Travel Archives - Page 17 of 39 - Maggie InkMaggie Ink

For the female traveler

May 7, 2011

My friend Awesome Angie came to visit me on the road and treated me to a nice hotel for a few nights in Bangkok.

This glittering boutique guesthouse was sleek, shiny and chic — the kind of place that made me feel guilty about sullying the floors with my mud-crusted, duct-taped flip-flops.

The funniest thing about the hotel, though, was that they have a separate page on their website for “female travelers.”

I do love that they actually recognized the fact that female travelers exist, because many places don’t. But the features they choose to highlight are ridiculously stereotypical things like vanity mirrors.

The site points out that “the below will be of special interest to the female traveler, single, with partner or family.”

Essentials for the Female Traveler

Room Service
Storage Space
Bathrobe and Bathroom Slippers
Separate rain shower and handheld shower
Bathtub with handheld shower
Vanity counter with large wall mirror
Magnifying mirror
Hair dryer
Extra hangers in the wardrobe
Iron & ironing board

Extra hangers, yo! This is too good to be true.

Clearly, women be shoppin’! Women be bathin’! Women be keepin’ their clothes pressed and wrinkle free!

Personally, I would have been more interested in the speed of the hotel’s wireless network or their proximity to public transportation. Though I was pretty psyched about the bathrobe.

Go fish

May 3, 2011

“Fins to the left. Fins to the right. And you’re the only bait in town.”

I never fully understood those classic Jimmy Buffet lyrics until my friend Angie and I braved a fish spa in Cambodia.

No, fish spa is not where Nemo gets a rubdown.

Rather, fish spa is the perfect union of man and marine. You dunk your sore, tired feet into a tank of water, where tiny fish eat the flesh off your very bones. No biggie.

Also, fish spa in Southeast Asia is a righteous deal. We paid $2 for 25 minutes, which includes a free Angkor beer. And I don’t know about you, but I’ll do whatever it takes to get a skin slough and cold beer for just two buckaroos.

: It is funny and happy.

So Angie and I dove in.

As soon as I dipped my toes in the water, the beasties swarmed my appendages like a truckload of hungry farmers at a Bonanza buffet. They were Napoleon, and my feet were kingdoms to be conquered.

: Chow time.

It was actually kind of cute and novel until I realized hundreds of insane garra rufa fish were devouring my old, dead skin. And then it was totally creepy. And then it was prickly and tickly. And then it was rather excruciating.

I screamed and thrashed around for a few minutes, because it’s scary to have mini piranhas gnawing at your feet. I don’t even like swimming in lakes for this very reason, and now I was begging the tiny monsters to eat me.

The “spa technicians” promised I would get used to the feel of fish mouths after a few minutes, and they were correct. But long after the tickling faded, some questions remained.

Is fish spa vegan?

Is it ok to feed fish if the food happens to be your flesh?

Where’s my free beer?

Overall, my feet ended up smoother than when I use a pumice stone or get a professional pedicure. They felt better. They even looked better. I’m not sure if fish spa legitimately increases circulation and contributes to better health as the spa claimed, but it definitely gave new meaning to the term “go fish.”

Oh, and I did finally get the free beer.

Humble Pai

May 2, 2011

There are 762 curves on the road between Chiang Mai and Pai.

I know this because seemingly everything in Pai proclaims that fact. Journals, T-shirts, postcards and other miscellaneous items boast squiggles and the number “762.”

: More curves than Marilyn Monroe.

I had taken this road, and these souvenirs were pushed upon me as a badge of honor. Like, “I survived the bus. Yay.”

In fact, many souvenirs were foisted upon me in Pai, because the Thai town is one big gift shop. Everything is a bad pun or a slogan with signs that say “Pai love you” and “Pai feel good.” There are businesses called Ins-PAI-ration and Pai in the Sky. Endless stalls of T-shirts say, “Pai is colorful.” “Pai is great.” “No war in Pai.”

: “Pai feel good.” Get it?

: The Aloha state?

: Robot mail cat loves Pai.

I’ve never seen a town so in love with itself.

I tried to love Pai too. It was everything I should have wanted in a town. Artists. Musicians. Adorable graffiti. Lush landscape. Fire pits. All-night parties. Pink banks. Big breakfasts. Chill vibe.

: Pai is love.

: Yes, I am extremely Ting Tong.

: Eric Clapton crossing.

: In my ideal world, all financial institutions are pink.

: I wanna poo!

: Cute.

: Note the “hippies smell” sticker.

But I wasn’t having any of it.

For one thing, many things in Pai have crossed the line into too easy-going. Example: I found a yoga studio online, checked their class schedule and showed up only to find a locked door and dark windows. A dude in a nearby hut offered an explanation. “Yeah, so the yoga lady went south, right? And nobody knows when she’ll be back. Maybe … wait. What year is it?”

Trekking, tours and other activity were fairly nonexistent this time of year. I met a guy who had been in Pai for a month, and I asked him what he did every day. He said, “To tell you the truth, I have no idea. I don’t even remember waking up today.”

My first guesthouse had worms in the mattress. The second one acted as if guests were an inconvenience.

The hippies wore “hippies smell” T-shirts in an attempt to be ironic hippies, which is probably the worst kind of hippie of all. The hair salon didn’t just make dreadlocks, they fixed them. Some coffeeshops only opened at night. I barely even saw any Thai people, which is bizarre when you’re still in Thailand.

: For those of you with janky dreads.

: Pluck the armpit? Ow.

The whole place was like that weird fifth pocket on your jeans. You know that somebody somewhere has a use for it, but you can’t possibly figure out why.

I hate to be one of those pretentious travelers who says, “That place was great 30 years ago, before tourists ruined it.” But I think Pai was probably pretty great 30 years ago. And then tourists ruined it.

I tried so hard to embrace the experience, but the place rang false and hollow. I felt like it was all overpriced patchwork pants and cheap mojitos. Commercialism and laziness. Surface and no substance.

Or, to put it in Pai terms: All gorgeous glass bongs and shitty weed.

Me talk pretty

May 1, 2011

As I travel, I tend to make the (usually wrong) assumption that all white people speak English.

That’s precisely how I found myself tangled in an awkward moment with a French woman on the bus. I blurted out a few questions, trying to engage her in conversation. She shrugged and smiled.

She only knew a few English words. I speak ~~high school~~ preschool French. We didn’t have much to say beyond hello. I dove deep into my brain for every possible French thing I could muster and emerged with “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” and the les poissons song from “The Little Mermaid,” neither of which were appropriate.

There was no way to continue this conversation. Instead I attempted to bury my head in a Kindle, which is très difficile.

After we arrived in Bangkok and unloaded our luggage, the woman approached me.

GIGI (I am making up this name): Please. I do not speak English. Guesthouse?

ME: I no stay guesthouse.

GIGI: Merci. I stay with you.

And suddenly, we were crammed into a tuk-tuk together.

Normally I wouldn’t mind being accompanied by a fellow traveler, but I wasn’t heading to a hostel or guesthouse. I had a friend from home meeting me in Bangkok, and we reserved a nice hotel for a few nights. I knew this place was beyond the typical backpacker budget, but I had no clue how to express that to my new French friend.

Instead we had a patchwork of pleasantries, sewn together with scrappy bits of each language.

GIGI: Hmmm. Where do you from?

ME: America. How long do you travel?

GIGI: Vietnam. (Long pause.) My English is unhappy.

ME: My French is very sick.

And then because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I busted out the only other phrase I know en Francais.

ME: I would like to buy some socks today.

She nodded.

GIGI: D’accord.

When we arrived at the hotel, Gigi nodded her approval. It was slick and fancy, with a modern lounge that frightens you into standing up and keeping your hands to yourself. The walls were brushed metal and spotless glass. The chairs were somehow lit from within. A bellboy handed me a blue cocktail.

The receptionist asked if I needed an additional bed in my room to accommodate Gigi, and the French lady looked at me expectantly. As much as I wanted to help her out, it wasn’t my place. I would hate for my friend to fly halfway around the world, walk into her hotel room and find a stranger there — especially since my friend booked the room.

I did my best to explain.

ME: Mi amiga — er, mon ami is coming ici.

GIGI: (French words, French words, French words).

ME: I’m sorry.

GIGI: Oui. No good. I go.

Before she left, I held out my blue cocktail. That gesture needed no translation. She downed it with a grin, then disappeared into the elevator.