Maladroit Joint/BORACAY - SINGAPORE - PHNOM PENH

I manage to rouse myself out of bed by 11:30 and what do you know, it's yet another beautiful day of perfect Boracay weather. Do people in nice climates just never have long dark nights of the soul? It's ridiculous, I can't get any proper introspection done in these conditions.

Yet you were too good for a clear sunrise the ONE time I'm ever gonna be awake for one, is that it? I've got your number, pal.

I wander around the D*Mall looking for breakfast and succor from the powerful, loving god of commercialism.

If you're ever in Boracay, consider checking out a place I didn't have time for: The Hobbit House, a restaurant run solely by little people. They probably chose the name themselves, and it's probably okay to feel good about going there. Still, I couldn't take the pressure.

As a treat, I find the fanciest-looking breakfast I can, which for my money is the mango French toast at the Lemon Cafe. I follow up with a raspberry mango smoothie, because mangoes here are incredible. Filipino food may be blander than the soft rock DJ at a church fundraiser, but on this island I've been enjoying the best mangoes of my life, which until now I always thought of as kind of a garbage fruit.

You win this round, national exports.

Because the D*Mall is so ridiculously upscale, it even has the D*Wall, a climbing pinnacle with three routes and belayers standing by. I have a little time before my flight, so I let them strap me into the hard route. After all, I just climbed in Railay that one time therefore I'm probably back in top form.

That's how muscles work.

Thus I climb, and for some reason I am unable to manage the last couple of grips to get to the top. The equipment must have broken, and I think my hands were sweaty so it wasn't really fair. The belayer guy definitely did not have to keep asking if I was gonna make it or not, exercising his sole window for passive-aggression in a job he must hate.

And that's that for the Philippines. It's been...okay to good, all averaged out. I check out of Bella Casa, get a trike to the airport, fly to Manila, wander around the terminal, and realize it's the wrong one. The shuttle for terminal transfer is out of gas, so I have to take a cab that never turns on the meter and likely overcharges me. Dang. After a caramel frappuccino and some unfortunate beef teriyaki, I'm finally in the air cruising to the Singapore airport, which is itself my next  destination. I'll explain.

Singapore's Changi airport has been repeatedly voted the best airport in the world for years, and boasts a number of gimmicky attractions to occupy a waiting commuter. Free movie cinemas, massage chairs, a rooftop swimming pool, even a flippin' butterfly garden. Since I hardly saw the airport when I was last in Singapore, I arranged for a long layover here before moving on to Cambodia, and the likely end of my trip. Basically, I like gimmicks, and this probably didn't actually need so much explaining. Lemme at those butterflies!

The thing is, I forgot that I was flying a budget airline. All that time in Boracay hobnobbin' with affluent Aussies and eating hella bourgeois French toast, I must've straight forgot I was brown water trash. Unfortunately, and I probably could've seen this coming, all the attractions of Singapore's airport are past the security checkpoint and thus require a boarding pass. A boarding pass that will be a long time coming since budget airlines only open a couple hours before the flight. And I arranged for a solid 10 hour layover to reeeally put those gimmicks through their paces.

So. After trying to sleep across three chairs in that way that always works and is super comfortable in an airport and definitely isn't just going to result in nonstop fidgeting and back ache, I get some kaya toast and coffee and look around for some damn thing to enjoy in this pre-security fucker. What I find is a gallery showcasing dioramas of the Singapore airport throughout the years. By which I mean that I find nothing. Because no one could possibly find this interesting, and that includes the people who made the gallery.

It's so shit, the carpet can't even decide on a single shade of shit to be.

After a simply cruel number of hours have passed, I finally receive my boarding pass and rush around the airport with about an hour left to see...well, in the end a koi pond, some cacti, and a room of hotly anticipated Lepidoptera.

Relaxing. Time's up, gotta go!

I actually rushed around the airport to see this. Why is this an attraction? Why do I care?

I'll hand it to the folks at Changi, the butterfly garden's an impressive setup.

Is it a setup worth a 10 hour layover? Of course not, I'm just a goddamn maniac. Still, with expectations low I bet you can have some good times great oldies.

I bet if I told you the Singapore airport had a shitload of butterfly cocoons...you wouldn't have strong feelings on the matter.

In fact, even cooler than the butterflies is a carnivorous plant exhibit, which is very special if you ever grew up with a friend whose mom bought him a Venus Fly Trap when you were kids, and you were so wracked with jealousy you totally screen-looked every time you both played GoldenEye even though when he accused you of it you said you totally didn't.

YMMV

After flying to Phnom Penh, I share a tuk-tuk from the airport with this New Zealander filming everything. According to him, photos are so last century, and when he's done traveling he'll compile all his footage into a music video of his trip. He's headed all the way to Siem Reap, and asks if I'd like to join. Though secretly jealous of his forward-thinking traveloguing, I gotta pass. I don't have too much time left, and still too much to see here first. I get off the tuk-tuk at the Lazy Gecko guesthouse, which isn't a bad set of digs.

Fan room, because I'm hardcore.

For one, they've hung a bunch of what I must assume to be paintings of beloved transvestite Divine everywhere, which is a fun, kooky touch.

Taking a minute to enjoy the balcony, I meet Frenchmen Alex and Sebastien. They're busy smoking whatever the cool French word for reefer is, and don't bat an eye when I mosey up alongside them. I let them know that I'm on the level by telling them how much I too enjoy the reefer, making sure to pronounce it "ree-FAIHR" in a very authentic French accent. They can tell I'm obvs not a narc, and I clearly know my shit. Alex offers to sell me a bag for $10, which seems to me to be decent bud (I'm fairly certain this is a real term), but then I'm the guy that bought the fifty dollar bag of tobacco back in 'Nam. I'm gonna with my gut.

Unfortunately, I'm actually broke at the moment, so the frogs are left hanging, but they promise to still be around later. It's as good a time as any to go exploring, so I buzz by the Friendship Monument and the Royal Palace, the latter at which I make the acquaintance of an Italian girl named Angela, herself just back from Siem Reap.

If I had met her at the Friendship Monument, this caption would've been...just whoa. Can't even imagine. Too many laughs.

Instead we meet here. Definitely among the sharpest palaces in all the world.

She's chill and I manage to pretend to be a normal human being long enough that we get along great. Together we check out the Royal Museum, which is...another museum. I can't keep up. Believe me, I looked at every single display case, read every placard I could, really tried to take an interest. None of it stuck. Probably my own failing.

Perhaps telling that the only picture I snapped was of the garden, and it took me about ten minutes to check that this actually was the museum.

We head riverside to eat at the internet-recommended Green Vespa, which is shockingly expensive for Cambodia. In fact, as a whole Cambodia is a lot more expensive than I expected, which still doesn't make it an actually expensive country, but noticeably pricier than similar places like Thailand and Vietnam. It's something to do with their own currency being reliant on the American dollar, which you will use far more than their own Cambodian notes. It's highly reminiscent of the situation in Myanmar. Really, everything in Cambodia is reminiscent of other, surrounding countries. Except for the Khmer script on the storefronts, you'd be hard-pressed to tell a photo of a random street in Phnom Penh from any other large Southeast Asian city.

The temples have more pointy bits, maybe.

I've been on the road too long. The map's all smudging together in my dumb bleached head. Fuck knows how those year-long French backpackers do it.

At Green Vespa I enjoy some pasta carbonara of which she is extremely skeptical. She goes on to add that she'll never eat Italian food abroad, because she's Italian and and has her Italian standards. Which makes a lot of sense to me, Italians not eating Italian food abroad, because the Italians have no clue what pizza actually is. Like most things, Americans had to take the original Italian idea of pizza (that is to say, circular toast smothered in olive oil with just a pinch of mozzarella) and unleash the potential hidden within. Have I been to Italy? No. Do I feel confident in judging their local cuisine regardless? Remarkably so.

Anyways, she orders something boring like a chicken sandwich, and then agrees to hit up a film night at local indie theater The Flicks. The movie makes absolutely no impression on me, and even less on her. We agree that it was a movie, and now it's time to call it a night. Despite our obvious chemistry we part ways firmly and chastely, but with plans to meet the next morning to see the S-21 Genocide Museum and the Killing Fields. Some very choice romantic spots, to be sure.

This picture here in case after I mentioned S-21 or the Killing Fields, your brain proceeded to then have any thoughts whatsoever about those subjects.

As promised, Sebastien is on the balcony in the morning, and sells me a bag for $10 he bought himself from Alex. "No profit," he assures. Is there always, everywhere in Southeast Asia a French dealer who's got what you need? Gosh, it is just super okay to say whatever you want about the French. Just a few paragraphs back I called them frogs! That's probably not going to be okay in like thirty years. But who gives a shit, it's the French.

Unfortunately, Sebastien doesn't have anything pre-rolled. Being a true red-blooded American, I'm used to enjoying the invention of this thing we call "pipes", and have no clue how to roll a blunt/spliff/doobie/that cross-joint thing in Pineapple Express. When I sheepishly ask if there's any possibility Sebastien could roll me something, he misunderstands and happily points out that the corner shop sells all the rolling papers I could ever need. Fuck.

But hold on. Angela is Italian, and Italy is in Europe, ergo she should carry the joint-rolling genetic trait. It still means I probably won't be able to see S-21 stoned as a friend suggested, but then that sounded like a SU-per bad idea in the first place. Gonna have to give the baked bummers a big ol' pass and just see the Genocide Museum sober and respectful.

Angela's awaiting at our designated meeting spot, The Lazy Gecko, calmly and respectfully psyched for the day. We tell a tuk-tuk driver we want the full package, S-21 and the Killing Fields, but no rifle range. They always try to slip in a visit to shoot off an AK along with the genocide tour, and don't seem to understand why a person might not be in the mood to fire an automatic assault rifle after seeing the atrocities of man laid bare. We're just weird like that, sorry tuk-tuk bro.

One of the first things you'll see entering the grounds of S-21, or rather the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, is a sign prohibiting visitors from smiling or laughing. Not a big ask, believe me.

Preaching to the bummed-outest choir, guys. Is this rule something they actually have to enforce? Is the world that bad a place? Oh wait, look where I'm standing.

So in case you didn't know, S-21 is a former high school that the Khmer Rouge turned into...you know what? I'm gonna go ahead and drop the "serious travelogue of Southeast Asia" ruse. Just a little while ago I was talking about ornate French Toast and being awkward around girls, so I've got a hunch that if you've stuck with me this far, you're not super interested in the tonal whiplash that a detailed description of one of the Khmer Rouge's main execution centers would inflict. I will say this, that one of the survivors was there, telling his story and selling his memoirs. I gave him money, but did not take his book. It was too real. I feel bad now about not wanting to feel that bad, but that's being a tourist for you.

This is the most innocuous photo I have. It's a former school!

One more thing, the famous skull map of Cambodia was dismantled awhile ago out of respect for the dead, and in its place is this photograph. You know, if you were on some sort of bone sculpture tour and after the Sedlec Ossuary you came here expecting the actual map.

We move on with whatever the opposite of pep would be in our step to the Choeung Ek Killing Fields, which has multiple signs asking visitors not use any alcohol or drugs. I'm again glad my pathetic drug preparation skills have allowed me to appreciate the place with a clear mind. Actually, my teeth hurt and my stomach is on the verge of ruination from some nefarious earlier meal, but that's kind of the perfect mood for a tour of the Killing Fields. No one talks at any point during our entire tour. Even the guide seems to be as terse as possible. Can't imagine it's a job you spring out of bed for.

This is the most innocuous photo I have. It's a former orchard!

...A former orchard that sometimes heaves up articles of clothing when it rains.

I keep trying to think of how I can describe the experience, and want to mention the story of the- no, too dark. Perhaps I'll talk about the- no, definitely should stay away from that.

Nope nope nope

Suffice to say, like S-21 the Killing Fields are not something I want (or even possess the ability) to talk about and not something I imagine you want to read about, not in this format. You will feel sick and you will feel hopeless for the rest of the day, and that comes as my recommendation.

Exit through the gift shop.

Angela and I are nothing if not thorough sightseers however, so we struggle on for a jaunt around Wat Phnom, a presumably important temple located smack-dab in the center of the city. From Wikipedia I gather that it is the tallest religious structure in city as well, being built on a little hill that has a few steps to climb, but nothing close to the hikes I was making in Burma.

What is this, a temple for babies?

It's got a lot of stupas and pointy bits and some very nicely manicured grounds to walk around and looks a lot like a lot of other Buddhist temples I've walked around that that had a lot of stupas and statues and very nicely manicured grounds. I am so templed out, and I still have Angkor Wat ahead of me. Verdict: if you've already seen the majority of important Buddhist temples throughout Southeast Asia and just came back from walking the sites of some of one of history's worst genocides and just really aren't into the mood, you can probably give Wat Phnom a pass.

NEXT

We grab lunch nearby. Angela is on her way to Laos, and needs to get her passport back from the Laotian embassy. Of course the second we finish eating, the skies close up and drop down a flash tropical storm. Despite the torrential rain, Angela still takes the time to really put the mustard on haggling with the tuk-tuk drivers outside, their numbers dwindling as they drive away with other, drier passengers. Eventually, her winning style of bargaining (half-pointing, half-glaring, all-yelling) crushes the spirit of one driver enough that he agrees to take us for however many tens of cents less she demanded.

Through the downpour we can see some sort of protest going on in front of the French embassy, with whom I assume must be locals kneeling in front of the gate.

They thought to bring ponchos, so probably not a super spontaneous thing.

Whatever's going on over there seems way more interesting than any Wat, but we're in a tuk-tuk, and it's really wet outside, and what am I going to do: shout "Later, idiot!" at Angela and jump out so I can try to ingratiate myself with some very miserable people so later I can write a Vice article about how one time I crashed a minor Cambodian protest?

Actually...shoulda woulda.

Post-embassy we grab drinks at Mao's, an entirely Mao-themed upscale bar that for some reason exists in a country with a...strained relationship to communism. The kitsch inside is pure dead magic.

I order the cocktail of the house, named with some sort of Mao pun, and it was disgusting as all cocktails of the house are everywhere always.

Everything in the bar is red and covered with some sort of Mao portrait, and I wouldn't have ever believed you could buy this many commercial products adorned with the image of such a staunch enemy of capitalism had I not seen it for myself in Shanghai, so many moons ago.

Nice bar. Confusing bar.

After a tasteless dinner of unremarkable Cambodian fare, again very reminiscent of Myanmar, I bring up the subject of smoking illegal drugs, which is always a delicate situation with new companions that I almost certainly botch and make weird every time. Fortunately, Angela's a fan of the pot, and suggests we go to a shisha bar where we can smoke it semi-incognito. This is a great plan that fills us both with a lot of confidence as we get to a shisha bar, find a tucked-away corner booth, and I reveal my contraband. Then she asks me to roll.

There's no point in prevaricating, so I tell her the truth. I can't roll joints because god dammit, I'm an American and we have civilized fucking glassware that make it so you never have to worry about goddamn "skins" or all this prep work that I am sure only exists as a way for some stoners to put themselves above other stoners, regardless of how often they say words like "One Love" and "irie".

"I can't roll either, my friends have always rolled for me," she replies. We stare at each other in the dimly lit booth with expressions far, far graver than this situation should elicit. This table cluttered with a superfluous hookah bought only to act as a cover has now become a proving ground. This is going to be a trial. By fire. LITERALLY.

Passing back and forth, we agonizingly construct a half-dozen crooked, lumpy bastards that fall apart under the slightest pressure until, at last, I put together something starting to resemble what a human person could call a "joint." Angela still has to take it apart a bit, give it a slight re-roll, a little more skin for support, some TLC here and there, but it's done. It's still crooked, it's still very lumpy, but it's smokeable. And just like that, Angela and I share this maladroit joint that keeps going out, and doesn't want to light, and burns really unevenly, yet it's still the best joint because we built it together. I think this story finally got the thematic conclusion it needs to officially count as coming-of-age and thus have a unifying narrative arc! Go team!

There's an open mic at an Irish pub, and it's about as disappointing as every open mic at every Irish pub. Maybe a little less. Who cares. After one song, Angela says goodbye and leaves forever, since we never exchanged contact information. It probably wasn't the open mic act that made her leave, but still people, be careful out there.

The night is still young, however. Wikitravel makes a big deal (or did at the time) of warning people against one specific club with the ominous name of Heart of Darkness, where a fatal shooting occurred about 6 years ago.

Hey look where I immediately am now

Heart of Darkness is indeed a seedy, over-decorated nightclub with a dangerous reputation, and after touring some atrocities and kinda sorta doing some drugs, I feel dangerous myself. Of course, I don't actually do anything of note, just sit by myself and have a drink and no one except the waitstaff interacts with me at all, but I certainly feel my badass power level go up a few points. In hindsight....I've got a strong hunch actual badasses don't talk about power levels. Also, Heart of Darkness is kind of lame unless you want to hire a prostitute, and it probably isn't even great for that.

But hey, how funny is it that I've been to bars called both Heart of Darkness and Apocalypse Now, because Apocalypse Now was based on...damn. Not actually that funny. Phnom Penh, I'm done. Time to head North, and see...oh god more temples. So many temples. There's just no way Buddha was that cool, guys! No way. But then...then I will at last fly back to Seattle, where I never have to see another temple again. Unless they serve craft IPA or something, then we'll see how it goes.

Hey Boss, Looking For Girl?/ANGELES

I fly into the Philippines budget flight hub of Angeles, with the intention of making my tired way to Boracay, knowing two things: Boracay is a beautiful island of perfect white beaches where it is impossible to not get laid, and Angeles is a disgusting sex tourist-ridden cesspit where it is also impossible to not get laid (but grosser). I'm psyched.

And reportedly no bird flu. Now I know three things.

I exchange for some pesos at the airport and get a taxi into Angeles city proper. A friend of Malcolm's back at the Singapore Flyer recommended I stay at the Marlim Mansion hotel, which at 30 bucks a night is far more than I usually spring for, but it definitely buys a nice room.

Fewer bloodstains than I've become accustomed to, definitely.

I browse the internet with junkie abandon till about 4 am, when sleep finally overcomes my hunger for webcomic updates. Around noon I check out, but with no plans for the day I hang out in the lobby for another couple hours, no idea where to go or what to do. Finally I suck it up and take my backpack to wander the streets like a fucking renegade.

Luckily, there was nearby accommodation with a wide variety of sleeping options. Here is one example with a classy and convenient menu of pricing choices.

First item on the agenda: find another room so I can immediately put my backpack back down again. I look around for one of the cleaner pay-by-the-hour motels, or at least the one with the nicest hourly-sex-pricing sign outside, and check in. You can probably imagine what depraved excuse for shelter such an establishment might offer, and I gotta say, you'd be wrong. The digs weren't too shab-a-dabs for 800 pesos. Also, 800 pesos (close to 20 bucks a night) is about the cheapest I can find, probably because sex tourists tend to have more money than dirty backpacker scum.

There's even a weird seafoam chaise lounge for your classier perverts.

These pay-as-you-go fuckbunkers definitely get a bad rap. You could absolutely describe this room as "habitable". And if that wasn't enough, there was a lightbox on the wall that clearly spelled out the laws of the land, a powerful final barrier to keep out all the riffraff:

Where's the last place you stayed that had a chambermaid? Bet it wasn't pay-by-the-hour!

Once I'm fully checked in to my rape-hovel, I stop in at a Japanese restaurant to get a fruit shake. The guy making my shake says I look like the lead guitarist of Linkin Park, which is a statement I still don't entirely know how to take. Is he ugly? I hope he isn't ugly. I literally cannot bring myself to care about Linkin Park enough to look up him up. What a heady conversation starter. I chat with the shake artist and his female coworker about the area, and ask where they like to hang out, but they seem to only judge nightlife by how beautiful the girls are. That's too narrow of a metric, guys. According to these two, the girls in Angeles are the hottest in all the Philippines, because they come here to make that money. In their words, Boracay can suck it. The girl coworker goes on to say that she'd also be out there in the clubs raking in that sweet sex worker cash, if only she was hot enough. My heart goes out.

On a different note, check out Curry Steve's for truly "authentic" Indian cuisine

Once I've had enough of reassuring a girl that she could absolutely be a hooker if she wanted to, the world is her oyster, I exit back into the dusty concrete eyesore of Angeles' Balibago district. Everything is squat gray buildings boxed up next to each other, stitched through with low power lines and on every surface boasting the usual tourist fare in Tagalog, English, and Korean. Always Korean. That's new.

There's a hum of electricity and desperation in the air, or maybe my mind's still stuck on that last conversation. Just so's I feel a little better about being in the Filipino Mos Eisley, I decide to take in a little culture. Turns out there's a cemetery where you can see a marker dedicated to...the Bataan Death March, which passed along here during World War II.

Is "passed along" a somber enough turn of phrase? It doesn't feel right.

Sorry.

Maybe that's enough culture for now. There's a park nearby, so I spend sunset there watching Filipino flair bartenders practice their bottle tricks.

This city can't be that great, because I am far from alone.

With the fall of night comes decisions. How far am I gonna take this town? I mean, I'm here, so I might as well dip a toe in, and see what pond life pokes its head out. But do I actually want to, as the French say, pay for sex? I'm not exactly the Mayor of Morals Town, but I do draw a line. Although that line has always been drawn mostly 'cause I've always been a real-life pauper without prospects. Let's just be open to destiny.

Be nice, destiny.

I find a sleazy looking bar called The Margarita Station, which is actually pretty nice, unfortunately. No go-go girls, just a lot of normal-ish people and commendable drink prices.

BOOO

Since I don't know anyone, and no one is actively making an effort to talk to me, I drink a fair share and watch TV shows on my mp3 player. Destiny's playing it a little slow tonight. There's a cocktail on the menu called a Stinger, which I order because Bukowski girls always drink it. It's god-awful dog swill. Whoever decided cognac needed creme de menthe should be drowned and then shot. It's going to come as a surprise to myself and probably my audience that I don't vomit later tonight, considering I followed that success story with a Tanduay Ice, the Filipino version of a Bacardi Breezer. Why? Destiny, and also I don't remember. Probably misread the menu. Now that I'm loaded with enough confidence-juice to make something happen, I chat up the bartender about the sitch'. Turns out, he hates all the Koreans in town. Apparently this is where they all come to vacation, and go absolutely fucking nuts. According to my barman, they're loud, unruly, and spit everywhere. Which, yeah, but I guess even more so than in Korea. Whoa.

Beyond that, no directions or advice. Just antipathy towards Koreans.

Time to plunge in: Fields Avenue, the official Walking Street. Many Southeast Asian tourist towns will have a Walking Street, but few come close to this. Here is where the bawdy neon lights of the city are, a profligate signal flare of excitement and low culture coiled into the urban sprawl. Go-go girls and their unimpressed madames line both sides of the road, offering endless variations on the same venal spiel. Eagerly salivating over them are a depressing number of older white gentlemen and what I assume are the Korean businessmen I was warned against. The Koreans seem to have the edge in numbers. There are local men too, every other one a tout asking if I want a trike ride or cheap cigarettes or knock-off sunglasses or fake viagra or stolen electronics. They all call me "boss". After Singapore, it feels like home. I walk a lap up and down the street, psyching myself up to bite the proverbial bullet and explore one of these dens of sin.

My first go-go bar of the night will turn out to be representative of many: bored, uncoordinated bikini girls sharing raised stages that zig and zag through the bar, languorously dancing repetitive "routines" that only serve to remind you that dancing is not their true profession. It's little more than a haphazardly neon-trimmed dive bar that happens to have a few poles that the girls use more for support than any kind of eroticism. The money seems to have gone entirely to the outside decor (which the competition ensures is fantastically eye-catching indeed), with little to spare for the cavernous space inside. The audience is predictably made up of overweight and middle-aged white guys or loud Korean businessmen, all swilling double-price beers. Considering I am almost none of those things, I turn out to be very popular with the ladies. I'll say it, it's a bit of a shock.

Not that they have much to talk about; in between the not so subtle hints that they're available for take-away, every girl I talk to simply rants about further crimes of the Korean people, A middle-aged Swiss man strikes up a conversation with me, perhaps out of loneliness, but it's a welcome change. I can't make out a lot of what he says over the terrible sound system, but he doesn't seem like a predator. Still, probably wouldn't except any massage lessons from him just yet. When I finish my drink, he asks if I'd like for him to show me his favorite bars along the strip. When in (the fall of) Rome!

It isn't long before some Koreans behaving poorly make themselves known. At one bar there's a real specimen videotaping the girls with this massive IMAX-sized rig and trying to feel up their legs. The girls are too...professional, I guess, to tell him off, instead just looking away, obviously uncomfortable, and occasionally brushing off his roaming hand. Finally one gal has had enough and gets right up in his face and shouts until he scurries off like the licentious rodent he is. My Swiss libertine picks up the check, as he's been doing all night, and off we go to the next one.

I'm getting trashed on all these free San Migs (side note: not a bad beer for a shitty cheap lager), on top of the 5 or 6 drinks from earlier in the night, but the Swissman is very calm and casual when he points out a girl to me he fancies, and calls her over. They negotiate for a spell, and just like that we have a new addition to our happy group. He asks if there's any girl I'd like, and I ruefully lay out how paying for it just isn't my bag. I make sure, however, that he knows what a great guy I think he is, and how cool and judgement-free I am with his whole scene, man. He leaves to party with his new gal pal, and I leave to find more bars to drink more beers. My mind disappears with my friends, and all I remember is stumbling somnambulant through door after garishly decorated door, dressed up like temples and jungles and saloons and vintage nightclubs, finding each one the same inside and stumbling out again. In my hypnagogic state the bars and the girls all blend into one another in a horrible panorama of beer and butts and bad Koreans, yet despite my best efforts to override my programming with drink I manage to stay single to the end. Oh well.

Amazingly, I make it back without difficulty to my love hotel room that will remain absent of love. It almost feels like I'm being selfish, just using it for boring old sleep. I noticed that even the premium hotels in the area offer hourly pricing as well. They know their demographic. I wanted to see Angeles, and I feel sated.

After waking in worse shape than usual, I go through the alcoholic's morning ritual of making sure all my stuff is still with me, and check out.

Other than some mystery thigh bruises, all good in Jamiesburg.

After a trike ride to the bus terminal, I'm having trouble finding the bus to the Manila airport. A local is kind enough to show me, and then wang enough to ask for a tip. I stiff him, because Never Back...nope, doesn't really work here. The bus shows Con Air during the ride, which is terrible for a hangover, modern classic though it may be.

After the bus another taxi, where I'm charged another fare that I'm sure is unreasonable but haven't been in-country long enough to be sure. I am so tired of learning new price standards and currency exchange rates, and trying to remember to not let everyone take advantage of my rotating buffet of inebriation, apathy, white guilt, comparative wealth, and attempted cultural sensitivity (which can reliably be interchanged with flat-out ignorance). I'm also tired of saying I'm tired of things. Pick up your balls and get on with it, dude.

At the airport gate I grab a Cinnabon, which unlike Con Air is amazing for my hangover, and is always a good life decision. Unfortunately, we're not in America, so it's not nearly as frosting-drenched and gross and delicious. Still, it passes the time and fills the hole in my life where sex and companionship should be.

Cinnabon: Distracting you from the depressing realities of the modern condition since 1985 

Despite my state last night I somehow bought an expensive plane ticket to Caticlan, from where Boracay can be reached. I have no plan beyond that, which is just as well when I meet an Aussie on the plane, also traveling alone. We arrange to find a place together. His name's Jordan, he seems nice, and right now that's enough for me.

Aw, airplane friend