Guten Tag, Cairo

I'm exhausted, my back aches, blisters have most certainly begun to resist the canvas of my Converse and my mother has already begun to annoy me - have I mentioned that we haven't even left yet?

Hopping on the NJT I had a belly full of bagel and a head full of chaos.

Following what can only be identified as the darkest two years of my life, I am marking the anniversary by making my virgin sojourn to Middle East - and bringing my mother to boot.

Feeling hopeful for the first time in what seems like ages about what life has in store, I am ready for another adventure, if not the slightest bit weary of the heat and oppression of my given gender.

Never one to back down from a challenge ... here we go!

They say Baby Boomers are the ones trapped between generations, caring for their aging parents and still housing their recent college graduate children struggling to find sustainable work. But maybe that is simply the cycle of life.

A couple of years back I traveled to Morocco with my youthful, brilliant and in shape father and there were most certainly moments where I felt like I was guiding a toddler through the playground one sandbox at a time.

This time I am with my mother and the destination is the Middle East, Egypt to be exact, and though I am expecting and ready for some culture shock hand-holding, I did not foresee needing to help her properly use headphones, explain how food service works on a jet, or unbuckle her safety belt for her whilst still on the United flight. Literally.

Perhaps child and parent roles are not so clearly defined and one is not always teacher while the other is student. Maybe it is more of a reciprocal relationship through life, or at least it is once you've reached your thirties. Or maybe, as is the case from time to time, it's just me...

Descending upon Munich is a beautiful tapestry of manicured farm land and adobe colored thatched roofs, intermittently sprinkled into the landscape in what I can only imagine are quaint villages in which there still resides a butcher, a baker and a candlestick maker.

After taking a whore's bath in the Munich airport, mom and I dropped our bags at the affront to TSA known as the onsite storage center and headed on the S8 train (the yellow line) to Marienplatz, or for those in the know (see: Wikipedia), city center.

Germany seems to be a quiet place, even if my travel companion does not.

Having worked the majority of the lengthy flight editing photos I am now having trouble transferring those images and am left despondent. Mom, having claimed she has not slept a wink in nearly 20 years, remains surprisingly spry.

The S8 train leads us through the rich, lush countryside and the casual conductor took me by surprise when he presented himself to be a well-coiffed hot German dude with a tightly woven sweater and a backpack, ready to hop into an international spy movie at the drop of a hat. He authoritatively checked our day pass prints out and went alone his way, displaying his pert posterior in the process. Who knew Germans could have fatties too!

The bells of New Town Hall filled the square with music and as we rode the escalator up from the underground train. Here we were met with a crowd, gathered to watch the carousels of figurines built into the Gothic structure spin about, delighting the young and old alike. The sun greeted us warmly and it was a new day; a new city. Trying to remind myself that I am actually in Europe, and not an attraction at Disney World, mom and I strolled about the square, taking in the sights, stopping briefly by a beautifully blue fountain where to German men, chorused, said hello. Delighted that I could actually be hit on in Eastern Europe, especially when having the same clothes on for 2 days straight gave me a boost. Upon second glance one of the said hitter-oners was biracial at the very least and it all began to make sense. Existential crisis averted.

A short walk leads you to St. Peter's cathedral where you can, as I did, light candles for your loved ones who have gone on to hopefully a better place (two in every country for me), climb the bell tower which will make you huff and puff but by the time you see the view from the top you most certainly will not want to blow the house down, and purchase slightly inappropriate postcards with sexual content for your underage nephew.

Just beyond St. Peter's is the beer garden known as Viktualienmarkt. A jovial place surrounded by shops selling handmade crafts and handmade cheese. After some debate on where to eat and even more on where to sit we were set. Two bratwurst, one spicy, on not. Some sweet tasting potato salad. A beer of indeterminate name and, the piece de resistance, a handmade pretzel, on which I may be able to subsist for life.

A sunny spot in what can only be deemed old people heaven was located and mom and I sat down to our feast (about which one of us was FAR more excited than the other) among the crowds of smiling, amiable and perhaps slightly intoxicated seniors. Seating is limited and personal space a foreign concept. Illustrated by  the woman behind me used my spine for support and   the elderly man sitting next to me using broken English and hand gestures to heavily imply that I clearly liked my meal, as a bit of hot mustard and single bite were all that remained on the plate. It is good to know I can be fat shamed in all cultures.

With no particular direction in mind we stumbled upon the posh part of Munich where store fronts like Gucci and Ferragamo lined the streets and not much else, so it was back to the New Town Hall for us. The obligatory German doll for my niece purchased at tourist prices neatly tucked into my camera bag and we sat down among the mullets and questionable fashion choices of Europe for a cup of tea.

When the weather began to turn, so did we - toward the subway - and back to Flughafen München. Mom seems to have gotten confused between when we had decided we needed to be at the airport and what time our flight actually departed so we had plenty of time to patronize Airbraus and for me to aggressively fight with my computer in an attempt to deliver images to a client I was now certain would be late. Nothing like the desperate feeling of helplessness and rage of frustration to start off a mother-daughter week of bonding!

After pacing the tiled floors of the airport in search of food we settled at Selmans, an eatery offering everything from octopus to omelets and apparently boasting the most fragrant fake flowers that ever did exist as the look of ecstasy that crossed my mother's face when inhaling a nose full of woven silk almost had me convinced I didn't see the dusty petals.

Ordering a hamburger I was most certainly served a Spam burger, but desperate times call for desperate measures and the mystery meat was consumed with great appreciation and little inquiry.

My mother can be a bit of a prude and the mere mention of the word vagina can cause a litany of reactions. Today it was boisterous disdain and darting glances, looking around for the nuns who were most certainly standing by, rulers in hand, ready to bloody my knuckles and make me a good little girl. Why nuns would be boarding a predominately Muslim flight is beyond me - but there you go. I often wonder if these reactions are generational or personal. That the generation gap between a child of the 50s and a child of the 80s is so great that one is extremely modest and the other not so much is a question I simply cannot answer. The fact that this particular genitalia-related incident was encountered while boarding a plane with women draped in yards of dark fabric to maintain their own modesty most certainly played a role.

Regardless, we were set to bid adieu to Germany and move on to the next leg of our journey...

Family, Friends and Strangers

Four countries and three flights in three days with the worst cold or flu I've had in years has left me worse for wear as I approach my decent into chilly JFK New York City. My healthy glow already starting to crack and peel with the dehumidified air run though my ANA flight, I'm already missing balmy Bangkok. But let me start from the top.

On the cool, crisp, star- filled night Colin and his trusty steed Lucky give both Laura and myself a bumpy ride to a location they swore would be ideal for sunrise watching. In a city where the day's events are planned entirely around the rising and setting of the sun I trusted the local and let he, with his portable Buddhist hymns and the clickity clack of Lucky's feet along one of the two paved roads in town, lead the way through the darkened dawn.

When Laura and I realized that he was bringing is back to Temple #349 on the map, where we'd witnessed the Chagall colored sunset just a few hours before all we could do was smile and hold on - those rides are not smooth sailing, trust me. The air was sharp with a fresh morning and the ascent up the pitch black side of an ancient structure no easy feat. When the perfect spot is located, we post, and we wait.

The sunrises slowly. It seems to take forever as the sky turns from starry black to pale blue. You think it is over and just when you're ready to either a) knock the annoying Japanese tourists who are wearing lights on their heads and creating a noisy production to your immediate left with their picture taking off the top of the temple or b) pack up your Canon and call it a day - it happens. The fire ball known as the sun makes it's appearance and it all changes. You're not moving, not for a second. Your transfixed and your sitting right there, to see this all the way through.

Laura and I had watched some dirty hippies tune out of the tourist trap and into some smooth jams the night before and Laura signed on. She had her ear buds in early and a serenity washed over her already luminous face before dawn even broke. I tend to be a bit more stubborn, take the longer road to realization. It wasn't until the sun showed it's face and shone on mine that I decided to follow suit and, with limited options on my iPhone, it was a sad music makes me happy moment with classic rock and power ballads filling my ears with harmonies and my heart with pain.

Having promised to take my father with me on every trip here on, we have visited the clear blue waters of the Caribbean and shared a quiet early morning in rural Thailand. With a morning as powerful as this, I felt it the best time to share a powerful moment with my father, and leave just a little of him here, atop a beautifully sculpted, ancient Buddhist temple in the still untainted Myanmar. I wish he could have loved it in life, but by god I am going to make sure he experiences it in spirit.

Balloons over Bagan is a tourist attraction for more of the blue haired traveler and though I could not afford to take one of those big bags of hot air up into the early morning sky, witnessing two dozen balloons released into the wild with guitar licks tickling my ears it was a powerful and beautiful morning I will not soon forget.

Back in the horse cart and back to The Golden Myanmar Guest House we rushed to grab our bags, feed our faces and say goodbye to this makeshift family who, for the few days we were here, felt like ours.

Laura and I were sad to go, and sad to know that the next couple of days would be a blur of taxis, and buses and planes on our way to Mandalay and then, back to Bangkok.

The bus ride to Mandalay was long and warm and relatively bumpless as it operated on the single lane highway functioning as the smoothed out road to the destruction of an indigenous culture, and the epic levels at which the single television was playing throughout the duration of the 5+ hour bus ride - deafening. Luckily after my midday nap I was woken up for a stop in the middle of nowhere to piss over a hole, be hustled into another Myanmar buffet and hop back on the bus for what I can only imagine was a made for TV movie. I do have to respect that the worse the television is the more easily it translates without the assistance of language. The plot seemed to center around some Burmese pop star and his tumultuous relationship with his very tall girlfriend and some sort of contest in which the winner would be able to marry said pop star. Not a clear path as to what was going on - but I think I got the gist. The nuance of the humor was lost on me, however, the bus rocked with uproarious laughter on more than one occasion so it must have been hilarious.

When you land in a place called Mandalay you conjure up thoughts of an oasis in the dry dry desert. Palm fronds and sheer genie pants. I could almost feel the heavily scented mist doused with strange spices from the far east breeze across my face. What I was met with instead was a throng of very loud very aggressive men nearly beating the bus door down trying to secure a cab fare to whatever destination we had in mind. After prying our way through the doors and out into the dusty surroundings we hopped in a cab with a man who was not physically accosting me and made the short trip to Hotel A.D. 1 about which we had read mediocre reviews on accommodation and amazing reviews on breakfast. You can see where our hearts truly lie.

Dropping our bags on the third floor we went out to see what Mandalay had to offer. We knew we only had a short time there and the cab ride in, though informative, was not visually impressive. Circles were made and it would appear that Mandalay is a blue collar city, filled with merchants and motorbikes not servicing the tourist population, as is so common in Thailand - but functioning as a real city - worked by and for the people of Myanmar. We were greeted slightly less openly, as we had been in both Yangon and Bagan, but the people were curious nonetheless and after Laura sampled some street omelet of sorts and I procured one of the most nauseating sandwiches I have ever seen and we had to move on from the inner city, in which we were firmly situated and head out to the U Bein bridge, apparently the sight to see while here and, just like everything else we have found in Myanmar, totally dependent on the rising and setting of the sun. We were hoping to catch the latter.

And the latter we did. After the wordsmith that was our cab driver who sat in complete silence the entire 20 minute drive to the dock dropped us off and informed us he would wait in a nearby parking lot - the way cabbies seem to work here - you pay for both the back and forth - we were off for our romantic evening. This long, teak bridge's sturdiness is questionable but popularity undeniable with boat loads of silver fox tourists squeezed into the bay, cameras on necks. Laura and I opted for the long walk, from dock to dock during which we chatted with suspicious monks, helped some local girl with her English-  apparently an outing her family takes multiple times a week to perfect her language skills and assist in her future chemistry degree and noshed on some lollies that had most certainly been sitting at the dock of this bay since the early 90's.

As we strolled, and chatted we got to watch the sky change colors and, once the boater and fisherman made their way to land the water was like glass, gorgeous and clean, untouched and still. We were saddened that it was our last evening together in Southeast Asia, a unique luxury neither of us took for granted but Laura had her studies and I had my impending life changing and stroke inducing moves to make.

The following morning was met with a heavy cough and the promised breakfast that A.D. 1 hosted. It was an amazing spread, at least for those with fully functioning taste buds and a head that didn't feel like it was in an Adam's Family vice, for those who had laboured breath - it was just food to shove in my face. Though I will co-sign as far as hostels or guest house included breakfasts go - this is second to none.

Bags on backs and a 20 minute walk through town to the Air Asia shuttle was treacherous and sweaty, but well worth the free bus ride to the airport and the debacle with the old Burmese woman who seemed to not see a large white woman sitting in front of her and literally walked INTO me and sat her bag on my lap as if I were one of the built in Ronald's at the local McDonald's used for commemorative photos and public acknowledgements of profane language.

It was somewhere over Southeast Asia with a wonderful woman who has proven to be a wonderful friend - so why in the hell am I stressing about bills and doctors appointments, the logistics of life as well as those big ticket items that seem to work best when you pick a lane and go.

I'm now heading back 3 days early, and exactly 4 weeks from my departure date, wondering if I made the right choice, wondering what the right choice even means anymore. If such a thing even exists.

A bus ride, a very lengthy layover (see: I slept on a bench) at the BKK airport, a flight to Tokyo, another layover and then a 14 hour flight, all with SARS coursing through my veins was a challenge. It was exhausting. I felt like I was dying and the 2 hour cab ride to follow it up almost had me in. Then I had a thought:

These are the people that celebrate with us, that help is get through the rough spots; that shape out world.

Throughout my month in Southeast Asia, a month I spent exploring new lands and grieving the loss of my original travel-mate I encountered all threw of the above. My three wise men, my arch angels, my holy trinity of travel.

To begin my journey I was accompanied by a woman who surpassed the title of friend many years ago and became so much more, family nearly two decades ago.

Then I met a total stranger who, on a level maybe only a stranger could, understood what I going through and made me feel slightly less alone in my sadness, if only for a few days.

And I finished my journey with an old colleague who has proven herself to be a very dear friend, and a very loved one at that.

For those of you who know me, those of you who talk to me, and those of you who feel comfortable being straight with me, remind me I said this : it would appear that travel is a lot like life in a smaller, more concentrated dosage. There are moments of excitement, moments of struggle and frustration, moments of peace and lots of times you feel like throwing in the towel and going home but in my experience, each as every time - I'm sure glad I did it.

I'd like to think that is how my dad felt.