aric with an a

I had 3 closest guy friends in Shanghai.

Scott you know.

Pierre we miss.

Collin rounded out the trifecta.

He was also my boss and counterpart in many a nerdy project (wasted tons of SD card memory on his stop-motion beach film…don’t ask). He’s with Kate Drance (how in the world he pulled that off, we don’t know). He also loves food. I can tell you this from spending far too much dining time with him both in Beijing and Shanghai. Then England. Then Bali/Lombok. ‘So good‘ and ‘Caint talk - eatin‘ were 2 (of 3) of the most commonly used phrases from this bayou-born. He simply loves to eat.

That being said - he and his family comforted each other in a recent culinary nightmare - think Roald Dahl meets Anthony Bourdain, but with robbers, financial crisis (Southern-style) and 3 birds all stuffed into one little body.

So painful it’s fantastic - funny/tragic enough to have made it to the Huffington Post.

Who looks at this site, these pictures and thinks - ‘I would love to do that’?

You?

Okay - how ’bout (another) lesson on how travel is stressful.

I have enough money to get me back to Kathmandu and over to Darjeeling. Just.

On Monday, I’ll get another payment from a client that will allow me enough to fly into Bangkok, collect my effects and fly to Seoul and then San Fran.

However - flights to Calcutta are few and far between and I’m banking on them having a seat for me when I can book it. Am also worried (no - not worried, freaking out, I believe is the term I’m looking for) about the Bangkok airport being closed. For more days. Now - what this means is this:

I’d have to get a flight from India to, say Singapore (expensive) and, in the matter of 2 days, make my way (overland) from Singapore to Bangkok. Which is unheard of. With no flights, it’d be damn near impossible. It would be impossible. I’d have to fly up to Chiang Mai and then take an overnight train to Bangkok (read: more money and more ‘what if’s‘ when it comes to this political upheaval).

That’s just to get to Bangkok. Then there’s the matter of flights out of Bangkok. I already have my hotel and flights from San Fran booked, so should I be delayed by even a day, I’m f*cked.

Care to live vicariously? Okay then - here’s what I have to have happen, in this order:

1. Get to India with enough money to live while I pick up payment

2. Have enough money/time to book a flight to Bangkok…or somewhere else

3. Bangkok airports have to open or I’m screwed - have to find a way there at least to check-in to my flight.

4. Bangkok to Seoul (for a day) and then to San Fran - this should be the easy part; unless the flights aren’t going out.

5. Make it to San Fran with enough time to catch my flights home

…don’t let the photos fool ya.

P.S. Did I mention my Nepali visa runs out on the 1st?

When compared to ‘real life’ (kids, house, bills, fidelity), travel is an easier choice. Yes.

That being said, I somehow pick the 2 places going through terrible times to fly out of in order to get home.

India. And Thailand.

Per Mumbai - was never planning on going there and fortunately, never did. It’s bad - very, very bad. While on a train ride, an older man with a think mustache predicted it. He told me there would be trouble ‘within the month’ and of course, I nodded my head silently agreeing that there was always trouble. Kashmir. Hindus and Muslims - a ’spot of bother’ (as the Nepalese paper so Colonially put it) is to be expected. But never thought this.

101 dead at time of writing.

127 dead at time of writing.

So that’s one country I’m to fly out of here in a week.

Then, there’s Thailand. I hung out and joked with the P.A.D. last time I was in Bangkok, shouting ‘power to the people!‘ which got me a smile. Have the bandanna and everything. I didn’t know what I was doing, just getting involved, that’s all. But they over-through a democratically elected official. I didn’t go to college and cannot tell you much of anything about politics, but something about that doesn’t sound right. Now, they’re occupying the airport. Which kills their economy. Quick - name a popular Thai export. You can’t - it’s tourism that drives that place.

I’m to be flying out of there in 2 weeks.

‘Is traveling the world wearing you out, honey?’ laughed my Mom when I called her a few days ago, reserving not only ‘biscuits n’ gravy’ for the first 3 mornings, but unlimited control over their jacuzzi.

I think it is.

No more 6-month trips for me, thank you. I’m tired.

As mentioned - I don’t do a whole lot with my days here. Soak up some sunshine during the day, read a bit at night and then hurry back to my room around 9pm as I have both Cinemax and HBO on the tiny television. Sort of. It’s fuzzy, but I rush back anyway. Realized I haven’t had a conversation with someone in…a long time. Maybe you can tell from these posts. Anyway, days being what they are, I decided yesterday to take an alternate route up the mountain you can best see the Himalaya Range from (you might be tired of hearing about it. I’m tired of writing about it. Until I see it again and then I suddenly am not tired of writing about it). So, I did - passing tiny homes on the way up filled with colorful patterns worn by the owners who look funny at the tourists who call them ‘lucky’ and came to the end of the road. The end of the paved road, that is. Beyond that was a dirt road with a lot of rocks. Rocks that could easily puncture my tiny tires. Tires that I didn’t know how to fix. Etc.

Sat with a cigarette for a few minutes, thinking-and-rethinking the consequences of a flat.

‘Maybe the villagers would help me’

‘Maybe the villagers would help me for money’

I didn’t have any money.

But the thought of what lied at the end of that road ended up being too much. Stayed in first the whole way, much to the amusement of the locals who couldn’t wait to take the money that I didn’t have. Dodging rocks on a road made of rocks is hard. I think it was only 100meters up but am pretty sure it took 20-minutes. Came to the end of it. A kid ran out of his house and yelled ‘parking, sir’ even though there was no parking area, just his home on the narrow street.

‘I want to go to the top’

‘Very easy, sir. Park here and walk up. 200 meters. 10 minutes’

Took me about 30, the cheeky little monkey. Made it though. Made it to the top where there was a tea and gift shop. To the left were some stairs. Stairs that took me up to an old military post. There was a guard throwing boxes in a barrel to keep warm and nothing else.

‘Cept a few benches.

I didn’t plan to type - or respond - this fast when first logging in. I simply missed my friends. Like I usually do after the morning’s first cigarette or evening’s last beer. A lost cousin. My friend I hold closely even though I’ve never met. Boys I convinced in Budapest that I knew the way around not buying a subway ticket and then, upon being caught, paid their fine in some strange sense of self-preservation and pride. The longer I stay out the more time I spend on Facebook. Oh, how travel makes me such a great friend. The postcards. The SMS’s. Where was this guy back a few months ago when his online activity usually only involved asking someone out - or discontinuing said process?

I miss my friends - they’re all I can think about. I listen to a bad cover of U2 and I want to roll my eyes about it with Tim. My occasional freaking out about money (or lack thereof) makes me laugh out loud about ‘Filipino Scott‘*. I read ‘Less Than Zero’ [in less than 3 hours, mind you] and all I want is to find the ingredients for a ‘Champagne Supernova’ to do with Beech and co. in Jersey. Is this what is supposed to happen? Me ignoring the culture I pay good money to be around and them simply provide a canvas for my own recollect?

Where is this big ‘ole heart when I’m there? I consult good friends/ex lover’s on new pregnancy’s with honest advice. I write more postcards then I ever have. I want to trade this beer here in for one with them - even halving it if money only permits it. But am unsure if this guy showed his Face that often when they were around.

Aric is a much better friend when there’s not the chance of them calling to hang out, I wrote on my own social networking status, as if admitting it excluded me from the realization that that was a pretty fucked up thing to feel.

I don’t know.

I’m such a good pal when away. I’m such a thoughtful son and attentive brother - the fact that the miles seem to be the catalyst is the thing that scares me.

And - there - just like that. The little timer that I’ve grown to love 5+ months on the road reminds me that I’m nearing an hour online. An hour. Longer than I spent up taking in the Himalayas today. 60 minutes to make sure friends were asking about me and finding cracks in the buddy cement where I could ask about them.

An hour.

_

*Scott, on my 31st birthday in the Philippines, waited until everyone in the bar had bought me and drink and were following the 2 of us to the next bar. He stopped on a bridge overlooking a small dirty canal, quietly took off his watch, out his wallet, away with his clothes and jumped in - ‘Happy Birthday, Neighbor’ barely being audible over the cold splashes. He swam a bit, his white ass looking like a reflection of the SE Asian stars above, calmly got out, put on his clothes and walked into the next bar. The next morning, while we were on a seizure of a bus ride to the airport, turned to me and said ‘I think I lost my wallet last night’. ‘Oh shit’ I yelled back, my hangover outweighing the remembrance that I had it. ‘How much money did you have?’. ‘I think about 3000rmb ($500usd)’ he laughed, never once freaking out. I kept, and will keep, that un-phased look about him with me forever.

‘I sometimes seem to myself to wander around the world merely accumulating material for future nostalgias’

Vikram Seth

So - I’m here. In Pokara. Shot above was taken from my window in the nicest room this guesthouse had to offer. Granted, I had to zoom in a wee bit, but that’s what I wake up to. Every morning. Most mornings. Yesterday it was a bit hazy and you really couldn’t see the mountain so I sat out on the terrace and felt bad for all of those who were still paragliding. ‘What a horrible thing to have to do - stick to a schedule that means you’re paragliding whether the view is nice or not’ I thought to myself. ‘In fact, what a horrible way to have to go through life - forcing the beauty if even for a glimpse when tomorrow might prove to be better’.

Ah, such the philosopher I am in the mountains and have a confirmed publisher for the ensuing book. Or a twat who’s been reading too much Kerouac.

So, my days here (on the 4th now) - I meant to write about this earlier, as something strange happens to my friends when I travel. Something I hate. See, I come back and want to hear about what’s new and what’s happening in their lives and there is always the preface of ‘oh, you don’t want to hear about that after being in _______’. But I do. This here’s the easy way out, trust me on that. No car payments, no responsibility for other lives and mouths to feed, a constant revolving door of new friends and the same questions. I could do this in my sleep, this initial meeting. Maybe that’s why in years past (and still occasionally to this day) I change it up a bit. Who knows? But this is not brave. This is not to be admired. If you want to be jealous of the few things I’ve seen, then fine - but allow me to do the same when it’s your turn.

Anyway, yes - I wanted to dispel a few myths to what actually happens when people travel, as most seem to be under the impression that the majority of days are spent on the back of some Sherpa named Kita, eating local food and trying hard to communicate in the local dialect.

No. Not at all.

When I have more time, I’ll break down what a travel day actually looks like and you’ll be surprised. I’d say the same amount of time is spent on Facebook (and fucking Skype!) as it is actually absorbing local offerings. Sad, but true. Most come to certain places because of the backdrop it offers. The vibe of other travelers. Ask me how many ’steak!’ places you see in this town and then how many local ‘mo-mo’ shops there are. Haven’t seen one place offering ‘chang‘ (a local moonshine) but all have Absolut. So, please don’t think that anyone coming from SE Asia, etc is to be looked up to. Simply accept with a smile the small gift they’ll make out to be ‘handmade’ in front of them allthewhile knowing it was bought right in front of a 7-11 (if not in the place). Annapurna is not going to change my life - even if I climb it. When I have a few beers at night - by myself - on the balcony, most of my thoughts are with when I’ll ‘get to share a pint with _______’ as opposed to rethinking the mindset of Sir Edmund Hillary.

Wow - hang on. We were talking about Pokhara, sorry. Anyway, my days are spent loafing. Walking around. Taking a photo here and there. Having a cup of tea and a smoke when the desire so hits. Reading books I should have long ago but chose to play basketball. That’s it, really. I simply dig the atmosphere and weather here. Trekking? Nope. Will wait on a few friends to do that. And that will be fun. But I promise you that when we return, we’ll have a lot more memories of the nights spent drinking and laughing than whatever peak we take our photo on.

So - that is what I’ve been doing. Nothing. No, I take that back - I decided the other night that since I was staying, for the first time since I can remember, in a place with a bathtub. I’d wash one pair of trousers and a t-shirt (I only have another shirt and a pair of shorts). The water should tell you some things:

…this entry seems almost as murky.

Once, someone in Shanghai commented on the fact that I don’t mention my family a lot.

They’re mine. Privately mine. The rest of my life has been so unabashedly made public (partially my own doing), but the family stays personal.

That being said, I have alluded a few times to my brother and how much he’s done and seen all before legally being able to drink a beer. I’m not allowed to talk about it. We’re not allowed to talk about it. He barely is. I am allowed to show an occasional photo though.

He’ll be the one on the left. If you can’t tell by the nose.

[Click for a larger view of a large gun and another Handsome Queen]

What was that you said about my last name?

Thought so.

I have a publisher - it’s official.

Thing is I can’t really talk about it… yet.

Hurrah!

Didn’t meet up. Mainly out of my own ignorance.

He’s here. Or there. Had I read the news I could have hung out with him whilst waiting out the ‘bandh’. The guy on Skype (! don’t get me started) is talking all about hanging out with him for 5-6 days, here’s what he’s said the past few minutes:

‘He’s a powerful kid - if he continues this, he’ll be really powerful’

‘I don’t know about him being the next Buddha, but it’s still amazing.’

‘There were so many people gathering around.’

‘I don’t think we’ll see him again until 2012′

‘I was in Bangkok, heartbroken and feeling sorry for myself, I told Jamie. Heard from 2 backpackers he was in the jungle. I didn’t realize everyone knew where he was [sic]. I’m like ‘what?!’ you’re shitting me.’ so checked it online and thought ‘that’s my sign, I’m going!’

‘It waved a lot of shit clean off of the slate - I feel back on track’.

Etc.

…long story short - read the article - but this kid is supposed to be the next Buddha. Doesn’t eat, drink or sleep. Apparently.

I should at least get him to sign my awesome ‘Om Sweet Om’ t-shirt though. Can’t hurt.

[Credit to O'Sisney PUB-lications for breaking this story to me]

‘I love it here’ I penned in my diary, while recalling the day’s adventure by candlelight in the attic-cum-cheap room, ‘although the long stretch of road that ends with a white-capped peak is yet to be seen. Maybe tomorrow’.

Funny how some things happen. I woke up the next morning - trying desperately to recall how great the room/town was and throw that into the argument of my sore back and pounding headache brought on by Early (7am) Saturday Mornin’ Hindi Pop that snaked in through the cracks in the windows - and made my way to where the motorcycle was parked. It was only a 2-minute walk and the 117 seconds of worrying if it was parked in a safe place and if so, how the hell was I going to start it? quickly faded when I saw that behind the parking area (basically someone’s backyard) stood the Himalaya Range. Right there. Looking down on me. And I was pretty high up as it was.

‘Minuscule’. ‘Minute’. ‘Tiny’. These are often overused by people trying to sum up great feats of God and nature, but it’s true. Suddenly you feel very, very small. But a good small - like Dustin Hoffman. Small but blessed. Short and lucky. That was me - standing, like an asshole, while the home owner/parking lot boss just wanted his 40 rupee.

Never mind I couldn’t get the fucking thing started, I coasted down the road, slowly, as to take in the view. And then it hit me.

‘Jump-start’! I’ll jump start the sonofabitch.

Never mind I wasn’t exactly sure how that worked. Even on a car. Had seen it. Hadn’t done it.

But tried it.

Coast. Clutch. (Brake! for the corner). Coast. Clutch. Forward into first. Release the clutch and accelerate.

I’ll be damned. It worked.

Now - you need to know that I’m pretty cool. You need to know I think I’m pretty cool. But at that moment, with a canvas of fog making the range I was on appear to be a lake of white, and the postcard view I had in front of me, not to mention the fact that I just now became a man (one who not only sleeps in attics and can ride a motorcycle, but can bypass manual labor to get ‘er movin’), I momentarily forgot all of that and went ‘all gay of a sudden‘ letting out a tiny ‘whoop!’. No - it was more of a pirate laugh. Even though no one’s around I still felt the need to appear ironic. If only to myself.

Ha. Ha! HA. That’s how it went - please don’t repeat that in jest when I see you.

And so I was off. The speed increased slightly (yesterday it was at barely a crawl - am sure the other motorcycles would have called mine ’slow - but with a great sense of humor’), the turns were oh-so-slightly leaned into (not even that, was more of me just lowering the occasional shoulder to make it appear to be exciting to the fleet of buses unable to pass me) and wouldn’t you know it, the only vehicle who came close to hitting me was a U.N. jeep.

Finally made it out of the mountain range and onto that ’stretch of road’ usually reserved for hair commercials and [deletes numerous additional funny analogies]…

It was breathtaking. No other word for it.

Followed these white arrows into town, Pokhara, who, although deserves the title ‘Prettiest City in Nepal’ didn’t come close to the feeling I had not an hour ago - leaning on the bike that leaned on a kickstand, eating stale bread with some sugar-concoction in it, looking up, Up, UP! at a range I had only seen on The Travel Channel.

It becomes like that, the few moments before arriving. I can tell you what I was listening to when my flight to London came over the Tower Bridge. I can recall how the sand in my eyes didn’t seem to register while bicycling to Bagan. Your own interpretation is always better than what is - that’s a hard truth of travel. Or anything, to be honest.

This road, this small stretch of pot-holed neglect was my excitement.

It always will be.