I totally did it. Our first day in Singapore, Sara looked at me as we were walking down the street and gasped, “Annette, are you chewing gum?” Whoops. Good thing only men (between the ages of 18 and 50) can be caned.

Singapore was stunning. We felt so far from the Asia we have been traveling for the past seven weeks. There is a huge foreign population in Singapore; young financiers come here to make money and enjoy the European luxuries of the city. The architecture is grand and modern, the people beautiful and well-dressed, and the government ensures that there are no mosquitoes in the entirety of the city-state.

We spent three nights with Yesky, a remarkably kind and humble couch-surfing host who has not been in his three-bedroom home alone for three months. He admitted that he is somewhat “addicted” to hosting couch surfers. He moved to Singapore from Taiwan seven months ago and enjoys having a built-in social network in his apartment. Our first night in the city, Yesky – who works as an engineer for Nikon – took us on a tour of the city. We snuck into the Fullerton Hotel, which smelled like jasmine, took pictures in front of the iconic Merlion statue, saw a water and laser show over the bay, and went to the nightclub and pool on top of the Marina Bay Sands Hotel.

Yesky decided to spend a weekend in Indonesia with his friend, so he left his three-bedroom loft to Sara, two other couch surfers, and me.  What an incredibly trusting person.  Sara and I were due for some rest, so we spent a day shopping for food and cooking Mexican food. I miss white sauce from Miguel’s. Our last day in Singapore, we led ourselves on another phone-guided walking tour, drinking the famous Singapore Sling where it was invented – the Raffles Hotel – and exploring Little India. We got caught inside of a giant market during a thunderstorm; we had lunch with some women from Java and I got a henna tattoo.

I continue to feel surrounded by new experiences. I am finishing this post from a wooden table, next to an infinity pool, in front of a beach, on an island off of Bali: Nusa Lembongan. Bali is going to deserve several posts on its own. For now, I will enjoy the Eric Clapton concert being played on the wall of our guesthouse and get some sleep before I dive with manta rays in the morning.  Grateful.

Five minutes later, the bartender approached where Sara and I were sitting, handing us a bill for 35 ringgit (about 20 dollars). “No,” I smiled and shook my head. “I asked you what we could have for ladies night, and you said that these drinks were free.”

“Oh, of course,” he replied, backing away. I got an uneasy feeling. Sara read my mind and suggested we leave.

I told the boys we were leaving and Sara and I walked outside. When we turned around, we saw that Dan and Dylan, who were attempting to join us, were inside being detained by the bouncers. I had a feeling that it had something to do with our drinks, so I entered the club again. Dan and Dylan took the opportunity to leave, fairly sure that as a woman, no real physical harm could possibly come to me. Sara, the friend that she is, joined me inside.

I explained the situation in a calm and clear voice to the “manager” of the club. He called the bartender over, who readily concurred with my story. Things were said in Hindi between the manager, the bartender, a random woman (who I am fairly sure now was the wife of the owner), and the bouncers. Suddenly, Sara and I were at the door alone – the bartender and the manager had returned to the bar – and a row of bouncers blocked our exit.

“Excuse me,” I said politely, attempting to leave. The first bouncer, who was at least 6’3″ and spoke poor English, stepped in my way. “No,” he replied, “You must pay.”

I couldn’t believe that we were being trapped inside of a club for twenty dollars. Honestly, I don’t think Sara and I even thought that paying was an option; these men were so horrendous, so conniving, that our obstinance directed our choices.

“I have nothing but respect for you and your manager, sir, but right now I feel unsafe, physically intimidated, and unfairly treated,” I said to him, before going to the bar to say something similar to the manager. The manager was equally cold and, for lack of a better word, scary. At this point, Sara and I knew that it would probably get ugly. “You need to let us out of this establishment right now,” I demanded, throwing cursory (and futile) threats of lawsuits into muted ears.

Sara grabbed my arm. “Annette, we have to force our way out the door. There’s no other way. Let’s go.”

When we did this, we were pushed and pulled from every direction by at least four men. Our friends outside were shocked, and desperate to escape the situation. Sara and I, pulling men off of each other, spitting words that she and I did not realize were in our vocabulary, finally broke free and felt the humid, night air. The owner of the club ran outside, screaming, “Assholes!” at us, while I politely curtsied as we ran away. Sara and I, a team until the end, hopped into the nearest taxi, shaking and crying, completely ignoring that we began the night with three additional people.

Written on March 15th:

I am writing from a bus on its way from Lumut, Malaysia to Kuala Lumpur.  The sky is shades of yellow and gray.  It rained just thirty minutes ago, at six PM, covering the jungle landscape through which we have been driving in a thick, wet fog.  At one point during the seven-hour drive, we saw a monkey crossing the road.

Since I last wrote, I have crashed a motorcycle, gotten into graduate school, rock climbed, parasailed at sunset, driven a jet ski, partied with Malaysians, and – many times more – felt profound gratitude for the opportunities I have received in life.

Briefly: By some miracle, I have been accepted to all of the graduate schools to which I applied.  Now it’s a question of pragmatics.  UNC-Chapel Hill offered me a full ride, Northwestern offered half-tuition, NYU offered a small scholarship, Stanford offered nothing.  Columbia is still playing coy with financial aid.  Ideally, I will end up in New York City.  Both Columbia and NYU offer programs that would enable me to receive master’s degrees in both journalism and international affairs.  Plus, how cool is the Big Apple?

Sara and I arrived in Ao Nang after a mini-van ride from Phuket that almost saw the death of my backpack.  This was the scene when we got off of the van.  We could only laugh hysterically.

Ao Nang is a small town near Railay Beach, where world-famous rock climbers flock to experience the pristine limestone rock walls that line the coast.  After another spectacular sunset, only a fifteen minute walk from our guesthouse (the “VIP Hostel”), we booked a half-day rock climbing adventure from a woman named Tam.

I was nervous about climbing.  My dear friend Ryan in Miami is a tremendously talented rock climber; the sound advice that he gave me was to trust the rope and enjoy the view.  After a wet boat ride with a small group of young tourists, we arrived at stunning Railay Beach.

I tackled four separate ropes, and with the help of our Thai rock-climbing gurus, felt like a champion.  So much so, in fact, that when we got back to our hostel, my arms still shaking from the morning workout, I decided that it was the day to learn how to ride a motorbike.  I know so little about motorbikes that I actually thought I would be riding a motorcycle, and not the scooter that I ended up abusing.  A young guy, larger in stature, showed up at our hostel with a blue scooter, and – showing me through gestures, as he spoke no English – attempted to teach me how to drive the thing.  We went to a small street nearby on which I drove the motorbike myself, with complete confidence.  At the end of the street, he looked at me, grinning, and – with limited objection from me – hopped on the back.  I should have realized how difficult it would be for me to balance with the additional weight.  As we were turning onto a main street, driving on the left-hand side of the road, I completely lost control.  We went barreling toward the curb, eventually crashing into it after sliding on the bike’s left side for a few meters.

These are some of my bruises from over a week later.  Still around.  I’ll spare you the bloody toe shot.  The guy on the back of the bike suffered some cuts on his arm; the bike ended the day with a strange leak from somewhere over the front tire.  Somehow, I only had to pay the cost of renting the bike.  I was very lucky, for all sorts of reasons.

That night, Sara wasn’t feeling well.  I went out to dinner alone, with my book, and ate fried morning glory and tofu pad thai.  I felt better.  The next day, it was off to Ko Lanta, another island off of the west coast of Thailand that is known to possess less of an obscene party culture than its neighbor to the north, Ko Phi Phi.  It was paradise.  Our hostel was directly over an inlet off of the ocean.  We could hear the ocean waves while we slept; unfortunately, I could also feel a thin layer of sewage sink over everything in our room during the nighttime.  Sara and I spent our time together discovering empty beaches and watching purple sunsets.

I scuba-dived some neighboring islands with a Hawaiian guy named Michael, and swam with a sea turtle for the first time.  At some point, we found an underwater cave.  We dove through it, swam to the surface of the water, took off our masks, and laughed.  We were inside of a perfect cave, sunlight shining up through the water, laying on our backs on emerald green water, giggling at the beauty of it all.

Our next adventure took us to the Malaysian island of Langkawi.  After a day’s journey on mini-vans and ferries, we arrived at another island paradise.  This one welcomed us with Muslim prayers being played on loudspeakers throughout the town.  About 70% of Malaysia’s population is Muslim.  We saw women in full burkas swimming at the beach, carrying the weight of their sopping garments as they trudged out of the water.  Sara and I spent three incredible days befriending the Malaysian men who run a watersports company on the random beach we selected on a map.  Day one was spent searching for cheap beer, which is nothing short of an epic journey in a Muslim country.  Toward the end of the day, after a strange interaction with a group of Iraqi men who begged Sara and me to take pictures with them, the Malaysian beach boys started inviting us out to ride on their speedboats while they dragged gleeful tourists around on banana boats.  This is Sham, one of our friends.

I spent the next day on the beach with Sham and Mansur, who let me drive a jetski, took me eagle watching (amazing!), and encouraged me to solo parasail at sunset.  We talked about religion, women, and family; they bought me lunch and proposed marriage.   I went out to a local bar with my Malaysian friends at night, where we laughed at drunk tourists and I learned how to say the numbers one through ten in Malay.

This is the Kiblat compass.  It is a mandatory sign in every hotel room in Malaysia that informs Muslims which direction to pray.

Langkawi provided me a unique opportunity to understand Malaysian culture, learn about Islam, and recognize (yet again) how welcoming and loving people can be.  Our next island,  Pulau Pangkor, was much more secluded.  Our first night in town, we ate seafood at a plastic table on the beach, while monkeys climbed in the trees above.  This was our pre-jentacular greeting on the island the next morning.

Sara and I spent a lazy day avoiding the heat, and decided to kayak around the islands at sunset.  I am continually amazed by Sara’s depth and her willingness to learn about me while sharing the beauty in her.

The graffiti above says “I fix everything.”  I wasn’t sure whether to attribute that to the Malaysian flag or the broom.  After two days on the island, on which there were only about four shops and restaurants open at a time, Sara and I were ready for a change of pace and jumped on the bus to Kuala Lumpur.  Adventure awaits!

From our cooking class book:

Ingredients:

1. Fresh wide rice noodles – One handful
2. Sliced chicken – 50 grams (whatever that means)
3. Kale – One stem (blanch first)
4. Garlic – Ten cloves (leave the skin on)
5. One egg
6. Fish sauce – Two tablespoons
7. Dark soy sauce – 1/2 tablespoon
8. Sugar – One tablespoon
9. Oil – One tablespoon

Method:

1. Coat the fresh noodles in dark soy sauce.
2. Heat the oil over medium for about thirty seconds.
3. Add garlic and saute until golden, being careful not to burn.
4. Add the chicken and saute until thoroughly cooked.
5. Scramble an egg into the wok.
6. Add the kale and cook for about a minute.
7. Add the noodles to the wok, breaking them into course pieces.
8. Add the sugar and fish sauce.  Mix well.  Serve.

I’ll start by celebrating the people in my life who are currently living abroad. I am so impressed by the number of adventurous souls in my life who are living outside of their comfort zones, learning about the universe, and sharing their warm spirits. My first night in Phnom Penh, I got to see my friend Dave, with whom I studied at Berkeley. He is doing micro-finance work in Southeast Asia, and is living in Cambodia for at least a year. What a bad-ass.

I got to spend most of my time in Cambodia with my friend Dan, who I know through our mutual friend Corie Schneider.  Corie is living on a boat in Australia; Dan is spending eight-months traveling around Asia.  Life ain’t bad.  Dan is a person in my life with whom I can have sincerely profound conversations on privilege, religion, altruism, love … and then share a beer, play pool, and laugh hysterically at something menial.

Dan, Sara, and I took a six-hour bus ride north, from Phnom Penh to Siam Reap, passing wooden huts on stilts, long stretches of dry land dotted with palm trees, and occasional roadside venders, selling pineapple and watermelon. The famous Angkor temples are twenty-minutes outside of Siam Reap. Our first night in town, we braved the “pub district” of the city, all of which is changing rapidly with the spread of tourism.

At one point during our meal, we were approached by a teenage boy wearing a tank-top and a pair of dirty shorts. He was Cambodian, and wanted to sell us a book on the Angkor temples. We politely told him no, thank you. He looked at us, pensive with penetrating black eyes, and asked us where we were from. After we replied, he began naming the most recent presidents, in backward order, and stating sizes and populations of the various states. It was mind-boggling to listen to him recite knowledge that most Americans do not possess. I asked him his name. Tom told us that he loves history and studying, and that he never met his father. There was no ploy or pretense on his end; when we asked him questions about his life, he was genuinely enthusiastic that we cared. We didn’t buy his book. He told us that he wished he could stay to talk with us, but he has to try to get his books sold. He only goes out on the street to work on nights that he does not have homework.

It got me thinking about the extent to which education systems in impoverished countries perpetuate the cycle by teaching children how to beg. Someone taught Tom the information he knew for the clear purpose of impressing sympathetic, American tourists. Tom could have been learning science, or math, or Cambodian literature … instead, he was learning that Reagan came before Bush, and that Texas is the second largest state.

I’d like to study this further.

We had one full day in Siam Reap/Angkor and we planned on using it fully. Dan, Sara, and I arose at five AM to the sound of Sara’s alarm playing “Teach Me How to Dougie.” We hopped into a tuk-tuk driven by a man named Lee, a shy Cambodian man who agreed to drive us around the temples all day for twenty bucks. Dan snuck away before Lee arrived to get us coffee at a local gas station. What a hero.

Being at Ta Prohm for sunrise was breathtaking. Most people go to Angkor Wat to get a sunrise shot, and all alone at Ta Prohm, we felt like we were discovering the temple for the first time since the Khmer Empire’s reign. We climbed on ancient heads from a thousand years ago, breathed, and prayed in front of the innumerable Buddhas that speckle each temple.

After visiting Bayon temple along with a plethora of Chinese tourists, we drove outside of the main Angkor area to visit Banteay Srey, one of the more secluded ruins. We drove through local communities, playing a game in which we had to be the first to spot a naked baby, a pig, or a dog sleeping somewhere other than the ground. We must have looked strange, screaming, “NAKED BABY!” from our tuk-tuk and pointing enthusiastically. The temple was crowded with Cambodians attempting to sell bagged pineapple, books, and baggy pants to tourists, most of whom were too hot to be friendly. We left quickly, after appreciating the intricate designs on the temple walls.

On the way back, we asked Lee to stop somewhere where we could get noodle soup. He pulled over at a restaurant with five-dollar noodle soup, way out of our price range. We walked a few meters to a restaurant with a less impressive facade, passing women selling chicken, ragged-looking dogs sleeping, and rice being cooked on giant vats on the cement floor. We wanted to buy Lee some soup, but he was vehement against coming and eating with us. He didn’t speak any English, and I think we made him nervous.

After lunch it was to the finale: Angkor Wat.

Outside of Angkor Wat, we were greeted by a macaque monkey in a tree.

Angkor Wat was the center of the Khmer empire in the 12th century. The Khmer Empire spread over most of the Southeast Asia until it fell to either the plague or water shortages (due to canal infrastructure not being able to sustain the rapidly growing population). It possesses a unique mix of Buddhist and Hindu archaeology, having been a temple utilized by practicers of both religions during the last nine centuries. We spent our time at the temple resting against ancient stone walls, posing like the smiling, stone Buddhas surrounding us, and taking endless pictures.

We got back to Siam Reap filthy and exhausted. After sneaking into the pool of a resort (some things never change), we attempted to fall asleep at our hostel, which had no electricity or water pressure. Intense.

The next night, after traveling back to Phnom Penh, Dan and I went out to play a few games of pool. As Dan and I are wont to do, we stayed out much later than we had planned. At one point of the evening, walking down a dark street hiding ex-pats and young, Cambodian prostitutes, Dan looked at me and said, “Want to get weird?” He nodded toward a group of young Cambodian women outside of a pool hall. Next thing we knew, we were playing pool with two of them in a dark, empty bar. Although at first, they both thought that I was a lesbian and that Dan and I were interested (trying to distract me by posing suggestively over my shots), they quickly realized that we were there to play pool and talk with them. I asked Ain, the most beautiful of the women, if she was happy. With Dan’s help, we successfully conveyed what people might consider happiness. She said that most of the time she is, largely because she lives with her family. There was so much more to her story.

That night, before going dancing at a smoky club playing electronica, I was dumbfounded at the number of Cambodian prostitutes on the street, eating food in groups of three or four, staring pointedly at the white men passing them slowly, surveying. The women were beautiful, and the men, well, the men seemed to be acting on grimy, base emotions that they can only follow on the concealed streets of Cambodia.

Written on February 27th:

When we got on the night bus to Bangkok, we knew we were in for a seven hour bus ride, arriving at four in the morning in a city known for its corruption and grime. After having spent a few days in Bangkok, I can honestly say that if I were a Thai person living in Bangkok, the movie “The Hangover Part Two” would have infuriated me. While there is a party element to the city, which Sara and I definitely enjoyed, Bangkok is also a city of parks, colorful markets, rivers, temples, and kindness.

Sara and I got off of the bus in the dark hours of the early morning and hopped into a waiting tuk-tuk, which resembled a vulture waiting to pounce on desperate travelers. While we thought our guesthouse – Penang Palace – was in a central part of the city, it was two tuk-tuks, one cab ride, and several moments of heated haggling and sheer confusion later that we found our refuge.

Penang Palace was in an area of town with absolutely no other white people. Anywhere. Sara and I had a blast, surprising people at the local market, grinning from the raised walkways that line the streets, attempting to successfully mail a package from the local post office.

Our first day in town, we hopped on the very modern MRT underground system and headed for the famous Chatuchuck weekend market. After buying copious amounts of street food and shamelessly devouring it in a park, we got lost in a sea of indoor and outdoor stalls, sweating profusely, haggling with vendors for stylish new shirts, marveling at the open attitude toward homosexuality and cross-dressing in the city.

We decided to book a six-hour bike tour of the city, hoping to use our time wisely and have someone else make the difficult decision of what is important to see. We loved our bike ride, which took us through Chinatown and the Historic City, through flower markets, across tiny canals, and on a river ferry. We still have no idea what monuments and temples we saw, although we took plenty of pictures. Friendship Temple, where we rang a series of bells and made wishes, was illuminated by the sun setting behind it.

The most striking part of the bike tour was the friendliness of the people we passed. We clumsily rode through alleyways and markets, waving to gracious, smiling Thai people the entire way. Thailand: Land of Smiles.

Back to the beginning for a moment: On our bus from Chiang Mai to Bangkok, we happened to sit next to two men – who looked to be about our age – who ended up being one of the highlights of our time in Bangkok. Martijn and Tom, both from the Netherlands, were kind, curious, and brilliant. Martijn is a psychologist in a prison in Holland, while Tom is a freelance journalist and a personal trainer. Before Tom told me he was a journalist, I knew there was something unique about him. Interacting with him, I realized that I was answering as many questions as I was asking. This shouldn’t be a rarity in my life, but it was rejuvenating to feel like my story was valuable and appreciated. He said the same thing about interacting with me; normally, he feels like he provides the interest in most conversations, allowing people to share their experiences, without necessarily inviting him to do the same. People interested in journalism must share personality traits; on the bus, he brought up the book that I had just finished in Luang Prabang, South of the Border, West of the Sun. Serendipity in action!

The four of us spent a night on Khao San Road, the spot for nightclubs in Bangkok, playing pool, dancing, and laughing at the sheer number of lady boys who approached us. Tom bought me a cricket to eat, but only because we both thought that the scorpions were too expensive. It had so much salt, it could have passed for a potato chip. Except the legs. The legs threw me off. By three AM, after dancing at an aptly named locale called “The Club,” I realized that my cheeks were sore from laughing so much. That’s how life should be.

As Sara and I left for Cambodia, Martijn was off to India and Tom was returning to the Netherlands. Maybe we will see them again. If not, Sara and I are tremendously thankful for the reminder of the kind of thoughtfulness, sincerity, and adventure that is out there.

Written on February 25th:

After the iPad adventure, I arrived in Chiang Mai – with means “elephant smile” – with an open mind and an open heart. Too much connection to home definitely makes it more challenging to live in the present, so I read the signs and decided to make a conscious effort to breathe into each moment a little bit more.

Sara and I had several things we knew we wanted to do in Chiang Mai: Thai massage, something with elephants, and a cooking class. The Thai massage that I got, an hour-long celestial experience in which I was an active participant – twisting, turning, and breathing – helped me decide to become certified in Thai massage when I am staying along the southern beaches next week. It is a wonderful intimate experience to give to someone. Oh yeah, and my massage cost four dollars.

Before arriving in Chiang Mai, I knew I had a problem with the numerous companies that offer elephant rides. Thailand, known for its working elephants when logging was still permitted in the country, now has serious problems with animal abuse. Elephants are paraded around dirty streets, serving as beggars, and are blatantly mistreated in shows designed to entertain tourists. Sara and I found an organization called Elephant Nature Park, housed on a huge plot of lush, green land outside of the city. The organization is dedicated to helping rehabilitate injured elephants, and providing visitors an opportunity to care for the elephants without riding them. Elephants are now contending with giraffes to be my favorite animal. They are remarkably graceful, calm, and loving beings.

The elephant that Sara and I washed, Mae, had a sad story associated with her injury. Her right hip and leg were broken when she was working in a Thai circus. Her owners thought it would be a great idea to breed the two elephants they had, without any knowledge for how this is done, and in the process of the forced breeding, her hip was broken.

We took good care of her, spoiling her with a portion of her fifty-pound a day diet of bananas and watermelon.

One of the reasons that I am excited to return home is to share the newfound knowledge of Thai cuisine that I picked up in Chiang Mai. Sara and I took a cooking class led by two young Thai women, both of whom were clearly stoned. When they picked us up at our hostel, Sara and I were looking around for the location of the blatant aroma in the car, excited to be with people who like to, well, ya know. After going to a local market to learn about ingredients, we laughed through six courses of stir-frying chicken, crushing chiles, and arranging papaya. Together, we made pad see-ew, fish cakes, hot and sour soup, green curry, mango and sticky rice, spring rolls, and a host of other delicious meals. I think it was the best food we’ve had on the trip so far.

There was one other guy in our cooking class, who I swear looked and spoke exactly like the guy from Office Space.

Robert and David, our friends from the bus, spent a couple of days with us and are now off to India, where they are planning on “climbing Everest.” People with adventurous spirits are so fantastic. Chiang Mai is likely filled with them; as a beautiful city with temples, delicious food, and friendly people, Chiang Mai attracts conscious, yoga-practicing backpackers brave enough to tackle this area of the world.

As for Sara and me, it was onto Bangkok on a night bus. Bangkok rocked our world, and the magic started early on…

Written on February 27th:

When we arrived at the Phnom Penh airport, stepping off of the plane into 36 degree (Celsius) weather, swatting at mosquitos and shielding our eyes from the glaring sun, our first order of business was getting visas. We filled out some standard forms, paid twenty dollars each, and were told to wait by a long desk, behind which sat five, very seriously dressed, Cambodian men. After a few minutes, one of the men called my name and beckoned me to the back portion of their office. He looked at me and said, “Must send you back to your country.”

I laughed. The thought of me getting on a plane to Los Angeles was so far-fetched, so absolutely ludicrous, I honestly don’t think I really took him seriously. “Back to my country?” I said, astonished. “But why?” He flipped through my passport, shaking his head. “Not enough pages for visa. By law, send you back.”

We’ll ignore that I did have one full page left.

Laughing, I said to him, “Well, what should we do?” He looked up and slyly whispered, “You help me, I help you.” I reached into my wallet, pulled out a twenty, and slipped it into my passport. “You like coffee?” I asked. “Here’s one on me. Cool?” More like forty on me. He nodded, all business, stuck a visa in my passport, and I was on my way.

Phnom Penh is the dusty, bustling capital of Cambodia. The literacy rate in Cambodia is 35%. Tuk-tuk drivers haggle with tourists for an extra dollar, barefooted children shyly smile from cement door-frames, golden temples rise between crumbling, gray buildings. Cambodians yell in Khmer to each other, helping with directions for struggling backpackers, or convincing passerby to buy their water, their noodle soup, their amok.

The American dollar is accepted everywhere, and it is possible to buy “happy pizza,” or weed pizza, in some of the more tourist-focused areas of the city. In a country in which the government rules with such an iron fist, a country which such a horrific history, the leniency regarding marijuana surprised me.

Southeast Asia is sensual. While we are having a marvelous time together, I know that Sara and I are each often dreaming of doing this kind of bold, spontaneous traveling with a significant other. We have been fortunate to have met wonderful people on our journey, the universe’s way of reminding us that meaningful and conscious connections are possible all over the world. There is something incredibly sexy in the natural and peaceful aura that falls over so much of this part of the world. I feel very potent here.

However, there is a dark underbelly in many of the countries we have visited when it comes to sex. In Chiang Mai, young Thai prostitutes slink from bar to bar, awaiting older, white men who are either looking for a night of pleasure or a wife. In Bangkok, “lady boys” solicit male tourists, whining “massaaaage” to anyone who might be interested. As Sara and I walked down one of Bangkok’s main streets, we were asked multiple times if we wanted to see a ping pong show. Look it up on Google. These bracelets were being sold to drunk passerby.

We were greeted in Cambodia with this message on the back of a map.

Southeast Asia is beautiful in its simplicity. Its agrarian roots, its Buddhist principles, the tendency of others to smile at me before I smile at them (a sincere treat), should all be embraced and celebrated. Still, in countries in which governments are new and fragile, countries in which human rights abuses are not publicly decried, there is a higher likelihood that people, especially those most vulnerable, will be taken advantage of. I’d like to study the prevalence of sex trade in this area of the world and write about it.

As for the passport, I made a last minute appointment at the American embassy. This morning, I entered the metallic compound and successfully received another 30 pages of possibility.