First World Problems

If you’re reading this on your iPad or smart phone, you’re probably a person who struggles with First World Problems.  

I’ve spent the past two years as a vagabond, sometimes staying in places with no running water, no air-conditioning or heat, sharing a room with as many as 7 other people and sharing a bathroom with 30 other people.  I've slept on the smelly floor of a dive shop or curled up in the fetal position on a sofa too short for my not quite 6 foot length, or lay awake listening to crowing roosters or car alarms or wailing from the loud-speakers of a nearby temple at all hours of the day and night.





When I'm traveling, I seem to have a much easier time adjusting to these discomforts and shrugging them off as part of the adventure...or the makings of a tall tale to tell later. I’m usually able to convince myself that it’s the trade-off for having an amazing lifestyle...trotting around the globe for the sheer joy of it, taking photographs for my own enjoyment, reading for pleasure, writing for fun and lapping up the incredible experiences that fill my charmed life.

I thought I had become pretty adept at letting go of expectations and not being too attached to creature comforts, but for some reason when I returned to "civilization”, I found myself feeling irritated about the smallest things.  Incidentally, I could make a pretty strong argument that what passes for civilization in the First World… instant gratification, decadence and over-consumption of every description, obesity, heart disease and an ever-increasing diet of reality TV and anti-depressants…isn’t really civilization at all.

When I'm whining about running out of breakfast cereal, I try to remind myself of the many people I’ve met during my travels who struggle daily with not having enough food to eat.  I bitch to myself about the barking dogs in the neighborhood where generous friends are letting me stay in their home, while on the other side of the globe there are people I've met who live each day hoping that they don't step on a land mine left behind from a forgotten war.  

I think of the the Kenyan taxi driver who sleeps in his car or the Cambodian parents who have to decide each day whether to send their kids to school during the day or out onto the streets at night to sell trinkets...or their innocence…in order to make ends meet, and I realize that most of the things that annoy me definitely fall under the category of “First World Problems”….








For example:

1.  When I play “Words With Friends” on Facebook I have to sit through a 15 second ad before I can make my next move.

2. The car my friend loaned me for free is hard to park and gets poor gas mileage.

3.  One of the places I’ve stayed (for free) since returning to the States was a luxury yacht, but to go ashore I had to step down at least three feet and walk two and half blocks to find anything to eat.  There were so many choices it was really frustrating.  

4.  I have so much music and so many photos , TV shows and movies on my computer that when I try to do a backup I get an error message that says there’s not enough room on my external hard drive.

5.  I recently got a sinus infection and when I went to pick up my prescription, I had to wait in line for at least 10 minutes at the pharmacy.  Plus, I really need to blow my nose, but I'm completely out of Kleenex.

6.  I’m not supposed to wear my new Invisalign braces while I’m drinking coffee or red wine, which makes it really difficult to wear them enough hours a day for them to actually straighten my teeth.

7. When I go to my rowing lessons in the morning it’s really chilly.  Sometimes the temperature is in the high 40’s...Brr!

8.  At my favorite coffee shop they don’t always leave enough room in the mug for milk.

9.  The “home” button on my new iPhone is harder to press than on my previous iPhone

10. Too many friends have treated me to so much food that all my clothes are too tight.  And scheduling all these meals and happy hours takes a lot of time.

For more First World Problems visit: http://first-world-problems.com

Nothing To Write Home About

We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit. :: Aristotle

I want it to be funny.

And soulful. With just the right amount of insight and poignancy without being sappy or tying everything up in a neat little bow. I want it to be honest and provocative and to raise questions. And I want to retain a vulnerability and a child-like curiosity about the cosmos.

In other words, I want my writing to be a blockbuster, laugh 'til you cry, lump-in-your-throat, chart-topping, best-selling epiphany every single time.

I suffer from the delusion that if I just chisel it, whittle it and sandpaper it long enough…that if I rearrange the words and sentences and paragraphs in every possible permutation, I’ll get it right. And that is the death of creativity.

That approach will whip the very life out of any artistic pursuit, and turn it into a scientific endeavor. Instead of dancing like nobody’s watching, I often feel paralyzed by the criticism of the imaginary reader in my head who’s thinking “This is crap!” That voice, of course, is mine. Someone once told me "Fill the balcony in your mind with a standing-room-only crowd of your biggest fans." Why is it that I listen to the handful of jeering hecklers in the cheap seats?

It’s not like I have any shortage of material. Even when I’m not traveling to exotic destinations, I have something to write about every single day. I live in a world that is filled with humor and poignant, mystical moments and lots of joy and plenty of sadness. I am perennially curious, and frequently filled with wonder by things I can’t explain, and skeptical of those who think they can.

When I have an experience I want to recount, a story I want to tell, a feeling I want to convey, I often think in grandiose cinematic terms: a screenplay, complete with storyboard illustrations, lighting diagrams, camera angles and an orchestral soundtrack.

And so I begin to write. Except that I’m not tapping on my computer keys, or putting pen to paper. It’s in my head. And that kind of writing goes nowhere. It's too much trouble for me to actually do it. Or I'm too tired. Or there's not enough time. What!? I've got nothing if not TONS of time right now.

But I want it to be polished…primo…perfect. With just the right amount of alliteration. I’m not talking about grammar or run-on sentences or dangling participles. I want it DO something to the person reading it…whether it’s a eliciting a chuckle, or a sigh, or a memory, or sharing my skewed perspective on things.

And so what it comes down to is what I know already. It’s the dilemma of every artist. If I sit and wait for the muse to grace me with her presence, I might miss dinner. It’s not like Mozart banged out a greatest hit every time he sat down at the piano. And I feel certain that Mr. Van Gogh used up a lot of yellow paint before he before he got those sunflowers just right. In fact, he didn’t sell a single painting while he was alive.

And yet I let my fear of putting anything mundane out there keep me from writing. And perfection can stand in the way of a lot of great art. Someone once said "Art is never completed, just abandoned."

I feel certain that Sir Isaac Newton, the inventor of gravity, would tell you that it’s not every day an apple falls on your head. There’s a lot of hard work and tree shaking and days with no apples.

So even when there’s no tangible payoff, any kind of artistic pursuit has to be a regular discipline. Sitting down at the keyboard...whether it's a computer or a piano, picking up the brush or the camera or the pen. Stepping out on the tight rope and realizing that falling or failing aren't even remote possibilities. I mean...how bad can it really be? If anything, it’s one more lesson in how NOT to do it next time.

And by the way, I've been working on this for about 6 hours and I’m still not happy with it. But I'm gonna walk away. And come back and fiddle with it some more later.

Even when I do not feel like work, I sit down to it just the same. I cannot wait for inspiration, and inspiration at best is a force brought into action by effort.

Igor Stravinsky

Losing Face: Part 2

Today I behaved like a complete and utter jackass.

Those of you who know me are probably thinking “What else is new?” But in today’s episode I took jackassnosity to a whole new level. If there were Academy Awards for being a jackass, my performance would have garnered me an Oscar in every category.

Because it’s the rainy season here in southeast Asia and I’m tired of getting soaked to the skin, I’ve been searching everywhere for a rain poncho. I've tried on several, and I even purchased one in Thailand, but it never lost that inflatable swimming pool smell, and besides, it was traffic cone orange. Whenever I wore it, I felt like a complete dork...not to mention the fact that I could be seen from weather satellites orbiting the earth. Like Christopher Columbus searching for the New World, finding “El Poncho Perfecto” had become my quest.

About five days ago, I went to a huge market here in Yangon, Burma. There must be at least 500 stalls selling everything from knock-off handbags to fake designer clothes to copies of famous painting to pirated DVD’s of Lady Gaga videos with Burmese subtitles. It is maze-like in its complexity. Even with an iPhone and the Google Earth app, Magellan couldn’t navigate his way through this place.

And then...I found it.

It was a thing of beauty...blue nylon with a sheen like a mallard’s feathers. Reinforced loops at all four corners so that it could be used as a ground cloth. A hood with a drawstring. Heavy duty snaps. And it rolled up easily into a small light-weight pouch. Everything you could want in a poncho and more.

As the angels sang and rainbows filled the skies, I tried to bargain with the shop-keeper. But like an expert poker player who knows he has already won the game, he stuck to his guns and I ended up paying way too much. As much as it rains here, I figured it was a good investment.

The very next day, the heavens opened and a torrential downpour began. Rain was pelting down like buckets of BB’s and the wind was blowing so hard that the deluge was coming down at 45 degrees. I whipped out my handy-dandy poncho, and, like Clark Kent transforming into Superman, felt invincible...and as water-tight as a duck’s you-know-what.

Later that afternoon, when I returned to my guest house and removed my Wonder Poncho, I noticed a strange smell. I sniffed and noticed that the smell was stronger. Turning my waterproof garment inside out, I discovered to my dismay that the entire surface was covered with mildew, which, when activated by my sweat and body heat, smelled like a basement where camping gear has been stored all summer.

I immediately turned on the shower, spread the poncho on the tile floor and began scrubbing it with soap and hot water, but to no avail. It was then I discovered that not only was my poncho a petri dish, but it also had multiple small holes in it.

“Sexual intercourse!” I exclaimed as I scrubbed harder, but the only thing going down the drain was the pride I had felt in my Perfect Poncho. And worse still, I knew it was the only one the store had in stock.

Returning to Yangon a week later, I decided to return the poncho and try to get my money back. I knew from the outset that this was a fool’s errand, but having spent a good sum of money, I decided it couldn’t hurt to ask.

I was mistaken.

Unlike the States, where you can purchase a surround sound home entertainment system and then fill all the empty boxes with rocks and return them for a full refund as long as you have your receipt, such is not the policy here in Asia. “Caveat emptor” is the Lating phrase for “once you’ve bought it, whether you like it or not, you own it.” Buyer beware.

I returned to the market place, feeling like Theseus entering the Labyrinth. But unlike the hero from Greek mythology, I had no beautiful Ariadne waiting for me, and no thread spun from gold to help me retrace my steps.

For about an hour I searched in vain, walking up and down the cramped aisles until my head was spinning. At long last, I passed a stall where I had inquired about raincoats on my previous visit to the market. As I described the shop and the salesman I was looking for, a passerby overheard me and led me straight there.

En route, the wind picked up, blowing over an umbrella covering a food stall. I grabbed a nearby bucket of water and hung it from the bottom of the stand supporting the umbrella. Problem solved. A stranger was doing me a favor, and here was the opportunity to pay it forward.

Putting on my biggest smile, I entered the shop and approached the salesman.

“Hi, I was here the other day and you helped me...I bought a poncho. Do you remember me?”

“Of course!” he said, returning my smile.

“Well, I have a small problem...I wonder if you can help me. The poncho is...”

“...dirty inside?” he responded, finishing my sentence for me.

“Son of a b***h !!” I shouted (inside my head) as my blood pressure went through the roof. I couldn’t believe this joker had ripped me off and then so blatantly tipped his hand!

My head was about to explode, but I kept an even tone of voice. “Yeah...and it’s got a lot of holes in it too.”

“I exchange for you...no problem.”

But it was too late. I knew I’d been had, and he knew it too. Furthermore, he didn’t have another poncho like the one I’d already paid too much for, so I knew he’d offer me one of lesser quality since mine was top of the line and not agree to make up the difference in price. Sure enough, that’s exactly what happened.

Blinded by pride and principle, I refused what could have been a quick and simple solution. Discovering that the poncho was defective was one thing, but finding out that this knucklehead had taken me for a ride was another matter entirely. My blood was boiling.

“I have a suggestion” I said, struggling to maintain my composure. “How about I give you your poncho back, and you give me my money back?”

Jerry Seinfeld in his heyday didn’t get the kind of side-splitting guffaws and gales of uncontrollable laughter this elicited from all the salesmen in the shop, several of whom had gathered to eavesdrop on our conversation.

“I’m not leaving here without a refund...or a poncho exactly like this one, but without the mildew and the holes!

The salesman turned and walked away, still chuckling.

“I’m your worst nightmare” I heard myself say, the volume and pitch of my voice rising. “I’m not leaving Yangon for another three days, and I’m gonna camp out here and tell every customer who comes in here what you’ve done”.

“No problem” he retorted. “You stay here three days...three months...three years. No refund.”

I’m not one to make idle threats. In my foolish haste I had brashly announced my ill-conceived plan, and now I had to show I meant business. I sat down on a nearby stool, rolled up the poncho in my lap, and tried unsuccessfully to adopt an attitude of cool detachment.

A few minutes later, a customer walked in. I stood up and approached him.

“Do you speak English?” I inquired.

“Yes.”

“I bought this poncho here, and they sold it to me knowing that it was dirty inside. It’s also full of holes and now they won’t give me my money back. I thought you should know. Be very careful before you buy anything here.”

I smugly returned to my perch, certain that my boldness would do the trick.

“You should check inside of poncho before you buy. No refund.” the salesman admonished, a smirk on his face.

A few minutes later, a group of potential buyers entered the store. Again I approached them, and like the Ancient Mariner, told them my tale of woe. They left the store without purchasing anything, and I was certain this would induce the salesman to rethink his position. Instead, in an angry voice he shouted “You very unlucky man!

Having spent the past several days touring the country with a guide who is a devout Buddhist and who repeatedly spoke about karma and “non-attachment”, I felt my face growing red with embarrassment and shame. But I’d gone to all this trouble and climbed way up here on the skinny branches and now was no time to lose my nerve. Like Davy Crockett at the Alamo, I decided to make a stand.

We all know how that story ended.

Despite having had my epiphany about non-attachment, my hubris fueled my audacity as I began to explain the concept of karma...in a country which is 98% Buddhist! He stared at me blankly as I told him “what goes around comes around.”

“I’m Muslim.”

“Have you noticed that none of your customers are buying anything? So...do you want to give me my money back, or shall I just sit here?

“You have bad mind! You only think one way!” my adversary rejoindered.

Ouch! That hurt. I knew he was right.

To make what should have been a short story even longer, I realized that I was going to spend the rest of my natural born days banging my musty-smelling, poncho-shrouded head against a brick wall, and given the fact that my visa expires in two days, my extended stay would result in ever-mounting fines from the government, followed by imprisonment.

My resolve began to soften.

I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details except to say that at some point I wised up to the fact that I was self-righteously trying to impose my beliefs about what’s right and fair on a guy who fundamentally and categorically wasn’t gonna budge and who had clearly and emphatically told me so from the outset. I left with my tail between my legs and my self-control and dignity smeared all over the floor.

I caught a cab which took me to the wrong address, hiked to a repair shop to be told that it would take 6 weeks and $170.oo to fix my camera and was given incorrect directions to a bookstore only to discover that a guide book for Sri Lanka (my next destination) is not to be had at any price in the city of Yangon. And then I stepped in some chewing gum.

Besides being a complete ass, I had set foreign relations back further than the Bush administration, and to top it all off had wasted quite a bit of what little time I have left in this beautiful country filled with people who have been nothing but friendly, helpful, generous and kind to me.

Except one guy, who taught me a valuable lesson: Look both ways before my karma runs over my dogma.

Footnote: I neglected to mention that I did eventually exchange the Almighty Mildew Holey Poncho for a cheaper one. I wore it for the first time yesterday and apparently it's made of some kind of ultra-suede which not only doesn't repel water, but absorbs it. You get wet slower, but when it's completely soaked it weighs about 5 pounds and I'm guessing will take about a week to dry in this humid climate, by which time it should have a nice coating of mildew.

Lucky

When I arrived here in Siem Reap, Cambodia a couple of weeks ago, I was feeling a little sorry for myself. After ten months of non-stop travel, I felt road-weary and lonesome as hell.

And then I met a guy named Lucky.

He sits on the curb in front of the ice cream shop where I stop each evening, selling books to passersby. Lucky was born with no arms and no legs. He’s a torso with a head. About as minimalist as a human being can be. And one of the most cheerful, upbeat people I’ve ever met.

"What did you say your name was again? Lucky?"

Seriously?

The other night after he finished work, Lucky and I went down the street to have a frosty adult beverage. He didn’t want to sit in his wheelchair, so I lifted him like a 50 lb. sack of cement and placed him on the lawn chair next to me, holding my breath that it wouldn't fold up and swallow him.

He ordered a beer and some food and when the waitress returned she opened a pack of cigarettes, put one in his mouth and lit it. “This should be interesting” I thought. He smoked by taking a puff and then balancing the cigarette on his shoulder. I’m a die-hard non-smoker, but I’ll light cigarettes all night long for a guy like Lucky.

When the food arrived, he asked me to hand him a pair of chopsticks. I thought he was pulling my leg. He gripped them between his chin and shoulder, gestured for me to hand him the plate, then scooped up a big bunch of noodles and offered it to me. My jaw dropped. This guy can’t feed himself and here he is offering me the first bite. I leaned over, nose-to-nose with my new friend, and gobbled up the heaping helping. Then I took the chopsticks and fed him in between cigarettes.

A couple of pitchers of Angkor beer later, we decided to call it a night. Lucky didn’t even pretend to reach for his wallet, so I ended up getting stuck with the tab. As I wheeled him down the bumpy dirt road to the spot outside the now abandoned night market where his brother was going to pick him up, I asked him if he wanted me to wait with him. It was 1 a.m. He insisted he’d be fine, and as I turned to walk away it was all I could do not to take him back to my guest house and get him a room. When I saw him the next day, he was as cheerful and chipper as ever, and even used the pointed nub where his left arm should be to give me an impromptu back massage.

A few days later, I stopped by the ice cream place to get a couple of scoops of rum raisin, and the woman behind the counter asked me how long I was planning to stay. When I told her I’m volunteering at a school for at-risk kids for the next couple of weeks, she got all teary-eyed and said “Thank you for your helping.”

I felt like I had a golf ball stuck in my throat, but I managed to say “You’re welcome” before I turned to ride the bike that’s provided for free by the guest house where I’m staying in air-conditioned comfort in a private room with hot water, a flush toilet, free internet, cable T.V, a double bed with clean sheets every day...and breakfast is included. $15.00 a night, which is more than a guy who sells paperbacks on the sidewalk makes in a week.

I feel pretty lucky.

The Bodhisattva

A bodhisattva is anyone who is motivated by compassion and seeks enlightenment not only for themselves but also for others.

The bodhisattva I met today was a 28 year old Indonesian guy named Made (pronounced MAH-day). Skinny as a piece of bamboo and good-looking in that wiry, St. Francis of Assisi, "I sure could use a cheeseburger" sort of way that's so en vogue amongst the spiritually enlightened, he was sitting under a tree reading a book.

I immediately thought of the story of Buddha, who achieved enlightenment while fasting and meditating for 49 days beneath a bodhi tree. But judging from the statues I’ve seen, Buddha, like Elvis, must have eaten more than a few peanut butter and banana sammiches in his later years.

I stopped to ask him directions to a scuba dive shop I was looking for, and we struck up a conversation. After asking my name, he inquired where I was from, and when I told him America, his expression grew serious and he stroked the six wispy hairs on his chin.

“May I ask you one question?”

“Of course!” I said as I sat down next to him and crossed my legs, wondering what this grave matter might be.

“Is Canada in America?”

I tried to explain as concisely as possible that both the United States and Canada share a continent called North America, but that when people say “America” they’re usually referring to the country and not the continent…and that Canada is a separate country altogether. I didn’t mention that Canadians are much less likely to be loud and obnoxious or involved in a conflict than Americans. Unless you're playing ice hockey. Think about it…how many Canadians have you met that you didn’t like?

I asked why he was curious about America’s neighbor to the north. He told me he was moving to Canada to work.

“What kind of work?” I inquired.

“Hard work.”

As it turns out, Made, who doesn’t weigh as much as an axe handle, is moving to the Great White North to work in the timber industry. I just couldn’t picture him exchanging his T-shirt, flip flops and tropical surroundings for a flannel shirt, wool cap and goose bumps. Not to mention wielding a chainsaw.

I asked him the name of the book he was reading. The English translation was “Sadness, Happiness and Silence.” The passage he was reading explained the notion that sadness is like taking vitamins. Encountering situations which upset us can actually strengthen our spiritual “immune system.”

I confided in Made I was having some really big challenges with the person I was traveling with at the moment. We’d only been together about a week and had already had several clashes and conflicts.

He asked me if my goal or intention for the relationship was clear before she joined me here in Bali. I admitted that I hadn’t given it a lot of thought.

“Your mistake” was Made’s succinct response.

“But she's pushing ALL my buttons!”

“Those are your attachments” said Made, the truth of his observation whacking me in the forehead with the force of a wooden kitchen spoon. “If you feel happy or sad because of another person,” Made went on to explain, “then your happiness resides outside yourself, and you are dependent upon that person for your sense of well-being.”

Amen, brother.

Just then, another guy came walking down the sidewalk. He was muscular, covered in tribal tattoos and sporting a gold necklace and bracelets, a New York Yankees baseball cap and pink tinted Ray Ban aviator sunglasses. A hipster.

He spoke a few words to Made in Balinese, then sat down next to us.

“Are you guys friends?” I asked.

“All Balinese are friends!” he grinned.

I appreciated the sentiment, and it fit in nicely with the conversation Made and I were having. But I could feel the peace and quiet connection I felt slipping away as this uninvited third wheel barged in on our conversation.

“My name’s John” I said, extending my hand. “What’s yours?”

“Made” he replied as he crushed my hand with his vise-like grip. “I work at dive shop. You like scuba dive? I make you special price.” Made #2 insisted I come with him to the dive shop immediately. Eager for him to leave, I politely declined, telling him that I was enjoying my conversation with Made #1 and that I’d meet him at the dive shop shortly.

He stayed.

And he pulled out a brochure and began describing the various dive packages. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. Here was a guy who was the complete opposite of Made #1 in his appearance and demeanor. A mirror image. With all the subtlety of a railroad spike, reality burst my little bubble of contentment.

Made #1 told me about a meditation class he’d been attending at a Buddhist monastery and invited me to accompany him. I took down his number, told him I’d call him and walked the rest of the way down the beach with Made #2.

When I returned a few minutes later, the bodhisattva was gone. I wondered if I'd dreamt the entire thing. As soon as I got back to my hotel I told my travel companion about my encounter with this mystical being.

“We should totally go to the meditation thing tonight!” she exclaimed. Gritting my teeth at the prospect of having to share my new found friend, I called Made and arranged a time for the three of us to meet.

As 6:30 rolled around, my pesky expectations and attachments came bubbling up again. I heard myself asking my friend if she would mind dressing more modestly since we were going to a monastery. I feared that people would be offended by her sexy short shorts and tank top, and that I would be guilty by association. And as I offered my unsolicited advice about her wardrobe, she informed me that she had already planned to change clothes. Busted.

We went down to the street and waited. And waited. After half an hour, I left a note at the front desk in case he showed up, and we went to dinner. No meditation. No monastery. Just me and my maddening thoughts. And my friend, who, despite my resistance, was proving to be every bit as much a teacher as the bodhisattva. It dawned on me that her perennial enthusiasm, joyfulness, open-mindedness, sense of humor and free spirit were exactly the traits I aspire to.

Made told me some other things during our brief encounter that afternoon....that his girlfriend was pregnant and had left her family so they wouldn’t find out. That he didn’t love her and didn’t want to marry her. That he was going half way around the world and wasn’t sure he could support her and the baby because he wanted to send money to his own family who were very poor.

And after agreeing to meet me, he stood me up.

Turns out bodhisattvas are humans too...just like the rest of us.

Six Month Milestone

I've been traveling full time for six months now. Here are a few of my thoughts so far:

• I believe that happy “accidents” occur by putting yourself out there, by taking risks, by not having expectations about how things will turn out. I've experienced this principle way too many times to think of these incidents as accidents. I expect them.

• There are few things as delicious as a good cup of coffee. Or worse than a bad a cup of coffee.

• I don't need much to get by. All of my earthly possessions fit into two bags. And I'm still getting rid of stuff.

• It's fun to wake up not knowing what city I’ll be in that night.

• The public restrooms in New Zealand are clean. I mean clean enough to invite someone over for dinner.

• Cold drinks are over-rated. Except when it comes to beer.

• I have a new appreciation for good water pressure.

• It actually is a small world after all...I met a guy on a remote island in Fiji and subsequently bumped into him more than 100o miles away at a museum in Wellington, New Zealand.

• I can't believe I've driven 10,000 miles on the other side of the road without being involved in an accident or getting a speeding ticket.

• I can eat just about anything. And enjoy it. Except beets. But I already knew that.

• I have a REALLY bad sense of direction. But I've had lots of unexpected adventures by getting lost.

• Humor transcends all barriers of language, culture or ideology.

• Not everyone is a fan of The United States of America. In fact, a lot of people aren’t.

• It is truly humbling and sometimes downright embarrassing to witness my fellow travelers' proficiency in multiple languages.

• I thoroughly enjoy having my ideas and beliefs expanded by someone who holds a different point of view.

• A bunch of expensive, heavy camera gear doesn't make me a better photographer. I've gotten rid of all the equipment I brought with me and I'm using only a pocket-sized point-and-shoot.

• I'm surprised and inspired by how concerned many of my fellow travelers are about the environment and conserving resources. There’s an entire section of the Lonely Planet Guide devoted to “green” travel.

• I want to maintain a child’s eye view. Playful, inventive, creative, open to all possibilities. In the past 6 months I’ve seen more physical beauty than one person can absorb in a lifetime. But I hope I’ll always be awestruck by a spectacular sunset, a thundering waterfall, or a night sky in the middle of nowhere filled with constellations I’ll never be able to identify.

• I've met very few people my age who are insane enough to sell everything they own and travel the world and who have no Plan B. Or Plan A.

• With all due respect to my travel companions and room-mates along the way, I REALLY like having my own room. Paying more per night beats the hell out of participating in a snore-fest/body odor buffet/sleep-deprivation experiment.

• My goal is to live in the moment, to suck the juice out of every experience, to live courageously and compassionately...and to embrace randomness and all its surprises.

• No matter how early you get up or how remote your destination, the Germans are already there.

• I’m not on a quest. I’m not trying to “find myself”...or "enlightenment". I’m not looking for anything. OK, maybe I’m looking for the perfect, pristine beach with turquoise water and a single, solitary hut with nothing else around except for another hut where delicious meals and cold beer are served. By an exotic woman wearing a sarong. Is that too much to ask?

Embracing Randomness

Right now I'm reading a book called Vagabonding: The Art of Long Term World Travel by Rolf Potts. One of the author's recurring admonitions is to view "mishaps" as an opportunity for discovery....a way of finding out where the unexpected will lead. Embrace randomness.

Several days ago my friend Deb and I arrived in Fji, and after dropping off our bags at the hotel, we went into town to find some flip flops (who else besides me would take off for the South Pacific and forget to pack flip flops?!) and after making my purchase I asked the shopkeeper to recommend a pub which catered to locals. I

fully expected to be disappointed by some l

ocal version of The Hard Rock Cafe, but as

we strolled into "Club Nadi" I was delighted to discover that we were the only kaivalagis there.

Deb was the only woman in the joint, but she's nothing if not a good sport, so we decided to stay. We struck up a conversation with a couple of guys at a nearby table, and several adult beverages later, one of them accompanied us to a nearby Indian restaurant so we wouldn't get lost.

On a subsequent visit to our now favorite pub, we were introduced to the chief of one of the outlying villages, as well as his daughter and son-in-law.

The chief was very jovial and invited me to come stay at his home whenever I wanted. I was excited by the prospect of seeing what life was like in a Fijian

village , so I eagerly accepted his invitation and arranged to meet him later that week after Deb returned to the States.

On the day of my departure, my internal compass told me to stop by the pub one last time before heading to the airport.

As luck would have it, the guy who took us to the Indian restaurant was there and told me that the "chief" was not who he claimed to be, but in fact a con-man who lured unsuspecting tourists to the other side of the island, got them to pay for a bunch of "groceries" before boarding a ferry which, according to my guide book, could take anywhere from two hours to four days, and then ditched them once they arrived.

Since I had already paid for the plane ticket, I decided to board the flight to Suva anyway. In the spirit of Vagabonding, one of my mantras is "embrace randomness".

During the 30 minute flight, I surveyed the list of places to stay in my guide book, and randomly chose a guest house with the auspicious name "Nanette's Accommodation".

I showed up on the doorstep at 8 o'clock at night without a reservation and the girl at the front desk told me

there were no vacancies. She reiterated this 5 or 6 times while pointing to the reservation book...until a random guy loitering around the parking lot insisted that there was space available.

I was eventually led upstairs to a spacious room, which, in sharp contrast to previous accommodations on this trip, had towels that were dry and didn't smell like mildew, pillowcases without fresh blood stains and a private hot shower instead of communal room with no door and a single faucet trickling cold, rust-colored water onto a slimy floor that can only be described as a biology experiment gone wrong. I had hit the jackpot.

I was delighted to learn that the room was only $50.00/night and

includes breakfast. It also includes a pack of dogs that barks round the clock, a

gaggle of college students from across the street that hoots and hollers 'til the wee hours and a

rooster that starts cockle-doodle-doing about 4 in the morning. If I can find that damn bird we're gonna have chicken pot pie for dinner.

The only other person at breakfast the next morning was a British guy named Howard. We struck up a conversation about what had brought each of us to Fiji. He's here doing marine conservation for South Pacific Projects, a non-profit organization he founded to protect the eco-system on the reefs

As soon as I told him I was a photographer, he asked if I'd be willing to consider photo-documenting his project in exchange for a couple of weeks of free room and board on a private island, diving in crystal blue water on pristine reefs teeming with exotic fish and coral in one of the most beautiful and inaccessible locations on the planet, oh...and a possible side trip to meet the King of Fiji's grandson. Our father who art in heaven, Howard be thy name.

After breakfast, I took a stroll through town. My first stop was a church with an enormous sanctuary, empty except for 4 or 5 people. I took a seat for a few minutes to collect my thoughts and plan my route, and before I knew it I had drifted off....until I awoke to the sound of a hymn that I recognized from childhood being sung in Fijian in perfect harmony by three women sitting nearby. A fitting benediction...my decision to come to Suva was working out just fine.

Another stop on my self-guided tour was the Fiji Museum which featured an exhibit detailing the story of a missionary who was invited for dinner by some locals back in the 1800's. Apparently he failed to understand that he WAS dinner. All that was left were the bottoms of his shoes, which were on display in the glass case. Apparently he must have said something about "saving souls".

Here at the guest house are two girls who work the front desk, make our breakfast, clean our rooms and provide an overall atmosphere of cheerfulness and hospitality. Turns out they're cousins, and I overheard them talking about going home to their village for the weekend.

Undaunted in my quest to find a real Fijian chief and experience life in a village, I brashly invited myself home with them. They seem as excited as I do. Apparently the last kaivalagis seen entering their village were a couple of Peace Corps workers about 20 years ago.

Maybe I'll ask if I should bring something for dinner.