Barefoot in the Jungle

Something about not needing to get up early and having no agenda makes the body rise with ease as does the sun. I am up to see the early morning light through my blue tinted glass sliding door and though a bit sweaty, as the fans turn off with the electricity at day break, I feel pretty good. 

I know I need sustenance and there is a dining area a few bungalows down that sits over the water at (Matt) Saracen Resort, last time, I promise. 

I order an "American Breakfast" for a change and pray my funds hold out until I am back on solid land.

My camera is behaving tempormentaly and I fear I won't have a functioning one for all, if not some of the remaining trip. I do, however, take this in stride. My legs are so insect bite ridden that Helen Keller could read my fortune and I only have $40 to last me while I am here. I believe there is a point when Murphy's Law is so deeply ingrained in your life that it is ALMOST amusing. I am choosing here to be amused.

The waitress who brings over my cutlery and orange juice needs to make sure that I'm alone for some reason, as so many people in this country seem to need to. Never before have I had so many inquiries into my solitude. It's like I have an open wound and they are all own stock in Mortons.

I don't care what anyone says about Americans being loud and brash and obnoxious. Mix that with no regard for others on the road and no sense of personal space and you have the Chinese tourist, impervious to cultural acclimation or volume control.

My American breakfast is American priced and subpar, but food is food and I move on, down the beach as I resort hop. Please note that resorts on Koh Rong Samleon are not "resorts" any other place you've ever been. Resorts here are accomodation and it would seem that most house their own restaurant or bar and, along with beautiful temperatures and access to the beach that is what this island offers.

Around 4pm I decide to head to Lazy Beach. The remote beach on a remote island, located a few kilomteres through the jungle on the West side of the island. A quick nature hike through the jungle in my chucks, a Yankees hat and a bikini - I can hear Helen Reddy amongst the screaming monkeys and the squealing crickets.

Once the jungle parts ways there is an oasis; there is Lazy Beach.

It is breathtaking.

I essentially run to the sea, sticky from my hike, drop my belongings and plunge in. It is me, and the bay and no one else. 

I have become so spoiled by the beauty of the world. So used to seeing new, far off places that every so often I do try to take a moment and really soak in that I am out in the Gulf of Thailand on a beautiful afternoon swimming in the sea. It is a palpable moment for me, and one I savor.

As I drag my drenched body back up to the shore the Lazy Beach resort - a series of huts on the beach with a main lobby that is an outdoor-hammock-chill sort of getwaway presents itsself and I immediately see the British bloke, Gary, from the night before.

I ask if I may join him and we settle in to listen to Bonobo on the soundsystem and watch the sun sink beneath the clouds. I order a Lazy Sunset, the girliest drink on their menu and later fish and chips because I am pretending to be adventurous and eat fish caught just outside but also getting it fried so it mostly just takes like fried. The cocktail is ok and remains half drunk, as is the marlin, when my British bud and I have covered everything from childhood trauma to cycling in France and make our way back to the East side through the jungle.

The moment I saw Gary in this particular gin joint I knew I would later be using him as accompaniment through the jungle. I was uneasy walking through during the broad daylight, but it is now dark. The sun is long gone, but the creatures are not and CalTrans has yet to set up any roadside spotlights for tourists here. I am scared. Legitimately scared and the fact that homeboy thinks every stick is a Boa Constrictor is not helping.

Half way through I realize that this city girl does have some country in her, or at least some iPhone in her...bag. Thank you Steve Jobs for putting a flashlight on your iPhone. It only took me 5 years to figure out how to use this feature, but man is it helpful when traversing the dark unknown.

We exit at the beach, lit up blue by the moonlight and make a right at Octopussy bar back to Blue Green, where Gary is staying and I am using electricity before returning to my hovel. Some approximation of iced tea is served and some more opposite of small talk is had before we both walk way out to the ocean, the cosmic pull having brought it what seems like miles from shore and bathe our feet in the warm night before saying out goodbyes. Two kisses, one on each cheek, just like the French do it and a sincere thank you for sharing your time on this tiny island with me.

iPhone flashlight

Another hike back. A quick shower and a revisiting of Noah's Arc, a little show on Logo 10 years ago and the only videos I have on my phone. Who doesn't like watching a situational comedy about 4 black gay men in Hollywood before nodding off?

And again, early to rise.

I check out of Freedom, not knowing exactly what my next move is but knowing my camera is working occasionally at best and my funds are rapidly dwindling - you try PMSing on a budget!

This time at Saracen Resort I opt for a more traditional Asian breakfast and I am not disappointed. With excellent Wifi I chat with a friend back home, the kind of friend that makes you feel at home even when you're 9000 miles away (yeah, thats you, Holly) and I plot my course of action. 

An arbitrary booking for a room at the Orchid Resort a mile down the beach is made and I have made my choice - to stay in Koh Rong Samleon, for at least another day.

The morning consisted of a chat with one of my oldest and dearest friends Holly and my internal calculator working overtime while figuring out whether or not the cash I had on hand could get me through another day.

This island is a place so quiet the insects omit a deafining noise.

Dexter, Frank, Zak and Gary.

No, these are not the new fangled members of New Edition. These are the four man who helped me through my journey.

This trip has been a particularly tough one for me and the kindness of these strangers, whether for a plane ride or just a walk on the beach helped me survive. Helped me in ways they will never know. And for that I am grateful.

I love this place. I love the magical beach. The sea filled with fish just like the ones I used to own and name and become fond of right before they took their final swim down the porcelain shoot in my father's bathroom.

Having waited a bit too long to traverse the island back to my humble abode it is dusk and the monkeys are squawking - and I am scared.

The evening is spent PMSing on a huge fruit plate at the Orchid while writing and watching 'The Voice - Cambodia' - or so it sounds.

That night I am met with a hot shower - for what feels like the first time in ages. Hallelujah.

As wonderful as my room for the evening is with all it's rustic charm, the walls are thing and the sext door neighbors rowdy. I couldn't quite tell what they were doing from the noises emitting through the wooden slats separating us. But I can attest to the fact that they kept me up - and made me sufficiently uncomfortable.

Luckily I slept. Luckily I survived.

Few things in life or more powerful than listening to Leonard Cohan on a white sand beach at sunrise.

The morning offered an amazing sunrise and a moment of peave.

After checking out the morning is spent watching the proverbial pot boil or, as is the case here - waiting for my boat to come. Just when I think it never will I am directed several hundred yards down the beach where a refugee dinghe is schleping visitors to shore.

Travel at it's finest.

This means I had a couple more hours to luxuriate, check my internet goings on and figure out where I will be spending the evening at the Blue Green.

I almost book a dorm at Otres Beach, then think about shared bathroom. Getting older is a beautiful thing in many ways. Not physically sure - but it does allow you some perspective and often a few extra sheckles to spend on a private commode. Decision made. Pineapple juice consumed and my LL Bean bag and I board the dinghe headed back to the mainland.

As the ship about faces I was truly sad. 4 days ago now seemed like a lifetime and I have grown to love this tiny island upon which I only spent a few days of my life. By sometimes that's all you need

I mount the stairs to the top level of the boat - trying to get every UV ray possible to permeate the outer layer of my epidermus and who do I happen upon than a nice looking fellow sporting a brightly colored LA hat.

The hour or so boat ride back goes by in a flash as I chat with this amiable man in his mid 30s who lives in the UK but claims South Africa as his home - creating an interesting accent and an interesting perspective on life.

We make dinner plans and as he boars the shuttle bus, I hop on my own personal tuk tuk out toward the beach. Along the ride we putter past the police hut where I was incarcerated for many moments and I am forced to relive this painful experience all over again.

After a long and winding ride I land at Footprints Hostel at Otres Beach 2 which will be where I will be living - at least for the night.

Perhaps it is aftershocks from the hallucination I had last night where a man came to my window banging in the middle of the night only to wake me, rouse me from my bed and, when I reached the glass door disappear, leaving me shaken and disturbed, but this day has been exhausting.

As I settle into Footprints one thought meanders through my mind. My Dad was right, beauty fades with happiness, not with age.

Broken, Beaten, Bruised in Brooklyn (ok, Manhattan but I like alliteration an awful lot)

My life is the stuff of  which movies are made.

Lifetime movies perhaps, but movies nonetheless.

Sure, we all have our crosses to bear but let's be real - some of us are dealt far different hands than others. Now, I was not born into a country where the oppression of women is sanctioned, regardless of how you feel about the recent election results. And I am very grateful that not only do I possess all four limbs, but they all function with a fair amount of ease and reliability.

But sometimes , having your arms and legs is just not enough (see: Lorelai Gilmore).

Life is hard. And when life gets hard you have two choices, you can grin and bear it, it you can run.

My natural inclination is a position teetering somewhere between the two, so after two months spent within the four walls of my Northern Manhattan compound doing nothing but bearing (grinning was far less frequent) - I ran.

Two days ago I booked a ticket to a place that was warm and inexpensive. And today, I am on a plane, dressed in a maroon sweatsuit looking far more ready to enter the hallowed halls of Bada Bing than headed for Southeast Asia.

Cambodia to be exact.

A country known for it's majestic temples and genocidal tendencies, it offers 80 degree temperatures in December, 10 dollar a night accommodation and 9000 miles between me and my real life.

With my life, and my wardrobe, spread across 3 states I was not as prepared for this spontaneous voyage as I typically am, so I had to forego my trusty backpack and go to travel staples for a personalized  LL Bean oversized tote, filled with a smattering of spandex based clothing, a pair of chucks and my camera.

There are many suggestions on how to get over heartbreak; how to grieve the loss of a loved one; how to bounce back from personal tragedy. When you spend a couple months in self imposed isolation you might come across an article or two telling you to eat well or spend time with friends. Start new projects or meditate. My father was always adamant with the adage 'don't isolate.' I can recall his repeating of this simple statement numerous times throughout my life but, without him here to enforce it, I was left to my own devices.

On a plane now, wedged next to a genial man from Virginia, after an early morning ride to Newark, a 6 hour flight to SFO and a 6 second layover before hauling ass to the terminal leaving for Seoul, South Korea I am no longer alone. I'm trapped in a tin box with a thousand Koreans and no access to the outside world. An ancient tin box with no personal television sets built in, a necessity when on a 12 hour flight. Little relief is experienced by watching the single small television mounted to the ceiling playing videos of NKOTB, Hall and Oats and a non-descript girl with a bob and a bralette from the early 90s. The fact that the feed freezes and skips only adds to the excitement. No WiFi and no end in sight.

Just when I thought things couldn't get worse and I couldn't get anymore uncomfortable the flight attendants offered a turbulent beverage service all over my new Sopranos inspired threads, which at least shook things up for a moment.

If this is what being back in public is like I'll gladly retire to my couch.

But now I'm in it, half way across the world living my ''Oprah best life,'' trying to make a semblance out of the rubble from the past couple of years, and all I can think about is love lost. 12 hours with no distraction and a mind that spins and wanders even when Netflix and Hulu are only a finger tap away is a dangerous thing.

The poor portly fellow next to me who must wonder how I go from the charming butterfly I am one moment to a woman on the edge of crisis in a tearful cocoon the next. Though he is a man, so perhaps he is oblivious.

After an excruciating 12+ hours fraught with stale air, indifferent flight attendants, repulsive cuisine and a major lack of entertainment we made it - the majestic mountains of Seoul draped in undulating fog greeted us just before landing in a hazy cloud of smog, making it all the more clear why some of our friends from the Far East wear surgical masks as their favorite accessory.

A quick goodbye to my new travel bestie Dexter who was off to simulate war crimes for a living with the government up North and I was headed to the international wing for a 7:30pm flight to Phnom Phen, but not before sampling some udon noodles that tasted of fiery hot pepper and fish - delish.

With mere moments to exchange my paper ticket that said United seat 20 a to a paper ticket that said Asiana Airlines seat 20 and to admire the beautifully cherubic children scurrying around the terminal it was on yet another plane. My third of the day. And my last, hopefully, for a while.

5 more turbulent hours, both emotionally and otherwise and I was in Phnom Phen, where I was met with a 30 dollar visa charge, not one but two Burger Kings and a throng of Cambodians as impatient and unaware of personal space as they were sticky from the tropical night air.

On the road in an open air tuk tuk and I gotta say, as hesitant as I often am to hop a plane to nowhere with no plan and no friends, for the first time all over again. Part of it always feels like coming home.

Big Girls Don't Cry

Positivity has never been my strong suit.

I believe sarcasm lends itself to hilarity, of course, but it can also slip into glass half full syndrome quite easily.

Given the current circumstances of my real life, not the one I am living out for a month in Southeast Asia, I almost feel entitled not to be positive and to bathe in my anger; bask in my disappointment.

Luckily, when feeling this lost you have those close to you, and sometimes those not, to help lift you out.

I have spent my late twenties and early thirties feeling rejected and abandoned by the loss of relationships with people I most certainly never thought I would lose. Some have hit harder and come at less opportune moments than others.

Having a month away doesn't mean real life stops. With modern technology and access to WiFi keeps one up to date on 'house sitters' who refuse to pay, piling bills that cannot be accessed internationally, and friends who have long kept count of your fallibility and infractions and it's all happening in real time. Add to this he feeling of impotence only being 10,000 miles away from home could invoke.

Sitting on the pier watching the sun sink into the sky on my last night in Krabi after visiting some beaches, eating some food and being a general bad-ass on my motorbike that I would like to sneak into my carry on, I am trying something new.

I am trying not to focus on the bad, the negative, and in turn I am trying to appreciate the warmth of the evening and  say thank you to the friends that pick up when I call crying from across the globe and tell me they love me. It is their confidence in me, as well as my own I must focus on because, without my biggest cheerleader here to support me any longer, I simply have to do it for myself. Just like tying your shoes, but for big girls.

Despite my melancholy I truly did enjoy my last day in Krabi, spending most of it getting my motor running and hitting the highway on my sporty purple and orange crotch rocket. Always having a disdain for motorcycles after a family accident that took place before I was born, I now see the appeal and feel that I just may have to make a scooter my first motorized vehicle in over a decade.

Having rented the bike for the entire day I finally made my way to Ao Nang which, though populated by many an old, fat white tourists was not nearly as bad as many of the hippies back at my commune would have had you believe.

I got some color (see: freckles) , and made another attempt at Pad Thai at a small local restaurant, coming to the conclusion that my favorite restaurant in the city by the bay just, hands down, has the best Thai food in the world.

After showering, packing and finding a book in the backpackers library that wasn't missing the first 3 chapters I hopped on my bike to make it to the Terrace, a near by restaurant that is situated on top of a hill looking out at the water, but because it was night I got the watch the blue and purple flashes of lightning that come with a balmy rainstorm in the tropics as I consumed my banana fritters and pulp fiction.

Some bonding with the staff at Krabi was had, as was some window shopping in their on site store that made me feel like a waif, so I loved it - but not enough to purchase anything and I was off to bed. A restless sleep an hour at a time, checking my phone, dealing with business back at home and finally, at 5 am, rising to catch a cab to the airport with two other American girls who had been at the Banana Bungalow for the past couple nights and were far too cute for their own good.

I hear people both question and commend me when I tell them I am traveling alone, especially in the third world country, and even more so when I mention how long I will be gone. I suppose both of these groups of people are right. It is freeing and wonderful to do your own thing, have time for yourself and explore the world with just your camera in hand. That being said, it can be lonely and sad and expensive without someone to share costs or moments.

Maybe this is like life, there are pros and cons to the traditional family and the single life, but I think we can all agree that life, like cake, it's better shared.

Sure, I share, through my blog, and text messages.

The past 31 countries were shared, through phone calls largely with a very specific person and though physically I was always on my own, those phone calls, fraught with affection and perspective are missed dearly and felt deeply.

Now, I need to learn a new way to travel - either completely on my own with no safety net - or with actual people. No longer is there an in between.

So I move forward, as I did when I boarded the Air Asia flight to Chiang Mai in the north of the country known for it's indigenous people and beautiful scenery.

Here for a week I will be reuniting with a fellow traveler met in Bangkok who seems to want to take every course or lesson Thailand has to offer, so we will see how my bank roll holds out and how much authentic culture in which I can immerse myself.


Thus far I have located a Burger King. So that is a start.

So we shall see what my time in Chiang Mai brings...

The following night Chiang Mai brought BK. I'm sorry, but sometimes you just gotta have it your way.

My first day in CM was mellow, some eating, some souvenir acquisition, some ambivalence about life on general, only being further perpetuated by the culture of 2 parts old white men in Tommy Bahama or biker adjacent attire, 1 part young, though not disturbingly so, Asian women wearing Wet Seals' latest fashions and 1 part classic rock that makes it all seem somehow legit, like the old man from Wisconsin is having a deep, meaningful relationship with the young lady from Phuket.

Some wandering after my pork burger from the BK at which the cashier understood and delivered better on my order than any American ever has led me to streets of sex tourism at it's best which, even at it's best is the worst.

Meandering led me down some sketchy alleyways which, as a single woman with thousands of dollars worth of equipment in my bag should never navigate, I did. I simply wouldn't be Briana if I didn't.

Shortly thereafter I was safely deposited at the Royal Guest House just across the way from Chiang Mai City. A city housed withing ancient brick walls and consisting of a threading of streets fraught with Wats, goods for sale, and translucent people in southeast Asia's version of resort wear. It was fast to sleep with a page-turning book, and overhead light that made me feel like I was starring in 'Broke Down Palace' and a fan I feared would come loose at any moment and sever a major artery.

I have had strange dreams throughout Thailand and was awoken several times before finally rising in search of yoga, but settling on a run and some calisthenics essentially beside the highway here.

A quick yet unsatisfying breakfast and shower were had before heading to the Post Office where the severely physically disabled employee treated me like I was a leper, barely selling me stamps for my postcards.

Decideing to wander about to the temples and into shops I was pleasantly surpirsed when I entered the gtes of Wat Phan, built in 1501 when the city's arts and culture were flourishing and was met with it's exquisite beauty and, in turn, a moment of gratitude. It went just as quickly as it came, but as I so easily dismiss the good and focus on the bad, or so I've been told, that decided to make note of this brief moment in time. And write it down.

The architectural center warranted a visit for my future very successful architect nephew, but the 'center' was appalling when all you really have to do is look around. Luckily Wat Phantao lifted my spirits with its multicolored lanterns and flags waving proudly in the wind. I was so entranced by the sea of color that the competitive Japanese photographer studying my moves just a little too closely didn't even bother me. As an artist, I feel secure that we know when we got it - and I had it. He could shoot all he wanted on his Nikon. He didn't stand a chance against me and my Canon!

All of this site seeing works up an appetite and after sweating off of noodles yesterday after a sub-par glass noodle I incident, I found a cute little place on the other side of town and had ... Noodles. But this time they were Khao Soi noodles, Chiang Mai noodles so it was for cultural reasons more than dietary. The restaurant also played host to a couple of charming American and Canadian men respectively and even a brief chat with some men in my native tongue brightened my day.

Being asked if I was Spanish just the other day, I chose to indulge in my faux culture and take a siesta, and my acquired goods, back at the hostel.

After night had fallen I went back out to hit the streets for super sexy time like leafing through the book stores, an industry this city apparently has more of than anything else. Lost Books had two locations, an Irish proprietor and sections devoted to both Nietzsche and Kerouac, so as far as I am concerned it should garner Wat status.

Cashew chicken was greedily consimed across the street at Kat's Cafe and I got my Skype on, most certainly annoying my fellow patrons.

As I come 'home' to rest my weary head, I am met with my Bangkok buddy and as we both seem to have had pretty action packed days. It is off to bed.

Tomorrow, Chiang Rai and beyond...