Macedonian, and Montenegrin. The final member was a Swedish skinhead that had a swastika tattooed on his middle finger on his right hand. Only, it was a Buddhist one symbolizing the wheel of life, as opposed to the Nazi one symbolizing the wheel of death.

We were having a great conversation about all our different lives. The Chinese woman made possibly the most astute observation of my whole journey. She said that it was really amazing that people of such different backgrounds could come together and just chat and have a good time. She said that it is personality, not nationality, that determines how well people get along in the whole scheme of things. She had no idea how right she was.

One of the hostel workers had come to join our conversation. This bespeckled woman was the second person I met after the owner. When I removed my US Passport to be checked in, she looked at it for a very long time. Then she looked up at me and said, “Ah, an American Spy.” I laughed it off, but she kept her icy stare. I would see her around the hostel, and she would ask if I was reporting her movements back to President Trump. More incidents like this happened during my tenure, very nonsequitur and very weird.

When she came in, she was on a tear. She sat down next to me and went around the room insulting everybody. She insulted the Chinese woman by saying everyone in China was nothing but dirty money-grubbing whores. The young Serbian rapper, who she thought was Montenegrin because she walked in when he was rapping in that language, said that Montenegrins were “all faggots that love taking it up the ass.” Then she got to me. She said, “But Americans are the worst. Your country is run by Zionist kikes. But don’t worry though, I know where you sleep,” as she cackled. She then praised Putin as a real leader and how Serbia should be moving towards Russian and not the EU. Behind the bar, she found a kitchen knife and started waving it around, dangerously close to my face, as if to accentuate her insanity further. I moved quickly to the other side of the room, and then the Serbian rapper told her to shut up. The Chinese woman said she did not know what she was talking about. And the rest of the people there told her just to leave. Thankfully she did, eyeing all of us as she left, leaving the knife.

The other patrons that had been there longer were used to her and gave me a bit of her background. She was studying at a local university, which was a notorious propaganda factory. They could see I was rather disturbed by her awfulness. The skinhead told me not to worry about it, and a young Serbian lady that witnessed what happened came over and cradled my head to her chest as she apologized profusely. The words of my new friends echoed around me, “Personality, not nationality.”

The Paradox

“America, help us. We are fighting the Russians to get them out of here. Please help us, we need your help. Please help us.”

These were the words heard by my eleven-year-old father that crackled through his homemade crystal shortwave radio. It was in the middle of a cold November night in 1956 as he was perched on his elbows under blankets in his family home in Norwood, Pennsylvania. The pleas for freedom echoed through his single earpiece from a 300′ antenna he affixed to a nearby tree. There was no dial. By sheer happenstance, he put the antenna piece in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. He might have been one of the first people on the continent to hear the cries of the people and the absolutely brutal oppression at the hands of the Soviet Union. The next day, he learned from the newspaper what was going on half a world away. Later, as films were smuggled out of occupied Hungary and shared with Western audiences, it put pictures to words: Soldiers clearing buildings taking prisoners, tanks in the streets, and bullet-riddled bodies with holes matching the holes in the national flag where the symbols of communist Hungary were cut out. All this due to people simply yearning to breathe free. And dying trying.

And it is here where my connection with the beautiful city began. Or so I thought. Unlike other families, I do not know exactly where my lineage comes from on my father’s side. His family, a few generations removed, were immigrants from the Old World and decided that that is where it would stay. My paternal grandparents grew up in New York City and never really shared that much about our family history with my father or other four siblings. Although they spoke a few languages prevalent in the city, they were Americans and paid a dear price to have that privilege. Yet, in a rare moment of candor, my aged grandmother shared a fragment of her family’s past with my cousin. She was much closer, especially physically, as they lived in Arizona while I lived in Pennsylvania.

And recently, this information was shared with me. This is what my grandmother recounted: a set of her grandparents, I do not know which side, belonged to a family of aristocrats in the Carpathian countryside, probably in Transylvania. Unfortunately, my great-great-grandmother committed the ultimate sin at the time, falling in love with a soldier from the area’s new conquerors, the Astro-Hungarian Empire. Due to this transgression, the family needed to emigrate to Prussia, which would become Germany, then a generation later, to the United States.

Yet another family connection to this beautiful city is my maternal grandmother. She often traveled the world with friends, having gone to the furthest reaches of the globe as she would get summers off from being a high school history teacher. Her travel to this jewel on the Danube was marked with comments on the beautiful countryside, the friendly people, and the delicious food despite being a very picky eater. If you knew my grandmother, this would be the same as other women coming home draped in the Hungarian flag, hugging a steaming hot bowl of Goulash, while singing the Himnusz (their national anthem.)

Other than Keyser Söze and the Rubik’s Cube, I had very little exposure to Hungary growing up. Other than the occasional innocuous schoolyard joke, of course. Nevertheless, I found Budapest an intoxicating paradox with a fine line that dividing it, much like how the Danube divides Buda from Pest.

Like in Paris or Rome, you can feel the history in every corner of the city. Even though a lot of it is dark, they do not mind remembering what they suffered. From the bronzed shoes along the river (a memorial to those the Nazis bound, shot, and drowned) to the still bullet-riddled buildings by the Parliament remembering those that perished in the 1956 Uprising, to the very well kept Nazi and Soviet Secret Police Headquarters at 60 Andrassy Street, where countless political prisoners over the years were dragged in but never came out.

In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, Budapest offers so much more. From the simple pleasure of taking a warm bath in a beautiful Romanesque bathhouse becoming mesmerized by the gold-leafed frescoes on the ceiling as the reflected light from the water dances upon them, to eating a schnitzel the size of a skateboard with matching beer or drinking a 24 karat gold-dusted coffee, to simply dancing in a public park or an impromptu classical music street concert, Hungarians celebrate life as much as they remember death.

Instead of condemning their dark past, forgetting with memorials as too many other places do, they do what they can with what they have to make new, better memories. The perfect example of this is the Ruin Bars; repurposed Soviet structures (factories, apartment buildings, etc.) converted into social hotspots with cheap drinks and enough clandestine alcoves to steal kisses; keeping the darkness of their history but introducing the light of the present and future.

This is the legacy of this beautiful city. I cannot wait to return.

Darkest Before Dawn

Romania was a place that had always captured my interest in my youth, from Castlevania to Dracula to Vigo of Carpathia. But as I grew, I learned that actual monsters resided in this equally foreboding yet beautiful country. But the genesis of my more mature intrigue was more personal beginning back when I was attending high school.

During this time, I had a pair of friends, twins actually, who joined my school freshmen year. Although having lived in the United States for most of their lives, these boys were political refugees with their parents from Romania. When they were born during the height of the Ceausescu regime, they broke the record for the largest babies born in this Soviet hospital. Given Romania’s medical care at the time, I am certain that tacitly, their mother was bestowed a high honor by the state. As the situation in Romania deteriorated around them, their parents decided it was time to leave. Given their status as international traveling orchestra performers, the task, although difficult, was easier than if they had been engineers or apparatchiks responsible for the maintenance of the Romanian way of life.

Another element the piqued my interest about this country, other than my cousin informing me that my paternal grandmother reluctantly shared that this land was her family’s homeland and thus mine, was a chapter from the book Freakonomics. The economists that wrote it discussed the difference between the policies of Roe Vs Wade in the United States legalizing abortion against Ceausescu’s policy of births at all costs. Unfortunately for the unwanted children born during this time, the orphanages of Romania were crammed beyond capacity. So much so that care to these babies, children, and even teenagers was rationed. For anyone that has had even the faintest experience with infants, they need to be talked to, held, and comforted. If not, they fail to make attachments and eventually grow up seeing the world as a cold and dark place. This point was driven into my soul when my father, a trained physician, shared that he noticed the young woman that had recently and harshly ended a relationship with me shared a trait common with these Romania orphans. When infants are left unattended for hours on their backs in cribs, their heads, necks, and shoulders lack curves and go straight down. From what she mentioned of her childhood, her distant and unmotherly mother failed to care, even minimally, for her daughter, leaving her to hate herself, the world, and everyone in it. Imagine an entire generation growing up like that and the legacy it would leave.

It was with all this, as well as being well versed with the tomes of Lt. General Ion Pacepa and having viewed the Amazon “comedic” series Comrade Detective twice, I entered Romania. Upon arriving in Bucharest, I was incredibly taken back by the sheer beauty of the city. Grand thoroughfares and fantastic buildings were all around. With all this grandeur, it could have been the middle of Paris. But, like the countless Romanian beauties I had seen going about their everyday lives, the details were in the subtlety. The official candy bar of the country, given to children, had an overpowering taste of alcohol. In the convenience stores, they sold 3-liter plastic bottles of beer. Their grandiose department store bathroom had used syringes hidden behind a radiator. Around the mostly tourist spot of where I was staying, advertised as freely as the restaurants and bars were bordellos.

Frankly, I was not sure of what the legacy of Romania was for me or for the world. The people of this land had suffered through the whole course of their existence. From being a distant Roman colony to having to fight off violently an Ottoman invasion, being subjected to Nazi tyranny, and eventually being conquered by the Soviets. It was during the Soviet era that they said Bucharest was darker than Moscow in both kilowatts and repression. For a primer, read about the horrifying Pitești Prison experiments on political prisoners that were deemed counter-revolutionary.

But, in December of 1989, the people had had enough and violently threw off their chains, as only a people nursed on the milk of deprivation and torment could. Perhaps that is their legacy. While the wounds inflicted by the old regime are still healing (even over 30 years on) and will be there for a few generations to come, it does not stop the people from loving life, as was eloquently portrayed when I joined the outskirts of a block party where the din of the music was nearly outmatched by the people laughing and singing.

When I was attending the wedding in Regio Emilia, Italy of my school friend, as we were walking from the ceremony, I had the chance to have a chat with his mother. As we walked, she looked to the sky and saw some birds flying. Like a Shakesperian soliloquy, she said one of the most profound things I had ever heard, no doubt forged through the crucible of survival. While lamenting that she gets philosophical at times of high emotion, she stated, “Happiness is like a bird. When it flies to you, be grateful that it came. And do not be sad when it flies away, fore it is going to the hands of someone else.”

Blue

In 1876, a former American Civil War General by the name Augustus James Pleasonton wrote a treatise entitled The Influence of the Blue Ray of the Sunlight and of the Blue Color of the Sky. The work described the positive effects of blue light in everything thing from plants to animals to people. It was written on blue paper with blue ink and lead to a blue glass craze in which farmers bought blue glass panes for their greenhouses, or rather blue houses, to increase their crop yields. He claimed that the effects of the isolated blue color of light could help eradicate disease and promote general wellbeing in people. After visiting Greece, he might have been on to something.

There is blue everywhere in Greece: from the roofs of Santorini to the doors of Hydra to the very flag itself. And since beauty is truth, honestly, it is hard to have a care in the world regarding anything amongst the impossibly navy colored waters of the Aegean, the azure wrapped mountains of the Peloponnese all spread under the cerulean Grecian sky; where the only clouds visible are in your chilled glass of Ouzo.

But maybe, on deeper introspection, that is what caused this center, this ompholaus of Western Civilization to eventually succumb to the Fates. Walking in the Acropolis, if one can filter out the din of tourists conversing in a myriad of languages, in a quiet corner, you can faintly hear the warnings of the past from beneath the sands of time.

This is a land of sediments. The classical Greeks came to the area and built upon the former lands of the Mycenaean, including their temples, most notably Delphi. As their naval power grew, riches from around the Mediterranean came flowing into the city-state of Athens. With those riches, protection became very important. While the Athenians were an unmatched navy, it was the Spartans that had the unmatched army. They both would be put to the test when the Persians came for conquest. After the war from without, there was one from within as both Sparta and Athens had designs on each otherʼs territory and those of the allies. This became known as the Peloponnesian War. It lasted for 30 years. Due to the expense of this Civil War, even after the Spartan victory, they could not defend against a well-trained, well-read, and well-educated young man named Alexander. By the time of his death at 33, Athens was the jewel in his crown. It was during this time Socrates was put to death, poetically sealing the fate of Greece.

New invasions came, as did new wars, and most importantly new religions. They say the Romans conquered Greece, but it was the Greek culture that conquered Rome. As time marched on, with the new single God that once carried a hammer instead of a lightning bolt, the Eastern Kingdom of Byzantium would end up preserving Western civilization when Rome was sacked. Constantine was so enamored with Athens that he took the giant pallid statue of Pallas with him to the city that would bear his name. This bronze sculpture, once standing atop the Acropolis whose spear was used as an ancient beacon to ships at sea, was melted down by the Ottoman Turks when they sacked the city in 1453. They continued their expanse westward and eventually sacked Athens too, using the Parthenon as an armory. One direct hit from the opposing Venetian army in 1687 blew it into the cobalt heavens.

The Turks came and occupied Greece, as well as most of this part of the world for 400 years. There were Revolutions, more invaders, more wars, and more uprisings even with the British coming and stripping the Acropolis for parts. But again, the 20th century would prove that the old world order was through. By the early 21st, the pride of these once cherished philosophers got the best of them when flush with cash from risky derivatives, they spent, spent, spent nearly collapsing the Union of which they were apart.

And that is the dichotomized Greece I saw: still showing the ancient Greek tragedy of Oedipus Rex in theatres while the outside walls were strewn with cyanic graffiti with the biggest scrawl saying γιατί meaning “Why?”

The Mirage of Concrete and Steel

EatPrayGreg.com The Buj Khlafia the biggest tower in the world

Knock, And He’ll open the door
Vanish, And He’ll make you shine like the sun
Fall, And He’ll raise you to the heavens
Become nothing, And He’ll turn you into everything.
― Jalal Ad-Din Rumi

When you are in the desert and the temperature climbs so high you can fry an egg on your overturned hand, you canʼt help but hope the water you see in the distance is actually there. But this oasis, this mirage, this element essential to survival is but an illusion and will be forever out of your grasp. Yet, through shrewd instincts that Bedouin traders have cultivated over thousands of years, the Emiratis have made their mirage real.

Located on the Arabian Gulf (Arabian Gulf when you are visiting the Emirates, Persian Gulf when you are not,) for hundreds of years, the inhabitants of Dubai along their creek traded with their neighbors the unique items available to them, namely fish and pearls. However, progress waits for no man. After the War to End All Wars came the Peace to End All Peace where the victors of World War I carved up the Ottoman Caliphate without anyone in authority understanding the history, political climate, or tribalism that existed here. The seven Emirates stood alone under the banner of Britain as protectorates. Then in the 1930s, Mikimoto of Japan discovered a new manner of pearl production effectively destroying Dubaiʼs second industry. After World War II, Great Britain reduced its greatness by decolonizing to assist in paying their accrued debts and dissolving the protectorate status of the Emirates in 1968. As the sun began to set on the British Empire, it rose for the Emirates. In the early 1960s, companies began exploring for oil, finding great reserves here. By the late 1960ʼs, they were exporting this black gold, and the riches flowed.

However, these tribes realized that if they were going to survive in the figurative and literal cutthroat politics of petroleum, they would need to stand together. That is when Sheik Zayed of Abu Dhabi proposed uniting the Emirates. On December 2, 1971, six Emirates united, with the last joining the group in February of the next year.

This founding fatherʼs picture is in every hotel along with his surviving son the President and the ruler of Dubai the Prime Minister, some billboards, has several roads named after him as well as a Grand Mosque in his home Emirate of Abu Dhabi.

The Emiratis share a great memory. The trauma, pain and uncertainty of losing their previous economy has again proven the acumen of these compassionate, authoritarian, unelected rulers. The UAE is an incredibly friendly place. And for good reason. One of the tenants of Islam that often is overlooked is the incredible hospitality. 20% of the population is true Emirati. The rest are migrants of over 200 nationalities with the largest percentage being Indian at 50%. The easiest way to tell the true born is by their license plates; true Emiratis can afford a three-digit plate and the expensive foreign car that goes with it, while the others cannot. However, again, astutely, someone from India, Nepal, the Philippines, Malaysia or China is allowed to come here, work, send money home and stay for decades, but will never be allowed citizenship. I was informed that if that were to change, it would be the United Indian Emirates overnight. Another interesting aspect is that here, outside the Free Zones where foreign companies pay no taxes to the government allowing them to ship all proceeds home, all businesses need to be sponsored by an Emirati, to the tune of them owning 51% of the business. Still, another incredibly intelligent policy is that anyone can get a building permit here. They need to lease the land from the government for 90 years but depending on where the buildings are, they are still able to send rents back home. The Emirati idea is that people come, people go, but they cannot take their buildings with them.

Unlike other Muslim countries, Westerners and Easterners are free to come as they are. Modesty is not enforced anywhere outside the mosques. There are no feared Morality Police, but since there is no income tax here, the fines for not following the rules are heavy. There is even alcohol to drink in hotels and bars, however, one cannot buy alcohol to sell openly unless they have a state license. The only caveat, my Nigerian Uber driver informed me, drink behind closed doors. He forgot to mention that since it is Ramadan, non-Muslims and children also need to eat there or behind large dividers during daylight hours. The food courts and restaurants were quite accommodating.

I never once felt unsafe here, even though Iran is so close. I asked my tour guide about it, seeing how I could not remember one incident of terrorism here. His reply is that the Emiratis love business and inadvertently quoting The Godfather, “…Blood is a big expense.” The Sheiks have an iron hand under that velvet glove. The moment this place becomes unsafe for tourism or investment, that is the moment the Sheiks hear the sucking sound of money and people leaving the country, never to return. They monitor their land border with Saudi Arabia and their maritime border with Iran like the falcons they so cherish.

They built infrastructure and have a variety of social safety nets to make life easier here for the inhabitants, thus curtailing one of the biggest draws to terrorism; hopelessness. They are vigilant regarding internet traffic: censoring websites of material they find objectionable, block voice-over-internet-protocol and even jam virtual private networks; all tools that potential terrorists can use; or just a simple traveler trying to connect with his family and friends, business associates, or Mia Khalifa.

This, of all places, is incredibly unforgiving. The lives of camels are worth more than the lives of some men. No people know that better than the ones who live and have lived here for centuries. They realize that they cannot survive on one factor of income. They know the oil can run out at any time. They built the worldʼs largest structures like the Burj Khalifa or the Dubai Mall and tout the hell out of them. They are expanding tourism with theme parks. They are even killing the old maxim that land is the best investment as they arenʼt making it anymore. I watched a bulldozer on a barge push boulders off to allow more land to rise from the sea, like the Palm Jurimieh did. Where I sit now in New Dubai was just sand 10 years ago. Currently, Iʼm surrounded by skyscrapers including a square block with a world record of them. In 2020, Dubai promised to host the World Expo which will last for six months where visitors from all over will come, hopefully flying the exquisite Emirates Airline. The Emiratis are busy getting show ready. They will pull it off, and continue turning this desert into a tangible oasis for the world.

Despair and Ecstasy

Dateline: 1991
Location: Bowling Alley on the Mainline in Pennsylvania
Event: Anthony Vaganosʼ Birthday Party

Heading into the bowling alley after my mother dropped me off outside, I walked in and said hello to my 2nd-grade friends. But my attention as a 9-year-old was
diverted to a flickering screen. Some older boys were standing in front of an arcade cabinet where animated characters were engaged in bloody combat. Being a red-blooded American male, I was captivated. I watched the violent ballet to the point I was totally oblivious to Anthonyʼs mother calling me for my turn to bowl. As I was being caroused away, I looked up at the title of this game: Street Fighter II: The World Warrior. Eventually, I would convince my parents to allow me to own the game on Super Nintendo. I think this was the first time I realized I was interested in international affairs. The characters in the game were from countries all over the world and their stories surrounded fighting one another so they could climb the ladder of the tournament to fight one man, M. Bison (or Vega in the international editions of the game.) M. Bison, the leader of the Shadoloo organization, responsible for murders, terrorism, arms trafficking, and human experimentations resided with his lieutenant Sagat in the only uncolonized country in South East Asia, Thailand. I had wondered what was so special about this place that these marauders would find a haven here. I discovered it in spades.

This country serves as a “safe” place where white people from the West can go to experience a little danger, like a carnival haunted house.

Want nitrous? 50 Baht.

Want a “massage?” 150 Baht for 30 minutes or until completion, whichever comes first.

Want forged ID cards? 200 Baht.

Want a ride from a whipped, chained, and starved elephant? 600 Baht.

Selfies with drugged tigers? 800 Baht.

Want to see 10-year-olds beat the shit out of each other? 2000 Baht for VIP ringside seats.

Want to watch women expel various objects from their vaginas or want alone time with a ladyboy? Skyʼs the limit.

For those with darker proclivities, rumor has it that if you ask the wrong people in the right alley, for $25,000 USD Cash, you can walk into a room and put a bullet in someoneʼs head.

Whatever diversions or perversions a tourist needs, craves, or desires can be found around Khao San Road.

My experiences in Bangkok left much to be desired. Everywhere I went, it felt like I had a tattoo on my forehead that directed people to attempt to take advantage of me. Thailand trusts foreigners about as far as they can throw them. Since their national sport of Muay Thai is about elbows, knees, feet, and hands kinetically making bodily contact, that is not very far. There are special sections and prices for foreigners at temples, some shops, and sporting events. There is a duplicitous nature here. Few people keep their word, even fewer deliver what they promise. It seems as if the plethora of temples serve as a kind of a penance for all the sin that occurs in the city.

However, perhaps why they disregard foreign interests is because over the course of centuries, they have been invaded and have been invaders; the tide of empires has ebbed and flowed across their land. But, they are incredibly pragmatic as they continue borrowing from outside the kingdom. Their temples feature stupas, tall spires, in Sri Lankan and Cambodian styles. They wear western clothing. They even drive on the left side of the road, as I am certain Anna Leonowens would appreciate.

I think it speaks volumes that both Vietnam and Thailand are two countries of which I have no desire to return.

As I walked the streets of Bangkok, the lyrics from an old musical about chess filled my head:

Not much between despair and ecstasy….
Can’t be too careful with your company
I can feel the devil walking next to me.

The Sacred and the Profane

When I was driving for Uber, I had a fare that left quite an impression on me. As I picked him up from the airport, he seemed flustered and tired. I asked him if he would like a water. As I handed him the bottle, he told me about his harrowing trip to the city, flight delays that turned to cancellations that turned to rebookings. He said it took him about 12 hours to get here. As he began to relax and open up, I began telling him about why I was driving and what I was doing it for. He seemed quite intrigued. By the time we got to his hotel, he had me park as he wanted to finish our conversation, with the meter running. He said that it was God’s will that I would be the one to pick him up tonight. Grabbing my shoulder from the back seat, he said he wanted to pray for me. We bowed our heads and he proceeded to thank the Lord for his delays so that he could have a chance to speak with me before my trip. He prayed for God to open my eyes to the lands that did not have the love of Jesus Christ in their hearts. He then gave me an incredibly generous tip.

However, it was not until I strolled the grounds of Tuel Sleng, a creeping numbness overtaking me, that I realized the words of my fare from what seemed like a lifetime ago. As I looked upon a bloodied metal bed frame that had been electrified for torture in a classroom with faint chalk lessons still written on the blackboard, I asked myself “How could people do this?” Falling deeper into my malaise, I moved through the ersatz cells made of brick that would barely allow chained prisoners to lay on their backs. Diagrams of the intricate yet simple ways screaming prisoners were tortured marked the walls and posts of the compound.

The feeling of odium was only magnified when I got to Choeng Ek. Walking in these Killing Fields, people were still finding bones and tattered clothes in pits, as if the Earth were regurgitating with shame for being made an accomplice to this slaughter. The sheer variety of ways that the poorest of the poor can kill their “class enemies” was astounding. Imagine a blade of saw grass nearly decapitating you. Or a rifle ramrod being shoved into your skull. Or being bludgeoned by a hammer, tire iron, or rock then thrown into a pit with the other lost souls that came before you, only to be buried by the ones to come after. Imagine knowing that if you were lucky enough to escape, that it happened to someone in your family. Or all of your family.

But the worst of it was the Killing Tree. It was here where young children we grabbed by their legs and swung against a very sturdy tree until their brain matter covered it. Their bodies thrown at the feet of their only witness, the child’s naked, raped mother before too she was executed. I was just about to leave, having my fill of blood, anger and sorrow for the day, but knew that I needed to have one final look. In the afternoon sun, unnerving the fellow travelers around me, I memorized every part of that tree. I never wanted to forget it. I bowed my head.

You would think that the blood of a quarter of their population would be enough, like the story of Passover, to spare the people of Cambodia from further horror.

But no.

From sex tourism and trafficking; often of children, utter poverty, and the ubiquity of landmines, the blood and the tears continue to fall here.

But you would never know it. In the shadow of one of the Wonders of the World that adorns their flag, everyone I met was gracious and kind: in my accommodations, on the street, in shops, and in bars and restaurants. They wanted to talk. They wanted to share. They were honored I would visit them. Every day I was asked by the front desk of my hostels how my day was, how I was doing, and what I had seen. My drivers were never hesitant to start a conversation. My guides loved answering questions, even difficult ones.

On my walk through Tuel Sleng at the very end of the tour, as I sat on a provided bench, the words of a survivor rung in my ears. She said that every person is born like a clear cup of water. It is the world that dumps dirt and sediment into our cups in the form of hate and violence. But it is our calling as human beings, as the voice quietly but resolutely admonished, to strive to become clear once more.

They have every reason to be bitter, to hate the world and everyone in it. Perhaps only those that know true suffering uniquely weep all of their tears while laughing all of their laughter. There is love, in spite of everything, in their hearts.

Nothing

What do I write about when it comes to Vietnam?

Should I write about the complicated simplicity of the people?

The country, both beautiful and foreboding?

My experiences: the good, bad, and the ugly?

Do I write about how I felt being there after learning about it from books, movies and first-hand accounts?

Do I write about its history?

Do I write about our history?

Do I write about standing in the exact spots where a shutter flash changed history?

Do I write about the War?

Do I write about the food?

The complete sensory ecstasy of it?

Do I write about Communism and how the only people that seem to love it are government workers and tourists?

Do I write about the controlled chaos that is the country’s traffic?

Do I write about the countless times I was offered drugs?

Girls?

Girls?

Do I write about seeing a dream fulfilled traveling through the Mekong Delta in a paddleboat?

Do I write about the nightmares I had seeing the grimacing faces and mangled bodies of war dead?

Men that could have been someone’s son, husband, cousin, uncle that I know?

Do I write about having a private audience with macabre trophies I saw in the States?

The ears?

The tongues?

Do I write about walking in the steps of a passed friend I never met?

Do I write about seeing Ho Chi Minh’s smiling face everywhere, even being sold on merchandise?