I Love the Smell of Semen in the Morning

It may seem like this story is about to be sexy. Trust me, it's not.

So... after last we spoke, I took the hour long walk back to my hostel, the stars, beautiful, blah blah

I was fast asleep in what I would soon notice was the boys dorm when some moaning from down under began. Then my bed started to shake and it became incredibly obvious that my once unassuming Danish bunk-mate was in some state of euphoria saved for private moments, and not those shared with 3 other strangers from around the globe.

As the moans intensified and distinctive squishing sounds ensured I panicked. I searched the dark room for some sign that English Joe or Dutch Klass were there in the room with me to, if nothing else, offer some comfort that I was not in this alone.

With no ally in sight I laid low, squeezing my ample thighs together as best I could, as I dare not wake the sleeping, jerking off bear while he thrashes about in ecstasy to relieve myself of liter of liquid long ago consumed.

Each time I thought this nightmare was over, it began all over again. Each time the noises grew louder, the movement more intense, and the goal closer to accomplished - if you catch my drift. This went on for hours.

When dawn broke I did as well, straight for the freedom of outside and the fresh air, void of the undeniable stench of foreign and unwanted spunky air.

Klass had employed ear plugs and Joe thought he was simply having a bad dream - all night long! Neither of the daft blokes were forced to experience the rocking and rolling of the wooden structure on which I was perched, trapped in the dungeon of terror for a fortnight.

With such a traumatic evening and restless night I opted for a plain and simple beach day, making my way up and down Long Beach, stopping every so often to set up camp, read a book I could simply not put down, take a dip and move on. It was a lovely, quiet, solitary day topped off with the authentic Vietnamese evening ritual of pizza and ice cream and another long, poorly lit walk home.

There was some nice conversation, and in turn ribbing from my international roommates into the nighttime hours before we all retired and kept our fingers crossed the Dirty Dane would keep his pants closed.

English Joe had mentioned taking his motorbike to the Southern end of the island and I, in true American style invited myself. Turns out Joe's misses is from Citrus Heights in Sacramento, California - a town over from my Alma Mater (go cougars!) proving further what a small and strange world we live in.

The ride took about 90 minutes down gravely roads, dirt paths, a partially constructed 2 lane highway. The island is on the precipice of gentrification and full blown tourism, as made abundantly clear on our journey with varied and seemingly forgotten stages of development sprinkled throughout the region. Also made clear, people in the small villages, though not unfriendly, are unable or unwilling to assist with directions, even while utilizing a map. This did provide me with the opportunity to meet David Lo Pan from 'Big Trouble in Little China' (look it up) getting a shape at the local barbershop and ended up delivering us to the port before arriving at Bai Sao, touted as the most beautiful beach on the island- possibly in all of Vietnam.

Joe and I had a lovely time soaking up some rays, splashing about in the turquoise surf and dining on some fried rice before the motorbike ride home, equal in good times and scenic views as the way there with the exception of the left side of my body almost erupting in flames from the late afternoon sun straddling a bike.

Having sort of bailed on Carole to hike for the day, I made sure to contact her and head directly to the beach to catch the sunset on my final night on the island. She met me and once the sun touched the horizon we hoped on her bicycle and for the second time I was riding on the back of a two wheel vehicle with someone else at the reigns, though this time it was human powered and far less steady.

A quick meal, some heavy conversation and obligatory tears over vegetable stir-fry and she was headed North as I was heading South. Here we said our goodbyes, both glad to have met one another and both aware that the chances of our crossing paths again are slim to none.

Walk. Stars. Dark. Shower. Scrubs and sunburn, pretty much in that order.

Tomorrow - Hanoi.

Third Day, Third World (Saigon Doesn't Count)

Sitting in my un-aircoditioned, un-polished hostel listening to some faux hippie play 'Blackbird' in the courtyard on their acoustic guitar and I cannot help but smile.

I've spent the past 3 days in the third world. Phu Quoc Island seems to be much like any not yet terribly tainted tropical paradise replete with insects, inconveniences, and peace.

Landing here just a few days ago I had no idea what to expect, as is the case with most if not all of this trip. It had been recommended to me from some Vietnamese women and I figured what the hell, knowing full well that sun and beach was really what I was after with this whole excursion anyway.

But allow me to start at the beginning.

Boarding at Ho Chi Minh airport was chaotic to say the least, however with the help of a nice German woman named Carole it was more easily navigable. We began chatting and ended up becoming flight buddies and exchanging information with promises to connect once on the island.

I was promptly deposited at Mushroom Backpackers on the South end of the island, a hostel that resembles a project either in construction or mid-demolition far more than a completed place for lodging - but nevertheless I was here and it was inexpensive. Posted up in room #1, I quickly unloaded and headed to the nearest beach.

Opting for sustenance en route I ordered noodles and vegetables at a restaurant just before the turn off to Long Beach and was served a plate of flat noodles, oil, and greens. It would soon come to my attention that 'vegetables' in Vietnamese means lettuce. This travel-induced vegetarian thing was going to be rough going if wilted lettuce was all upon which I could feast.

Long beach was touristy but did the trick - allowing me to listen to the waves only intermittently interrupted by Motown wafting through the toasty breeze and the muffled offerings of a masked Asian woman with fresh fruit.

Next stop - the night market. The night market is THE spot to which all visitors are drawn for it's inexpensive eats and authentic atmosphere. I seemingly went so I could wait 90 minutes for corn and lettuce stir-fried to unperfection. Luckily, the consolation prize was meeting a nice couple seated nearby who were warm and open travel masters. And American - the first of those I have stumbled across. They said they were designers, but the definition was very vague, it just seemed to me like they were a fabulous older gay couple living the life!

Having walked the almost hour down the single unlit road that runs through the island to my unsatisfactory dinner I cheated a bit an caught a cab half way home for 40,000 dong - about 2 dollars.

A fitful night atop by single layer Styrofoam mattress and I was again up early and ready to face the ever warming day. My airplane buddy, Carole and I had made plans to rendezvous and, after a quick run she came by my hostel to 'pick me up.'

What was supposed to be a pick up soon became an hour or two of lounging at the hostel's outdoor communal space chatting with some kids traveling the world and John-O, the English proprietor of said hostel. It was a pleasant morning of fresh fruit and easy conversation and wicker furniture. Having eaten little more than a pack of Top Ramen for days I was ill prepared for the journey upon which I was about to embark, as Carole suggested I rent a bike, as she had, and we ride up to the recommended beaches on the North side of the island.

Over the river and through the woods, and in the market, and over the bridge and down the runway and we still were not at our destination. I think it's safe to say it took us a good 2 hours to arrive at a mellow white sand beach close to Mango Resort, still a dozen kilometers or so off from our original destination, yet totally sufficient for my red shoulders and sore ass.

Nothing feels quite as good as the ocean on your feet and the sun on your face. In danger of approaching Oprah wellness bullshit, there is something in the calm of the ocean and the glow of the sun that is almost, dare I say it, restorative.

With the sun low in the sky we decided to head back, but not without me locating some white people food, as I had had enough of pretending I could survive on rice and noodles for 3 weeks. All I have to say is, if you ever find yourself in Vietnam, don't order a chicken burger. Not only will it be covered in some indecipherable liquid, chances are the German at the next table will add insult to injury by calling you out on ordering white people food whilst abroad.

The sunset was electric on our ride back and, after parting ways with Carole (with whom I had had a lovely day, save for the fact that she inquired as to whether my relationship with my father was a bit Oedipal- stating it as though it would be normal if it were) at the ever odoriferous town market I enjoyed a dark, relaxing ride home, punctuated with a stop for ice cream at Bud's, which I felt well deserved after feeling the burn in my thighs for the better part of the day.

Having booked a trip to dive the following morning, I felt it prudent to crash early in my room of now entirely aromatic gentlemen from the EU to be fresh as a grown woman daisy.

Neil, proprietor of Flipper Diving company, was at Mushroom by 7:45am and, as we picked up fellow travelers, we picked up speed heading for the harbor.

I had paid for 2 dives and was allotted my own personal dive master, Lauren who, in her youthful naivete was flabbergasted that I was all of 32, delighting me to no end. The first hour-long decent was uncomfortable and made me realize just why the Great Barrier Reef, which I had visited this time last year, was worthy of it's name. Perhaps starting with the best only leaves room for disappointment further down the line. Man, I hope that is not true in life. The second dive, at Turtle Island, totally devoid of turtles, was half the time and twice as enjoyable, as I spotted an octopus changing colors and paying me little mind as I hovered above it. Lauren commented on how good I was underwater and encouraged me to go for my certification - even suggesting underwater photography, something that had never before crossed my mind and sounds just unexpected enough to be amazing.

After de-boarding and bidding adieu to my new homies Jeff and Fran from Maryland, happily unmarried for nearly 30 years, I was back to the hostel for what was supposed to be a quick drop off, but ended up being more of a lengthy hangout once my Danish roommate asked to utilize some of the technology I had brought along (I was told only posh backpackers have Macs).

Spending the twilight hours talking travel and music and life with young, passionate people brings me a melancholic joy as I both admire and envy their youth and wonder. I often think perhaps I was never as Kevin Arnold as I should have been.

With the sun kissing the horizon, I made it here, to Phuong Binh restaurant,  directly on the beach, just paces from the lapping waves, to eat overpriced westerner friendly food, drink too much pineapple juice and watch the sun set on another day, in the third world.