Playing catch-up

In true form, I have lost track of time a little bit. Skipped days, missed sights and run away with my own thoughts. But now that I find myself on the beach, a location where thanks to my genetics, subdues me into the shades and comfort of shelter, I am finding time to get myself a little up to date, if only for my own aging memory.

First and foremost, my freckle "farmers tans" are progressing nicely. However, I digress, let's skip back a bit to my visit to Sigiriya. I alluded to this location during my poetic rant on scantily clad women. Sigiriya was graced with the short-white-skirt-thong-wearing skank. She was special. Oh also, the site of the cheap German and British tourists. Love how culture brings out the best in people.

Having been formed from hardened magma in millennia past, Sigiriya is legend to be home to kings, fortresses and monks. Most locals believe the former, that a 4th or 5th century member of the royal family built a fortress on top of this rock after being outcast from the then kingdom in Anduraphura. Historians have found evidence however that leads them more likely to believe that the small city that once graced the rocktop (only the foundations remain) and the gardens below were home to a Buddhist monastery that was active up until about the 15th century AD.

I include this photo to ensure that despite all deterrences (mid-day heat, French thong-wearing women, steep staircases, and deviant monkeys) good-ol' Denise did make it to the top.

Following Sigiriya and some wanderings in the vicinity, I made my way to the cultural capitol of Sri Lanka, Kandy. Kandians tend to believe themselves a bit superior to the rest of Sri Lankans (supposedly) because of their colonial, or lack there of, experience. Sri Lanka was first colonized by the Portuguese. Later the Dutch. And then finally the British (whom eventually "gave them" autonomy in early to mid 20th century). However, Kandy, partially due to its geographical location in the interior of Sri Lanka managed to avoid colonization up until the mid-19th century when the relinquished power to the British. (I'm definitely making this history WAY more succinct than it is).

Kandy is situated around a quite picturesque lake (above) that in addition to being home to a very annoying flock of birds, houses this sucker. A water monitor is the second largest species of lizard, after its cousin the Komodo Dragon. These boys can grow up to 3m long! And on avery weigh 40-50kgs.

Point being, that in addition to many museums, temples and heritage sites, Kandy is home to the most venerated relic in Sri Lanka. The Temple of the Tooth (above) is home to what is said to be the tooth of the Buddha himself. Allegedly stolen from the funeral pyres and smuggled from India by a Sinhalese princess. Many of these such temples exists in Asia. Apparently another Tooth Temple is in Malaysia. I visited one stupa in Thailand, allegedly housing the rib of the Buddha.

Given its tenure as a British colony, Kandy was also home to this cool little cemetery tuck up a back street. The cemetery was restored and reopened with funds from the British veterans association, or something, in the late 80s. What was really neat, but also saddening was the young age at which most people died. The friendly grounds keeper, who knew the story behind each tombstone, informed me that most people died of malaria, dengue or other tropical diseases. However, he was quick to point out the five graves where their residents perished at the hand (or I should say hooves) of a wild elephant!

Crappy Travelers, Part II : The Skanky Girl

I don't ask, nor do I particularly want to know, about the "adult endeavors" of my fellow travelers. But at times, one has to wonder what the hell is going through some people's minds.

Now, I'm not referring to the ubiquitous older caucasian male with the younger Asian female "girlfriend". Or the more rare fifty-something woman with her far younger seemingly disconnected "local" counterpart. No, what I refer to is something far more simple. More surface, literally.

Appearance. Apparel. Clothing. Skin. Or in "big girl terms" cultural sensitivity.

When traveling in many parts of the world, especially as a woman (even more so as a solo woman), your days can colored by a series of hisses, kisses, whistles, catcalls, crude remarks, inappropriate gestures, awkward stares and for the less than fortunate, uncomfortable or frightening run-ins. At times worse. In Sri Lanka and in the past, my days have been splattered like a Pollack with each of these. While trying to always think the best of those around you, the world is not always a wonderful place and it pays to have your wits about you and to be smart about your choices. This includes, when traveling, what you wear.

In true Denise nature, let me backtrack and admit that this issue is particularly at the forefront of thought process recently given the Steubenville "Rape Crew" trial and the at times atrocious coverage and verbiage by the American media. I stand on a very distinct side of the issue stateside in that we need to change our idea about "teaching women how NOT to get raped" but rather raise our sons to know that rape in any form is not okay. I hate the concept that the media and public are condoning that women can incite rape by the way they dress or how much they drink. Because these nor any of the other rape culture excuses that exist in the US make it okay. Even worse is our seeming concern with what these rapists' futures will look like. That is another rant entirely though.

That tirade aside. Sri Lanka is not the US. I'm not getting on some high cultural horse about savages or the elite-ness of American culture. Quite the opposite in ways. Thanks to our media, our movies and at times the actions of our citizens (American, European, Australian or others), men in many parts of the world see "Western Women" as highly sexualized beings. Promoting some notion that the hisses, kisses, gestures and actions are okay. Actions they may or may not inflict upon the women they grew up besides.

Regardless, as female travelers, I think we are poised with the challenge to overcome these obstacles but also defeat these stereotypes. And while I don't think, a short skirt justifies rape and I wish we lived in a world where one could walk down the street in a bathing suit at any time of night. We don't.

So when traveling a country when the majority of local women/citizens/residents, don't show their knees or their shoulders or perhaps they even wear in a head scarf out of modesty to their religion, I am infuriated by women who will walk down the street baring more skin than I would in DC on an August afternoon.

On a hike to a religious site where you use steep stairs to reach the top, is it necessary to wear a short white tennis skirt with a thong? Walking around a small city, no Sri Lanka knees in sight, does it seem appropriate to wear a tiny one piece "play suit" barely passed your butt with your bra clasps hanging out? Sitting in a train carriage full of families and people headed home from jobs or life, does it seem necessary to wear white spandex shorts? Has no one ever told you to look in the mirror before you leave home? Or did your mother never teach you common decency? And if you choose, so stupidly, to don one of such delightful choices, don't you dare sit next to me at breakfast in your short floral skirt and tank-top and have the audacity to complain about how disgusting the men starring at you are. Or how appalled you are by their comments. My knee length, rolled up travelers' pants and T-shirt may not be "cute" but I don't want the kind of attention "cute" can garner me when thousands of miles from home.

Perhaps, I'm being a bit conservative or puritanical or call it what it is... prude. But I think out respect for a culture or for ourselves, out of honor, or just out of plain modesty, we owe it to future travelers and to the globalization process (be it a good or bad thing, it's happening) to promote a more positive image of women and their treatment. Sadly, but truly, this image begins at the very surface. And, as much as I want more people to travel, if those people can't respect local customs or norms; stay home. Please.

Some kind of pilgrimage.

After a visit to this Hindu temple in Kandy (the cultural capital of Sri Lanka) yesterday, I think I took myself on some form of odd spiritual pilgrimage.

I've been to a lot of temples over the years usually witnessing silent prayers, meditations, occasional festivals, and the rare funeral/cremation. But yesterday was the first time I happened upon what I could only sort as the daily prayers/service at this Hindu temple in town. I've always been drawn into them from their facades (as pictured here). Usually dripping in color, I was particularly attracted to this monochromatic pyramid rising above the relatively tatty architecture of the buildings surrounding it.

Upon entering, I quickly realized this wouldn't be my typical temple experience. About a hundred plus women (and a spattering of men) sat lining a pathway leading to the Vishnu idol. Inside the smaller idol temple, a temple priest was performing a ritual washing/worship. First he covered the statue in what from a distance appeared to be muddy water, then washing it clean. Repeating this many times. He then did the same with milk, only to later wash the statue (idol) clean and dress it with flower garlands.

Around me, women prepared trays of butter candles to set upon alters throughout the temple. As the hour or so progressed, so did the prayers and chanting. We began to rotate the "prayer lines" to the other miniature temples throughout. (I wish I had felt more comfortable documenting this with photos but being the only non-Sri Lankan in the room, I thought best to be respectful). First we moved to Ganesha, then Shiva, then on to two more where my knowledge of Hindu gods failed me on their identities.

So this morning, when I woke I felt this new (probably false given my track record) sense of my ability to "get out there." Following breakfast, my guesthouse asked me my plans for the days. When I told them, they informed me they could arrange a tuk-tuk to take me to all of my destinations for 2,500 rupees (about $20USD), just under my daily budget. I "politely" declined and said I would take the bus, they laughed.

First stop, the Kandy Botanical Gardens. A pretty impressive collection of fauna and flora from all over Asia. I spent about 2 1/2 hours wandering the grounds, being particularly impressed by the ....

They did an impressive job maintaining it!

And while these suckers aren't part of the official exhibit. Oh my lord, I have never seen so many bats. This is one of about five dozen trees at LEAST housing these bats. There were also palm trees, orchids, flowers and some other stuff but we've all been to a botanical garden.

Leaving the gardens I wasn't entirely sure what bus I was hopping on next but it couldn't be too hard right? Right! A couple well pointed one or two word questions and I was off. A change in a junction town onto a smaller bus and down the winding roads I went to Embekka Devale (temple). Jumping off, and hiking just over a kilometer up the road, I arrived.

Built in the 14th century, the temple combines Hinduism and Buddhism (a commonality in all the temples I visited). But the real highlights are the wooden temples taken from the Royal Audience Hall in Kandy. The carvings included wrestling (pictured above), swans, Sinhalese and Portuguese soldiers, dancing women, Elephants, and mythical animal combinations. The lovely caretaker of the temple pointed me on my way, up the hill, through a small Muslim village, over the river and through the woods (rice paddies). Four hilly, swelteringly hot kilometers later...

Built in 1344, Lankatilake Temple sits on top of a pretty substantial hill overlooking the valley and terraced rice fields.

Another 3km down and up and down and up the road, was the Gadaladeniya Temple.

The oldest all granite temple in Sri Lanka. They're now working to preserve the temple, as its suffered a lot of structural damage and erosion from rain and the build up of humidity inside the temple cave itself. The resident artist showed me around the site, explaining to me the significance of the many intricate paintings they are attempting to preserve. Little did I know he was just trying to sell me his replicas, which were admittedly beautiful (I was just in no place to figure out how to carry one back). A couple kilometers on, and I was back at a main road, hopping a bus, and into town an hour later. Mission accomplished.

I have to say, despite being utterly exhausted, the whole excursion was quite satisfying. I ran into very few other tourists at the temples, all of whom came by tuk tuk or air-con taxi. But along my walk I got to take in a lot of the really stunning countryside and meet some pretty nice people. Of course, there were your unmistakable hoards of school children at each site. The mandatory small child waving from the doorframe/balcony/bus window/etc. And more. But along the way, I also met a Buddhist monk who's son is a linecook in a NYC restaurant, a botanist who's entire family lives in Vancouver and best of all these lovely ladies, working the looms I came across in one village.

Oh yeah, final note : 4 buses to complete the journey. Total cost : 77 rupees (about $0.60USD)
Total savings : 2,433 rupees ($19.40). Winning.

On Crappy Travelers : The Cheap tourist

I've decided that despite my own innate sarcasm and self deprecation I'm going to attempt to isolate my negativity from the rest of my experience. However, one thing remains constant, my negative experiences all stem from the same place whether abroad or at home : stupid people.

Thus by isolate I mean, to contribute entire posts to poor behavior, fulfillment of negative stereotypes and just plain awful. I will devote the series "On Crappy travelers" to all those people out there who just suck. Cause lets be honest, I'm pretty spectacular are pointing out people's flaws, criticizing, correct, nit-picking... whatever you want to call it.

The first archetype we will address is the "Cheap Tourist". These kind of people frustrate me abroad and at home. They're the "mentally broke".

Don't get me wrong, I love to save a buck (literally, every dollar counts). But the kind of travelers who scoff or are offended by the prices to get into museums, temples, and World Heritage sites frustrates me. For those of you who haven't traveled much in the developing world, you'll often encounter a "local price" and a "foreigner price". This can range from locals being free to dramatically cheaper.

This kind of tourist reared its ugly head early on in my trip. Following Anuradhapura, I made my way to Sigiriya, a stunning rock (pictures to follow another time) amid the Sri Lankan plans that housed a monastery and perhaps a monarchy from the 4th century AD to the 15th. Cost to tourists : 3,700 rupees to enter or about $30USD. Definitely over my daily budget. But damn it, I'm in Sri Lanka and I took two, TWO buses to get here! I'm going to the top!

Not the attitude of the two cheap German girls and the cheap cheap British guy I walked up with. Horrified that it would be that expensive (common! Look at a guidebook!) they refused to pay the fee after trying to haggle with the ticket agent, they conceded to "walk around the outside of the gardens" and not do the hike. What they really did was sneak in the back way and only hike half way up, just before the second ticket check.

What really pisses me off about this is imagining what I, or they, would spend that $30 dollars on back home. I mean, I tip people more than that most nights out in Clarendon! Its a couple pints, or a short taxi home in London. Furthermore, the whole point of charging foreigners more is WE CAN AFFORD IT. You're talking about traveling in a country that was devastated by a tsunami in 2004 in the midst of a civil war that lasted 29, yes 29, years (it ended in 2009). But seriously, they're trying to maintain their landmarks, preserve, even reconstruct.

It just angers me when people will pay whatever costs to fly around the world, travel, vacation, eat out, whatever but then are angered that we are asked to occasionally pay more for the betterment of the sites we're seeking to enjoy.

I encountered more of these travelers at Lankatilake Temple. Two Canadian guys who'd paid a tuk-tuk driver (probably 2500rupees, maybe each) to take them around. But didn't want to pay the 250rupee fee to go into the shrine. They walked around, disrespectfully avoiding the grounds attendant because they were mad that they thought it would be free. It's a whopping $2!!! A whole 10% of what you paid some dude to drive you and you can't give it to a Buddhist temple?!?!

Something is wrong with the world.

Okay yes, I realize I don't like paying to have someone drive me around and will stubbornly take the bus, bike, walk whatever partly for my own benefit and partly because I don't want to pay someone to take me places I can take myself. But when it comes down to paying the posted fee or cheating and perpetuating a horribly negative stereotype about travelers.... pay or stay home.

When you're lost and alone and you're sinking like a stone, carry on. Let the past be the sound of your feet upon the ground. Carry on

I have spent the past nearly ten years making decisions that few people understand and likely even fewer blindly chose to accept or embrace. From leaving high school early, my travels, getting married young, to leaving my young love in search of something I'm only beginning to understand : happiness.

I've "settled" a lot in my life. At times thinking I have found what would be the "best of what's around" (thank you Dave Matthews), thinking that I was never worthy of something more. Don't get me wrong the guy I did chose to marry at the ripe age of twenty-one is pretty phenomenal (in case you read this Bryon); I sincerely hope he has taken the past two years to honestly seek the happiness and fulfillment I know is out there somewhere. I've settled in other ways, for jobs I knew I was better than. For rooms I knew were way to small. And even sometimes for friends who couldn't reciprocate the support I offered them.

Driving to Arlington, strangely anxious to say my final goodbyes I received the news that I had been accepted into what I thought was my first choice graduate program and next big life choice : Tulane's Disaster Resilience and Leadership Academy. The news comes just as I was starting to accept and even look forward to my rejection. To my absolute freedom to follow the winds of happiness wherever they may blow. So now I sit, accutely more aware of my tendancies to leap without first looking, saddled with the choice for grad school, a decision that I fear I may look back on as "settling" yet again.

It truly is bittersweet when you are suddenly handed everything you wanted just to realize you may no longer want the same things. I must find a succinct, witty way to shorten that idea to the title of my first book. As my mother always said, I'm very good at diving in head first just to later back peddle out. This is not to say, Tulane may not be in the cards still. I suppose I just have a lot to figure out, which is of course the precise reason for the one way ticket. Just to clarify, I have no regrets, not one.

A little game of 'Good Idea'? 'Bad Idea'?

Good Idea? Bad Idea? ..... Renting a gearless pushbike to navigate several kilometers of rural Sri Lankan ruins.. alone. Good Idea? Bad Idea?

I remember the first time I thought it was a keen idea to rent a cheap pushbike and set out down a poorly marked road in a developing country alone. Enter 2006, Siem Reap and the Angkor Temples. Think somewhere along the lines of Lara Croft: Tomb Raider minus all the cool guns and the hotness factor of Angelina Jolie. Fiercely independent and equally as stubbon 19 year old me bought my three day pass to Angkor. My handy dandy guide book told me the main group of temples were easily traversed on a bicycle. So I hatched my plan. Day 1 : bike the main temples. Day 2 : Do secondary loop on an electric bicycle. Day 3 : hire a motorcycle driver to take me to distant temples. We will conveiniantly skip over the safety issues surrounding hiring a complete stranger to take you 30km out into the jungle (probably left that part out Mom). But alas, this was neither the first, nor will it be the last I make such choices.

I recall biking out to the main gate, thinking "where are all the bicyclists?" One temple down. Two temples down. And no one. Quickly I realized I was the only jackass thinking a 8km bike ride on a crappy bike in Cambodia was a great idea in the mid-day heat.

Some lessons I'll never learn apparently. Enter Sri Lanka and present day.

To truly paint the picture, lets go back a day in time. Anxiouis to leave the beachside town of Negombo (think a more boring version of Goa for those of you who've been) I set my sights on the northern town of Anuradhapura. A lot of people hire a car and driver for this loop of Sri Lanka given the vast number of sites packed into the province. But oh no, not little Denise, she was doing this like a local. Enter the bus trip. First bus went beautifully; hopped off in full stride while the bus is still pulling into the station only to hop immediately onto my ongoing bus as it pulled out of the station. Award one gold star. Thank you. Bus 2 to 3 transition was equally as rockstar. Who needs maps? I managed to find my bus stop 300m away after j-walking a busy street. Bus pulls in moments later, and I'm off. Award second gold star. Thank you. This is where Denise's head gets too big. Enter the outskirts of Anuradhapura city and all my traveller's sense goes out the bus window. I fall prey to an easy tout/taxi driver trick and hop off my bus 2 miles before I'm meant to. One thing leads to another and I'm stuck with no where to stay, in a small city more spread out than I expected. Fast forward a couple hours, finally under a roof, with a cockroach the size of my big toe staring at me and you can remove all my gold stars. Fail one D

Early this morning, determined to regain my self pride, I set out determined to make Anuradhapura my bitch, bicycle and all. From, yet again, my guidebook descriptions (I should stop trusting them) I get the impression I'll be amongst like minded cyclists on my crappy little pushbike. Please redirect your eyes to "Some lessons I'll never learn". None the less, soarching sun, gawking school buses of children, cat calling workers and stupidly sore gluts, only alone and on two wheels can you truly escape enough to encounter empty fields, small paths through the wood, smiling old ladies and children splashing in a creek.

The Ruvanvelisaya Dagoba was originally built in 140BC commissioned by a king who never lived to see its completion.

The dagoba (also known as a stupa) was swarmed with monkeys and children. Where the monkeys' interest lay in eating the lotus flower offerings left on the many alters, the children were more fascinated with the lonely white girl in a bright orange t-shirt (mental note : try to wear white when attending temples). As for the monkeys, these particular guys are pretty harmless. It's the ones combing the grounds to watch out for; the black faced monkeys, descendants of the Hindu god Hanuman are straight evil. They can grow as tall as a 6' man when fully stretched out and they are a force to be reckoned with.

Thinking I was originally at a different temple, I hadn't realized I wandered onto the grounds of Sri Maha Bodhi. Brought from India as a cutting of the Bodhgaya, the tree is the oldest historically authenticated tree in the word and has been tended uninterrupted by guardians for over 2000 years. Swarmed by worshippers and tourists, the platform actually contains multiple trees and frankly I found it hard to tell which one would be the reallllly old one.

The Abhayagiri Dagoba was built as the central piece to a 1st/2nd century BC monastery that once housed over 5000 monks. What isn't clearly visible is the dozens of people out in the sun working diligently to restore this ancient piece of history.

Up the road from the stupa was a 9th century AD school for monks that was meant to house the best "moonstone" piece in all of Sri Lanka. I'll be honest, maybe I'm not a history buff or maybe I'm spoiled by past trips, I was underwhelmed. What did catch my eyes were these awesome stairs right above the infamous mooooonstone.

Finally, the Jetavanarama Dagoba is pretty badass when you read the history. One of the newer stupas in this area. Built in the 3rd century AD it was originally over 100m tall, making it at the time of construction the 3rd tallest monument in the world following the two larger of the pyramids at Giza. "A British guidebook from the early 1900s calculated that there were enough bricks in the dagoba's brick core to make a 3m-high wall stretching from London to Edinburgh!"

Best finish to the day : a cold sprite, samosa and chicken roll at your local small eats shop. Total damage Rs125 or $0.99 USD. half gold star back

Seeking Cross-cultural experiences? Look no further!

Seeking adventure but lack the funds or time to spend two weeks galavanting the Middle East? Can't handle the sights or smells of India but are fascinated by South Asia? Fret not. Don't waste your time or money on long vacations. Everything you're looking for packed into a few short flights. Book your flights on Saudia Air and get that completely different, overwhelming absurd but delicious and fascinating experience without ever leaving the comfort of an international airport. Just ensure your layover is at least ten hours, preferably in a country where it's illegal to leave, and you're in for a barrel of laughs!



Oh Saudia air. I have ridden trains galore and enough chicken buses I should have contracted the Avian flu. Yet for some reason even with the dilapidated AirAsia flights and the joys of any god awful American carrier, I still assume all international flights to be at least to a particular standard of order. But we all know what assuming does.

So since I've made it to Sri Lanka on zero airplane sleep, slept for the past 18 hours only to wake to birds calling and the buzz of scooters zipping by I feel it is only appropriate to reminisce on exactly how I got here.

Step 1: Discovering your airline and layover airport are dry (the dryness I'm referring to has nothing to do with climate). I'm not a huge drinker on flights but when you're trapped on board for 13 hours or longer with crying children, snoring parents, unpredictable light levels and lord knows what else, sometimes it's nice to have a crappy glass of wine with your soggy dinner to chase down the muscle relaxer that will knock you out until you wake up at your destination. Yes, I know responsible prescription drug use at it's finest. Back to the point, never have I encountered an airline that just didn't serve, period. Moving forward... when flying into Saudi Arabia I was fully aware and prepared to stay in the airport for the duration of my 11 hours layover, naively hoping as one has not legally crossed into the country, there would be the opportunity to enjoy a beverage. Return to the word naive

Step 2: A positive experience. Flying on an airline that includes a mosque. Okay well at least this is what they're calling it. Less so a mosque and more so the removable of 3 center rows of seats at the back of the plane to create a prayer space, blocked off by 2 curtains. Of the four times I passed by in search of water or food, I saw no one praying. Only men sitting lounged out on pillows chatting. Seemed like a pretty sweet deal to me. However, I assumed it would culturally offensive if I attempted to join.

Step 3: Trapped in the airport. This a crucial step in the cross cultural experience without ever officially entering a foreign nation. I must say, this one turned into more of a positive than a negative. Don't get me wrong, I'm not telling you to run out and book an obnoxious layover just to hang out in the airport. But I certainly learned a lesson in smiling. After "nice-ing" my way into the first class/premier lounge in Riyadh, I discovered something glorious. Something I didn't think I would be seeing for this layover : BEER! Don't ask me how they do it and no I didn't check the ABV because I didn't want to cry. But somehow, by some gift of Allah, the fridges full of juice, water, and soda also contained wait for it....... Budweiser. Half in Arabic, half in English (probably should have photographed that one but oh well). I couldn't act on my impulses to grab one and dance with glee immediately as I looked around myself and saw that in a room of about 40 people, there were only 5 other women all in full abaya (or burka). Of the approximately 35 men, 4 were dressed in conservative "western clothing" and the rest in thobes and ghutra (http://www.saudinf.com/main/q031.htm). See the link for definitions of the proper names of Saudi dress. Given how much the little freckled red head was already a point of attention in the lounge, I chose to refrain until a few hours later when some European men arrive and imbibed in a tasty adult beverage. All in all, I must say, if you can make your way into one of these lounges, it's well worth it. Some Argentines came in later and paid about $30 each for a "pass" in. I would have certainly paid if the attendant made me; well worth the free food, drink, wifi and the can of Budweiser. Winning all around.

Step 4: A quick note on smoking in Saudi airports. I think we have all reverted to our puritanical roots in regards to smoking in the US. Don't get me wrong, I find it pretty disgusting (when I'm sober) and think kids need to know more about the "dangers of smoking". Not the point. Think to your closest airport.. Dulles? LAX? Heathrow? Reagan? Where is the smoking room? Is there one? Is it a tiny room with poor ventilation? Is it banned upon entering the airport all together? Well not to worry, in Riyadh International, you need not trap yourself in a small room with everyone else's second hand smoke. No, just make you're way to the end of the corridor in any terminal and light up. Right there, ten feet from the small child staring up at you in awe.

Step 5 (and this is where it gets fun for those still reading): Being the only and I mean only caucasian woman (person) on your entirely full airbus flight from Riyadh to Colombo. I always crack that Americans are so good at following the rules. We queue up beautifully. We are quick to put our tray tables into the upright positions and return our luggage to the overhead storage bins. Just to give you an idea of this flight. Upon boarding in Riyadh (and I love this expression coming up), it was like herding cats. As though seat numbers were a mere suggestion. I won't even attempt to touch the woman who made it on board with the WRONG boarding pass. In flight it became a song and dance (at times literally) of musical chairs, shouting across rows, aisles and cabins to family (or probably not). The woman three seats from me decided to listen to music with about an hour plus left in the flight. She had no earphones, on full blast and no one complained. One flight attendant even laughed and danced briefly while moving into the first class cabin. Then comes the landing : there's people on their cellphones, people making coffee, music still playing, the poor flight attendant just trying to get guests to use a seatbelt, the small woman shoving her fingers in her ear canal to try to equalize pressure. Oh, and why wait till we hit the gate to grab your bags? PSH this is Saudia Air! Hit the tarmac and bing! Up go at least five guests in my cabin alone retreiving their personal items as though it will get them home quicker, which is impossible given they still have to go through baggage claim (see the final step, step 6).

Step 6: Baggage claim. Note that I skipped completely over immigration, customs or anything official. These were upsettingly anti-climatic. Baggage claim is where it's at in Colombo. All passangers on the airbus 330 (approximately 300 all together!) swarm the carosel as though their lives depend on it. And then there's me. Little panicked me, anxiously awaiting my bag after rumors that Saudia has a reputation for losing luggage after long layovers. Freaking out. 5 minutes pass, no bag. 20 minutes pass, no bag. At about minute 30, it begins. The water. No joke, not coming from the sky, not leaking through the ceiling or floor. In boxes on the carosel. First a couple dozen. Then another batch of a couple dozen. Again and again until there are more boxes of Saudi Arabian water on the carosel than there are suitcases. All in all a few hundred of these circle are everyone frantically looks for their names on the orange or white identical boxes that contain their purchase. (Side note: I shall attempt to get to the bottom of this whole water thing before I leave). Finally after about an hour, my happy little green Gregory backpack comes scooting out of the back with yet even moreee boxes of water and off I go.

A stubborn 2km walk from the airport to the bus. Two bus rides and about an 18 hour night sleep. It's 8AM in Negombo, Sri Lanka and I'm going to the beach.

As I prepare for my departure to Sri Lanka next week I am acutely more aware of the differences in the way I travel as compared to my peers than I have been in the past. Most of my American friends have reactions to my intentions to travel indefinitely alone such as "You're so brave!" or "I could never do that because [insert excuse about money, fear, family etc here]" or my personal favorites revolve around "You're gonna end up in a sex trafficking ring!" What I find most comical about these reactions is not their mere existence but my own ability to buy into them at times.

The first time I left home for a long period alone, I purchased a one way ticket to Vietnam at flew out a mere few days after my nineteenth birthday. Not a fear in the world (at least of course that I recall). I was ready, had no real plan but a lonely planet, a two night hostel reservation and an insatiable desire to prove myself to well, myself and the boy I thought I love (I mean when isn't it about a boy?). Pre-iPhone, Pre-Wifi, Pre-ease of access to gmail. Heaven forbid a blog! Livejournal was all the rage; I was over it. I emailed through my university server on dial up internet and phoned home once a month to remind my anxious mother I still had a voice.

Don't get me wrong, I realize my travels even in their infancy are nothing compared to my parents generation traveling long before we could fathom the internet. Or even that of my elder siblings friends who make today's generation of backpackers look like a bunch of yuppie wimps. But I have been fascinated by the evolution of my travel.

Once equipped with an original generation iPod I now wonder what I will do without Pandora on long bus rides!? Heaven forbid I live without an internet radio that is smarter than I. My iPad is set (Apple really sure sponsor me for how much I'm plugging them), the iPhone loaded, my e-guidebook purchased, and my high end rucksack nearly organized and yet despite all the travel I've done in my short life thus far (from 0 to 34 countries in the past 7 years) I find myself facing an emotion I've rarely felt before....

FEAR

Age, life and experience hasn't made me stronger, wiser or more prepared. It's made me more afraid. The what if's are overwhelming. What if I'm lonely? What if I have problems? What if I run out of money? What if I'm attacked? What if I don't "make traveler" friends? [insert goofy smile here] The voices of my peers who can't fathom my desire to see the world, much less the way I chose to see it, echo in the back of my mind. A not-so-subtle reminder that the world is a big, bad, dangerous place.

In the end, I know it will all turn out alright. Over the past two years of living and working in the same DC suburb, I have amazed myself in my ability to "get along" (not always an easy task for an outspoken, type A, at times admitted bitch to do). If I can go the places I've been in the past seven years, build relationships with all you lovely people and come out unscathed I'm sure this next sojourn is just another chapter in the convoluted story of my life. There will be cuts, bruises, lost bags and missed opportunities. But if there aren't, then it wouldn't be a good story I suppose.