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.

Travel Wrong: After Dark, or: A Little Too Loosey-Goosey/BORACAY

Our plane lands in Caticlan, from where we take a trike to the port, as in where the boats be. After a ridiculous exercise in ticket buying involving three different windows, an environmental fee AND a port tax, Jordan and I are ready for Boracay.

Don't fuck me on this, Charon

The boat does its boat thing transporting us across water to our destination, and we then immediately head to White Beach, where Jordan has a friend waiting for him. First we find a nice guesthouse called La Bella Casa, and I find out that Jordan is a fucking mad dog haggler. He busts out the well-honed tactic of loudly and angrily comparing everything to cheaper rooms in Palawan, and has no problem quickly talking the proprietor down from 1000 pesos to 700. That's for a decent room with a TV, aircon, hot water, and laughable yet existent wifi. Even towels and shampoo! I'm struck by what a novice I've been.

We walk to find his friend, but stop on the way for Jonah's Shakes, which I remember seeing lauded on Wikitravel. You know how new parents are always going on about how having a kid is the greatest thing in the world, and their lives in retrospect now seemed so empty and pointless? Those idiots have never had one of these avocado banana shakes. Move over, miracle of life.

It's as cathartically satisfying as...having all three starter pokemon (have I finally found you, core audience?)

Ubiquitous touts mill about the beach eager to bother you about scuba/snorkel/sail trips, but in a strange twist many of these guys don't even speak English. Still, the island is immediately identifiable as an international vacation destination.

It isn't shit.

Sure, Boracay has beaches of perfect white sand being gently molested by clear, emerald waters, just as all those business execs are gently molesting their mistresses on top of that lovely, lovely sand. However, what all those tourist photos take great pains to leave out are the hotels and concrete boardwalk that start maybe ten feet away from the surf. In fact, most of the beach we're staying on (the popular one, I'm later told but can instantly surmise) is literally walled off by tents along the boardwalk, housing expensive beach-side bars and restaurants and Filipino cover bands. After all, what better way to enjoy your expensive beach vacation than by seeing the beach through a layer of dark, insect-and-tout-repelling fabric?

Just a few feet behind me from here, actually.

We locate Jordan's friend Ian at the Astoria Resort, because Ian has infinite quantities of money and intends to spend it. Staying with him is his girlfriend who has never traveled outside of Australia, and both of them are immensely impressed when they find out that I actually eat street food while traveling. Makes me wish it was 100 years ago, where by virtue of simply having traveled a bit I could get invited to rich peoples' dinner parties as a guest of honor. I could also wear a safari hat unironically, which is somehow desirable to me.

Jordan tells his friend about my less-than-stellar experience in Perth and resulting view of Australia, and Ian is simply appalled. They vow to rectify my view of Aussies and by extension redeem their homeland. Then we eat some bolognese at the Astoria restaurant and drink beer. They both say "Out of control!" a lot, but they really are lovely people.

Ian begins the festivities by buying a bucket of beer on the boardwalk, which seems to be the hip thing to do, and we sit down to watch some live music at a bar called Bom Bom.

Despite my general stance on jam bands and their collective stain on the human experience, I must say the Bom Bom folk are good fun. They even have me on stage to sing and drum a little with them, which I suppose was a cunning way of making me part of the problem. Once we're a good few beers deep, one of us starts chatting up some Russian girls sitting close by. By chance, this is the day I'm wearing my one shirt with a nonsensical joke in Cyrillic on it, which turns out to be a crackerjack icebreaker.

The singer from the band invites us all to to come back tomorrow night to continue jamming, to which everyone seems amenable. Around this point Ian leaves with his girlfriend, and Jordan and I in turn leave with our new Russian friends, Jenny and Anya. Jenny speaks great English and is naturally the more talkative of the two, while Anya's English is about on the same level as my Russian. It's a step up from my French, but not by much. However, I'm more far more taken with Anya, enticed by her big adorably chubby cheeks and enticingly impish smile, whereas Jenny sports more stereotypical hard, Slavic features, and eyes that whisper "If this party were to somehow devolve into a bleak fight for survival, you will lose to me." My shallowness is mightily satisfied that Jordan takes the interest in Jenny, and that Anya actually seems to find me attractive, if not interesting. It's possible she is nodding along and laughing at my jokes in a "pretending you are invested in a conversation in French spoken by French people" kind of way, but Sister, I invented that game. It don't bother me none: see previous sentence, esp. with regards to "attraction", i.e. hers in this guy (author gestures to himself).

After a spell of walking along the beach, we lose track of Jordan and Jenny, which Anya and I use as a convenient excuse to more or less collapse where we're standing onto the sand and make out. I attempt to use my mastery of the Russian language to sweet talk her (sweet talking being a thing I've seen in films and understand to be what a normal man does in these situations), but the words for "beautiful" and "red" are kind of similar, and I have a tendency to mix them up. In hindsight, I almost certainly said "You are red, you are red" over and over while getting sand in her hair. Regardless, she rolls with it, due either to my amazing Russian skills, politeness, or some very specific Cold War fetish.

Unfortunately, I can't remember how to get back to my guesthouse, and Anya says Jenny has her key. By now I've drank approximately one thousand beers, so you may be less shocked and appalled that my response is to mentally shrug and sort of wonder if we can't just do it in the sand. Turns out, the popular beach is still quite popular at nighttime, and accidental perverts keep walking by with flashlights and gawking. After my mouth has sufficiently filled with sand and I'm spitting out grit, I make up my mind to find the goddamn Bella Guesthouse, I can't actually remember the name of the guesthouse at this point, but I refuse to let that deter me. I do remember Jonah's, the shake shack beyond mortal description, and I know it's somewhere close by.

I WILL FIND YOU

Through some sort of sexy miracle, and because this island just isn't that big, I succeed in finding Bella. I knock, since Jordan has the key, and I'm answered by him in a towel and Jenny further inside, also in a towel. He looks ashamed, and Jenny looks...like a stoic Russian. Visible emotional range isn't a strong aspect of their culture. Oh I totally forgot to mention! Jordan has a girlfriend. That probably has something to do with the shame. Bummer for him. Jenny gives Anya their room key, and we are on our way to Sexylvania, Population: Hopefully Me and This Girl That Is Real.

We settle in on the bed, and she turns on the TV. Awww yeah. It's some international MTV station, and Lady Gaga plays followed by some Korean music videos. Not ideal, but I'll go with it. It's definitely time for business. I begin kissing her on her lips and face, and she responds in kind. Yeahhh, you know what I'm talking 'bout. Without getting too crass and making this blog unsuitable for younger readers, it's lucky she has condoms, and it turns out language barriers are no match for a girl who knows what she wants, doing it-wise. She is as applaudable as she is terrifying. After a couple of turns at bat that get a little darker than I generally prefer my lovemaking, especially when soundtracked by an unending cacophony of way-too-cheerful K-Pop, I'm spent both physically and emotionally. I stay the night. She hogs the only sheet.

The morning is a little awkward, as I try to be a gentleman and invite Anya to breakfast, but she doesn't understand. She does say she'll be at Bom Bom tonight, so I tell her I'll see her then. Once I exit, I feel like the cock of the damn walk, happier than a poor kid with a Lunchables. As I briefly mentioned before, I had read on an awful travel-themed pick-up artist blog that you are virtually guaranteed to get laid in Boracay, so sleazy credit where sleazy credit is due. I'm sorry my blog doesn't have any international pick-up tips that you might find in someone else's travel guide, but I can guarantee far fewer typos.

After half-strutting, half-staggering back to Bella Casa, I'm a little surprised to find that Jenny is still in the room with Jordan, but she leaves while I shower. Jordan informs me that last night she started giving him a blowjob, but he had her stop when he felt too guilty. He really is a lovely guy. He makes me promise not to tell Ian, which hadn't even occurred to me. At least he's broken up about it, which is why I changed everyone's names, although it occurs to me that anyone looking on this blog for cheating clues now knows as well. My bad.

After his wits have been gathered, Jordan and I walk down to Casa del Sol in D*Mall. Not a small island stretch of tiny family-owned shops like you'd think, but a spotless hive of upper-class stores and restaurants criss-crossed with paved cement streets. Picture lots of old bald men sucking on shrimp tails, forever. I enjoy a big hearty American breakfast that does my stomach no favors. We can't find Ian, so we swim in the ocean for a stretch, because I haven't been sunburnt in awhile and am way past overdue.

Who needs skin, really

When Ian still hasn't shown up, we head to the Astoria ourselves, but he isn't in his room and the desk doesn't know anything. We decide to swim in his hotel's pool while we wait. It's the least we can do.

We are good friends.

After a break for lunch at a nearby sigis joint, and Ian still yet to appear, Jordan and I exeunt back to our room and have us a little siesta.

Nothing like boiling hot, salty meat to stay cool on a warm tropical day.

blah blah running caramel flan joke i really like it OK

I mostly catch up on TV shows on my netbook waiting for Jordan to wake up, before drifting off myself. When I come to, I snatch my watch from the nightstand, hoping it isn't already past 8. Not quite: according to the watch, 2 in the freaking morning. Whoops.

Jordan's still sleeping, and I feel awful about wasting a night and not seeing anyone, so I decide to go out for some drinks. Maybe the girls will still be around, who knows. I walk the length of the beach while enjoying a few beers, and by the time I've strolled back it's now 4 am and everything is closed. Still, those 6.9% Red Horse beers have already done their job, and during my drunken meandering I'm struck with the bitter realization that my trip is almost over. Despite, well, everything that's happened to me, I would like nothing more than to spend another week or two here and get drunk with nice people and even have uncomfortably violent sex with strangers. Stupid finite amount of money. Stupid good friend getting married. Stupid life!

Once I've got back into town I'm immediately propositioned by a multitudinous horde of ladyboy hustlers, which eases the pain of having to leave somewhat. With nothing else to do and no one but pushy hookers to talk to, I lie by the beach and just listen to music. Turns out mosquitoes don't give two shits about existential crises, and my feet end up covered in angry, whine-silencing bites.

One bite for every tired platitude.

Jordan wakes up shortly after I go to bed, close to 6 am. I sleep for about 4 hours, and when I awake I can't see any of his things, and am forced to assume he simply ditched me in the night. So much for that Aussie hospitality. But wait! He comes back at 10:30, whereupon seeing me still in bed gives ME shit about sleeping too much. He tells me that he and Ian will be at Cafe del Sol in an hour, and if anything goes wrong we can still rendezvous there at 1 pm. Relieved that I'm not completely alone in this world, I shower and get to D*Mall at 11:40. I'm only ten minutes late, but neither Jordan nor Ian are there. Still, we have the rendezvous! I wait until 1:30 pm. They never show.

I read Murakami for awhile in a morose funk, drink more than a few rum and cokes at a happy hour somewhere, and generally wonder how the fuck I'm supposed to feel about Australians now.

You're making it hard to enjoy a good funk, Boracay.

Sunset hits while I'm nursing a beer and some Travel Lasagna, which is what I've decided to call the Italian cuisine that is everywhere in Southeast Asia and almost never any good, yet you eat it fortnightly because traveling sometimes demands that lizard brain dopamine injection that Italian food dutifully provides. Sunsets here will seriously put a damper on any attempts to feel sorry for yourself. I mean for fuck's sake, I just got laid and here I am pouting like a dummy. Time to go be a dude that is fun-lovin' rather than mope-lovin' again.

FINE, I guess I'll go and explore the night's limitless possibilities and enjoy the wonder of being young and alive. GOD.

On my nighttime stroll back through town, I'm joined by a couple of local coquettes who I assume to be on the clock, as it were. Lucky for them, I popped a couple Xanax with my drinks so I'm feeling loosey-goosey, and much more amenable to answering their questions and participating in this little farce. Yes, I'm American, thank you for thinking that I am a Handsome Man, however I must inform you that I am also a Poor Man, with nary a cent of your land's currency to my name. To which one of the girls curiously replies that it'll be free, whatever "it" is. Interesting.

I say I don't believe her; she insists Really, free. She isn't offended that I brought up money, and I'm pretty sure I didn't misread the situation because what the hell else could this be, so I have to ask..."Why?" After all, I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy. She says that she had an American boyfriend once, and she likes me. She's known me for a couple of minutes now, so it's very possible. Damn my animal charisma. She hands me her cell phone as some sort of collateral, which you don't tend to hear about in love at first sight-type situations. I feel like even with her friend playing backup, she should be more wary of me; after all, prostitutes are like beads- you have to string them along if you want to make jewelry out of their bodies.

Still curious about exactly what the fuck is going on, I follow her down an alley, the other girl behind me. I am getting increasingly ready to fight off a pack of Filipino thieves should they emerge from the darkness, but instead our fearless leader stops to have a conversation with her friend in Tagalog, probably about just how hard it is to get laid these days; you can't even give your pink pita pocket (TM) away to some assholes. Hell, you even give them your cell phone and they still don't trust you!

Her friend breaks off from their huddle to report to me that my paramour's place is very far, but we can get a room at the hotel in this alley. I had previously told them I didn't have a room of my own, which could be why that option isn't brought up. Damn my keen survival instincts. Sensing my hesitation, my would-be lover starts kissing and licking my neck, while I stand there kind of awkwardly and wonder about the possibility of neck-transmitted STDs. Sorry lady, I'm not falling for your game, if indeed there is one oh god I hope I'm not being dumb. I try to leave the alley, but she won't let go of my hand, so I'm forced to drag her behind me like a sexy anchor. I knew it! These two had some friends waiting in that hotel and they were totally going to rob me or worse!

Then I realize that I still have her phone, and that's probably why she's latched on, and instantly feel bad about the whole thing. I sheepishly hand it back, and book it out of there back to Bom Bom and comfortable familiarity.

Trying to repeat a fun night always works, right? Pretty sure that's what people say.

After watching for a bit and remembering that I still hate tourist-pandering cover bands, I move on, and almost immediately run into the Russians. I apologize for not seeing them last night, but Anya doesn't understand and Jenny doesn't care. The atmosphere has definitely cooled since our separate nights of passion and light adultery.

They're heading back to Bom Bom, and since I don't have any better ideas I figure fuck it, I can suffer through Bob Marley covers for at least a few minutes. The band actually recognizes me and invites me on stage again for a song. I struggle unpracticed through a couple acoustic guitar covers which seem to impress the girls. Once the band's wrapped up, the bassist (who I immediately assume is cool because he plays Mario riffs when bored) suggests we all go somewhere. By now I've had a few more drinks plus a couple Jager bombs with the girls, but I'm not feeling too drunk. That lasagna might have had supernatural properties. Unfortunately, feeling far more sober than everyone else is putting me off my rhythm, or rather confronting me with the fact that I've never had rhythm, and am stepping unrhythmically further away from ever having it.

We go to a club and dance, but the bassist is somehow making a play for both girls, until he's joined by a friend who immediately zeroes in on Anya. Even worse, she's either into him, or beyond the point of discrimination. I've never been the aggressive "that's my woman!" type, so I switch gears and dance for a bit with Jenny. Anya keeps disappearing for reasons which would probably hurt my ego were I to dwell on them too much, and now this damn bassist has cut in between Jenny and me and jumps right into a well-rehearsed move routine. I thought you were cool, man. Mario would never do this to Luigi. He does this oh-so-annoying bit where he takes a looong drag of her cigarette and kisses her, which come to think of it might not be a "bit" so much as just having the confidence of a semi-professional musician and choosing to kiss her. I hate him, and am starting to hate the whole concept of sex and courtship. Still, it's my last night, I'm alone, and I've got nothing else to do. It probably wouldn't hurt for me to practice a little of my own confidence, and roll with some competition. I promise myself that good or bad, I'm going to see this through. I'm really gonna give this pick-up thing a shot.

Jenny starts to legitimately worry about Anya's absence, until we finally find her down at the beach. Elated, Jenny suggests we go swimming, so the five of us strip down to our underwear, leave our shit on the beach, and run into the surf. The water is full of phosphorescence, even more luminous than Maya Bay. The bassist's friend takes off, which provides the bassist himself the opportunity to start intertwining with Anya further out under the waves. Urgh. Still, that leaves me and Jenny by ourselves, floating in this balmy, magically lit current. I probably won't get a better chance than this to try my luck. Seizing the moment, I lean in for the kiss. Round One, FIGHT.

And...Cheek block! FATALITY.

Maybe she didn't notice I was making a move? And turning her head at just the right time was an accident? And then she didn't say or do anything afterwards because despite her white-hot lust, society won't let her express her sexuality? Clearly drunker than I know, I remain embarrassingly optimistic as we get out of the water and march on together to another bar. Anya continues to make out with the bassist, which doesn't make me feel great and inspires unkind thoughts, but then some of us were being lampreyed by a maybe-hooker just a couple hours ago. Stones and glass houses. A pretty Filipina smiles at me from across the bar, but I abstain from changing my course. I told myself I was going to see this thing through, and I am a man of conviction, even when it's for a wrongheaded, inconsequential drunken idea I only shared with myself. Perhaps even moreso in that case. Of course I'm making a mistake, but that seems to be my pick-up style: Foolish and riddled with catastrophe.

As the bar closes Anya leaves with the bassist as was written, while Jenny and I find a spot further down the beach to watch a disappointing, cloudy sunrise. Still, a sunrise is a sunrise, right? After some gentle conversation, I try to kiss her one last time. Once again I receive The Cheek. "Just friends," she says, turning away.

I ask why. She replies, "Because you fuck my friend." Well, I had to ask. I sit there in silence on my cold rock, feeling more uncomfortable than when the tip of your manhood brushes the inside of a toilet bowl. I succeeded in following the night through, and this seems about right for what I could expect. She's right. I fucked her friend, and consequently became insane with power, such that I delusionally thought finishing out the pair would be smooth sailing.

I bet they actually have very smooth sailing around here.

Perhaps to lighten the mood, she starts going on about how she doesn't "normally act like this", and "what happens on vacation stays on vacation"; a sentiment which my typing now seems to heavily disagree with. You might think this would be the time to throw in the towel and call it a night, or hours and hours ago when common sense dictated. Instead, instead!, glutton for punishment that I am and still drunk, I try my luck one last time with a few compliments, and the admission that I'm leaving today, so you know, last chance and all. Though it must have taken stupendous willpower, she remains unfazed and uninterested. Yeah, I don't think I would've convinced me, either.

I walk her back to her place, where we hug goodbye. Once safely in bed at Bella Casa, I treat myself to a moment of reflection. Tonight was not a good look for me, and should time travel become an option I would elect to not repeat it. Once you've tested the waters and found them cold, stop testing the goddamn waters. Especially don't then keep coming on to the waters like the world's saddest sack, unless you're going to write about it later for some weird form of catharsis. End of reflection.

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