Sadly, I didn’t have my childhood cloud interpreter (my brother, Bigboy!) with me so I shared the observation with the bloke sitting next to me.  Paul, an English fella traveling SE Asia solo, was nonplused with my observation but, nonetheless, quickly became a good friend.  Once we landed, he and I set out to the hostel he’d booked in Luang Prabang called Spicy Laos (a brand extension from the Spicy Thai folks in Chiang Mai), where I befriended a heap of people who would later come in and out of my entire SE Asia trip.  Paul, Hayley, Nate, Jimmy, Kelly, Adam, Laura, Courtney: names that’ll likely come up again in this blog and I met all of them here! It started off well enough.  We arrived, we cracked open a couple beers, we headed over to bowl.  Yes, that’s right.  Bowling.  It’s what people in Luang Prabang do when they don’t want to stop drinking (everywhere is forced to close by 11pm except the bowling alley).

Two games with eleven participants took three hours and folks doubted they’d have much gas the following day.  Oh, were they wrong.  The morning sun blazed its fury upon us and we responded the only way that overheated backpackers, sans-AC, know: seek out water. At first I worried that this would be a challenge, but it turns out that Laos is littered with lovely waterfalls.  So ten of us hopped into/onto a tuk-tuk (that’s SE Asian for a set of wheels between 2 and 4 that hauls a hitch with capacity of between 2 and 10) for the Kuang Si Waterfalls.  Water gushed down countless falls, kids splished and splashed in the several pools that formed from said gushing, a band of fools tried to synchronize a YMCA jump off one of the falls, that same band of fools trekked all over.

While heading back from the trek, I spotted something familiar, but odd: a bottle of Johnnie Walker Gold Label.  Having recently wrapped up working on a couple shorts showcasing the five labels of JW, I was well aware of proper drinking methods for the gold (cold, on ice) and was curious to see if the consumers were enjoying it correctly.  Before I even had a chance to observe, someone grabbed me from the side, pulled me over to the table, and offered me a drink.  Now I’m normally not one to drink and hike, but how could I say no?! I smiled, accepted the Gold (splashed over ice with a dash of soda water) and introduced myself.  The eight fellas were visiting from Laos’ capital, Vientiane.  Other than that, the only thing I understood was that they were in finance and thrilled to be sharing with a traveling American their drinks and grub (all kinds of tasty treats, including something like a Vietnamese sausage: 4″ in diameter, its appalling looks bared no likeness to the juicy, complex, delicious flavor).  I soaked up the atmosphere, booze and laughter, and thought, “Welcome to Laos, where the unspeakable natural beauty is only bettered by the friendly, generous inhabitants whose smiles stretch wider than the Annamite mountain ranges!”

But the fun didn’t end there.  Paul and I hopped atop the tuk-tuk for the ride back to catch the best views of the Laos landscapes.

Once in town, the group, still glowing from the day’s adventures, motivated to scale Phousi Hill for a stellar sunset over Luang Prabang that was worth every one of the 600 steps.

My elation from the day’s activities needed expression and took the form of a plumeria in the ear (a non-Laos tradition, it just felt right).

All that walking, trekking, swimming and jumping left us beat.  So Nate, a fellow Yank, and I decided to cap the day off with a little sauna and rub.  Along the way, grub caught our eyes, so we piled a plate to the rim with a $1 dinner.

The wood-burning sauna must have been 200 degrees; coupled with the humidity, it was more like an instant-fatigue steam room.  But I forced myself to remain there for 20 minutes to loosen me up for the massage.  Good decision.  The Laos masseuse beat, flipped and contorted me for an hour; I kept most of my squeals to myself, masking them in grimaced smiles.  By the end, I was loose as a whore on payday.

Nate told me that the New York Times had rated Laos the #1 travel destination for 2008.  After just one day in Luang Prabang, who was I to disagree?!

And so I hopped on a flight to Hanoi from Saigon (note: once you get to the North, folks refer to Saigon as Ho Chi Minh City).  On this flight I was witnessed something that I can say is both consistent on every Vietnam Airlines flight and unique to Vietnam: the bum rush upon landing.  It’s unreal.  When a plane touches down, I’ve been conditioned to wait until the ding before unbuckling my seat belt.  But in Vietnam, the moment those tires hit pavement, the heard jumps up to retrieve their bags.  Also without fail, a stewardess runs down the aisle (yes, while the plane has just begun taxi-ing, still advancing at a steady pace), screaming something in Vietnamese akin to, “Ladies and gentlemen, sit down!!! Sit down, wait to stand until we tell you it’s safe!” Interestingly, on the last flight, they announced as the plane was landing that folks were to stay seated.  No one heeded the warning, plane down, masses up, stewardess screamed.  I mused that it’s a game the Vietnamese like to play just to see the frantic lady come screaming down the aisle – a sight that really is wonderfully amusing.

Once in Hanoi, I got settled at a great little hotel in the old quarter, near the St Joseph Cathedral.  The next morning, I checked out the sites, largely dedicated to Ho Chi Minh: HCM Mausoleum, HCM Museum, Presendential Palace (HCM’s).

These were hardly noteworthy unless you want to see his old “collection” of cars: an M20 and a Peugeot 404.

That evening I met up with my buddy Nick’s friend from NYU, Jay.  Cool cat with a cool story: was living in Berkeley in a family’s extra room, extra room turned out to be the former bedroom of their daughter who had recently moved to Hanoi, daughter returned to Berkeley for two weeks, one week after she went back to Hanoi, Jay had moved there.  He now has a job, a moto, improving Vietnamese language skills, and (of course) the daughter.  Now the daughter is a total catch: stunning, smart, funny; but man, to leave your job, life and country after just two weeks of knowing someone…that’s powerful stuff.  I was proud to meet someone who would take such a risk and am thrilled that the risk has paid off.

They took me to a lovely local spot, where I enjoyed all kinds of tasty Vietnamese delicacies, including papaya salad which I learned is called doo doo (that’s almost as good as the names of Thai cities: Bangkok, Phuket, Phi Phi).  It monsooned that entire night and into the next morning.

The rain let up long enough for me to hop into a mini-bus for Halong Bay.  I wasn’t thrilled about the weather but knew that I didn’t have the luxury of waiting for it to pass.  I spoke to a guide who advised me that we might have an hour of clear calm in the afternoon and that I should be certain to snap my photos then.  Five minutes before we arrived at our boat, the sun surfaced, the sky cleared, and not a drop of rain touched the bay that day or the next.  We spent the day motoring around in a “junk” (shitty yacht), visiting the Surprise Cave and kayaked in the Hidden Caves.

That evening, we anchored and I familiarized myself with the people onboard and Vodka Hanoi, a perfectly decent vodka that leaves no ill hangover.

I woke up in the middle of the night to appreciate the full moon and again at dawn for the sunrise.

Gazing out my window, overlooking Halong Bay on a still, clear morning where the only sounds were those of a fisherman paddling and locusts courting, I was overwhelmed with a sense of peace and tranquility.  I wondered what I had done to deserve this.  Sure, I had tried to be a good guy in life, but countless others less fortunate can make the same claim.  Reincarnation would suggest that I’d led a wonderful life last go around, but that’s too easy.  The Lord of the Rings came to mind: with great power comes great responsibility.  Stretching that a bit, I considered that with great life luck comes great responsibility.  But for what can my charmed life have a responsibility? As I considered such questions, my eyes distracted me.  I looked out at these majestic, thimbles of rock covered in moss which brought an ethereal quality to the place.  How were they formed? It was as though God had dropped little clumps of fertile sand into the ocean and they sprouted up into tall jagged cliffs, where only locusts, ferns and palm trees could survive.  I returned to my question of responsibility and determined that, for now, a deep appreciation for the charmed moments in my life would suffice: I would fulfill my duty so long as I took the time to acknowledge these times in life that I was fortunate to experience.

The last such moment in Vietnam occurred at a little resto called Pho.  For one lousy dollar, I got the most delicious bowl of pho in my life.  The broth was perfect, the meat tender, the portion ample, and, best of all, the accompanying donuts made the ideal complement with which to soak up that delicate broth.

I hopped on a plane later that day for Laos with the bittersweet feeling of leaving behind a country whose natural beauty and quirky people inspired me, while anticipating great adventures in my next destination.

The xe om moto to the ferry was an adventure.  One minute I’m soaking up the scenery and inhaling burning sage brush.  The next, I’m lifting my legs to avoid the splatter of mud as my driver adroitly weaves along the dirt/mud road to maximize traction.

The hydrofoil turned out to be nothing more than a big boat packed to the gills with people and their shit.  I was fortunate upon boarding to be escorted by a crewman to an aisle seat, which a Vietnamese guy gave upon reluctantly, but with a smile.  Nonetheless, I couldn’t have been more uncomfortable, making economy domestic airlines circa 2003 seem like first class.  Consisting of a couple slats of wood to provide 12″ of ass space and with only 8″ of leg room, these seats simply did not fit an average-sized whitey.

For four hours I sat, looking with envy upon those behind me who had slung a hammock wherever there was space.

Yes, that’s right.  Four hours. The 10am departure time turned out to be 11am (the stated arrival time) and the one hour duration turned out to be three.  When I arrived around 2pm, I hopped on the back of a xe om moto and asked him to take me to a hotel.  As we motored around I realized that Ha Tien wasn’t a particularly stop-worthy town, so I refused the first hotel and inquired about a Visa office for Cambodia.  He drove me around, looking for someone who spoke English.  No luck.  We ended up at the Vietnamese frontier, where the two young controllers marveled at the sight of my passport.  After having flipped through all the pages, they returned it without any stamps and smiled.  Just then it dawned on me that I didn’t have a passport photo (typically required for on-the-spot Visas).  I drew up a lovely diagram for my driver to demonstrate what I needed and he motioned that we’d need to head back into town.  At that point, I wondered whether the boarder crossing even issued Visas.  Then I noticed the time (2:45) and asked how long it would take to moto to the boarder.  This frontier had just opened a couple months ago and I would be one of the first travelers to blaze that trail.  “2 hour, 60 kilometers, road bad, no bus, no car.”  My ass already smarted from 5 hours on the ferry.  Tack on 2 hours of what promised to be a bumpy adventure, plus the possibility that 2 hours would turn into 3, plus the lack of a passport photo, and the likelihood that the boarder would be closed when we arrived.  Sum that up and no sensible person would continue.  And, to my surprise, I made the sensible decision.  I blame business school for its damned methodologies to assessing such choices.  Now matter how I reasoned, the reward could never compensate for the risks.  And so, I figured, my adventure stops here.

Not so.  I instructed the xe om driver to take me to a bus station to catch the bus for Rich Gia (from where I could get to Saigon).  As we pulled in, he flagged down a departing bus.  I pulled out a couple dollars, paid him and jumped on the bus.  The driver was intent on making quick work of the journey.  He laid on his obnoxious, 100-decibel horn as his accomplice shouted out of the open entrance door.  Together they successfully parted the sea of Vietnamese who littered the road on foot, bike, moto and car.  The novelty of their show wore off after 30 minutes, so I started snapping photos of the Mekong Delta, aided by the gentleman sitting behind me who alerted me to prepare for photo opportunities.

The time passed quickly and I arrived in Rich Gia at dusk.  When I set foot outside of the bus, xe om driver bees swarmed me.  I told them the name of a specific bus station for Saigon buses, they nodded, said $3.  I tried bargaining but no one would budge.  The cartel was at work and they had me by the balls.  Exhausted, I relented.  One minute later, the moto was driving alongside a minivan, banging on the driver’s window.  The minivan pulled over, it was headed for Saigon, and so was I before I knew it.  I considered renegotiating on the $3, but decided that eliminating any wait time was worth the price – he had fulfilled his end of the deal.  I marveled at the efficiency of the Vietnamese system.  The second I had made a decision to return to Saigon, the system had bounced me around like a Plinko medallion from one peg to another.

The minivan drove along, stopping to pick people up until it was full.  With each stop, I was instructed to go further to the back to make room for groups traveling together.  With each change of rows, an odor intensified.  By the time I reached the back seat, the odor was familiar: filthy wet dog.  Then I heard whimpering.  Filthy wet puppy.  I looked over and saw filthy wet puppies in a laundry basket right next to my bag.  “Wonderful, they’re gonna piss my bag.”  But I wouldn’t get off that easy.  20 minutes later, filthy wet puppies were making quite a commotion.  I looked back and noticed that one had escaped the less-than-formidable cage.  I hollered and pointed and the bus pulled over.  Slowly, everyone emptied out.  Naturally I was last.  Last to see that filthy wet puppies had vomited their yellow curry rice all over my backpack (and most others’ bags).  Flabbergasted, appalled and enraged, I suddenly wanted to sample the Vietnamese delicacy of rare dog…or rare puppy.  But I observed that others, while irritated, did not appear flustered – they picked up cardboard from the side of the road and cleaned their bags off.  And I thought about how I wanted to “get me some of that” Vietnamese resiliency, so I got to the task at hand.

Every once in awhile, you find yourself doing something for reasons you don’t understand.  With every flight since Honolulu, I took the freshening moist towelette and put it in a special place in my little backpack.  I wasn’t really sure why, but a force stronger than I instructed me to do so.  Suddenly Fate made its move and my incomprehensible actions made perfect sense.  While others scrambled for trash to clean their bags, I coolly unwrapped moist towelette after moist towelette to remove the puppy puke from my bag.  My bag, good as new, was ready to continue on.  I rubbed my hands with Purell for good measure, loaded my bag far from filthy wet puppies (making it clear that I would cause a stink if it got next to them again), and hopped on the minivan.

After an hour, a terrible thing happened: the driver’s assistant dropped down an LCD panel, cranked the volume, and popped in a DVD.  Conversation ceased, dominated by menacing, piercing Vietnamese pop concert music.  I could barely hear myself think.  I put my head down and noticed that the guy sitting next to me had crossed his legs and his bare foot had been resting on my arm for the past 15 minutes (I had assumed it was his arm).  The nerve! What if I’d been Hindu, a religion where merely showing the bottom of feet is a sin?!? Rage filled me.  I wasn’t quite sure why, but I was close to losing it and instructing the bus to drop me off in the next town.  Then I realized that I had not eaten anything since my light 7am breakfast and hadn’t had a sip of water since before the ferry landed.  Dehydrated and starved, I was trapped in this dungeon that assailed my ears with trill tunes, eyes with audacious concert performances, nose with filthy wet puppies, arm with dude’s bare foot, and mouth with a dry that felt like I’d just gobbled down an ounce of cinnamon.

Then I had a vision: Steve Jobs came to me in my moment of sensory overload.  Of course – just needed a little changement d’esprit.  And so I put on my noise-blocking Shure headphones, grabbed my iPod, cranked the Radiohead, closed my eyes, and lulled into a trance until the bus stop an hour later, where I grubbed some pho and loaded up on water.  With senses in check, I came to enjoy the rest of the ride, appreciating the absolute absurdity of it all.  This was Vietnam in a nutshell: loud, boisterous, resilient, unpredictable, quirky…and I love it!

Phu Quoc Island. Its beaches are top 5 worldwide, its live reefs have divers peeing in their wetsuits out of excitement, and its “off-the-beaten path” recognition from Lonely Planet attracts the discerning backpacker.

When I looked into transportation options, I had infinite possibilities. So I heeded the advice of my mate Frank, who’s traveled the region a couple times: take a plane whenever possible. Walking around Saigon early one morning, I happened upon a Vietnam Airlines agent who sold me a ticket for the following day for $55. Wow, I haven’t paid that little for a flight since the late-90s.

Early the next morning, I negotiated a $2 airport ride on a xe om (moto scooter taxi) that got me to SAI alive, exhilarated and plenty awake. When the flight finally boarded, I found myself walking down a tarmac toward an old school, 1950s-looking ATR-72 airplane.

I had no idea these things still functioned, yet alone flew. I’ve been in prop planes before, but never one of the 75+ person variety. I welcomed the novelty, I romanticized that my mother’s family had flown on the same plane 50 years ago across the US. Everything seemed, and felt, like a normal airplane…until we reached our cruising altitude, below the clouds. And there we remained, perhaps around 22k feet, looking up at the sky and down at the fabled Mekong Delta. While most backpackers trudged along the delta in river skiffs, I absorbed the beauty from a different perspective. I was struck by the sheer number of people: little dots everywhere, bouncing between the murky, muddy river and their tiny, tin-roofed homes. Overall, the flight was pleasant (even included a moist towelette) and smooth as a Chinese chin: nary a stubble until landing and then BOOM…the hairy mole sent us swaying back and forth, bouncing up and down. We deplaned briefly in Rich Gia, the capital city of the region.

I start to write a blog entry when Lai, a boy about 10ish, sits next to me as I’m typing, looks at my computer screen, smiles and says, “Hello.” I exchange pleasantries, realize he doesn’t speak English but finds me thoroughly exotic. He just sits there, watching me type, smiling, without giving a thought in the world that I might not want him to see what I’m doing. Lai walks off, I guess he got bored. Before I have time to move on to my next sentence, he returns with a baguette and splits it in half, giving me the larger piece with a smile. We sit there, eating our bread, and I’m frustrated with my inability to communicate with him. So I do what any good tourist would do: show him my pictures. My inventory is limited to my recent travels, so I show him Hawaii. He likes it. I then geek out, open Google Earth, show him where we are, where Hawaii is in relation, and where we’re both headed: Phu Quoc. He’s enthralled. On to the next slide show. Taipei pics bore him until we get to pictures of Anne and Christine, both of whom he approves. I’m running out of photos, but it’s cool cuz he beckons his father’s yell from across the waiting hall. “Damn, I took that dude’s breakfast,” I scold myself. But lo, Lai returns with a locked cell phone. Presumably his father saw that I had a computer and drew the reasonable conclusion that anyone with a computer can unlock a cell phone (likely true in Vietnam). I punched in some default random codes, nothing worked, Lai acknowledged my failed effort, and motioned that it was time to re-board.

The Lai experience got me thinking about Vietnamese people, who I’ve decided are like cats: pushy and noisy, they will take a meter if you give them a centimeter; but their playfulness and cool charm make it all okay. The playful spirit manifests in myriad manners, often only calmed by a light pet. And they are plenty comfortable extending this pet to foreigners. When I arrived in Saigon, I flipped through the channels frantically to get a Lakers result, oblivious that someone was waiting to show me to my room; they made a couple jokes at my expense, then proceeded to caress my ear to snap me out of the hypnotic boob tube surf. Their cool charm extends to bargaining, a friendly back-and-forth in which anger will never result in a desired outcome. In Saigon, I had a dispute over whether my ricksha ride included a stop en route to my hotel. We bantered a barter:
“30k dong? That’s more than a taxi.”
“Taxi easy, this hard work.”
“Hard work? It’s good exercise. Keeps you healthy.”
He laughs.
“Tell ya what, you pay me 15k dong and I’ll peddle us there, I could use the exercise.”
He laughs again and we agree upon a solution.

But bargaining isn’t always fun. Sometimes you find yourself in a situation with no alternative. Such was the case when Lai and I landed in Phu Quoc. He and his dad quickly disappeared and the airport was left with a smattering of tourists who needed transport to their hotels. I had figured I’d take another $2 xe om motobike, but an opportunity to share a cab with a pair of South Africans presented itself. They were headed where I wanted to go, so we set out on negotiating a taxi. However, there was to be no negotiating. The local taxi cartel had established an exorbitant price and, with no alternative, we were forced to take it. They laughed when I bluffed that I’d take the xe om, citing impossibly muddy roads (which turned out to be 100% accurate).

Eventually our taxi arrived at the Beach Club Hotel (8 bungalows, on the beach, $15 for a single…plush!). I spent the morning sleeping through the heavy rain, woke up for lunch, and learned that the island had endured 7 straight days of monsoon-like conditions. Bummer. I chatted with a couple girls who worked there to get the low-down on the island. They suggested I just kick back all day and I thought that excellent advice. But they interrupted my lunch to tell me that a German couple had hired a car for the day and that I might consider tagging along. Just at that moment they rain let up. I scarfed down my lunch and hopped on the Heinrich train. First stop was savage beauty of raw, ungroomed Sao Beach. World-renowned and likely a future resort beach, I enjoyed the simple beauty of what rest before me.

Then I splashed around some, seeking good snorkeling, but the coolest thing I spotted was this red starfish.

Next stop: Da Bam Waterfalls.

I’ve seen bigger, but I’ve never been in anything this big where stupid tourists are actually allowed to play. The water pummeled me, I went in-and-out, I even filmed myself going around the back of the fall (thank you, waterproof camera!).

We finished the day off in town, bargaining for bo-bon’s (don’t know English name, they’re like lychee but segmented like an orange) and mangosteens (yes Nick, they are amazing! I eat them daily).

A fruitful end to a delicious day! 7 days of monsoon, Mike arrives, clear skies. While in Peru last winter, Rick introduced me to the concept of travel karma. The travel karma is on my side!

Note: Many Vietnam photos posted here!

Millions greeted me when I arrived in Saigon on Friday AM, but I made it to my hotel no sweat, in great (if tired–thanks Anne!) spirits. Wavered about venturing out, but the Lakers result (an historic, 24-point blown lead) sealed it: sleep the day away.

Amazing how volatile spirits are during travels: from the high of a perfect Taipei night to the low of a stupid sporting event. But it always happens with independent traveling. You get off to a great start, hit a little lull and the reality of solitary kicks in. You can’t move. You’re in a new city, new country, hear things calling you to explore, but you can’t. You usually don’t go a day without seeing someone you love and you realize that you have weeks before you’ll see a recognizable face. But that’s the nature of it. That’s part of the game: the longer you know you’ll be solo, the more time you need to psyche yourself up to explore. I needed a day. Granted I was exhausted and the rest was certainly needed, but I sat in that hotel room for 26 hours without leaving (22 hours of sleep, 4 hours of Euro Cup action).

After more disappointing sporting news (France got served), I decided that a changement d’esprit was in order. So I jumped up early and meandered around Saigon (the government likes to call it Ho Chi Minh City, but I can’t pretend that’s caught on here). I had a quick win: I walked into a Vietnam Airlines office and booked a ticket for the next day to Phu Quoc Island that earlier in the day I’d been told was unavailable. It pays to do things on your own. The changement d’esprit was in effect.

I walked around, took photos of the bizarre (an outdoor pho noodle/pedicure place), the familiar (Bud’s Ice Cream), and something in between (guys playing volleyball in front of a government building). I joined the volleyball match for a couple rounds, but without an ocean to dive into that quickly got old.

The Bizarre:

The Familiar:

Something In Between:

Then I went to Saigon’s most important site: The War Remnants Museum (formerly the US War Crimes Museum). Initially I walked through the gates in awe of the display of big, bad, beautiful US war crafts. Riveted, I, along with most toursits, gawked at the best display of 1960s tanks, fighter planes and helicopters outside of the Smithsonian.

As I proceeded along the tour, the awe shifted to disgust and the gawking became wincing. Images of partial corpes and living victims of napalm blasts and agent orange followed me everywhere. The message was clear: war bad. Nothing more than that, no America-bashing, just education. And educated I was. I left almost as crippled as one of the countless amuptee victims of the war, barely able to walk home. But importantly, I had a newfound understanding of what victims and veterans from both sides endured, the casualties of war beyond the body counts (externalities of war, for economists). Consider this painting by a 14-year old, titled “That’s My Mother After Wartime”:

So I spent the evening thinking. Unable to write or even talk to other travelers, I just walked around, grabbed dinner, went into my room, and thought. I thought hard. I tried to make sense of things beyond my understanding. I reached two conclusions: 1. Vietnamese resiliency is inspiring, 2. Western Europeans might actually be right to scoff Americans’ lack of historical knowledge.

Here I was, in Vietnam, 30 years after Altschuls of a different generation had been here in battle. And not only did the Vietnamese welcome me with smiles and kindness, but they also educated me. Such is the Vietnamese spirit. I want me some of that: warmth, forgiveness, smarts, sagacity.

I remember being told in the past that we study history to avoid repeating its mistakes. Trite as it seemed at the time, perhaps there’s something to that. The museum saught to educate, likely in the noble pursuit of preventing such atrocities in the future. Gurnar Myrdal, Chair of Int’l Investigation Committee for US Crimes, stated, “Being in possession of modern weapons and advanced technology, the ruthless militarists and politicians trampling upon morality, not only brought about the destruction of the human being but also the living environment of a society … the future generations also face the same threat as those who are now living in this society.” Although this quote refers to the contaminated physical environment of Vietnam, consider the two essential elements: advanced weapons and their impact on future generations. So if we recognize that history matters, have we learned anything from the Vietnam War, which taught us that America’s arms have long-reaching implications? I fear not. Look at the situation with that camel fucker in Iraq (couldn’t resist the Big Lebowski reference). What did we learn from Vietnam? Apparently not much. It seems that we have, again, misunderestimated the long-term physical and psychological toll of a war, this time in Iraq. [sigh]

And so I’m left to hope that, in 30 years, a related history will again repeat itself: that my children will visit an Iraq (or the 2-3 countries it becomes) that both has rebuilt and welcomes to US visitors with smiles…an Iraq that has regained its picturesque past, as Vietnam has.

[Stay tuned next time, kids: Mike goes to Phu Quoc Island and has some crazy tales...]

Once in Tokyo, I fell hard for the city based on the 2 hours I had at the airport: friendly and quirky people, a brilliant layout, a language that managed to be both cute and oddly seductive in its choppiness. And let’s be honest: any country that welcomes me with gratis shots of duty free scotch gets things right. Every once in awhile, I pass through an airport that makes me vow to return to a country. Two years ago, it was HK; this time around, Tokyo gets the nod.

Eventually I arrived at Taipei airport, decided to forgo the complimentary hotel offered by China Airlines for its transfer customers, found my way to the Ubus 705 to shuttle me to Taoyuan where I caught the High-Speed Train for an all-nighter on the town. While riding the HST, a sense of euphoria overcame me. The sense of adventure derived from the simplest of daily tasks, like getting from BFE airports to downtown, cannot be understated. Funny how one man’s ritual is another’s adventure.

The adventure continued when I met up with my dear old friend Anne, a high school friend who now lives in Taipei. We enjoyed some beer and a smattering of Taiwanese delights, from succulent oysters to seared soft tofu, then a couple more peeps (Dave and Christine) joined us and helped us polish off the smattering.

From there, we headed to a swank joint called People, which boasted such cool gimmicks as a hidden wooden hole that you had to throw your hand into for admittance (anyone else thinking Flash Gordon) and test tube shots (25 for 750 Taiwan bucks…huzzah!). While there I learned that Korean people invented everything. People also had some quality shitters in the event that weary travelers who had eaten one too many Hindu vegetarian meals on China Airlines had the need for such a thing.

Mod was the next stop, a sorta institution in the Taiwan “pub” world. Cool spot with tasty drinks that included a delicious belgian berry ale and martinis being pushed by an odd, emaciated drink sponsor (think Diageo providing almost hot girls to push & serve drinks, in addition to those served by a waiter). While there I learned that Taipei 101 is not the tallest building in the world (something I’d already known, yet somehow my mind had changed over the course of the night) and paid the price: a 151 shot. In keeping on the bathroom theme, I should mention that Mod boasted the coolest bathroom indicators I’ve seen since Peru: old CD cases…brilliant!

The shots were kicking in, we were all having a blast, and it was time to make the most important trip of the night: foot massages. Foot massages are like wheat grass: thoroughly unpleasant initially, strangely satisfying in the end. So we hit up 6 Stars Foot Massage and got our feet pummeled. It’s tough to say what’s more satisfying: knowing that your feet are getting the acupressure they need after a day of flying or hearing your friends squeal as their pressure points force the inner hyaena out of hiding. A trick I learned too late: they’ll let up if you flail and howl in agony. When my masseuse afforded me the greatest complement (that I had a high threshold for pain), I couldn’t help but wonder the bruises I could expect in the coming days.

The night wrapped up in proper fashion: delicious noodles and soup at a dingy spot. No idea what the name is, but it’s one of those places that looks like shit, but attracts hipsters and celebrities late-night. Learn Chinese and track down this grubbery (I hear the two hot girls next to the sign work there):

Things wound down, I bid adieu to my fabulous host and hostesses, and hopped in a taxi to the airport. After 12 hours of flight and 14 hours of fun in Taipei, I was ready for some much-needed sleep. Thanks hostesses with the mostestess.

The greatest layover of my life was over and I give big ups to Anne, Christine, Dave and Jerry for showing me a helluva time. I couldn’t help but entertain the following thought: like most travelers, I had always been under the impression that the best experiences come when you learn the language, meet the people, and gain that local edge. Fuck that. The best experiences come when you are led along in blissful ignorance to new and exciting places, by people who know you, love you and share similar interests. Pity I don’t have an Anne in every city of the world.

PS. If you’re wondering about that title, think Chun Li from Street Fighter or Hiro from Heroes. Still stumped? It’s Japenese for “Yay for me! I did it!” For proper usage, ask Frank to demonstrate.

I wrote this article for our school newspaper, sums up Cannes in a modest 2500 words…

While most MBA students cleared out their lockers and headed home to enjoy the company of friends and family one last time before the royal summer reaming of their lives (codename: internships), a few fortunate souls embarked on an Odyssean adventure into the depths of…The Cannes Film Festival.  Entourage recently showcased the atmosphere at Cannes in its season finale.  Multiply all the parties, all the girls, all the emotion, all the frustration, all the elation…multiply all that by 10 and you can start to get a glimpse into the world’s grandest, most important film festival.

Ascension

The first step you take along La Croisette (a promenade along the beach) overwhelms every sense.  As the bouquet of a nutella crepe wafts into your nostrils, the sun oil from a topless girl rubs against your arm, holding your attention until you hear a Moroccan extolling the virtues of shooting a film in his country.  Just then your eyes dilate as they try to take in the infinite country-sponsored tents, the taste of fortunes made and fortunes lost palatable.

You try to regain control of your senses with each step you take, called in the direction of the Palais des Festivals.  But along the way, you notice a mob following a little girl to the American Tent.  Oh wait, that’s Norah Jones and she’s about to talk about My Blueberry Nights with HK superstar director Wong Kar Wai.  You follow the mob, flash your American Tent badge proudly, and grab a seat.  You try to act normal, like you’ve been here before, like you belong.  But emotions get the better of you as you think to yourself, “Holy shit, I’m on the beach in Cannes, spitting distance from Norah Jones and WKW.”  You’re experiencing the Cannes Tingle: that sensation you get at your first great concert when your spirit is so elated that it seems to lift itself from your body.  You ground yourself, in anticipation of the Q&A.  “Hello, brain! Where are you? Help me out here.”  Your brain retorts, “I would, but Norah Jones is staring at you and it’s distracting.”

The Ropes

A wiser man than myself once said, “Sometimes you eat the bar, and sometimes the bar…well, she eats you.”  Sometimes both.

A day can start off at 9am after 2 hours sleep and place you in line for a film for over an hour while the sun scorches your pasty-white, NYC skin.  You”ll watch hoards of less devoted fans, more distinguished players flash their badges, reminding you that you’re the VUP at this VIP party.  Then the dreaded words, “C’est complet,” inform you that you really should have slept in.  Insult to injury when you realize that in a couple hours you have to work as a hired hand at a Variety party at the Hotel Majestic.  But, true to The Business, luck can change with the flick of a French manicured finger.  You’re doing your job, guarding the back entrance, smoking a cigarette, when a Variety editor asks you for a light and rewards you with a little secret: U2 will be performing atop the Palais steps at 11.  A few beers and one embarrassing gawking moment (15 Stern guys giggling like school children at the most insanely gorgeous woman any had ever seen) later, you’re watching U2 swagger up the tapis rouge to pick up their instruments and jam at the summit.  You look around, soaking it all up, wondering what you did right in your past life to deserve this.  Then, after two songs, U2 drops their instruments and heads into the Palais’ vaunted Lumière theatre.  A rush line quickly forms and then you realize that you really did something right in your past life: suddenly you’re ascending the tapis rouge along with 10 of your Stern mates.  You’re treated to a 3D film of U2 concerts that’s almost even better than the real thing.  When Bono extends his arm to the camera, you reach out to touch it.  The 1-trillion channels of sound confuse the audience: “Are people in here clapping and screaming or is that the film? Fuck it, I wanna yell!”

The concert ends and you get greedy.  You want more.  You find a partner in crime to go party-crashing.  Your partner tells you about a Nordic beach party that’s supposed to be hype and together you plot your entrance scheme.  You think Nordic.  Fredirik, your Swedish roommate from University, and Swedish au pair parties come to mind.  They taught you to say your name.  Perfect.  You confidently approach a cute Nordic girl holding a list.  This’ll be a piece of cake.  “Hej, jag heter Mike,” you introduce yourself.  She’s perplexed, expecting more Swedish.  But your friends didn’t tell you how to say, “I’m the youngest studio executive at Cannes but I forgot my business cards,” in Swedish, so you explain in English that you were…umm…invited this morning by a girl in the…ummm Nordic tent (side note: there is no Nordic tent).  They ask for her name.  Helena seems reasonable.  No luck, you’re booted from the line.  You try unsuccessfully to crash a couple more parties, then go to the place where Cannes nobodies unite to unwind: Petit Majestic.  Before you’ve even ordered a beer, your partner in crime receives a text message.  You hop in a cab and go up the hills of Cannes to a mansion hosting a Highlands and Islands party.  Vikings (think Scots in kilts with mustaches and helmets) abound, everyone’s sloshed, dancing gaily, and belting out ear-piercing tunes.  One drink later, the party’s winding down.  Bummer…or not.  The girl who sent the text message invite has befriended “Nordy.”  Nordy is the Film Commissioner for Norway.  And Nordy decides that he likes you and your friends and wants you all to join him at the next party.  You hop in a shuttle bus, use your French skills to plead with the driver to drop the shuttle in front of the party, and Nordy’s pleased he invited you along to this beach party.  This familiar beach party.  This Nordic beach party.  You try not to gloat but can’t hold back a little smile at the cute Nordic girl with the list as you slide through thanks to your golden ticket, Nordy.  

That’s Cannes.  That’s The Business.  Not one or two rounds, but a grueling, 15-round fight.  You’ll get knocked the fuck out, but have to peel yourself off the canvas for the promise of the next round.

Cannes Veteran

Flash-forward a few days.  You have some solid experience under your belt.  You know the rules of engagement.  Your access badge is crap and you are an untouchable in the Indian caste system, so you’ll have to be creative to attend the films and parties.

You try again to see the new Coen Brothers film, but the line is already longer than the capacity of the theater (something you can now assess in 5 seconds flat).  So you grab your guide and notice that 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days starts in 5 minutes at a screening room 1 km away.  There’s serious buzz about this one and this is the last showing.  You run your ass off, arrive, observe two ladies being told to advance toward the theater.  Without blinking, you place yourself right behind them and tell your conscience that the big crowd is waiting for another movie.  The two ladies enter, you feign an association, but the clerk sees your shit badge and denies you entrance.  You hear a couple classmates saying your name but you can’t be distracted: face forward, get in.  Just then, the 15 people at the front of the line are admitted, regardless of badge.  Thankfully your fellow Sternies make it in and you are all treated to the film that would later win the Palme d’Or.  Later that evening, you and some classmates go to rush the line for the premier of Caramel.  You notice a couple classmates get turned away, flip your badge around, and allow people to go before you until the spacing is right.  You advance, look past the clerks, walking with a sense of purpose, belonging, entitlement.  You’re in! And one other classmate made it, too! After the film, you witness an emotional, “dream come true at Cannes” moment for the beautiful Lebanese director and actress, Nadine Labaki.  The magic of cinema is alive and well.  The magic of your experiences helped you witness it.

The next day you decide to spend some time observing where the magic really happens: at the Marche of the Palais where films are bought and sold.  You stop by the exhibitions of some friends you’ve made at parties throughout the week, find out that the Columbian party is the hype for the night.  But it’s early and you feel like seeing something.  A screening is just about to start and it turns out to be a last-minute screening for a film that had been on your list.  You talk your way in, witness a shitty film (it happens), and get lost in the Marché.  Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a boom mic and check it out.  10 feet in front of you, in an empty, secluded balcony of the Palais: Vince, Eric, Turtle, Ari, and that prick Billy Walsh.  You and a Japanese girl who, like you, stumbled upon the shoot, watch a few takes shot, the scene wraps, you explain to the girl that she just saw a shoot for the coolest show on TV, and the boys of Entourage look at you, wondering if you belong.  You don’t and you don’t care.  “What’s up, fellas.  Love the show…nice of you to make the festival!” All except Turtle thank you; they’re actually pleased to be recognized and you are so pissed to be without your camera.  You spend the rest of the day in class (yes there was classroom learning, too).  Early evening you get a text message from a friend you met while working at the Variety party: “Got 2 tix to premier tonight. Wanna go?” Percepolis.  You’ve been eyeing this premier all week and now you actually have a ticket! You rush back to Juan-les-pins to change into appropriate attire, then right back to Cannes.  All those screenings have prepared you for what comes next: nose bleeds.  Don’t accept them.  Every section of the Lumière ropes off rows until the last minute.  Your insight pays off: dead center, third row balcony and you witness a movie every bit as beautiful as it is charming.  The audience applauds the film for over 15 minutes.  You need a drink to soothe those aching hands and head over to the Columbian party.  No ticket, so you’ll need a partner in crime.  Security is tight, this party is packed to the gills but really looks fun.  You split up, asking around for a ticket.  Your partner’s cute looks score her one ticket.  Step 1.  She goes in, tries to locate one more ticket.  No luck, nobody has tickets.  Frustration mounts.  Suddenly the guy that gave her a ticket hooks her up again and you drink and dance your asses off into the night.  You eventually catch the morning train home and pass out proud.  You have arrived, you are a Cannes veteran: a nobody who’s managed to get somebody treatment.

Along Comes J-P

You’re feeling good about yourself.  You work your way into the films you want to see, parties that give you free booze, the Cannes world you had dreamed of living in.  Then J-P (jhee-pay) comes along and puts you in check.

Your last night at Cannes.  You and a couple brave soldiers who stuck around a bit longer are completely spent.  Ten days of nonstop films and parties, 2-5 hours of sleep per night, and malnutrition have caught up with you.  But, it’s your last night.  “Go big or go home,” you tell yourself.  “Home sounds pretty nice: comfy bed, food,” yourself whimpers.  But something inside you rallies.  You and your soldiers will go to battle one last time, for the glory of Stern.  The premier of Joaquin Phoenix’s We Own the Night won’t be easy to get into, but you’re a veteran.  You have a strategy: Operation Swallow All Pride.  You get dolled up in tuxes and gown, write “1 ticket SVP” on cardboard, hand it out to the troops, and get into the rush line.  You recognize a Cannes bouncer, Claude, with whom you’ve had a conversation or two.  He likes you.  Nice.  Before you know it, someone walking the tapis rouge waves a ticket.  You frantically motion to Claude and he hooks you up.  Other people in the rush line scowl from envy.  You don’t care, you have 30 minutes to get 2 more tickets.  The next two take longer, but eventually you all get in to see the film.  It’s entertaining and starts off with one helluva Eva Mendes scene.  

Mission accomplished, flight tomorrow morning, time to head home.  But first you have to snap a photo in front of the Palm d’Or on the wall.  A kind gentleman offers to take the photo of you and your friends.  “Oh putain, J-P, c’est toi?!!” Your friend’s dad, a Parisian dentist, looks dapper in his tux as he checks that the photo is acceptable.  What is he doing at Cannes? He’s going to the Soirée We Own the Night.  Does he have extra tickets? Of course not, but he tells you to join him and he’ll figure something out.  You go to the shuttle stop for the soiree and start asking around for tickets.  No luck.  This is another level.  No one gives away these tickets.  If someone has an unused one, they discard it in plain view of other guests in attendance.  The shuttle rolls into the stop, J-P and his friend hop on and try to get you and your friends on.  “One ticket per person only.”  J-P invents a story that he’s supposed to have 5 tickets, but only just opened the envelope.  The driver will not budge.  J-P says to get on the next shuttle and he’ll get you in at the door.  You blindly believe.  While you’re waiting for the next shuttle an official-looking girl calls you out for asking her for tickets earlier.  Your cover is blown…or is it? “We arrived here thinking we had tickets and panicked when we realized when we were 3 short, so we asked around.”  She accepts this.  She also accepts that you’re familiar with 2929 (We Own the Night’s production company)’s “Todd and Mark.”  She also accepts that you targeted 2929 on a recent job hunt (aka internship), but ended up at The Weinstein Company.  She even accepts that you should be on the next shuttle bus.  When you arrive at the door, you act disgusted that only two of three names are on the list (but deep down you’re amazed the J-P managed to even get one name).  Things look bleak until you mention the name J-P.  Now it’s not that his name is respected within the industry; rather, he knows how to talk and nag until he gets what he wants.  The mere appearance of J-P is enough to get the third name on the list.  You’re in, greeted with a gift bag that includes $150 in Jo Malone perfume.

Mini Veuve Cliquot bottles flow, Belvedere vodka splashes, gourmet hors d’oeuvres circulate, placed next to plates of Ladurée macarons.  Men and women in tuxedos and gowns dance on a plexiglass floor suspended above an Infinity pool that spills onto a cliff, into the ocean.  People line up to play the Wii on 60″ plasmas, old men competing against young (HOT) women.  And, oh yeah, Joaquin Phoenix, Robert Duvall and Eva Mendes flutter about (for 5 minutes, until they move onto the real party…it must be such a nuisance to party with non-celebs!).  But you celebrate.  You celebrate J-P, the Cannes Master: a nobody who’s managed to get VIP treatment.  You celebrate that your troop won battles it hadn’t anticipated fighting.  You celebrate the spoils of this battle.  You celebrate that of all the highs and lows of the past 10 days, you’re leaving on the highest high.  C’est la fete! C’est la vie!

A perfect Cannes day.  Perfect.

Frustrated by limited badge access, I tried a new technique: check out the morning films at the Lumiere.  Here’s how things work: every night there are two big events at the massive Lumiere theater (red carpet entrance) and earlier in the day there’s also a screening at the Lumiere.  All films are invitation only.  However, I discovered that the first daytime screening rarely reaches the 10,000 person capacity (Cannes being Cannes, everyone wants tix to the evening show so they can strut their stuff), therefore chances are good in the rush line.  So today I checked out A Mighty Heart, the film about Daniel Pearl’s kidnapping and torture.  Angelina’s French accent left something to be desired, but otherwise her performance was fabulous — two scenes in particular were incredibly moving (her TV appearance and when she hears of her husband’s death).  I went straight from the exit into the next rush line to queue for Gus Van Sant’s Paranoid Park, a non-sequential tale about a skater who’s involved in the accidental death of a security officer on train tracks.  I nearly jumped outta seat for joy when I saw Chris Doyle’s name in the credits for DP.  I love him, he’s the only DP for whom I’ll check out any movie he’s involved.  And he didn’t let me down.  Some incredible shots, brilliant montages, and the many scenes of skaters just wowed (though someone else gets credit for those).  The dialog was spot-on, seemingly taken straight from the corridors of the Oregon high school.  Gus even paid tribute to Napoleon Dynamite in a smart, sweet scene.

After having gone two for two on films, I decided to try my hand at the beach parties.  I rolled out with Debbie, a great partner in crime who knew all the parties…just not necessarily how to get in.  She’d heard that the Nordic Party would be solid, so we gave it a shot.  But you can’t just walk up to the list and claim you belong.  You need to give them an excuse to let you in.  Here’s my theory: 90% of the people with the authority don’t want to turn you away…but they have to if you don’t give them a reason to let you in.  So I walked up with Debbie and tried the “I’m Mike” thing, but with a flare.

“Hej, jag heter Mike,” I cheerily explained.  One year of living with good old Fredirik had paid off in the ability to convey my name in Swedish.  The two girls looked confused.  I’m not sure whether this stemmed from the need for more detail or from their ethnicity…sure, they were Scandinavian, but that didn’t mean they spoke Swedish.  I proceeded to tell them that I’d been speaking to a girl in the Nordic tent who told me to swing by the party tonight.  They asked me her name.  “I don’t recall…maybe Helena.”  They kindly asked us to exit the line, but told us that they’d let us in later if there was space.

Next we stumbled upon an Indian party and decided we belonged.  Debbie had a name to drop and gave it a shot.  No luck.  The name she dropped would likely get us in to almost any LA parties, but not a Cannes soiree.  

We decided that we weren’t drunk enough to be pushy and silly, so we went to the Petit Majestic for some beers.  And then a break came: Debbie received an SMS that she was on the list for a Highlands and Islands party.  We immediately jumped in a cab and headed up to the mansion.  Vikings (think Scots in kilts with mustaches and helmets) greeted us, danced around gaily, and sang some ear-piercing tunes.  I sipped some Scotch, snapped some photos, then suddenly things were closing down.

But our night wasn’t over.  Debbie’s friend Clare had befriended Nordy.  Nordy was the Film Commissioner for Norway.  And Nordy decided that he liked Debbie and me enough to get us into the next party.   Many of us hopped into a van and Nordy began to explain to the shuttle driver where we needed to go.  The driver didn’t understand.  I spoke French and made him understand.  It took a lot of persuasion, but ultimately we ended up in front of the party.  A beach party.  A Nordic beach party.  Redemption.  I smiled at the girls at the door who had dissed us just 3 hours earlier.  With the Nordy golden ticket, no one could turn us away.  A little luck, a lot of tenacity and bulletproof egos landed these two untouchables at a prestigious beach party!

2 great films, 2 great parties, 0 Euros spent.  A perfect Cannes day!

Caramel Premier

Ignorance.  I’m quickly learning that ignorance, disregard for security, and a little luck can get you places here.

A little background: there are about 8 types of badges that give varying degrees of access to Cannes.  My badge is complete crap, giving me access only to the marche and the official selection theaters (via a rush line that requires at least a 30 minute wait and is hardly a guarantee).  I gather this is the first year that we got stuck with such shitty access, which is super unfortunate, but just means  you have to hustle.

On this day, I did just that.  It began just like the previous day: I woke up and stood in line for the Coen Brother’s No Country for Old Men. Sadly, the result was the same: Mike stands in the sun for an hour and doesn’t get in.  In fact, just as before, I was about 20 people away from admittance.  Pity, that was by far my top pic to see.  Oh well, at least I tried.

I looked at what else was playing and noticed 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, which had a little buzz going around.  I had 5 minutes to get to the screening room 1 km away.  I ran.  And when I arrived, I noticed two ladies who were told to advance toward the theater.  Half of me thought the big crowd was waiting for a different movie; half of me thought that they were waiting for 4 Months.  All of me knew that my best chance for admittance would come by trailing these ladies.  And I did.  And I made it all the way to the door, where I was abruptly stopped due to shitty said badge.  I heard a couple classmates behind me, but knew that I had to just keep looking forward.  Just then, the bouncer lets about 15 people through and closes the door.  My classmates were right behind me, made it in, and we were treated to the likely Palme d’Or winner.  Why do I think so? Because the last time I saw a movie that made me feel like that was Dancer in the Dark and it won.  Excruciating, but well worth the watch.

Later that evening, a number of us went to see Caramel.  I noticed that our badges wouldn’t be admitted and saw a couple classmates get turned away.  So I flipped my badge around, distanced myself from other classmates, waited for the right moment to advance, and walked past the badge checkers looking past them with a sense of purpose.  I made it.  And I witnessed an emotional, “dream come true at Cannes” moment for the beautiful Lebanese director and actress, Nadine Labaki.  Although the language was Lebanese and it was shot in Beirut (just months before Israel bombed the shit out of it…powerful to see what it was like before), the formula was very French: a few people with a commonality (a hair salon), each struggling with love, a crazy lady, a gay/bisexual subtext for a couple characters…I’d seen this genre before, but the shots of Beirut were powerful, the acting was great, and the dialog (for what it was) did the trick.

Another day that started with thwarted frustration, but ended with lucky admittance to a couple good Cannes pics.  Lesson learned: hustle, act like you belong and you might just trick them.

So one funny anecdote I forgot to mention U2 eve that perfectly demonstrates the type of conversation one can have with a typical snooty asshole around here who thinks he’s more important than he ever will be.

I made some contacts at the Variety party, then thought it couldn’t hurt to email one of them with whom I got along especially well to see if he could score tix to U2.  But I needed to email and it was late (~10pm).  I cruised by the American Pavilion and the door was open, so I walked in.

Halfway through an email, a fella starts shouting at me.  “Hey, we’re closed.”

I looked up, there were a couple other people typing away, it seemed they were indeed slowly closing down.  “Oh, I just need to wrap up this email, can I just have 2 minutes?”

“Pardon? On est ferme.” (trans: “I don’t understand.  We’re closed.”)

“Bon, d’accord.  En fait, j’ai juste besoin d’une minute pour envoyer cette email, s’il vous plait.”  (trans: same thing I had just said, but in French.)  He hadn’t counted on that.

He looked incredulous.  “Who are you?”

My response, with haughty shock: “I’m Mike.”  Frankly, I had no idea what the hell he was asking, so this was the first thing that came out.  Ignorance was bliss.  I’ve since discovered that such questions are used to determine what you do in the industry (trans: why are you in Cannes and are you important).  He remained an asshole, but was perplexed enough to let me finish the email.  As I tapped away, he asked me where I was from and I told him NYC.

“That’s why you’re so pushy.  The door’s closed for a reason.”

“Actually, the door was open when I walked in and I only just moved there.  I’m pretty much from San Francisco.”

“That explains your striped Polo.”

“Actually, I just bought it in France, where I’ve also lived for a couple years.”

He was out of rationalizations, out of explanations as to who I am.  Pity, I had plenty left.  There’s so much more to the life of Mike.