A Geisha in Gion

The Japanese are a fiercely proud people. So proud and nationalistic, in fact, that they are intensely afraid of contamination. In the wake of swine flu, almost everyone sported white surgeon's masks outdoors and airports screened the body temperature of every passenger. Even when I tapped a bus driver for directions, he shrank three feet away from me and brushed off my touch like I was a mosquito.

"Guess he thought you were Chinese," my mother laughed. Ah, the age-old animosity between Japan and China. Indeed, the Japanese obsession with cleanliness, evidenced by hand sanitizers, soaps, and disinfectants everywhere, clashed with the overcrowded, pungent, and rather filthy streets of cities like Beijing. Despite population and industrialization, how clean a city is, is a matter of culture.

Of course, I had forgotten to study the language before our departure. The young, educated Japanese conveniently ignored my requests for directions, pretending they did not understand even though they laughed when I told my mother a joke (in English). Perhaps it was the embarrassment of speaking in an Anglican tongue, or maybe it was a sign of disrespect towards their heritage. Nonetheless, Mother to the rescue. She was surprisingly fluent, navigating us around town in local buses, and elbowing me because I kept saying "Comsomida." Later, I realized I had gone around Kyoto saying "thank you" in Korean.

Everything in Japan was small, exquisite, and especially potent. Think sake, or tiny rice cakes crusted with powdered sugar, concealing a delectable center of honeydew or red bean or strawberry. Outside the renowned Golden Pavilion Kinka-kuji, there was a small collection of confections and we feasted on sugary sweets flavored with green tea or ginger. The teas were extraordinary: one whiff and they awakened the senses.

We also encountered geisha along the wooden walkways of Gion. They have become a rare breed, ever more cherished because of their scarcity. More elusive than shadows, one could only glimpse at them heading off to the theatre or to entertain a private party, that flash of white paint and sumptuous kimono disappearing around the next corner. They shun the attentions of the public, and the ever curious tourist.

I remember one particular geisha who brushed past us closely in a narrow street. The sky was dark, as it was evening and red lanterns were lit outside the taverns. When she saw us, her hand flew up protectively, as if to ward off evil spirits. But it was her expression that haunted me, distracted and somehow melancholy.

I thought about her story, how she began and if she has the freedom to leave. Forget fairytales and Arthur Golden-white-Jewish-man-writing-a-Japanese-woman's-memoir. Elders believed that beauty was a woman's bane; it brought greater misfortune than luck. I wondered if she had not been beautiful, how her story would have been written. Would she be happier, freer, valued for what lies beyond her flawless skin?

With beauty, it becomes ever so much harder to hold onto the spirit. You become intoxicated by the world.

Take Me to Kyoto

Here was our itinerary flying back from Singapore to New York City.

Three hour flight to Seoul, five hour layover; two hour flight to Tokyo, six hour layover; fifteen hour flight to Newark. Sigh...Such was the limitation of frequent flier miles and basically, our return trip would last over 30 hours. Did I mention I am an incomparable planner?

My mother took one glance at our itinerary and told me I was crazy. She adamantly refused to spend two whole days in transit/airports and demanded that we "break" the traveling by spending the weekend in Japan. Not Tokyo, she was very specific about this, but Kyoto.

An ambassador's daughter, my mother had spent ample time studying at Sophia University in her youth. In fact, my earliest stories from Japan were her depictions of fat, drunken Japanese men haunting the Tokyo metro late at night, grabbing young girls in their supposed stupor, and flashing them. It was quite traumatic for my aunts. When they got to my mother, she unleashed her secret weapon: the sharpened end of a safety pin. Regardless of where she pierced, they never bothered her again.

So the technological fascinations of Tokyo held very little appeal for her (although it did for me). The decision was made: to extend our "stop-over" to the historical and cultural heart of Japan, Kyoto.

First step was buying tourist bullet train passes from abroad, as they were extravagantly expensive in the country. Nevertheless, they nearly broke my budget at $400 per person for 3 days ($800 total and the tourism bureau assured me it was a bargain).

Then storage of our over-sized, month-long suitcases at Narita Airport. Remember, these were still bulging with multi-weather attire and boxes of Ritz Crackers, Fig Newtons, and Oreo cookies that we transported from the States, "just in case" my mother's stomach could not tolerate foreign food. Well, my mother tolerated the spice of kimchi, latong kalasa of Singapore, and dumplings from Malaysia just fine. We wound up dragging everything back, and I was down over $100 for 3 days storage!

Of course, we had to locate a suitable hotel, since my mother would not brave youth hostels. We found a bargain on Agoda.com, $400 for three nights, but it was limited to smoking rooms only.

So our spontaneous, adventurous foray into the legendary lands of geisha and samurai had not yet begun, and I was worrying about my wallet. We were on the last leg of our journey to the Far East, not many places accepted credit cards, and no, dummy that I was, I did not use an ATM card. I didn't even have a passcode.

Did I mention I was running out of cash?

(To be continued...)

What's Left for Me in Vietnam?

People inevitably ask me if I have been to Vietnam, assuming that a) I actually have the intention to visit the country of my ethnic roots and b) it is only a matter of time before I get there, being an avid traveler of the world.

Words of wisdom: never assume. I was born in America, during a tumultuous snowstorm in the very heart of the Big Apple. The city that never sleeps, with its brusque honesty, flurries of diversion and distraction, art and money, dizzily fast-changing attitudes, is more my homeland than Vietnam will ever be.

I confess that I have never felt completely comfortable in the States, that there is some flavor or spice in me that is different. Perhaps all immigrants feel this way. I do gravitate towards Asians, even though I was raised in a Caucasian neighborhood. There is an altar dedicated to my ancestors, embellished with photographs of my grandparents and reeking of incense. Yes, I have the dull ache, the yearning to belong to a people who look like me and to immerse in a language that is uniquely our own, the sounds my tongue was shaped to pronounce.

But Vietnam is not the way. Simply put, I reject Vietnam because Vietnam has already rejected me. After 1975, the citizenship of all those who emigrated abroad was effectively nullified. Property was confiscated by cadres of the Communist Party. Tombs were overthrown and remains scattered to the four winds. Those who dissented were imprisoned and re-educated. According to Doan Van Toai's memoir, the Vietnamese Gulag, political prisons that housed 300 under the South Vietnamese Thieu administration held over 3,000 after 1975.

Over time, emigrants were valued because they provided a consistent source of income, as the local, state, and national levels of the Vietnamese government took generous cuts of money before it went to feeding the impoverished families left behind.

Circa 2010, the Socialist Republic of Vietnam has officially re-categorized us. There are native Vietnamese, there are foreigners, and then there is us: Viet Kieu (Vietnamese From Abroad). We are the new minority: successful, worldly, educated, and "different." It is as if we are no longer ethnically Vietnamese, and the government has somehow bastardized us, particularly those who were born on that soil and now no longer have any claim to be there.

Despite our understanding of the language and tradition, we Viet Kieu are grouped with foreigners and expected to pay over-priced rates (triple the accepted amount), even though we are aware of being ripped off. The Vietnamese natives appeal to our sense of commonality only to ingratiate themselves to our wallets, or even better, to find a ticket out of there. Marriage is typically the path of survival for many young girls blessed with beauty, sexual prowess, and a whole lot of ambition. And no, they don't mind if the man is already married.

This brings me to culture. The Socialist Republic of Vietnam and the Republic of South Vietnam is not the same nation, despite the immutable physical land many of the estranged Viet Kieu still call home. Politics define freedom (or lack of it), freedom provides a framework to make choices, and choices are the living fiber of our lives. The culture of a democratic state versus a communist state don't even fit on the same page. (Think West v. East Germany. Or the Ukraine, Lithuania, and Latvia v. USSR.)

So I wonder if the culture of my mother's country (which no longer exists) is embodied in the earth of Indochina, or if it is embodied within my mother herself, her values, her teachings, and her spirit. Our culture dwells within us, within the stories that continue to be told.

Many raise the development of Vietnam to quell my views on the regime. It is a booming economy, they say, and it is getting better. I would agree that constant construction of hotels, and an influx of industry are definite pluses for the country. Money is definitely pouring in. Yet, it is getting better for whom?

Developing countries disseminate resources into education, building roads and infrastructure, and improving agriculture. In Vietnam, the transportation system is comparable to what was prior to the war, agriculture still relies primarily on human labor and beasts of burden like oxen or buffalo, and public schools are in shambles. Compare Saigon (oops, I mean Ho Chi Minh City) to Beijing, where the 3 ring highway system became an 8 ring highway system in 10 years, or the multitudes of foreign students who travel to Chinese universities. Who travels abroad to Vietnamese universities to study? So who is benefitting from the newly acquired wealth of Vietnam? Certainly not the people.

It pains me when travelers intimate the beauty of Vietnam, the diamond sand beaches of the south, the melancholy shrines of Hue, and tiny romantic islands of the north. I long to breathe in the air of the earth that once, long ago, was my motherland.

But I won't. Non-Vietnamese friends don't understand the sensation of being cast off by a nation, a government that severed the bonds of commonality, and now only wants you back because of the benefits you can offer: resources. Vietnam is now inviting all Viet Kieu back because the intelligentsia fled long ago.

I won't go.

You see, Vietnamese Communists are like sweet-talking men, promising something they never intend to deliver.

I would rather stay home.

Danger in Kuala Lumpur

I remember Kuala Lumpur as a dangerous city, non-discriminating to native or tourist alike. The Department of Tourism reported casualties that resulted from purse snatching: the victim would be walking with a handbag or backpack slung loosely over the shoulder, and a thief on a motorcycle would grab it coming from the opposite direction. Not only were valuables lost, but the victim crashed backward into the cement, suffering from cranial damage and sometimes even death. Blood was spilled for petty gain there.

I trembled every time I stepped outside of my hotel, an upscale architectural wonder with a fantastic view of the Petrona Towers, courtesy of Marriott points from my corporate days.

Yet Kuala Lumpur was one of the most intriguing places I have ever visited, harboring an amalgam of the colorful heritages of Malay, China, and India. Sandstone and creme-colored mosques heralded the Malay's Muslim roots. Varied tribes and the richness of their costumes were showcased in festive dances that enthralled the eye. Chinese cuisines sizzled with the poignancy of taste available only in Hong Kong or Shanghai. Indian woven fabrics and handicrafts populated the open markets, and some women graced the streets in saris.

Although Singapore boasts a melting pot of the same cultures, Malaysia offered a startling sense of authenticity. KL was unabashed and uncensored compared to its very hygenic and commercialized neighbor. Here the curry was spicier, soy sauce was tangier, and racial tensions were more pronounced. The Chinese-Malaysians were clearly the nation's economic backbone, driving business and commerce. Indian-Malaysians constituted the mercantile class, small shopkeepers. For the most part, indigenous Malaysians have been relegated to more labor-intensive work.

Resentment of the races was so thick you can cut through with a knife.

And it was the most attractive culture I have ever experienced.

What is it about danger that we find so irresistible? I was drawn to streets here more than anywhere else, like a moth drawn to a flame. Here I had a greater chance of being knifed by a stranger than anywhere I've been. Yet, I was intrigued.

Perhaps it is only at the risk of destruction that we discover courage. Perhaps it is the challenge of finding what we are made of, testing the "mettle" of our souls. Perhaps that realization is worth perishing for.

Perhaps it is just plain stupidity.

Perhaps it doesn't matter.

Dreaming of Angkor Wat

Every traveler has a dream destination. It could be the lighted splendor of Paris or the surf and sun of Aruba or the snows of the ever walkable Mount Kilimanjaro. It could be the foliage of New Hampshire's autumn or the scenic coast of California. For me, it was Cambodia.

Ever since I had seen Wong Kar Wai's film In the Mood for Love, I have been dreaming of Angkor Wat. It is a story of yearning, words never spoken and love never expressed, except whispered into a crevice of a stone pillar, and covered with a patch of grass. It was immortalized there, a speck upon the wall, a wall within the temple, a temple within the ancient city, a city within the ruined nation, a nation spinning its bloody history within the world. I believed I would find meaning there.

I never made it to Angkor Wat. Three times I came close, but fate intervened and relegated me somewhere else. Twice in Thailand and once in Singapore, all a stone's throw away from this fascinating country, and I kept missing it. In Bangkok, I somehow always deferred to my traveling companion. Once it was my mother who did not want to witness the aftermath of the Khmer Rouge's massacre. The other time it was my ex, who managed to run out of money for that leg of the trip. In Singapore, it was my health that failed me. Siem Reap was not the place you'd want to be right after major surgery.

In America, we are raised on the bread of manifest destiny. If you want it badly enough and work hard enough, it is sure to happen. Remember the law of attraction? You can bring everything you desire to fruition as long as you keep thinking it. Perhaps if I had pressured my companions or forced myself to go to Angkor Wat despite medical concerns, I would have lived my dream.

The older I get, the less I am convinced that we prevail in this age-old struggle versus nature. Mountain climbers tell me that they choose to climb in the best possible season, fairest weather, and still they would abandon the quest if it got too snowy or too cold. Experience taught them to indulge nature to get out alive. That's also true of life. While effort does help, we don't get our way because of our inveterate awesomeness. We get our way when nature's in a good mood.

I knew better than to keep pushing Angkor Wat. After Singapore, I found myself in Kuala Lumpur instead...

An Asian Girl on Asian Girls

Aboard the Singapore MRT, sleek pulse of the city transporting everyone to everywhere they need to be. I was on my way from Eunos station to Tanjong Pagar station to meet a new friend for lunch. As I stood in the midst of that crowded car, I caught sight of my reflection in the immaculate windows.

There I was, full-figured by Asian standards, complete with cleavage. In my native America, I go unnoticed among waves of voluptuous Caucasian and African-American women. In Singapore, I stuck out like a sore thumb, plump girl with a full buxom who was conveniently wearing a strapless top. Boy, did I get stares. Even in 97 degree weather, I pulled my jacket over my shoulders and zipped it all the way up.

I began contemplating the varieties of Asian beauty. Singaporeans are typically Asian in origin, mostly ethnic Chinese. Women here are attractive, well-manicured, and highly maintained in expensive cosmetics and strappy designer sandals with rhinestones. Yet their exterior seems to be a production, a process of overlaying the material enhancements until perfection is reached. Their skirts are hiked high at mid-thigh; think lingerie length. In my part of the world, they'd be asking for trouble.

Korean women are willowy, leggy creatures, with the natural advantage of height and stature. Not partial to make-up; their features are soft and simple. However, their plastic surgery industry is renowned within the Pacific. Most female Korean celebrities tend to look alike because their double-lidded eyes and luscious full lips were borne of the same masterful surgical technique. Margaret Cho was not kidding. There were recent controversies because few babies resembled their mothers.

Japanese women have the loveliest complexions. Their features are delicately etched onto ivory skin, smooth as porcelain. Based on the history of geisha, who are living works of art, Japanese women have inherited that grace throughout the years. Even abroad, you can always tell a Japanese tourist by her elegance. But they do tend to be a bit short and stocky compared to their Korean neighbors.

Vietnamese women, too, are rather short; I grudgingly admit this. We are known for our extraordinarily long hair, waterfall of black silk. Despite being petite, we are very proportional. A Vietnamese girl might weigh only 99 lbs and stand 4'9" tall; still she can flaunt her curves in the alluring, fitted "ao dai." And we look deceptively taller (unlike our men). Of course, high heels help.

Chinese women? Even I will not attempt to generalize women from a nation of 1.2 billion in population. There are too many regions and ethnicities within that diverse melting pot of beauty. Same goes for Indian women. I will note, though, that Indian women are by far the most dazzling when it comes to attire. Regardless of economic or social class, Indian women are consistently garbed in wonders of jewel-toned fabrics, even if they are walking around cow dung.

So I stereotype, but quite honestly, we all do. The human brain is wired to make judgements. All political correctness has done was stop us from saying what we really think, not changing the way we think.

Of course, my Singaporean friend Helen broke the stereotype that I have so diligently crafted. We met flying back from Kuala Lumpur and she was a tall, bronze-skinned young woman without a hint of pretension. Between bites of sushi, we discussed career, travel, and of course boyfriend troubles. After sipping sake, I found myself confiding more details about my recently ended relationship than I cared to remember.

I realized that no matter where I went, I took my baggage with me and it weighed more than any physical suitcase. That's the thing about finding yourself. Unless you make peace with your past, it is bound to creep up on you in unexpected ways, in some strange land, sometimes in a bout of intoxication.

Great Expectations...in Singapore

My friends Samir and Shubhra had relocated to Singapore to pursue a better quality of life. Shubhra recently bore a daughter and cringed at the lifestyle of working mothers in the States. Reminiscent of India, the cost of labor in Singapore was reasonable and she could find domestic help. I bid them a tearful goodbye on their departure from New Jersey, haboring visions of their nearly royal existence in the exotic Southeast.

Fast forward four years later, and I was aboard Singapore Airlines for a visit. I had heard rave reviews about Singapore Airlines before and I am positive they all came from men. I was less impressed by their service than by the fire engine red lips all attendants puckered and their bosom-bearing cobalt outfits. Compared to stately Korean attendants in smart-looking suits from Asiana Air, I got a taste of Singapore before I even got off the plane.

Singapore gleamed at first glance. Floors, walls, and handles were polished until they shone. High-rises loomed from windows and interiors were vibrant colors like pumpkin orange or lime green. The airport was a luxury house in itself with shopping galore, shimmering marble surfaces, posh massage parlors and chairs, free wi-fi, and delectable foods from all over the world. I took the Metro to my friends' place, a modern silver train that made me ashamed of dingy NYC subway cars.

Amid kisses and jokes, my friends introduced me to Meera, their beautiful three year-old toddler and Alma, the Filipina "help." I was shocked when they opened the door to their flat. It was painstakingly bare. There was one table in the living area; only mattresses and sheets in the bedrooms. Refuge-style. The air-conditioning was turned off, despite a temperature of over 92 degreess Fahrenheit. Now Samir and Shubhra were both successful professionals in their fields, and I was under the impression both had been promoted in Singapore. Yet they seemed far more affluent in America. Then they shared with me the reason...taxes.

Samir confided, "Don't be misled by the low income taxes. I had no idea things would be this expensive." He proceeded to enumerate a litany of grievances. "In Singapore, you pay taxes on your home and on your car and on the radio inside your car. You pay a special tax for every television you own and every computer you use. You pay wages to a domestic servant, and then taxes for using her services, even though she is not affiliated with the state. You pay for a license to own a car, another license to drive it on weekends and evenings, and an additional license for unlimited use of your own car. Then you have the exquisite honor of paying a toll every single time you cross a stoplight, whether it is red or green. Multiple times if you are lost or looking for a parking spot..."

"No taxation without representation." So goes the famous American mantra. In Singapore, it is "no breathing without taxation." Every movement you make, everything you own or use, is fair game in the name of taxes.

I began thinking about expectations. My friends had envisioned an entirely different future when they moved here, one of prosperity and relaxation, far from the bitter cold of the American Northeast. Singapore was a veneer of glass and mirrors and glittering opulence, behind which they struggled. The city was everything in material success. The food was fantastic, designer brands were prevalent, and inviting real estate sprawled for miles. It just had no heart. And it was a dream they could scarcely afford.