Sunset by Loch Leven

Nov. 19: Morag’s Lodge, a night by Loch Ness

Sometimes I’m sitting somewhere alone, looking out a window, and then I realize I’m somewhere far, far away from home. It’s a gratifying thought, but then I also wonder for a second what exactly I think I’m doing.

Sure, I’m seeing Europe, traveling the world. Yeah, I worked for a year to do this. True, few people can do what I’m doing.

But I often struggle to find someone to eat with. I have stories to tell, but I’m often the only protagonist. And I’m doing it all why? To chase something magical and elusive inherent in quitting your job and losing yourself somewhere far away?

Then something magical and elusive happens, and I remember why I’m out here. Like the way the rain stopped at 3 p.m. today as we were driving by Loch Leven, and then the sun peeked out of the clouds just as it began to set.

It was the kind of visual epiphany that I think will probably start to get a little cliched. Actually, between all these lochs and bens and glens, I think Scotland may be one of those places, like Taiwan, that I’ll never get over.

P.S. Yes! I have a new header image, taken on the Isle of Skye in Scotland.

About Uncle Bud

I’m in Edinburgh now, and heading to Dublin in a couple hours. Before I write more about what’s been going on though, I want to say a word for my Uncle Bud, who passed away a few days ago.

Our families live far away so I never got to know Uncle Bud very well, but his passing is a great loss to our family. These are some things I remember about him:

At family get-togethers on my dad’s side, in a sea of aunts and uncles, he was the only one of my parents’ generation who didn’t speak Chinese. At least for me, it was a welcome contrast sometimes.

Uncle Bud was the kind of man the word “avuncular” was invented for; warm and attentive, he and Aunt Cecilia placed a premium on strong moral fiber and treating others with respect — and were masters at teaching these things even in the small, passing moments we had together.

Uncle Bud was hard of hearing. Once, when I was young and timid, I tried to tell him at a loud karaoke party that the chihuahua had peed on the carpet. He couldn’t hear me, and, flustered by the effort, I gave up. I let the carpet be, and as a result, so did he.

The last time I saw Uncle Bud was sometime in the last 12 months. He and Aunt Cecilia had come down to L.A. and we were all, as usual, eating at a Chinese seafood restaurant in Monterey Park. Uncle Bud was seated next to me. We didn’t talk much, but we talked more than usual. I don’t remember what was going on in my life at the time, whether I was working or preparing to travel, or between traveling. I do remember feeling more grownup than usual though, and I sort of recall sharing my plans for the future with him.

Before we left that night, he said to me that he was glad we had talked and that whatever path I took, he was sure I would do very well. I could tell he meant it sincerely. It meant a lot to me. I’m gonna miss you, Uncle Bud.

Snow, iPhones and Christmas in London

There’s this funny word we have to describe this two-month cheeriness that’s supposed to wrap around us like a warm hug at the end of the year — Christmastime. It’s not Christmas, which is only a day and usually anticlimactic, with brunch and a movie maybe. Or Christmas Eve, which is really what Christmastime is whetting your appetite for.

Christmastime, I’ve realized, only comes under certain circumstances. Last year, I complained about missing out in Taiwan, where Christmas was more department-store ornamentation than actual tradition.

The odd thing is that it seems like department stores are largely responsible anyway for Christmastime wherever Christmastime is a real phenomenon. Here in London, it’s in full bloom. Lights are strung in the trees on Oxford Street, and department stores like Marks & Spencer are wrapped in glitter. Maybe the feeling of Christmastime itself is best described as feeling like you are wrapped from head to toe in blinking Christmas lights from November to December.

Earlier this evening I was walking along Regent Street contemplating all this when, here and there, I began to see little white flecks fluttering down from the sky. I thought it was confetti or bits of trash. Then, as I continued walking, more white confetti, tossed by the wind. I caught a piece. It melted imperceptibly between my fingers. Seriously? London’s first snow, on Regent Street? As I’m contemplating Christmastime here? This can’t be real.

I looked up toward the torrent of tumbling snowflakes: fake. They were shooting out from above Hamleys toy store. So London and L.A. aren’t so different, I guess.

I continued on. It was nearing 6 p.m., and the crowds on the street were getting to be nearly impenetrable. That’s because today is Nov. 9, and the Apple Store a few meters ahead was about to open its doors to an iPhone-crazed public. Guards in luminous jackets stood watch.

The doors opened. The mob went ballistic. Passersby spilled into the curbside lane; buses, now immobile, honked in protest. Arms rose into the air, cameras in hand, snapping pictures of the commotion, like at a Coldplay concert or something. They could have been hands held up in adoration of a religious leader.

There was an uproar coming from inside the Apple store. I couldn’t tell whether it was from the employees or from customers who had just rushed in. It came in waves. How best to describe the din … maybe if John Lennon (Yoko era) had just then resurrected and descended, long hair flowing (Jesus-like), the glass staircase while tossing roses to a throng of rapturous Beatles fans, the sound would have come close.

It was madness and materialism and a £269 phone. Fake snow was falling across the street. Yep, it’s Christmastime. I’m not missing it this year.

A chat at a party

Nov. 4: A house party on Nowolipki, in Warsaw

It was 2:30 a.m., and I just got back in Warsaw after a 7-hour bus ride from Krakow. I was exhausted, but I had to meet up with Nick, who would give me keys to his apartment so I could grab my stuff and catch my flight back to London, which was in three and a half hours.

Nick was indisposed. He was busy being the top of a drunken body pile on someone’s bed. I waited outside in the corridor.

A dude approached me. “Please, say hi to me,”  he said. I obliged.

“I am big fan,” he said, Borat-like. “He is big fan too,” he continued, referring to a friend, who appeared presently before me, smiling eagerly.

Great. Here we go. Who could they be a big fan of? Jackie Chan? Or Jet Li, maybe.  I waited for the moment of revelation.

“We are big fans … of Bobby Lee!” he exclaimed. “You know Bobby Lee? From Mad TV?”

I pretended I didn’t. I couldn’t let him assume that the first Asian guy he ran into somewhere in Warsaw would know Bobby Lee, and assume correctly, and then get away with it. He did.

I admitted I knew Bobby Lee. At this point whether or not he (or I) meant know him personally is beside the point. All Asians exist on a continuum, a yellow brick road, that leads inevitably, inexorably to Bobby Lee.  In a way, if you think about it hard enough, and consume enough alcohol, I am Bobby Lee.

“You are the closest thing we have to Bobby Lee,” the guy added. His friend nodded in agreement. Case in point.

Halloween goes on holiday

Nov. 1: Warsaw

Here in Poland, in Warsaw’s Old Town of all places, grinning jack-o-lanterns greet customers at restaurants’ doors. Granted, Stare Miasto is a sort of romantic tourist trap, so it’s not so unbelievable that businesses would pander to obviously American sensibilities.

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When I first got to London, it was mid-October, and Halloween was on the horizon. (Rubber witch masks at Selfridges!) I jumped at the opportunity to grill two non-Americans — one a Scot, the other French — on what they thought about what is probably every American’s favorite holiday (after Christmas, of course).

Bazil, the Scot, described a childhood ritual involving jack-o-lanterns carved from turnips (no pumpkins in the Orkney Islands) and lots of parading around banging pots and pans to scare off bad spirits. Or so his mother told him that’s what all the clanging was for.

Halloween for him resembled rituals in lots of other cultures; his account reminded me of something Chinese or Japanese — in particular of Setsubun, where the father puts on a demon mask and charges through the front door. The children throw beans at him, thus scaring off the oni. When I was in Japan, the school passed out beans to everyone on Setsubun, along with an illustration instructing us how to use them (toss liberally in direction of demon). Not having a readily available masked father to throw them at, I kept the beans and took them back to Los Angeles with me — in case a demon ever came through the front door.

Max, the Frenchman, on the other hand, rejected (maybe on cue) the cultural imperialism of American Halloween. Apparently in France, the previously nonexistent holiday had reached a perfect crescendo of merchandising crud sometime in the late 90s, but has since been dying slowly ever since, and then was finally declared, triumphantly, dead just recently.

Bazil took the opportunity to Halloween-bash as well: “You dress up and knock on people’s doors and demand candy, otherwise you’ll vandalize their homes?”

The world, from couch to couch

I’m staying in my friend and former roommate Nick’s Warsaw apartment. Nick was one of my roommates in Taiwan, and he’s since joined his brother in Poland.

He was one of a couple people to introduce me to CouchSurfing. In fact, everyone in this apartment has a profile on CouchSurfing — they all invite people to crash here while they’re traveling in Warsaw. Between Nick, his brother, and their roommate, the place is “like a hostel,” according to Nick, but to me it seems more like a halfway house for 25-year-olds.

The most they’ve ever had, he says, is probably four or five people at a time.

At the moment I’m on a cot, while Kim, a German girl who’s CouchSurfing here for six weeks, is on the floor (we traded because the cot was killing her back).

We hang out, meet other CouchSurfers, watch movies, eat together; we share the same space.

If traveling by hostel is a step above hotels in the sense that you can meet like-minded people from other countries, then CouchSurfing is a step above hostels because you can meet like-minded people who can be your inside guide, your window on a culture.

Travelistic blogged on the subject a couple weeks ago:

Travelers from three countries, sharing conversation and a meal, when we otherwise might have been dining alone — and none of that awkwardness of a blind date. Brought together by the Internet, we had a lot in common — most obviously, seeing the world and learning how things are done beyond the backyard. How is it that travelers can talk endlessly on such topics?

“This is what the Internet was meant for, connecting people,” Chris said as we drained the pitcher of vin rouge at the end of the evening, “Not for Ebay.”