Great Expectations

Hanoi, Vietnam
10 January 2003

A man scrubs his pots by a canal in Hoi An, Vietnam.


Women on a Hanoi street selling shoes - and not many of them. Photos by Michael Seto.


I expected a lot from Vietnam, after so many friends raved about its wonders. I come away disappointed. I looked forward to a idyllic, verdant, and exotic land; and I got a noisy, grimy, and smelly place.

Maybe I am being a bit harsh here. I enjoyed Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City) and Hanoi, but the areas in between, like an internet stock, did not live up to their billing.

Dalat, the central highland paradise; Nha Trang, the beach party spot, Hoi An, the charming old colonial port; and Hue, the historic Imperial City, all fell short of my anticipated splendor.

Instead, all struck me as typical Southeast Asian third world cities - grey, drab, uninspired, monotonous concrete blocks construction so prevalent as it's cheap and resists the rainy monsoon weather well. Filled with traffic and avaricious locals.

Paris but for Parisians

The only Vietnamese I met all wanted one thing, money, US Dollars, hard currency. The typical daily litany: "postcard...you buy postcard from me! Where you from? Moto Moto? Cyclo - where you go? Woohoo! One hour cheap cheap You want shoeshine? Why not? You buy book from me? Hello, hello Guidebook? You come in my store! You cannot walk ten feet without being pestered. AAAGGGHHHHH!!

Everyone you meet sees you as a walking ATM, dispensing Dong like some Johnny Appleseed!

You quickly develop a siege mentality. In the morning you manage a smile and a firm NO; you walk briskly. By noon you ignore them completely. By evening, you want to punch even the kids.

Cynicism sets in. You see a blind man led by a teenager begging for money - you dismiss this unfortunate person believing he probably rents himself out to beggars as a sympathy ploy. You begin to see every Vietnamese you meet as Egyptian camel drivers at Giza or Turkish carpet salesmen in Istanbul - a common breed of snake oil selling sub-humans. To be scorned and ignored, yet as inescapable as mosquitoes, as aggressive as Africanized bees, attacking in swarms.

Rain, rain, go away...

It rained incessantly, from the day I left Saigon to my arrival in Hanoi. So a lot of activities ended up curtailed and I spent lots of time just reading in my hotel room. Rain and gray skies cast a pall over everything, especially my mood. Also, it being the holidays, I felt alone, separated from family and friends and all things familiar.

So I did not play golf in Dalat as planned. I did not lie on the white beaches of Nha Trang. I did not cruise the Perfume river or ancient tombs of Hue or Hoi An. And I did not visit the DMZ battlefields of which I read so much about as a teenager.

My listlessness and inactivity no doubt reinforced the gray mood the overcast skies put me in. Compounded by some desire to save money, I skimped on those minor luxuries which may have thrown some light into the murk. I ate sparing meals, sans soft drinks or sweets; lived in cheap hostels, where peeling walls and dank bathrooms predominated. In retrospect, I did little to alter my self-reinforced gloom.

The Telltale Heart

I felt real guilty for not enjoying myself as I expected to here in Vietnam. I felt in some way like I let down those who enjoyed this country in such an enthusiastic way. I felt like someone at a pretentious NY dinner party of self-proclaimed cognoscenti who admits (gasp) to disliking the latest book/movie/restaurant that everyone raved about. An outcast.

We are raised with others' expectations imprinted on us; by parents, siblings, teachers, friends, coworkers, TV, etc. Shedding those expectations does not come easily like a snake shedding its skin.

As Thoreau said:

"But, wherever a man goes, men will pursue and paw him with their dirty institutions, and if they can, constrain him to belong to their desperate odd-fellow society."

Beginner's Mind

I also wondered if my earlier extensive travels jaded me, like a person accustomed to fine wine, suddenly imbibing a rancid vintage.

Need I compare everything before me with the best and find it necessarily wanting? Its a matter of course that every waterfall pales when measured to Angel, Iguassu and Victoria. That all temples look small compared to the pyramids of Giza, that all mosques pale in comparison to the Blue Mosque.

I lost the magic.

Somewhere in Vietnam, I lost the wonderment that travel brings me. I finally realized it's not the external as perceived by my jaded eye; but rather a jaundiced eye which did the mis-perceiving.

I lost what Zen practitioners call the 'beginner's mind, the ability to set aside preconceived notions and judgements and prejudices and open to the purity of feelings and emotions as they arise.

Tomorrow, tomorrow

The sun shone on Hanoi as my overnight train pulled in. Sleeping to the sound of pitter patter, I awoke to just the clack of the train and tracks. The diffuse late afternoon light reminded my of Washington DC in the Fall, with bare tree branches along the Mall.

My mood changed abruptly. I ran into a old travel friend whom I first met in Turkey, and she shared a similar tale of mild disappointment with Vietnam. I felt vindicated. See, I'm not the only one! I realized at once that I had not been too tough on this country, but rather on myself, and this reflected itself outwardly.

Rather than just observing my emotions, analogous to observing, without controlling, the prevailing weather; I sought to condemn my own feelings, as one curses unfavorable winds. That by denying and denigrating, I hoped to affect some change. It turned out that only by accepting things as they are, we allow change come on its own, at its own pace.

I walked the streets of Hanoi's old quarter, around picturesque Hoan Kiem Lake. The sights, sounds, and smells reminded me of Hong Kong and Chinatowns the world over, filled with lush smells and vivid colors. The hustle and bustle no longer bothered me. I relished the horns and traffic like someone seeing Times Square for the first time. The locals selling trinkets were now eager entrepreneurs, not interlopers.

I rediscovered the beginner's mind.

Two Wheelin' Nation

Phnom Penh, Cambodia
16 December 2002

There seem to be more scooters than people in places like Vietnam and Cambodia, here is a Saigon street.


"WHHOAAAAA! Shit. Slow down, tiger." I slapped my driver on the back again as he swerved to avoid another motorbike going against traffic. Horns blare behind me as cars whip past our swarm of moped straddling schoolkids in blue pants and white shirts.

"YIKES!" My shoulder brushes the woman riding next to me, two children clinging to the back of her moto. Dust blows all around us as everyone covers their mouths and closes their eyes..."JESUS!" I pull my shoulders in tight. Each passing motorbike sports snagging cables, protruding pedals, boxy wiry baskets, and devouring drive chains. I curl my fingers and toes into tight little balls, lest some passing bike tear off this little piggie.

Phnom Phen, population one million, claims about four miles of paved roads, maybe nine traffic lights, and seemingly half a million two-wheeled vehicles, all in varying states of disrepair. Two-wheelers outnumber cars twenty-to-one.

It's simple economics, most Cambodians cannot afford cars, so anything with wheels or even hooves finds its way onto the roads: bikes, moped, motorcycles, tuk tuks, pedicabs, even horse and water buffalo drawn carts. Cargo of all sorts also gets strapped on, half a cord of firewood, three dozen melons, even a live 400-lb pig once!

Motos scoot along with all sorts of people and cargo, regardless of safety or capacity. A 250cc mopeds (the kind you had in college) carries up to three adults, with added foot pegs. I watch families of five straddling one moped, like some Barnum and Bailey circus act. A woman the other day struggled to steer with three kids on her moto, two in back, one in front of her, and a infant slung hammock-like in a Khmer krava (scarf) between her handlebars!!

Lots of cottage industries spring up in support of the motos. Small filling stations, a woman with a dozen assorted glass bottles (mostly Johnnie Walker) filled with vermilion gas and orange petrol sit every 200 yards. Every 500 yards someone sleeps next to a portable electric tire pump, charging the equivalent of 2 cents to patch and re-inflate a flat. Every other storefront repairs bikes, mopeds, or both.

With the traffic, stepping off the curb constitutes a combination game of chicken and Russian Roulette. Lanes are a suggestion, traffic signals are superfluous, and police are ignored. Like getting swiped by a wayward New York takeout delivery guy, you better look every which way but loose before crossing the street.

I initially shirk from crossing, waiting for impossible gaps in the traffic to appear. I end up getting sunburned. Finally, like an infantryman dashing across open ground, I crouch and sprint, camera flapping, backpack bouncing, to the other side. Whew!

Walking all day, I relent and flag down a passing moto for a ride back to my hostel, a ride costs about 30 cents. I endure good rides and bad rides, like the one mentioned earlier, realizing 9 of 10 drivers don't know where I want to go. I quickly learn to point out the turns required to get to my hostel.

After a few days, I feel brave enough to rent a moped in Siam Reap, the town adjoining the famous Angkor Wat temple complex. Granted, traffic here is analogous to the Buy.com tour when compared to Phnom Penh. But its just mellow enough for me to get around the temples safely.

Interestingly enough, there seems to be an underlying order to the macadam madness, a real-life exhibition of chaos theory. I witness no accidents, though I waited with camera ready when I spied a guy carrying two 8-foot long 4x4 beams across his bike, nearly swatting a score of other road users. Everyone seems to know how traffic works and these two-wheeled swarms flow smoothly around slow cars and other obstructions like water down a rocky stream.

The laid-back Cambodians, with ready smiles, seem not to mind the chaotic traffic, to them, its life. I think the predominantly Buddhist nation also thinks that wiping out some family in a moto accident will saddle you with bad karma for many lifetimes.

A week into my trip, I too am used to the traffic and the dust. I smirk at a bunch of fresh-off-the-boat tourists stand tentatively at the side of the road, waiting for a break in the traffic; or watch a backpacker cling tightly to the moto seat. Whereas I, Michael Seto, intrepid Cambodian road vet, wave my arms around like Kate Winslet in 'Titantic' and flash a silly grin at swarming around me.

I slap my driver's back, "FASTER!"

Sweet Ass

Queenstown, New Zealand
21 November 2002

Kim, a Swiss financier, and I, part of the 'Stray' gang basking in the light of a New Zealand sunset.


"SWEET ASSSSSS!" we shouted.

Our driver, Damien, 'Veno' used the phrase all the time when satisfied over anything, meaning 'sweet as...' and not sweet ASS. A garrulous 28-year old Kiwi surfer, he'd been our guide to New Zealand for the last 14 days since our departure from Auckland.

I chose Stray's tour bus on a strong recommendation from the hostel staff in Auckland. Backpacking seems to be a cottage industry here as much as sheep farming and cheering on the All Blacks, the national rugby team. There are several competing bus lines with names like Magic and Kiwi Experience, the latter reputed as the party bus; which I carefully avoided.

The Stray company started up just six months ago and they still lease buses. We went through six buses in as many days since our group kept getting bigger or the buses kept breaking down. Each bus sported its own quirks, though it seemed that the door on every bus broke - we kicked one open once. But our last bus has lasted a whole week and we've named her Daisy.

The whole country caters to backpackers, with a focus on the 'adrenaline' sports: bungee jumping (invented here), skydiving, rafting, caving, glacier walks, and the famous 'tramps' or hikes in the national parks. Affordable hostels abound in all the cities, and I quickly learned to 'self-cater;' meaning I dined like a college student, ramen noodles, PB&J's and granola bars - to save money. (And I felt like a 'real' backpacker too!)

A group of us bonded quickly as we stuck together for the first ten days or so. The disparate backgrounds melted away as we found commonality in our adventurous life outlooks and mellow approach to work and life. The group spanned Europe, with several Dutch, Brits, Swiss, a German and an Israeli (yes, they got along). I alone represented America.

This fact was nice as one could sense the slight cringing of the Euros when one or two groups of 'Yanks' would loudly board the bus. You really could see the loud obnoxious side of us sometimes. But in fact, all the other Americans have been very nice for the most part (if a bit naive) and probably even felt a little left out of our tight little group - and maybe a bit intimidated by the multicultural band.

The Americans in NZ seemed to be the ones that prefer travel in more familiar and user-friendly surroundings. Whereas I found that Americans travelling in more 'off the beaten track' places to be much more open to new cultures and much more sensitive to differences in the local populace and a little less brash.

We got used to shouting, "NEW MEAT" as other travellers hopped on the bus, reminiscent of some prison movies. But all in good fun. The buses follow a circuit around the country, north and south island and travellers can hop on or off at any point, giving flexibility to remain in a spot that tugs you. But my lack of time forced me to book a sixteen day minimum trip and remain on the bus for the entire time, though seeing most of NZ.

I spent the first five days in Auckland figuring out what to do, including several trips to the travel agent to plan and sort out my around the world ticket through Star Alliance (US$2000 in NZ but $4000 if purchased in the US - go figure!). That finished, I clambered aboard the bus for the quick tour of NZ, now two-thirds complete.

The weather in the North surprised me with the cold and grey clouds and almost daily rain! I thought that down here it was summer, but its actually a early spring and rain is very common. The skies improved as we moved south and our first sunny day came on a eight-hour hike called the Tongariro crossing, which climbed 7000' to a group of volcanic lakes. Beautiful. I skipped most of the adrenaline sports, having 'been there and done that' in many other places and times.

I even skipped the mellow partying for the first few days as I decided to fast for three days as a way of initiating my travels. It felt great and I a longer fast tempted me, but I relented. I am eating more consciously, little fast food and lots of fruit and nuts; thus I've lost about five pounds already. I also manage to be disciplined enough to do some yoga and my 'prison' workout a few times a week to stay in some semblance of fitness.

The cafe culture rules NZ and I've managed to find good coffee and latte's all over the country - so much for kicking the caffeine habit! Its just like home here, with English spoken (albeit with funny accents and some WEIRD slang), all the bathrooms are REALLY clean, the usual fast food outlets, and nice grocery store with food I actually recognize.

So this place eased me back into the travel mindset after three months of life in America. No TVs and a really crappy newspaper here keep me out of touch with the goings on in the world. I figure someone will tell me when we go to war with Iraq. Its a comfortable way to start off and I am truly enjoying myself, though a little more spare time would be nice. We seem to 'fang' (drive quickly) through to each location, from one bungee jump to another jet boat site, and hardly get time to just sit around and relax.

I now track all my expenses on this trip since I am a bit over budget and need to be more conscious of my travel spending habits. This also forces me to be very diligent in my journaling, which I am happy to report goes very well and I am having some great insights and deep thoughts (more on that later!).

I leave most of my new found friends tomorrow and continue on to Christchurch, skipping the southern-most portion of the country. Its a bit sad since we've become a bit of a family, knowing each other habits and and temperaments. I look forward to transitioning to a more independent way of travel and some time alone; but I'll miss the Stray gang soon.

SWEET ASSSSSS!

On the Road Again

San Jose, California
3 November 2002

Me on the 'W' trail in Torres del Paine National Park, Chile - ranked top ten in the world by Nat'l Geographic.I climb on a plane for Auckland, New Zealand in six hours.

I am ready to get on the road again.

Arriving in New York in August for a wedding and a one month rest from part one of my around the world trip, I found my stay in the US tripled as a result of my sister's near fatal bicycling accident. The entire month of September found me in the hospital with nary twenty-four hours in a row away from my sister's bedside.

With a near miraculous recovery after five days in ICU, my sister spent the second half of September in rehabilitation, learning to walk and talk again. Now with a month spent recovering at home, she resembles her old self again and I feel ready to leave her in the care of her husband and my doting mom.

Looking over my itinerary, I decided to switch direction to give myself better weather throughout the trip. Instead of heading off to Eastern Europe and following winter around to the East, I chose NZ as the new starting point and will chase spring westward. The trip take me broadly through Australia & NZ, then South East Asia: Singapore, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Hong Kong and the Philippines (as the gateway to Palau for a diving trip); then India, Nepal, Tibet and onto Beijing. From Beijing the Trans Mongolian train carries me to Moscow and St. Petersburg and then through Eastern Europe then finally to Morocco, Scotland (golf) and back to New York City in September 2003.

I guess that's not "broadly."

I envisioned a two-year total time off from work when I first started this endeavor; which has morphed into a nearly three year journey. It?s been worth every moment and every penny (and the opportunity cost).

Packing differed little from the first time. I cut down my medical kit, after replentishing my Cipro/Flagyl antibiotic stock for an outrageous $270! (I now understand why we need drug coverage in our insurance ? DOH!) Otherwise, I found my original kit pretty suited my needs and everything still fit into my worn-in Eagle Creek convertible pack. I added a dedicated camera bag (waistpack) to carry my equipment, including a new Canon 3.2 megapixel digital camera. So hopefully, you will see more photos online this trip.

I want to take this leg of the trip in a more relaxed and laid-back ?come as you are? manner. In other words, totally opposed to my personality type and normal tendencies. But already I found myself stressing out in the last couple of weeks over flights, dates, and myriad other planning issues ? which I really did not need to do.

My budget targets fell apart with the unplanned three months here in the US (a three day golf trip to the Kingsmill Resort in Williamsburg Virginia and a weeklong seminar with my teacher Brugh Joy being the main culprits.) It amazes me how I can live for a whole day in a third world country, including hostel bedspace, for the price of a bagel and coffee in New York City. So I expect to run about 15% over budget for my three year sojourn. But that does not really matter in the long run (when we are all dead anyway).

Slowly I expect to settle back into backpacker mode and my coffee and adrenaline fueled past months will fade away and give me time to reflect on the personal events of September. I grew much closer to my family than I ever have been in my adult life. Friends showed so much compassion and sympathy; and my bonds with you deepened also. Of course, I learned a great deal about myself, which is what this whole silly existence is all about; and what this whole silly "trip" is about.

So I hope you look forward to reading about my trip as much as I enjoy experiencing and writing about it. I cannot wait to go. I cannot wait to come back. It?s only in the contrasts that we can see the gradations of life.

Bodrum Doldrums

Bodrum, Turkey
21 July 2002

The beach in Bodrum, Turkey with it's distinctive 'sugar cube' architecture, a favorite get-away for Europeans.


I wanna go home!

I WANNA GO HOME!

Are we there yet?

Its official. I am burned out on travel... ...for now.

I slog through the motions here in Turkey - ambling aimlessly along at the semi-posh Mediterranean beach resort of Bodrum. I am tired of beaches, buses, hostel breakfasts, cold showers, hot stuffy rooms, and looking at stupid ruins.

Holed up in my hotel, in vain I searched the satellite TV for a broadcast of the British Open. Instead I sleep off my hangover and avoid the midday sun.

Catering to upper-class Turks and middle-class Europeans, this famous beachside resort boasts the Halikarnis disco (the largest outdoor open-air club in Europe) which cranks along till 5am. The crowds don't even show up until midnight. With my convertible pants and tevas - I don't make the velvet rope hurdle; even if I wanted to pay the $20 cover charge. I feel like I'm back in New York trying to get into some Meat-Packing chichi spot...and getting thrown out. So I stick to the $2 local Efes beers at a breezy beach bar.

Resistance is futile. The bars and restaurants and promise of meeting some of the tanned, string-bikini clad partygoers pulls me out of bed at 10pm. I cruise the narrow street along the beach, both sides clogged with bars, restaurants, and stores - all beckoning for hard currency sporting tourists - Euros welcome, Dollars not.

I chill out at Lodos, a popular but easygoing bar that opens onto the beach; actually everything lies along the beach and therein lies Bodrum's appeal. A dual bay and yacht harbor bisected by an ancient crusader castle jutting up between the twin harbors filled with masts, like something impaled on a bed of nails.

During the day, the beach resembles the typical nightmare Mediterranean resort; every inch of the rocky strip of land called beach covered with lounge chairs, umbrellas, and red Northern European bodies; juextaposed among the drak chocolate tan of the Turks. Cigarettes in evidence everywhere tell you this ain't Santa Monica.

I perk up in a conversation with Kata, short of Katarina, a beautiful blond German woman at Lodos. Maybe going out was a good idea afterall. Tagging along with her friends for a nargila (waterpipe) on the beach, things go well. Near 3am we still chat and sip beers when I ask Frank, a guy looking roughly my age who he came with. He gestures to Kata, "My daughter and I..." DAUGHTER!!! DAUGHTER GOES MY MIND. UH OH.

I ask Kata a few moments later, "So, how old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"DOH!!!!" My Homer squeal echos off the castle walls and over the water. Time to call it a night. I excuse myself and retreat to my shabby room. I'm getting too old for this shit. The next day my hangover reiterates that point. Too old.

So I hang in and watch TV and eat some greasy Burger King lunch to soak up the ethanol. Instead of the horror of Tiger Woods' impossible collapse Saturday at the (British) Open at Muirfield; BBC World brings me non-stop coverage of the sýnking ship called the US stock market.

All I think about is home. I imagine walking down West Broadway, window shopping; I see myself dining at Asia de Cuba, wearing all black and Gucci; I want corned beef hash and scrambled eggs at the University Restaurant near my old studio; I want to hit golf balls out on Long Island like the old days.

I want to drive my Boxster... whoops, sold it. I miss the service in the US. I miss holding a sophisticated conversation with a native English speaker. I miss driving a car and listening to my own music. I miss soooo much.

One thing I've learned on this trip is to listen to your heart and soul. It'll tell you what it wants - if you know to LISTEN. Sometimes we can't get what we want right away - like Kata and satellite TV. But as the song says: 'sometimes, you get what you need' and I need to just relax a little and create a comfort zone around me - a little bit of home. So I dine at BK and Mickey D's, and browse through 'Entertainment Weekly' at the bookstand, and surf the net.

It's enough and on this last day in Bodrum before heading to Ephesus, the famous Roman ruins up the coast, I feel like laying out on the beach, playing in the water, and drinking a couple beers in my last night in Bodrum; no longer in the doldrums.

The doldrums will return someday, as they always do, but I know just the prescription to ease the pain...listen to your heart and do something for yourself and like that silly 'dance as if no-one is looking,' eat what you want, sleep when you want, and have a beer if you want.

Or not.

Born Again Beirut

Beirut, Lebanon
1 July 2002


Car horns honk outside my hotel room as people scream and shout celebrating Brazil's victory in the World Cup final over Germany this afternoon. A line of Mercedes convertibles and Audi's and Volvo's drive down Bliss Street in front of the American University of Beirut, across from where I am staying.

The ground floor of my hotel, the University Hotel, houses a McDonalds, Starbucks, and Dunkin Donuts. Needless to say I don't walk very far for breakfast, lunch or dinner. Two soldiers in fatigues and carrying M-16's represent the only throwback to the Beirut of the 1980's; no doubt guarding the mighty symbols of democracy.

My first time hearing of Beirut came from watching the tragic news of a truck bomb which destroyed the US Marines headquarters and killed 271 Marines and sailors on 23 October 1983. I remember because I wanted to be a Marine at the time, though, I was still popping pimples in high school. I failed to understand the dynamics of the situation that my fellow Marines found themselves in; and I think the policy makers that put them into Beirut failed also.

Thomas Friedman's book on Beirut illuminated the situation and various factions fighting for control of the country, which eventually fell to Syria and Israel, who still control the Northern and Southern regions of Lebanon. I recalled anecdotes from Friedman as I wandered about the city.

I spent time walking down the infamous 'Green Line,' or Rue de Damas, the road to Damascus, which separated the Christian East Beirut from Muslim West Beirut. Things have changed. Now a Virgin Megastore stands astride this line of demarcation in the newly rebuilt marina district; some bullet pockmarks still scar the building.

The civil war ended in 1992 and Prime Minister Rafik Al Hariri initiated several projects to rebuild the war-torn country, especially the capital, Beirut, once called the Paris of the Mideast. The recent rebuilding focused on the city center, where new low rise office buildings in ochre Spanish Mediterranean style delineate a new business district, its streets lined with chic sidewalk cafes and downtown bars with names like Liquid, UV and Tribeca. Aside from the empty shell of the old Holiday Inn - a 30 story shell of bombed out hotel rooms, not much visible damage remains for casual discernment.

But further up the road, in the Achrafieh district, the contrast between old and new stands out starkly. A budding area with hip cafes and sleek bars stands next to war torn buildings, bullet and shell marks scarring the outsides. The narrow streets clogged with cars and ground level shops exude life, yet burnt out buildings, vacant lots, piles of rubble, and bullet holes remind us of the past.

But here, the Beirut nightlife as resumed, much less strictly Muslim than neighboring Syria or Jordan, young, uninhibited Beiruti's toss back imported beers and strut about in Gucci with Nokia phones and BMW's. The young women strut their stuff in spaghetti strap tops, miniskirts and hairstyles that would bring a public flogging from the Taliban.

Strolling from one end of Monnot Road to the other, about 400m, one passes about 35 bars and restaurants, reminiscent of the concentrated area of Lan Kwai Fong in Hong Kong. Like other Mediterranean countries, the nightlife only picks up around midnight as the streets fill with expensive cars and groups of young Beiruti's on the prowl.

The one throwback to the civil war days - red lights. Drivers never stopped for red lights, the fear of a kidnapping or car bombing calling for safety in movement. This has not changed in modern Beirut and one cringes in the old Mercedes taxis as the drivers shoot straight into intersections without so much as a glance at other traffic.

With just about 3.6mn people in an area about 70% the size of Connecticut; Lebanon's GDP per capita is estimated at $5,000, making it one of the wealthiest countries in the region. Fancy international hotels, multinational companies, and all the worldwide logos of Americana put Beirut on the road to recovery.

Appropriate that I happened to see the HBO Special on 9/11 while in this devastated, but recovering city. Tears streamed down my cheeks as the images from that fateful day flashed on the screen. Hearing Guiliani recount the events of emotions left me drained and numb once again. Yet the pictures of selfless firefighters, compassionate doctors, resolute leaders, and inspired citizenry remind of the strength of America.

Our strength lies not fleets of F-117 stealth fighters, nuclear weapons, nor the world's largest economy. Our strength lies in a country that welcomes open debate on the Pledge of Allegiance, flag-burning, abortion, and Enron. Our strength lies in freedom of expression, religion, immunity to illegal search and seizure. Our strength lies in a system that promotes individual rights which encourage each person to strive for excellence and realize their full potential.

As I travel, its these intangible virtues of power I hear others envy and aspire to; not the external trappings, but the internal foundations. As I observe others, I see the strengths and weaknesses of my home even more clearly. America is far from perfect, far from omniscient, far from omnipotent. Yet our way of life finds itself coveted and emulated in many places. Not just wishing for Mickey, Nike and Big Macs, but for the freedom to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness."

As we approach the celebration of our nations' birth, I find comfort in the underlying strength and resilience of our way of life and our belief in the sanctity of individual rights and the right of all people to reach their life's potential. No-one can wretch this away from us and as others recover from even larger disasters and conflicts, so too, do I believe our nation can surmount the challenges confronting us.

A Year in the Life

Cairo, Egypt
6 June 2002

Reflecting on a year on the road - what does it mean? Photo by Michael Seto

Gray Glacier in Torres del Paine, Chile. A reminder of some processes where we are just a blink in their time.

"It was the best of times. It was the worst of times." One of the best book openings ever, aptly describing the past year.

I left New York City just one year ago on my trip around the world, now half finished according to my initial plan. A lot transpired in the past year, both in my life and in the world; the following peice focuses on the former.

"Lies, damn lies, and statistics."

365 days
7 continents
49 countries (20 in this past year) 60 rolls of film exposed
1 ancient wonder of the world (the pyramids at Giza)
7 rounds of golf
36 postcards written
111 meters of bungee jump
17 scuba dives (Galapagos and Red Sea)
42 Big Mac meals
1 bad bout of diarrhea
1 more Christmas on the road and the experience of a lifetime... priceless.

I now touched all seven continents in the world and all the oceans dividing them. My feet trod the dirt of forty-nine countries, twenty new ones on this leg of the journey. How many more before I return home?

I have gazed upon mountain vistas from Patagonia to the Rockies, icefields from Antarctica, painted Namibian deserts, sunrises and sunsets, even places where the sun never sets. I have hiked granite cliffs to vast barren salt plains to steaming jungles. I have been nearly robbed, machete'ed, and driven off a cliff - and maybe nearly driven mad, according to some.

Varied modes of transport carried me to these faraway places: delapidated taxis, chicken buses, rusting ferrys, decrepit airplanes, and worn-out soles of my Nikes. Shunning the 'magic' of air travel whenever possible (where three hours in a alumninum cylinder transmogrifies the landscape when you emerge) I stuck with means closer to the ground; more so to smell the passing flora and feel the land underfoot.

Since I get this question everywhere; thus far, my favorite places include:

- Antarctica: the sheer desolation and vastness of the icefields, glaciers and mountains force us to recognize the limited geography of our own minds and worlds.

- Serengeti/Ngorongoro Crater: National Geographic comes to life here with every large wild animal you had as stuff toys when a child. The horizon to horizon wildebeast migration boggles the mind.

- Namibia: the red painted desert landscapes and starry skies, juxtaposed with the German heritaged towns come as a hidden surprise in Southern Africa.

- Antigua and Oaxaca: (Guatemala & Mexico, respectively) - these old Spanish colonial towns offer respites from the grueling third-world travel of these poverty stricken countries and harken back to a more sophisticated lifestyle, albeit of the ruling class.

Time

Time plays its funny Hermes tricks on us all the time. From dragging interminably and to disappearing imperceptibly. Time and space is very much a paradigm in our minds - the interstices of our relationship with the outside world brought to us through our five limited senses. The mind easily slips these bonds.

I perceive my days as ranging from mind-blowing overload to mind-numbing boredom. Yet as the trip progressed, I allowed my mind to drift on its moorings, giving out more leash, paying out more line - letting it meander along it's subtle path, with me as silent, often baffled, observer.

I witnessed scenes from my past, reliving and feeling into past loves, past mistakes, past triumphs, past joys, and past despairs.

I reminisce endlessly about friends and good times in the past, from grade school to the Marine Corps to golfing with buddies in New York. Good times bring a warm glow in rose-tinted memories, paradoxically, even bad memories' hard cutting edge dulls in retrospect.

With each visit to the past I gain greater clarity into the meaning of each, at a personal and an archetypal level. Understanding that every experience carries both layers; and by freeing myself from the narrow personal aspect and embracing the eternal and universal, I came into a greater understanding of the harmony and natural rythyms of the world around me.

As counting angels on the head of a pin, how much time can pass in any instant? Is that time well used or carelessly discarded? I am convinced it all depends on how conscious we are during each passing moment, summarized in the Zen proverb:

Be Here Now

Try it sometime. Highs and Lows. Highs and lows define the perimeters of world travel; from the physical heights of Mount Kilimanjaro (19,028 feet) to the lows of the Dead Sea (-1,085 feet) - the lowest point in the world. Emotional highs and lows: the exhilaration and majesty of desolate Antarctica to the despair and desperation of Cape Town's black townships.

And metaphysical boundries get tested: from The Fall off a bridge at Victoria Falls, to the descent into the fecundity and femininity of the deep oceans, to the salting and cleansing of the Dead Sea; many psychic forces get stirred.

I learned about myself all along the way. I learned that I am an anal retentive type-A. (Though anyone who met me saw that in about three minutes.) I learned that I am intelligent, irreverantly funny, insightful, optimistic, and generous. I learned that I am insecure, naive, childish, pessimistic and selfish too. I learned that I love to read poetry; listen to (and sing) opera; write nonsensical travel articles, sleep-in whenever possible, and eat Big Mac meals. In the end, I learned that I still have a lot to learn.

Socrates said, "the unexamined life is not worth living." Little did I realize how little time for contemplation remained in my NYC/Wall Street/Palm Pilot/cell phone infused 'life.' Smelling the coffee a Sunday at a time or two weeks of vacation in a stretch stopped working for me.

Fortunately, I recognized the slow death of ossification for me and departed for something else. That is not to cast aspersions on those who covet, choose, and remain in this kind of life. It's true that one man's meat is anothers poison. We much each walk our own path.

I realized deep in my heart that money isn't everything. That was easy to say and write but hard hard hard to truly accept. I still don't know if I really believe it since I fantisize about winning the lottery a lot - and the weeklong Pebble Beach blowout I'd treat my friends to.

I began to understand the total freedom I possessed to live my life in any way I chose; BUT only by letting go all notions impressed upon me since birth of what life meant and what was a 'waste' versus what constituted a 'meaningful' life of a upstanding citizen. Dropping the internalized values of society's, my parent's, my friend's, and my coworker's perception of life took a lot - and I still feel it sneaking in the back door sometimes.

The path to salvation is narrow and treacherous, like a razor's edge, said the lama in Bill Murray's adaptation of the Somerset Maugham book, The Razor's Edge.

And as Lao Tzu says,"the path that makes itself known easily, is not the path."

I look forward to the next year and the next moment.