Don't Blame Me If Her Roof Leaks!

When I told people I was going to Cambodia, I got one of two reactions:  "Wow!" or "Why the ____ are you going there?"

I think I can answer the latter group--and justify the reactions of the former--with this:

Even though clouds veiled the rising sun, it was still impressive to see the dawning of a day at Angkor Wat.  I plan to return in the hope of seeing one of its fabled sunrises without obstruction.

Then I spent the next two hours on a mini-tour with a guide.  I assured him that I plan to return and hope that he is my guide again.  He told me some very insightful and funny stories, including one about carvings of the dancers inspried by the Asparas, the female cloud and water spirits of Hindu culture.  "They kept the king happy," my guide explained.  "A happy king means a happy kingdom with happy subjects."  It makes sense, even though I don't know for sure:  I have never lived in a kingdom (although my own country is looking more and more like a dictatorship, or an attempt to create one) and have only visited a few, including Cambodia.  

Anyway, my guide told me, with some sadness, about how some of the carvings have worn out in spots--in certain spots in particular.  

You know which ones he was talking about--and why they "wore out".

After my visit, my day continued with my first bike ride in Cambodia.  Following the advice of my guest house host and a few other people, I went on a guided, organized ride, as cycling here is very different from anyplace else I've ridden.  Suffice it to say that I wasn't riding on bike lanes like the ones in Paris or Montreal.  

Debates over whether to ride 650B, 700C or 26 inch become pretty meaningless when you're riding on farm paths--or streets that look like moonscapes with trucks, cars, motorbikes, tuk-tuks and just about every other sort of vehicle you can imagine. The rule of road here seems to be that smaller vehicles get out of the way of bigger ones.

You Sert, my guide, promised to show me "the real Cambodia".  Being an American, who has been in this country for all of two days, I can't say exactly what that is.  But I do know I saw I side of the nation, or at least this section of it, I might not have seen otherwise.

He was conducting a tour for PURE, a not-for-profit dedicated to education and vocational training for local people.  PURE tours venture into the countryside out of Siem Reap and include, among other things, a stop at a marketplace--to buy fresh vegetables that become part of a lunch served by a local family.  (Delicious,by the way!) 

The first stop on our tour, probably about 10-12 kilometers out of the city, was a complex of shrines and monasteries.  One of the first things to catch my attenton was this

on a column of  a crematorium.  Apparently, cremation is a Khmer (the ethnicity of most Cambodians) custom, and the family keeps the remains "in a beautiful box," as You Sert said.

My tour also included a stop at a farm where a woman practiced traditional medicine, including "cupping"--which, according to her, revealed that I'm not ill and that my muscles are fine.  If nothing else, it felt like a nice massage. And her kids simply couldn't get enough of me!  According to You Sert, they all knew--although nobody told them--"she's a teacher".  

Another stop took us to You Sert's house, where he lives with his wife, mother, year-old son and sister-in-law, who looked 13 years old, if that.  Like most houses in the countryside--only 30 or 40 kilometers away from the city--it's basically a hut, open on one side.  It does have electricity, however, and his family watch TV and video games--and You Sert will be able to send me e-mails from there!

Yet another destination was another farm, where a woman showed me how she weaves tall grasses into the roof of her house.  When we visited her, she was weaving sections that would replace some that currently stand between her, her family and the elements. She even invited me to try my hand at it.  The technique isn't difficult:  You just have to make sure to do it right.  Also, as she explained--and I quickly learned--it's hard on one's back.  After weaving a section with her, I was ready to go back to the woman who practices "cupping". 

The ride itself was not at all strenuous. For one thing, it was flat.  For another, the pace was easy.  I don't know whether You Sert was underestimating my abilities or simply being cautious in the cobbly, chaotic road conditions.  He did say, though, that most riders want to sleep after his tours, but I obviously did not.  Also, he said he enjoyed our conversations.  "Most tourists just want to do a bike ride in Cambodia," he explained.  "They don't ask about my life and culture, like you do," he explained.

Oh, and after that ride, I went back to Angkor Wat for a couple of hours. I know I'll be spending more time there. 

So, the real question isn't why I came to Cambodia.  Instead, my acquaintances should wonder why I'm waking up at 4 in the morning during my "vacation".  Whether or not they ask, they shouldn't blame me if a Cambodian peasant's roof leaks! 

Seeing A Thousand Faces Of Buddha

Bike shops need a lot of space.  At least, that's what the prevailing wisdom says.  Many shops in cities like New York have gone out of business or moved because they couldn't afford or find the amount of space they needed.

So, folks in the bike business pride themselves on their creative use of space.  Most of them, though, have nothing on this shop I passed yesterday:

The place is located in a stall along one the main streets--National Highway Number 6--in the town where I woke up yesterday morning.  In a way, Route 6 is a bit like US 1 on the East Coast of the US:  It passes through a number of cities and towns, and takes on different street names.  Some of those streets are, or were, the main commercial strips of their communities.

And so it is here.  That shop is in a stall nestled among others selling everything from fried chicken to cell phones.  One of them is even a mini-bank, complete with a currency exchange.

All right.  So now you know I'm not in the USA.  The funny thing is, when I arrived, I exchanged some greenbacks for the local money but I didn't need to.

No, I am not in a Mexican border town.  In fact, I'm not anywhere in the Americas

or, as you've probably gathered by now, in Europe.  I haven't done any bike riding yet, but I have been transported by someone else on two wheels.  And I was riding on two.

I was brought to the museum by a tuk-tuk driver.  A tuk-tuk is an inimitable form of transportation that provides natural air conditioning but absolutely no cushioning from bumpy roads, which are the majority of byways in this place. Think of a pedicab towed by a motorcycle.

The Museum provides, among other things, detailed information about the history and formation of this area's most famous landmark--one that's been called the "eighth wonder of the world."  It also has exhibits of the people's history, culture and religions, all in halls arranged around a lily pool.

Now if that all doesn't scream "Southeast Asia," I don't know what does.  I am indeed in the heart of it:  Siem Reap, Cambodia.  In the coming days, I will be visiting the landmark--Angkor Wat--as part of a bicycle tour.  I'm sure it won't be my only visit there.  But I'm glad i took the advice of a young woman at the guest house and went to the museum--the Angkor National Museum--first.

This room contains "1000 Faces of Buddha"

I "went native", sort of:  I had noodle soup and a small fruit salad (actually, a few slices of banana and jackfruit) for breakfast.  The  guest house offered that, as well as the "continental breakfast" served by seemingly every other hotel in the world.  The soup actually tasted fresh and succulent with chunks of chicken, broccoli and other vegetables.  I could make a habit of starting my days with it!

Hmm...Might I develop other new habits in this place?

Freedom!

 Three years ago, for the only time in my life, I saw an elephant that wasn’t in captivity—in Cambodia, near the Angkor Wat.  I was about to take my phone out of my bag so I could take a photo.  But that elephant was surprisingly quick, and I didn’t want to startle it:  Elephants don’t attack humans deliberately, but they have poor eyesight and therefore stomp people and other creatures because they mistaken us for predators or simply don’t see us.

Since then, I haven’t been to a zoo and may never go to one again.  I prefer to see animals free, if at a safe distance:

I'll Be Back, I Hope!

All things must come to pass.

Yeah, I know.  But I really don't want this trip to end.  Now I'll lapse into another cliche, this one from a living person:  I'll be back!

At least, I hope I will.  In any event, late the other day I returned to Siam Reap, Cambodia.  Yesterday I said "goodbye"--at least, I hope, for now--in the most appropriate way I could:  with one last look at the Angkor Wat.

It still functions as a Buddhist temple, so I wasn't surprised to see a mini-service at one of the shrines

or groups of novitiate monks walking around.

Even though this is a sacred site, the folks in charge know it's important to keep the king--and tourists--entertained:

Since I won't be able to see much besides clouds once my flight is en route, I made a point of giving myself another aerial view

and one from the ground--or, at least the second mezzanine.  After all, you haven't been in a place until you've put your feet (yes, bike tire treads count) on the ground.  

Or touch something or someone you never could have touched at home.  That's one of the things that has made this trip special.

So Glad To Be Back That I Want To Go Back

It's been two weeks since my trip to Cambodia and Laos.  Everyone to whom I've mentioned it is convinced that I will go back.  So am I.  Any experience that brings me tears of both joy and sadness is worth repeating.  Of course, I wouldn't try to replicate the trip I just took:  That wouldn't be possIible.  But I could return, I believe, to what made the trip so memorable.

First among them is the people.  I already missed them during my flights home.  When I visit my friends in France, I miss them when I leave.  But I can't miss the familiar in the same way I miss the people I just met because, I guess, re-connecting with those you know can't change your perspective in quite the same way as people who allowed you into their lives,even if only for a moment, the first time you met them.  Plus, the only people I've ever met in the US who can match the vitality--who, purely and simply, have the heart and soul, for lack of better terms--are either African-American, immigrants or very old.  People in southeast Asia--especially Cambodia--have survived going to hell and back.  

I thought about that, again, the other day as I was riding back from Connecticut.  The temperature reached 34-36 Celsius (92-96F), and the humidity ranged from 80 to 90 percent.  Just before I crossed the Randalls Island Connector, I rode through the South Bronx.  Three of its ZIP codes--including 10451, where I work-- are the poorest in the United States.  Many residents indeed live in conditions most Americans--certainly those of my race and educational background--will never even have to imagine.  I know: some of those people are my students.  But even they have, if not luxuries, then amenities, that are completely out of reach for most Cambodian peasants and even city dwellers like Champa, the young woman who works at the guest house or  Sopheak, the tuk-tuk driver who took me around when I wasn't cycling.  As an example, the young woman told me she can't even stay in touch with me by e-mail because she doesn't have a device of her own, and she can't send personal messages on the guest house's internet system. 

Of course, you might say they were warm and friendly to me because I'm a tourist and they wanted me to spend money. But I experienced all sorts of helpfulness and friendliness--and a cheerfulness that's not of the American "it gets better" or "when one door closes, another opens," variety.  Perhaps the best expression of it came from a young woman at a gas station, where I stopped to ask for directions. "We are here," she said.  "We are alive.  We have today."

Then, of course, there are the things I saw.  While the Angkor Wat was the main reason I took the trip, and I spent about three full days in it, I could just as easily go back for Bayon or Banteay Srei--which, I admit, is my favorite temple--or to walk along the river junction or side streets of Luang Prabang.  And, naturally, eat the food--though I won't order a fruit shake, delicious as it was, again:  I think the ice used in it came from tap water, which unsettled my stomach on my penultimate night in Cambodia.

I must say, though, that I am glad to be riding my own Mercians again.  And, as hot and humid as it during my Connecticut ride, or on the Point Lookout ride I took yesterday, I wasn't nearly as tired because, in spite of the heat, the sun is much less intense.  And the road conditions are better, even in places like the South Bronx and Far Rockaway.

Hmm...Maybe, next time I go to Southeast Asia, I have to bring one of my own bikes--though, I must say, riding local bikes made me feel a bit more "native", if only for a few hours!

If I Can Ride In Athens, I Can...

I can honestly say that I'm not inclined to boasting. (If I were, would I know it?)  Even if I were, I'd have no need for it in Athens, at least when it comes to cycling:  If you ride at all, people--even other cyclists--are impressed, if they don't think you're crazy.

So I didn't have to claim that I ride up the hill of the Acropolis.  I rode a bit before I arrived, mainly to try out the bike I'm renting.  It's actually rather nice:  a hybrid with wide 700C tires. I had never seen the brand--Ideal--before, but it's apparently sold in a few other European countries.  If anything, it--or, at least, this particular bike--seems much like similar offerings from Trek or Specialized or Giant.  It wouldn't surprise me if Ideal bikes were made in the same factories as those other brands.

I rode another bike just like it yesterday morning with Sappho as my guide.  Both bikes came from Athens by bike,  Today, though, I had the advice of Manos, the co-owner of Athens by Bike (good on all counts) and my own instincts (sometimes good) to  guide me.

So I rode a bit around the Plaka, the central area of the city and home to the Acropolis as well as other well-known sites.  I stopped just before noon, as most any Greek might have done, when the temperature rose noticeably.  Instead of ducking into an air-conditioned building or a well-shaded cafe terrace, I took the hike up to the Acropolis and wandered among its ruins.

Contrary to what many people think, "Acropolis" refers to the site, not to any of the structures on it.  And, neither the Parthenon nor any of the other buildings are the "original" monuments built there.  Other things had been built there before, mainly because of its springs, which were said to be created by Poseidon himself.

I am amazed at how quickly (at least relatively speaking) the Parthenon or, for that matter, the Angkor Wat (which I visited last year) were constructed, let alone how accurate and intricate were the work that went into them, especially when one considers that the designers and builders did not have the technology we have today.  The funny thing is that it took less than a decade to build but has been in one stage or another of repair or reconstruction almost since Greece gained its independence from the Ottoman Empire---nearly two centuries ago!

To be fair, it's astounding that any part of the building is still standing, given how it was used and abused, not to mention damaged (and nearly destroyed altogether) by natural and human-caused disasters.  Also, I would imagine that it might be more difficult to figure out how something was conceived, created or constructed when records are sketchy, damaged or nonexistent, than it was to actually build something from scratch.

Still, I told the director of operations--who saw me riding to the site--that I might be able to help speed things up a bit.  Hmm...Maybe that person believed that if I was strong or persistent, or simply crazy, enough to ride on Athens streets, I could be of help.

So, instead of doing a job that involves no heavy lifting in New York for a salary that sounds good until you have to pay New York prices, I am going to do some heavy lifting in Athens.  The rents are much lower here--but so are the salaries.


All right:  I made up that story about getting a job here.  But, really, my time  on the Acropolis--and in its museum afterward--was some of the best I've spent.  And the late-day ride I took afterward was a reward, even if part of it didn't go as planned.  More about that later.
  

From Last Year's Sunrise To This Year's Sunset

Last year, it was about a sunrise.  This year, sunsets.

I'm trying not to read too much into that.  I am being quite literal:  Last year, one important reason I went to Cambodia was to see the sun rise over the Angkor Wat.  This year, I wanted to see the sun set at least once in one of the Cyclaides Islands, though it didn't loom quite as large among my reasons for coming to Greece.

But a sunset I wanted, and a sunset I got.

Yesterday, I got to Santorini later than I expected and my hotel was further from Oia, that village you see all over Instagram, than I thought.  

Then again, the Hotel Santa Irina is right by what some believe to be the nicest beach on the island.  Better yet (or worse, if I am going to wear the bathing suit I brought), there's a great bakery, also called the Santa Irina, on the premises.  

The hotel's receptionist--Georgia, a sweet woman about my age--suggested another nearby village for a sunset.  "The one in Pirgos is unique," she said.  A few local people echoed her belief.

I must say, it certainly is unlike any other I've seen.  And yes, it's beautiful.  

All right, I'm going to "come out" about something else. (Believe it or not,  even after you've revealed yourself as transgender and begun to live as who you are, there are still all sorts of other ways in which you can "come out.")  It's something you may have already figured:  I am a romantic.   There, I've said it.

From The Tangles Of Moss And History

It's been said that in Florida, "North is South and South is North."

The southern part of the Sunshine State--particularly Miami, Fort Lauderdale and Tampa--is filled with retirees and other transplants from colder climes, like the one in which I live.  The north, on the other hand--which includes the Panhandle and, depending on which definition you choose, anything north of Orlando--has more in common, genealogically and culturally, with Georgia or Alabama.

My parents live in the north-central part of the state, near Daytona Beach.  In cities like Palm Coast, where my parents live, or Daytona or Ormond Beach, there are people like my folks who moved from places north of the Potomac.  But outside of such cities, in the smaller towns and rural areas, the "good ol' boys" rule the roost.

Some native Floridians will tell you that in those towns, and in the surrounding countryside, you will find the "real" Florida.

Now, I am in no position to say that. But I can say that it's certainly more Southern than, ironically, some points further south.

I mean, you're not going to find anything like this along Collins Avenue in Miami Beach:

Of course, the moss hanging from the trees is a sign you're in Dixie.  But that's not the only thing that made my first ride on this path, more than two decades ago, one of my first truly Southern experiences in Florida.  It's also where I saw my first armadillo.

That path also is the entrance to the Bulow Plantation Ruins Historic Site. It is interesting to learn about the rise and fall of a plantation--and a society.  But its exhibits and signage reflect a bias that I've found in every other former plantation site I've visited:  It makes the building and operation of the plantation (and its sugar refinery) seem like a heroic act because the owners had to face, not only capricious Nature, but hostile Natives.  According to the text of the exhibits, the plantation was "swept away" in the Seminole War of 1836.

And, of course, the labor practices are whitewashed, if you know what I mean.

But it's certainly worth a visit, not only for the ruins and history lesson, but also to bike, hike, fish or simply be calm in a setting that is reverting to nature.

From the Bulow Plantation, I rode down Old Kings Road into Volusia County and made a right where the road ends--at the Old Dixie Highway.  Then I got to ride under more canopies of moss-draped trees--for about four miles!  Even if you are thinking about the history of the place, it's definitely a lovely ride.  And I found the drivers unusually courteous:  All gave me a wide berth and none honked.  It didn't matter whether the vehicles were Fiats or trucks, or whether they had license plates from Florida or New Jersey or Ontario or Michigan.  I guess anyone who drives on that road isn't in a hurry--and shouldn't be.

Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Florida!

Along the way, I stopped to see something that made me think, oddly enough, of the Ta Prohm temple I saw in Cambodia.

People know it as the "Tomb Raider" temple.  It's the one in which tree roots have wrapped themselves around its walls.  Now, of course, you're never going to find anything that looks like an Angkor Wat temple in Florida, or anywhere else in the US.  But seeing the Fairchild Oak in Bulow Creek State Park made me think of what those trees in Cambodia might have done if they didn't have a temple to ravel themselves around.  

It's easy to see why stories by writers like Faulkner and Welty are so often so intricate that they seem (or are) tangled.  That idea occured to me after leaving Bulow Creek and continuing along the Old Dixie Highway as it bisected a swamp and curved along the shore of the Halifax River on its way to Ormond Beach.