Chase’s Log  3.28.2010.  Well, this is it, two months and fifteen countries later – Japan, South Korea, Mainland China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Vietnam, Thailand, Singapore, Maldives, India, Turkey, Greece, Italy, Spain and Portugal – I’m heading home.  I’ve seen and done a lot; eaten amazing food and met wonderful people – my brain and body a little worse for the wear and tear, but the journey – to promote my new venture Global Shopping Adventures – has exceeded my most optimistic expectations. 

     The Gods of Travel, having played much mischief on me these past two months, were conspicuously absent – not even a last minute good-bye travel wedgie.  They know I’ll soon be on the road again – plenty of opportunity to bedevil me along the way later.

     At Lisbon, American Airlines upgraded me to First Class, and I changed into my long trip clothes – sweat pants and shirt – and settled into my comfy seat.  My neighbor, Mary, was delightful and also in the real estate business, so we had lovely chats abut many things and the time passed quickly.  Even the in-flight meals were most edible and it was nice to hear everyone speaking English around me.  That’s one of the things about travelling abroad for so long – you come to miss your native tongue.  Of course, the first thing as real traveler misses once they get home is the sound of foreign tongues, so there’s no pleasing the eternally restless.

     Landing in Miami, I switched planes for the last leg to Tampa, my home, and after cruising through passport control and customs I sought out my gate and plane – only to find some tiny thing with wings and propellers waiting.  Frantic, I called Home Office – who served in the U.S. Air Force – and was assured that some airplanes did indeed have propellers and could, in fact, fly and carry passengers.  I looked towards the sky and just laughed as I watched them tie my bags onto the wings.  What else was there to do?

     My good friends, Julie and Greg, met me in Tampa to welcome me home.  It’s always nice to have friends there when you arrive.  That night, I crawled into my own bed for the first time in two months, and of all the wonderful hotels I’d stayed in, nothing ever felt so luxurious. 

     What a journey, what an adventure, what terrific friends I made – and my last thought as sleep dragged me under, was to start planning my next trip – but not for a day or two.

     The next morning I awoke, stood up and collapsed back onto the bed, passing out.  After all the places I’d been, all the people I’d come in contact with, all the exotic food I’d eaten without incident - some impudent microscopic critter had finally kicked in the door of my immune system – and probably on the flight home.  So, for the next few days, that’s where I stayed – in bed, feverishly moaning and groaning, slurping fluids, nibbling on dry crackers, megadosing on vitamin C, and, I’m told – once or twice calling out “Rosebud…..” 

     Once, I heard, or maybe it was the fever and delirium, a deep-throated chuckle from far away.  Of course – the Gods of Travel – getting in one last little prank.  But at least they waited until I’d returned home, so of all the things I have to be appreciative of – I added that to the growing list.

     Last Notes about Adventures From Somewhere:

     I want to thank everyone who has been following my adventures these past couple months.  I plan on staying stateside for at least two months, although I’ll be traveling here and there a bit and may post an occasional domestic missive.  I welcome all comments and anyone who would like to follow me on Twitter, I warmly invite you to do so.

     Adventures From Somewhere was created to allow my friends, associates and business partners, to travel with me vicariously and hopefully share my passion and enjoyment of travel and faraway places.

     I was made aware by Home Office that respectable travel journalists actually adhere to a strict code of ethics.  Having read their code, it’s clear I’m not a travel journalist, nor am I inclined towards such prudish stuffiness.   The title of this travel blog is “Chase A. Wolf’s Adventures From Somewhere Travel Blog,” not “Chase’s Sworn Affidavit of His Recent Travel Experiences.” 

     Although everything I wrote about happened – mostly – every traveler knows that it’s the interpretation of experience that conveys the essential story – and humans, wherever they live, love one thing in common – stories.  And, as Home Office has been known to say – and I agree:  a journey without a story is just an itinerary.

     Lastly, my thanks to everyone who made my most recent journey a success, including, but by no means limited to:  all my old friends in distant lands who shared their time with me; all my new friends – I hope we remain so; my darling Nastia who joined me in Istanbul; all the Aikido dojos who reminded me that the pain and joy of training are the same everywhere and in every language; all the wonderful agents and manufacturers who took the time to meet with me about Global Shopping Adventures; all the talented chefs and restaurateurs I met; the many taxi drivers who either got us lost or scared me near to death; Skype and LinkedIn – how amazing are they?; the Intercontinental Hotel chain which never let me down; the captain and crew of the good ship Orion in the Maldives; all the airlines who didn’t crash me into the ocean or a mountainside; Alarm Rooster, who never failed to get me up on time for an early flight;  I should even probably thank the various and mischievous Travel Gods, without whom – eh, never mind about them. 

     And of course, my gratitude to Home Office – whom I relied on for tirelessly editing, adding some historical depth here and there, who designed and maintains this blog, and, who coordinated distribution of all the Global Shopping Adventures documents that were sent to the agents and manufacturers I met with.  Some of you have inquired about the enigmatic nature of Home Office– who or what are they?  Out of respect for the wishes of those who comprise Home Office, all I’m allowed to say is that they’re utterly brilliant and loyal – no traveler could want more faithful support – but are humble to the point of eccentricity.  For now, Home Office’s identity will remain a mystery - but perhaps in future posts, I can coax them into revealing more about themselves……

     May your adventures be blessed by the Gods of Travel and may your business always be most excellent!!

     Chase A. Wolf – March 31, 2010

     Chase’s Log 3.25.2010.  From sunny Rome to rainy Madrid, my brief flight – a mostly empty one – was uneventful.  Breezing through baggage, I grabbed a cab to the Intercontinental on the Paseo de la Castellana, and arrived without incident, where I received my normal room upgrade.  I only had one Global Shopping Adventures meeting that day and discovered that the next day was a national holiday – Father’s Day in Spain is celebrated on St. Joseph’s Day.  Who knew?

     After my Global Shopping Adventures meeting, I headed off to find a SIM card for my phone.  On my walk, I wandered through a multi-level shopping center and was amazed that around half of the stores were out of business and there were very few customers to be seen anywhere.  In fact, street level retail stores were empty in many places and there were many signs advertising space available and apartments for sale.  It seems the economic crisis is still alive and well in Madrid. 

     I ventured into the Old City for dinner that evening at Posada de la Villa – the ever-reliable Intercontinental Hotel’s concierge’s suggestion – and, like Athens and Rome, Spaniards eat late – it didn’t even open until 9:00 p.m.  Luckily, there were many bars and small cafes throughout the old quarter, so I found one that was fairly full and had some wine and antipasto to quell the rumblings of my stomach.  At the Posada I had their specialty – the Quarter of Roast Lamb which was moist and succulent, and went down well with a couple glasses of red wine from the Rioja region of Spain.  Well-fed, I waddled back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep.

     Sleep was not to be uninterrupted, however, when there came a sudden banging at my door.  Ignoring it didn’t work and Alarm Rooster just shrugged, so I crawled out, bleary-eyed to see who had the temerity to disturb my rest.  

     Opening the door I was greeted by the visage of an eager, unshaven, bandy-legged and pot-bellied maintenance engineer, who, in broken English informed me that my window was inoperable.  We stood there blinking at each other for a full minute – a sort of Mexican, er – Spanish Standoff.  He spoke first informing me that it was most urgent that he fix it immediately.  I stared at him another minute unspeaking – and feigned a Clint Eastwood-style spastic tic in my right eye in hopes that he’d seen a few Dirty Harry movies.  Apparently, he was no lover of the cinema and I finally sighed and let him in, seeing that no amount of non-verbal intimidation was going to work. 

     After many apologies about not being able to fix the window, this disturber-of-my-peace made a call to the front desk.  I tried to explain that I only had one night left and I didn’t give a rat’s hind side about a non-working window, but apparently I got the English-Spanish translation of that phrase wrong – I think I proposed marraige to his toolbox - and he looked at me like I was deranged.  A few minutes later, I was whisked off to a suite, where the window worked.  Apparently they take their working windows very seriously in Spain. 

     That morning I headed out into the rain to find breakfast and found that just about everything was closed for the Spanish Father’s Day.  I’m a father, I thought, can’t I get a cup of coffee somewhere?  Just as I was about to give up, I found a little place to get coffee, fresh juice and a croissant.  I also stopped for a latte on the way back at a place called Harvest – I thought the name was for natural foods, but it turned out to be a tribute to Neil Young’s Harvest album.  My Spanish being essentially non-existent, I didn’t get the back story on that weird association. 

     I spent the rest of the day getting my bags packed for the journey home, emailing and corresponding with Home Office.  Later in the afternoon I went back to the Old City to explore.  The place was packed with people milling about and enjoying Father’s Day, even though it was still raining.  I stopped at a typical touristy restaurant and had a decent meal and then back to the crowded streets.  There are many beautiful buildings and lots of little bars to explore in the Old City but I needed to get back to the hotel and finish getting ready for the long trip home. 

     And that’s it from Madrid. 

     Lisbon, Portugal.  The flight from Spain to Lisbon was uneventful – the Travel Gods off torturing other hapless souls, no doubt.  The taxi driver spoke no English, though I believed it to be a ruse since I saw him mouthing the lyrics to a Snoop Dog song on the way in.  I kept asking for him to turn on the meter, but he shrugged his shoulders.  Unlike most other cities, the airport is very close to downtown, but he asked for 20 Euros as fare – cheap compared to other cities.  I consulted with the hotel staff, who told me the most I should pay is 10 Euros.  We settled at 12 – I was feeling expansive, in this, my last stop on my two-month, fifteen country tour. 

     Finding hotels in Lisbon is a bit difficult because so many people come here for resorts – it’s important to consult a map when booking, as the resorts are expensive and far from the city center.  Also, there are many listed as 5-star, but really aren’t.  The hotel I chose, the Real Palacio, was at least 4-star and a boutique-sized hotel in a central location.  The staff was efficient and the room I was given was very comfortable with French-style doors overlooking the quiet street.  

     Lisbon is a very romantic European city with many beautiful parks, statues and old buildings.  Although there are larger, modern structures, they’re limited in both height and number.  My friends, Jean Marc – an excellent Sensei with many great Aikido students – and his wife Joanne, picked me up for dinner my first night.  

     They took me to the pier where we went to a wonderful fish restaurant, Doca Peixe  - which means “fish dock” in Portuguese, and we shared a magnificent sea bass cooked in a sea salt crust, which we washed down with copious quantities of white wine, and the last

thing I clearly remember from the night  - besides the fabulous food and company – was reaching for my wallet and saying “this is on me.”  I vaguely recall Jean Marc executing some sort of Aikido technique and seeing the floor rushing up to meet my face. 

     The next morning, I roused myself from slumber and took a quick inventory of my body parts – all there.  Everything was functional and I saw a note on my dresser that had instructions to the dojo for evening classes and a cryptic line about how I needed to learn how to fall better.  Harrumph – indeed – it must have been the beastly wine. 

     After the hotel’s amazing breakfast buffet brimming with eggs, bacon, sausage, salads, fruits, salmon, cold meats and much more, I finally declared defeat and headed out to my only Global Shopping Adventures meeting of the day.  It appears that many small and medium-sized manufacturers in Portugal have been unable to weather the financial storm of the past year and could not compete with Asia, given the strength of the Euro, and, as such, there’s great interest in my new retail concept. 

     After my meeting, I decided to find a SIM card for my phone and to take a general look around.  As I walked through a big park, I spotted a bus with the familiar “hop on-hop off” sign – as described in my post from Rome.  Of course, I boarded and got a map and ear phones to begin my tour.  It was a bit rainy and a little cold, but the tour was excellent and I saw much of the old parts of the city.  I left the tour at the Basilica De Estrela, a beautiful Baroque and neoclassical church which was completed in 1790, and was told I could take a public trolley back to the old city.  I did so and found there were many restaurants for tourists, where I sought out a good place for an early dinner. 

     Back to my hotel I prepared for Aikido training.  I did a little work, answered some e-mails, corresponded with Home Office and headed out to find the dojo by way of the metro.  I had some difficulty, but a very nice woman assisted me with the ticket machine and waved me off to the proper direction.  The dojo is at the University of Lisbon and many people along the way helped me find the right place.  There I saw a number of Aikido people whom I knew from training in France a year ago.  Jean Marc taught a great class and, after two agonizing hours, I was toast.  We agreed to meet for dinner the next day – my treat and my choice of restaurant. 

     No Global Shopping Adventures meetings the next day, so I decided to take the rest of the bus tour and stop at some sights around the city.  There were many interesting things to see but I particularly enjoyed the Torre de Belem (an old fortress), Santa Maria de Belem and the site of the 1998 Lisbon World Exposition.  My choice for dinner was Lisboa Noite, known for its meat dishes, though they also have great sea food.  I greatly enjoyed a veal dish – which by now my readers must know I’m partial to – but I must admit that Joanne’s octopus dinner was even better.  

     My last Global Shopping Adventures meeting was outside Lisbon, where I agreed to rent a car and meet an agent in Alcobaca, about 110km north of Lisbon.  My friends told me to stop at Obidos, if I had the time.  It took me a while to find my way out of Lisbon; the traffic was horrendous and I’m sure I left more than a few wrecks in my rear-view; mess with me not – I learned my early driving chops in New York City and honed them to perfection in Chicago.  I had a good meeting in Alcobaca and then headed back to Lisbon. 

     Having a little time to spare, I took my friends’ advice and stopped at the old walled hilltop city of Obidos.  A Roman settlement was built near the hill and after Rome’s fall and abandonment, a bunch of smelly Visigoths took over the area, before being kicked out by a smelly bunch of Moors who built a castle on the hill, who, in turn, were given the boot by the not-at-all smelly Portuguese in the 12^th century.  Today, it’s a delightfully little walled city, and, with only a few tourists around when I was there, it

was a little surreal walking along the ancient streets by myself.  Of course, I found a medieval pub to have dinner and a couple glasses of wine.     I got a little lost on the way back to Lisbon, but found someone at a gas station who spoke some English to direct me to my hotel.  He said “I am not far away, I will show you the way - follow me.”  Of course, my destination was nowhere near his and he went well out of his way to help me.  To the man who showed kindness to a stranger – if you ever stumble across this blog – my deepest gratitude.

     I made it to the dojo in Lisbon to train that night and said my goodbyes to all the fine people there.  I wish I could stay longer and explore this charming country more – what a wonderful place Portugal is, the perfect last stop on a very long and exhausting journey.

     So, I began my tour of Rome’s Greatest Hits, absorbing their history along the way.  I also stopped for a long time to walk through the Coliseum, the Forum and the Circus Maximus.  Two interesting things that I learned were the origins of the words “coliseum” and “palace.”  

     Rome’s Coliseum was originally named the Flavian Amphitheatre – built by the emperors of the Flavian Imperial dynasty who followed Emperor Nero.  Nero – a really odd anatra - had constructed an enormous estate for himself with woods and a lake in the middle of Rome – the Domus Aurea, or “Golden House” – along with it a 120-foot tall bronze statue of himself – no doubt to impress the local girls.  After Nero offed himself – or as he put it “deprived the world of a great artist,” the estate was torn up and the Flavian Amphitheatre was built atop Nero’s drained lake, but Nero’s statue was nearby and since it was so large or, colloso in Latin or Italian, I’m not sure – the Flavian Amphitheatre became the Coliseum. 

     So now, whenever you watch a sports event at a “coliseum’ in the States, it’s called that because some nutty Roman emperor liked to impress the ladies in a very big way – and Ferraris hadn’t been invented yet.  Funny thing about Nero’s bronze statue is that successive Roman emperors kept modifying it in their images – they didn’t have Ferraris either – before it disappeared from history sometime in the 4^th century when the Roman Empire was starting to circle the drain.

     As to the origin of the word “palace” – this comes from the Palatine Hill – where, according to our bus driver, co-founder of Rome, Romulus, supposedly saw the flocks of birds that gave him the rule of Rome before he killed his silly brother, Remus, who didn’t see as many birds.  Eventually this place became the home of the Emperors in Rome, after they took the land from the nobles who liked the view.  So, Palatine became known as Palacio, which then was translated to “palace.”  Great for Romulus and later Roman rulers, but not so great for Remus, who should have paid more attention to bird watching.  It’s worth noting that this version of the Romulus and Remus mythos is not the generally accepted version of events, so perhaps our driver had been partaking of the grape that day and was having some fun with the tourists.

     I also toured the Roman Forum - the oldest part of the city and, in a way, the original retail center – ancient Roman style.  In additional to being the administrative heart of the city, the Forum was the place that people came to from all over the known world to trade their goods in the richest city on earth.  Sort of what Global Shopping Adventures will be, minus the slaves, of course.  It was an open marketplace filled with every imaginable type of merchandise known.  It must have been spectacular – though without refrigeration, I can only imagine the stench. 

     Now, I will confess to being open to certain Buddhist notions of reincarnation.  As I strolled through the Forum, the melancholy ruins of the heart of the great Roman Empire, the hairs on the back of my neck (soon the only hairs I’ll have left) stood up.  I simply knew I’d been there before.  I don’t know what I’d been doing there, whether it good or bad, it was all just so familiar in a matter-of-fact way.    

     Thinking more about my possible past life, if I’d spent time at the Coliseum, who would I have been?  Would have been one of the smelly mob?  Or would I have been high Roman society, sporting a finely-trimmed toga and hanging out drinking wine with other swells,

smiling politely and exchanging great pleasantries while plotting each other’s demise ?  Or perhaps an emperor – I hope not Caligula or Nero – all frocked out in purple and gold, the height of Roman Imperial fashion, just coolin’ out in the Emperor’s Box with my servants and bodyguard posse – the Praetorian Guard – indifferently deciding the fate of defeated gladiators with a twitch of my thumb. 

     Or maybe I was a gladiator – sweating and bleeding in the hot sands of the arena; making with the artful cuts and stabbings to my opponents before delivering a swift and terrible tolchok to the head, and then the coup de gras skewering with my bloody gladius – my hairy armpits raised to the triumphal cries of the mob.  Ah, good times – and I have been told I bear a striking resemblance to Russell Crowe. 

     Eh, more than likely nothing so glamorous – I have a feeling that if I were on the bill for the day’s entertainment it was as lion bait, or if I was lucky, maybe a condemned prisoner who played the role of some defeated enemy of the Republic from glory days long passed.  But one can hope.  Home Office says I was probably the Coliseum’s landlord or at least its property manager.  I can live with that – I’m sure I would have been running the retail concessions there too.

     But enough history and past life speculation – a couple of food notes from my belly.

     My first night in Rome I asked the hotel’s concierge (generally the best source of information for a traveler), about finding the Carciofi all guidia –the famous Jewish-Italian dish, also called Roman Artichoke.  

     I was directed to Piperno, a charming old restaurant which opened in 1860, located in the Jewish quarter of the city.  Being an American, I’d already consumed a pizza earlier (Italian style, nothing like what the Italians in America invented), so all I wanted was to sample this seasonal delicacy.  The Carciofi all guidia is essentially a deep-fried artichoke and I washed mine down with a charming glass of Chianti of a label I forgot to record – but the nutty crunchiness

of the fried artichoke and the wine blended together perfectly.  Well satiated and wanting no more, I horrified my waiter by asking for the check after just that one course.  Oh well – hopefully the Piperno will appreciate the explanation – and the plug – I’ve provided here.

     On my second night in Rome, I had a notion for pasta and relying again on the Intercontinental’s well-informed concierge, I was directed to the Ristorante Santo Padre as serving the freshest pasta.  Bruno and Daniela are the owners and they met me with open arms.  As in Greece, Italians typically eat very late and when I got there at 8:30 p.m., I was the only person in the restaurant. The Santo Padre is at Via Collina N.18. 

     I had the ravioli in meat sauce – the pasta was perfectly textured and the meat sauce rich and sweet and wonderfully complimented the pan-seared veal that followed it.  If you remind Bruno of the exquisite cigar I gave him in gratitude and he may remember me.  You’ll need a reservation there, as it was packed with locals by the time I left.  And bring your hands to speak with – English is rare there.

     And that’s it from Rome – a pleasant couple days.   Home Office once spent a month there and claims to know every crack and cranny of the city – but I had to ignore Home Office’s many recommendations – including dancing drunk on grappa in the Piazza Navona’s fountains at 3:00 a.m.; I only had time to see the highlights and enjoy the food, as usual – and not act out one of Home Office’s weird Fellini fantasies. 

     My trip at an end, belly full, I retired to the hotel to pack, and hoped that the coins I tossed into the Trevi Fountain will keep the Travel Gods at bay during my trip to Madrid tomorrow.

     I checked out the nearby Arch of Hadrian  built in 132 A.D. – though given Hadrian’s reputation as a building emperor – as in Hadrian’s Wall  in England, for example – I’m not overwhelmed by it.  As fragile as it looks, it is amazing that it’s survived for so many centuries. 

     I wandered into the edge of the “old city” – the Plaka – with its warren of tourist shops and restaurants.  Many restaurants employ callers to stand at their entrances and loudly proclaim the glories of their cuisine to entice hungry travelers passing by.  My stomach grumbled at the smell of cooking lamb and I decided a little souvlaki and a Greek beer were in order.  Most of the callers had the same sales rap, but I decided to reward honesty and humor and dined at a restaurant whose caller simply said, “Can I hustle you?”  Why, yes – you may.  The food was good and my stomach stopped complaining – for awhile.       

     I made my way to the Acropolis of Athens – perhaps the most important ancient site in the world, at least to a Westerner – perched high above the city on a flat rocky butte.  Paintings and photos of the Acropolis and the most important classical temple in the world – the Parthenon – adorn the walls of Greek restaurants all over the world.  I dare any reader to find one Greek restaurant, anywhere in the world, that doesn’t bear its depiction somewhere.  And, as Athens can rightfully claim to be the seat of the world’s first democracy and where classical architecture reached its perfection in the Parthenon – its existence as a national icon and source of pride for Greeks everywhere is justified.  Sort of like the Alamo is to Texans.  Seeing no escalator, I set out to conquer the Acropolis on foot.          

     Now, except for their temples, the ancient Greeks weren’t big into building in straight lines and as I make my way up, more difficult it is to see the top, and, not seeing any tourists or locals – and my efforts to summon the ghost of Socrates for directions proving futile – I finally came across a hand-made sign with an arrow to the Acropolis.  Apparently, I wasn’t the first idiot to get lost here in 2,500 years!      

     It must have been an awe-inspiring destination for travelers of ancient times – especially when it was in its glory during the 5^th century B.C.  It’s amazing enough now as a ruin – yet another reason Home Office has nothing good to say about the Ottomans, who used the Parthenon as a gunpowder magazine with the predictable result that during a battle in 1687, a Venetian shell smacked into the Parthenon, blowing a good part of it up.  Idiots – the building was 2,000 years old at that point and they’re storing explosive munitions in it!?  And, of course, the British Lord Elgin removed a great deal of the Acropolis’s sculpture in the early 19^th century – known cheekily as The Elgin Marbles.  The Elgin Marbles now reside in London’s British Museum – and the Greeks and the Brits are endless arguing about their repatriation to Athens.      

     Though in ruin now, an aggressive campaign to restore parts of the Acropolis is being undertaken by the Greek government, using marble from the same quarry that produced the original stone to match the missing pieces.  But I wonder if a restored Acropolis would be like a restored Alamo:  ruins are evocative precisely because they’re ruins – and I wonder if when the restoration of the Parthenon is done, the Greeks, being used to the ruins, might not say “Huh!  I liked it better the other way.”  I suppose they can always find some Ottomans and Venetians to start a fight and blow it up again and start all over.      

     But if you yearn for the completed restoration but can’t wait for the Greeks to finish the original, you can visit the recently restored 1897 full-scale replica of the Parthenon  in Nashville, Tennessee – yep , you read that right – Nashville. They even have a 41-foot tall gold-gilded replica of the statue of Athena Parthenos, according to Home Office, who claims to have actually seen it. 

     Leaving the Acropolis, I was admiring some wonderful views of the city when I heard muted roars and drums beating from a distance.  Odd.  Then what appeared to be bursts of smoke arose.  Must be quite a party, I thought absently – forgetting about the cab driver’s warnings about today’s political demonstrations.     

     I wandered down to the Ancient Agora of Athens, which lies at the base of the Acropolis.  The Agora, which means “marketplace” served as such for the Greeks, and as a residential area for the later Romans and Byzantines.  The Agora has two remarkable structures – the Stoa of Attalos which was destroyed by the Huns in the 3^rd century A.D., but faithfully restored in the early 1950’s.  It now houses the Museum of the Ancient Agora.      

     The other, even more interesting structure, however, was the Temple of Hephaestus, which is the best-preserved ancient Greek temple in the world – owing its survival to serving as a Greek Orthodox church from the 7^th century A.D., until the early 19^th century, which is like – a really long time.  Hephaestus, known as Vulcan to the Romans (that’s right Trekkers – that’s where the name came from), was the god of blacksmiths, craftsmen, sculptors, volcanoes and fire – he was good with his hands.  He was sort of the ancient God of Technology – not that they had much tehnology back then – but it was pretty much his job, and whilst the other ancient Gods were off starting wars, throwing thunderbolts, being handsome and seducing mortals, Hephaestus was homely and lame.  So – I guess they built him a temple to make him feel better – I’m not sure.  Home Office claims to have once spent an entire night on the steps of the Temple of Hephaestus drinking ouzo and passing out, waking up, drinking more, looking at the stars and pondering the immensity of history – until the Greek guards let the dogs loose at dawn and Home Office had to high-tail it over wall.  But who really knows?     

     I headed back to the hotel, getting lost  a few times, for a Global Shopping Adventures meeting.  I found myself in a great area of shops and restaurants near a river.  It was quite touristy and I heard many languages, although the default language for negotiation seemed, as always, to be English-we’re so lucky for this.  I stumbled into the flea market that was packed with people.  It was getting late and when I arrived back at the hotel, I noticed cracked windows and glass in the street.  I asked about it at the hotel and was told the demonstration turned into a riot which the police quelled with sticks and tear gas – the Greek protestors fought back, and then the whole things turned into a party, with everybody laughing and heading to the tavernas to eat and drink beer and ouzo.  Greeks.     

     After my Global Shopping Adventures meeting with Dimitri – a graduate of Purdue – he and I walked to a seafood restaurant nearby called, the Seven Seas.  Okay, not the most Greek or original-sounding name for a seafood restaurant – but it was bustling to the brim with people, all talking loudly with their hands while simultaneously cramming their mouth with delicious-looking platefuls of seafood.  Dimitri picked the calamari, which was tiny and grilled to perfection in olive oil with lemon.   Dimitri says it is unique to the area.  I picked my fish – a native of the local waters – from a bed of ice and had it grilled – wonderful.  Greece may have some financial issues at the moment, but the dining was great!     

     I retired to the King George late to pack and prepare for my flight out in the morning to Rome.  Home Office – and ardent supporter of reconstituting the Roman Empire – or at least the Republic – has been chattering incessantly about all the things I must do and see when I’m there.  I half-listen and promise to do them all, knowing that since Rome wasn’t built in a day, it’s unlikely I’ll be able to see much of it in that time too.     

     Belly full and happy with my time in Athens, I set the Alarm Rooster for the wee hours and readied myself for whatever the Travel Gods were surely cooking up for me.

     Chase’s Log 3.18.2010.  Istanbul – one of my favorite cities in the world – a place of barely-controlled chaos, Turkish style – which is a very different sort of thing from the barely-controlled chaos – Asian-style, of the cities I’ve visited over the past few months.  

     Home Office refuses to call the city Istanbul, chiding me to call it by its “correct” name – Constantinople.  Apparently, Home Office is still irritated at the Ottomans for sacking Constantinople in 1453 and ending 1,100 years of 

Byzantine rule, but mostly I think Home Office is just sentimental about the final collapse of the Roman Empire – I’ve heard it shuffling around cursing and muttering to itself about that fool of an emperor Constantine I for deserting Rome as the Roman Empire’s sole capitol and the lost glory of the Empire and the Republic.  I make a mental note to get Home Office checked for Alzheimer’s when I get back to the States.    

     My memory was accurate and the traffic from the airport was horrendous – though nothing like the flight in.  We crawled along for what seemed like hours to the Ceylan InterContinental Istanbul, which my sister Barb loves, and where my travails are eventually rewarded with an upgraded room with a sea view.  I make it back to the lobby just in time to meet my guest and have yet another excellent Global Shopping Adventures meeting.      

     Later, arising refreshed after a couple hours sleep, I had a great Global Shopping Adventures  meeting, and decided to reward myself with dinner at a nearby restaurant, Indigo – recommended by the rather royal acting hotel staff.  Word must be out that I’d slept on the lobby couch last night – watch that guy!    

       By Chase A. Wolf  

      [HOME OFFICE NOTE:  After some uncertainty of Chase’s whereabouts – as chronicled in the previous post from Singapore – Chase resurfaced and forwarded us the following post from his well-deserved week of R&R diving in the Maldives.  There was none of the usual mention of his travel between countries, so we can only conclude that it passed uneventfully, or, that it was another white-knuckle terror in the skies from which Chase has blocked all thought and retreated to his Happy Place beneath the blue waters of the Maldives.]  

Chase’s Log:  03.04.2010.  I found myself in the Maldives aboard the MY Orion for a much-needed week of diving, resting and detoxing after nearly six weeks of travel and meetings in nine countries.  I’ve been looking forward to this week the whole trip and left Home Office to mind the Global Shopping Adventures store.       

      My first day is diving near Male, so it was nothing too spectacular, except we left Male in the afternoon and did a night dive near Ari Atoll which was very beautiful and swam with lots of fish I can’t name, skittering critters I can barely describe and, of course, the beautiful corals.  The visibility is pretty poor because of the plankton in the water. Normally, this would put the kibosh on my diving spirits, but not this time.  For plankton, you see, is the breakfast lunch and dinner of giant manta rays and the world’s largest fish – the whale shark.      

      And I plan to ride one like Slim Pickens riding the H-Bomb in Dr. Strangelove – or, you know, maybe at least swim real close.  

     The next morning we are promised schools of reef sharks cleaning themselves in a channel.  The only drawback is there is supposed to be a bit of current.  We – as in I – drop like a rock to about 96 feet and am swept along a coral embankment at a speed that felt like the first lap at Le Mans.  I manage to find a slightly sheltered spot and see several sharks off the reef.     

      Then I spot Alex, the boat’s Director, heading towards me and together we make our way (by holding on to dead coral at several intervals) to the tip of the reef where we hang on like flags blowing in a Category 3 hurricane and watch lots of reef sharks milling about.  We had about a 30 – minute dive, which I thought was rather short, but I learned we were the only ones who made it to the point and most others had much shorter dives.  The favorite dive briefing question now is: “and how much current is there….?”      

       Typically, we were doing three dives a day and, although the visibility is still not too great, the fish life is abundant and the corals are magnificent.  Great schools of snappers and many, many juvenile tropical fish of every color and variety.  Moray eels of all sizes and mostly purple and green and mottled colors.  I saw two large purple eels sharing the same hole, both having their gills cleaned by small cleaner fish.  Oh, and green turtles swimming, eating coral and sleeping.  A reasonable number of sharks are around on several of our dives.  Primarily, grey and white tip reef sharks.  There have been a number of juvenile sharks (from about 2-4 feet or so long) on the reef tops as well.  Also, bigger fishes such as trevally, tuna, barracuda and jacks.         

     About an hour later there’s a frantic tapping at my door and I hear the patter of many feet dashing about.  Luckily, I remember to pull my bathing suit on, as I rush to the deck where I see people clambering onto the dinghy with their snorkel gear – mine has been strategically placed near the platform, so I grab it and launch myself at the boat with no idea of where it was going and still rubbing sleep out of my eyes.  We all gear up just in time to hear: “Jump! Now!”      

       And, well, well, wouldn’t you know it – there he was – Mr. Rhincodon typus himself – a whale shark, just sauntering along, oblivious to all my gushing like a teenager on prom night.  

      I estimate that he was about 18 feet long from head to tail – which probably makes him not even half grown.  Like all whale sharks, he had one short rear dorsal and one larger center dorsal fin.  The largest whale shark ever caught was 41.5 feet long and weighed 47,000 lbs – though of course, as with all fish stories, there are tales of whoppers growing to 75 feet in length.  That’s a lot of sushi, even for me.  They’re believed to live up to 100 years, which means this boy will likely be prowling these waters long after I’m worm food – or fish food if I’m not careful around his toothier cousins.    

     I dove down to swim with him and watched him open his cavernous mouth to gather his meal of plankton.  He was seemingly oblivious to the crowd of admirers happily finning their way above him, next to him and behind him.  The paparazzi were snapping away like crazy, while this big guy just coasted along seeming to smile for his fans every now and again.  It was simply a breathtaking experience.  We swam with this friendly giant for over 45 minutes, which is quite rare because they tend to be timid.       

     When we headed to the southern end of Ari reef, the visibility picked up dramatically and we had several dives with nearly unlimited views.  We did a couple of dives off the edge of a wall that begins at about 115 feet and were able to see schools of reef sharks and rays and barracuda and lots of other large fish.  At night we saw octopus, frog fish, leaf fish, turtles, lobster and the list goes on.  All in all, the diving was fabulous.      

      Chase’s Log 02.28.10.  I LOVE Cathay Pacific airlines!  Apparently, the Gods of Air Travel  have lost interest in my humble self, and have moved on to torment some other luckless soul.  Maybe.  Hopefully.   

     En route to Singapore, I checked in at the Bangkok airport without a problem – no luggage or security issues – and was offered an upgrade to Business Class.  Why certainly, I replied.  A pass to the Business Class Lounge to hobnob with the swells?  Why not?   

      Cathay Pacific – in their great wisdom – appears to have a policy of filling their empty Business Class seats just before takeoff with loyal customers – like me!  Other, lesser airlines – and you know who you are – will leave the luxurious Business Class seats empty but continue stuffing the sweating proletariat into dank little sausage seats better known to most of us as “Economy Class” or “Coach.”  And what’s the point of that?  Okay, so they save a little on the Osetra caviar and fois gras – but how does that really compare to the loyalty of their customers?     

      I settled into my wide, cushy seat, asked for a pillow and extra blanket, and pondered my good luck.  Of course, Home Office would just tell me to brace myself for the equal amount of bad luck ahead needed to balance out the universal equations of travel – but I decide to live in the moment and ignore Home Office’s chattering in the back of my head.        

       Without even being aware of takeoff, I awoke with a start as a smiling flight attendant politely asked me to bring my seat up – we were already on final descent into Singapore.  I’d slept through the whole flight and missed my complimentary Swedish Message!  Damn – Home Office was right after all.       

     Debarking in Singapore, I was quizzed by an officious little immigration agent demanding to know my name, date and place of birth, reason for visiting Singapore, where I was staying, the last time I listened to Abba, my favorite Meg Ryan and Charles Bronson movies – weird – that sort of thing.  For a moment I thought of just giving my name, rank and serial number as a joke, but with my highly developed instinct for self-preservation, I suspected that my brand of humor wouldn’t be appreciated by people who work in a room festooned with big red signs saying things like: “Drug smuggling of any type is a death penalty offense,” and “Offenders will be violated” – or something like that.  So I smiled submissively and provided the required information without elaboration.         

      I still love Hong Kong, but Singapore is an amazingly beautiful and well-organized city of five million people with fascinating architecture.  Crime is unheard of and intolerance to others is simply not tolerated.  The majority of people are of Chinese descent, but there’s also a large Indian and international presence as well.  Everywhere are cranes lifting buildings into the sky.  It seems that this city has been untouched by any economic crises.         

      The Singapore government is deeply involved in the economic and social well being of its citizenry.  They decided that cars created congestion and pollution, so they created taxes to make buying cars expensive, provided great mass transit and created incentives to purchase new cars and dispose of used ones.  As a result, the traffic is reasonable and most of the cars on the street are newer.  Singapore is one of the largest exporters of used autos.  Though I guess new cars become used as soon as they’re sold, so I’m not really sure how that works.         

      Of course, with that order and beauty comes a price – rigorously imposed penalties for breaking the rules, or breaking wind – maybe both.  If you spit on the street or chew gum or otherwise, the penalty is a proper caning!  Now, I haven’t had a proper caning for awhile – and I could definitely use one – but couldn’t I just opt for a fine to settle any offense?  Nope, you have to bend over and take it like a man, I’m told.  I know a few of my old middle school teachers who’d like it here – actually, who probably retired here and kill time as freelance caners-for-hire.            

      So naturally, as I walked the streets of Singapore that first afternoon, and, being a crass American, I involuntarily coughed and hacked on the street without thinking.  Realizing what I’d done, I froze in my tracks and glanced furtively around for witnesses howling and pointing in my direction like Invasion of the Body Snatchers pod people – cane-toting bully boys a’sprinting in my direction.  Seeing none, I scuttled away all crab-like, praying they didn’t have CCTV cameras recording my heinous transgression.  I actually started worrying that they might have face recognition software at the airport that would trigger an alarm when I left – and I’d be dragged into to a side room for the mandatory caning.  Perhaps I was a bit tired at this point in my travels and imagining things – Singapore is actually a very tranquil and orderly place.  Still, I pray to the Travel Gods not to get a knock on my door in the middle of the night.         

      Once more I’m staying at the Intercontinental Hotel and it’s lovely.  A Colonial style hotel with a recent face lift but wearing the patina of age quite well.  May I be so lucky.  The staff is first class and they unexpectedly upgrade me to a suite.  Hah!  Take that Home Office and your sour predictions of bad luck waiting for me.     

     After unpacking and doing some work, I went to the Blue Ginger restaurant for a taste of local cuisine – local enough that even the taxi had trouble finding it.  The official language in Singapore is English, as are all the signs.  Feels like home, except for the whole driving on the wrong side of the road thing.        

      At the Blue Ginger I was seated next to two fellows who are relocating here – Patrick from Paris and David from the UK, who both work for a paint manufacturer – and, as is my way when travelling, I make new friends.  We had great conversation and adjourned to a neighboring tavern for a few cocktails.  As we entered, I noticed a conga line of women behind us!  The women were beautiful, chatty and friendly, as were my new-found friends, but it had been a long day and I suddenly found myself tired and somewhat older than all of them, so I bid everyone adieu head back to the hotel to rest up for tomorrow’s meeting.        

      With the Alarm Rooster’s crowing the next morning, I bounded out of bed, feeling great, and had a great round of Global Shopping Adventures meetings.  With only a few hours to spare after my meetings, I decided to follow the example that my friends, the Santos, showed me in Barcelona last year and find a “hop on/hop off” bus tour of Singapore.  There are many here, and I decided water-style on the Hippo River Taxi.  In four hours I was able to glimpse much of Singapore and got off to tour the Botanical Gardens, China Town, Orchard Street and the Marina area.  Cruised by the magnificent neo-classical Fullerton Hotel Singapore, the former General Post Office Building and one-time WWII hospital, now a luxury hotel.   A truly magnificent city!  I even squeezed in a little Aikido training with Philip Lee Sensei – Head Instructor of Shinju Kai Dojos.         

     It was then time for dinner and the thought of seafood had been burrowing into my brain all day.  The concierge suggested the No Signboard Seafood Restaurant to sample local seafood – especially the crab.  The place is in Singapore’s China Town and largely frequented by locals – ask for Steven, a great host.  The name is derived from the fact that the founders – the Choos – opened a crab shack in a flea market and couldn’t afford to buy a sign.  Crabs were not even a popular dish, but they became well known and people would say “look for the place with no signboard.”          

     Of course, I had the crab and asked for a large one – it took two plates, but I also got two styles of cooking.  Pepper style was spicy and ginger was less so.  Both were fantastic.  I needed a few Tiger beers to squelch the peppers!  A gurgling in my stomach told me there may be consequences later for that hedonism – but that’s the price you pay for travel, right?  By the way, it’s a local place with plastic chairs and tables and a street side location – so dress accordingly.  You crab lovers know how messy crab can be – afterwards my waiter politely offered to remove the crab shrapnel off me with a fire hose.        

     Feeling warm and wonderful, stuffed with crab and beer, I decide Home Office’s warnings about luck were unfounded and that I’d received a “Have a Good Time – For Now” pass from the Gods of Travel, for whatever reason – maybe they like it here too.  I decide to head back to the hotel to do a little work and pass out.         

        Retiring to my hotel room, I’d just slipped into my evening wear and slippers and was dialing up a nightcap from room service, when there came a sudden knocking at my door.  Strange – I wasn’t expecting anyone.  “Mr. Chase Wolf?”  The blood drained from my face as I thought of my earlier accidental spitting on the sidewalk. “Mr. Chase A. Wolf?  Please answer the door.”  Panicking, I’m rushing to email this last post to Home Office before I answer.  The knocking is getting more insistent and someone is demanding that I open the door immediately, or else. . . .    

     [HOME OFFICE NOTE: From this point on, nothing further has been received from Chase.  No more emails, our Skype calls have gone unanswered and even the satellite GPS tracking device we had implanted in him without his knowledge during his pre-travel proctology exam has stopped transmitting.  We know that he was supposed to head to the Maldives the next day for a week of R&R on a boat scuba diving and would be out of touch, but we expected him to check in with Home Office before he went radio silent.  Home Office will keep you informed of any developments.]        

     [HOME OFFICE UPDATE:  False alarm.  It was just the hotel manager stopping by to see if everything was to Chase’s satisfaction and whether he wanted his pillows fluffed, a warm glass of milk and to be tucked in and told a bedtime story.  First class service there, for sure.  Chase left the next day for the Maldives for some much needed R&R and has since resurfaced with tales of diving in blue waters and maybe swimming with Whale Sharks and other whoppers – all of which will be posted shortly.] 

     After some unpacking and a little computer time, I decide that dinner should be in China Town – like I haven’t eaten enough Chinese food lately.  But they’re still celebrating the Chinese New Year’s there.  When I ask for directions, the hotel’s concierge looked at me quizzically and a little startled.  Nonetheless, I bravely set out with map in hand and some idea of where I wanted to end up.    

     My first stop was the Siam Square market, which spans an area of about six square blocks and is “anchored” by the Hard Rock Café.  Of course it is…..  There’s a combination of street front stores, outdoor flea market and an indoor marketplace.     

     During the Skype call it was suggested that I take a look at the MBK mall, which is within long walking distance of my hotel.  So I put on my walking attire and went to the street armed with my map.  I encountered a young man desperately trying to get information from people on the street, but to no avail. 

     Taking pity, I offered some assistance.  He was Dutch and seeking the embassy to replace a stolen passport.  I find it on my map and suggest we go together.  It takes awhile but we eventually find it – I hope he got things taken care of – he should be home at the time of this writing.     

     While looking at the map, I noticed the Jim Thompson House and store was close to MBK.  It’s a great place.  He was  an architect before WW II, served with U.S. Army Intelligence during the war and afterwards founded a Thai silk factory and lived in Thailand most of his life – fascinating story.  He was on expedition in his 60s when he went for a stroll in the jungle and never returned.  Anyway, the store has really great stuff and I actually bought things.  Off to MBK – I expect not to disappear.    

     Ok, now I know why I had to go to MBK.  I wish I could transport this place back to the U.S.  It has the creature comforts of a mall with air conditioning, escalators, nice flooring and a parking garage but it’s nothing like a mall, except in size.  Each floor seems to generally specialize in a few types of goods.  However, there are “traditional” (no chain stores) spaces of between 500-1000 SF, small stores from 100 to 300 SF and then there is a section devoted to a market where the booths run into one another.  There was no vacancy.  The place was packed with shoppers.  People were having a blast looking, touching, negotiating and buying.  Surprisingly, there was also a department store anchor – Tokyu, but it wasn’t as busy as the rest of the place.

      As I stepped off the escalator into the crowd on the 4^th floor, I saw it was the electronics floor.  There must have been a hundred stores selling phones of every shape, size and description.  Computer stores, gadgets, car electronics, and, wait, could it be – lots of cameras?  Home Office would be proud of me, as I took off the shopping gloves.     

     [HOME OFFICE NOTE:  Yes, we are proud of Chase.  After nagging him relentlessly for weeks, he finally caved and purchased a good camera with which to chronicle his adventures.  And we’re especially grateful for him tossing that nasty little “camera” he took with him down a Bangkok storm sewer where we hope it was carried into the nearest river and eaten by a passing crocodilian - or perhaps one of the large catfish species known to prowl those waters - and that we’re never again forced to Photoshop those God-awful grainy photos he was sending us into something human eyes could bear viewing.  But, perhaps Home Office has said too much….]

     After much looking and debating between the Nikon and the Canon, I decided the SX200is Canon was the camera for me – I was sold by the 12X zoom over Nikon’s GPS – what would I do with that?  But the prices were absurd so I began my negotiations with the proprietor by feigning disinterest in either camera.  Let the games begin!    

     [HOME OFFICE AGAIN:  Much editing was done here as Chase sent us nearly ten pages of detailed description of his epic camera negotiation, which, according to him, lasted through the night and into the morning, drawing a crowd of hundreds.  Truly a clash of the Titans, but we condensed it down to what follows.]

     Got the price down from $500 (ridiculous, but still $100 less than the non-negotiable Nikon) to $350.  “I need to make something” she cried, throwing up her hands in mock agony – feigning defeat at my superior negotiating skills.  But I was not so easy duped by this tactic – having practically invented it myself.  Nor was I swayed to pity when she began grabbed her head in her hands moaning something about having to sell a kidney to pay the rent that month.  Nice touch but I would have gone with the spleen – no one really knows what a spleen is and whether you can live without one, but everyone knows you can spare a kidney.  I merely cocked one eyebrow and pursed my lips to let her know who she was dealing with.  Her body went limp, her head cast down and for a moment I thought she’d gone into a trance and was summoning help from the Great Beyond.  I braced myself.  Then, slowly, her head raised and she looked me in the eyes, stroked her wispy beard with one hand and nodded once – I had won!     

     As she wrapped up my new camera, I swelled with pride at my apparent victory – pride tinged with battle fatigue – when my opponent said, grinning casually:  “Oh, you want to take pictures, right?  Maybe you want memory card too?”  I stood frozen, my eyes wide like a deer in headlights – my exhausted brain frantically searching for some sort of negotiating leverage.  There was none, of course – the camera was useless without a memory card.  Achhh – my near triumph snatched away by this four – foot tall cagey crone, who had so deftly lured me into her trap.  Truly I was in the presence of a master.  Another round of bargaining ensued and $30 later, she wrapped up my 4GB HD memory card.    

     Taking my packages, I backed slowly to the door, never taking my eyes off of her.  Just as I turned to depart I heard her cry: “Bye Bye!  You come again!”  Upon which she began cackling insanely.  And I swear it’s all true. 

     Licking my wounds, I figured out the sky train home because my legs were rubber.  After cleaning up, I chose a top rated restaurant for a traditional but upscale Thai dinner.  As the traffic, not surprisingly, was at a standstill; it was suggested I again use the sky train.  Now that I had the hang of it – no problem – and it wasn’t.    

     The restaurant is in the Shangri La Hotel (5+ star) and is directly on the river.  A beautiful place with traditional Thai dancers and the food was great.  By the way, they show hot chilies on the menu; 0-4 to indicate spiceiness.  I asked the server about the beef special, which looked great but had four of the red things - she said she’d tone it down but at myrisk!  Consulting my stomach, I said I’d have the 2-chili duck.  It was great but pretty spicy – glad I didn’t opt for the toned down 4.  There were, unfortunately, gastrointestinal complications later.

     Taxi back to the hotel and bedtime. Up at 5:oo a.m. tomorrow.        

     Day Three.  Alarm Rooster goes off at 5:00 a.m.  What?  Already?  I’ve been invited to the local chapter meeting of BNI, which is a business networking group with chapters all over the world.  I also delayed my other meetings until late in the day so I could take the day trip to raft the floating market, walk on the Bridge over the River Kwai and lay down with the tigers at their temple. BNI was very interesting and I met some good local business people, though I was unable to give any detailed explanation of my concept.  We’ll see.     

     The Floating Market was not what I expected and it cost a bloody fortune to get into  – well, $50 – which no amount of negotiating could bring down.  It amounted to a boat ride through some canals into a main area where the boats couldn’t even move and the vendors were basically selling touristy stuff, though some was pretty cool – Home Office would have liked the mounted insects and bats.  Sorry – can’t lug freeze dried scorpions, spiders and bats around the world with me.    

     The Bridge was a bit of a letdown, but only because I’m a typical American who has seen too many Hollywood depictions of history.  After knowing only the famous 1957 movie, I expected to see a noble wooden structure cobbled together with the blood and sweat of starving POWs that spanned high over a raging river – the ghost of Alec Guinness whistling heroically in the distance.  But in actuality, the bridge is mostly iron, resting on large cylindrical concrete pylons and neither the span or the height is overly impressive, although they might have been at the time.    

     But I grow more respectful as I learn more about the Burma Railway, of which the Bridge is just a small part of -  where nearly 240,000 Allied prisoners of war and civilian workers died building the railway for the Japanese during WWII.  Seriously, think about that.  That’s nearly five times the number of U.S. military killed in the Vietnam War – in ten years – and these guys were just building one railroad in one little corner of a world war!  Astonishing.     

     I visited the Kanchanaburi Cemetery  that contains the remains of nearly 7,000 British, Australian, Dutch and Indian soldiers who died building the Bridge and railway.  Many thousands of others are buried elsewhere – some just lost forever. 

     Somberly, I head to the Tiger Temple to play with some pussycats.    

     I do love cats – so the privilege of being so close to these big old tabbys was great.  We received a quick briefing on safety protocols – like keep our mice in our pockets and don’t wear balls of yarn around our necks.  Just kidding.  But cuddly as they are, they’re still apex carnivores, and at any time I could be just an afternoon snack – soft on the outside, crunching inside.  Even back home, I never delude myself into thinking that if I had, say, a freak medical accident which shrank me to even half size, that my well-fed house cats would waste more than a few moments figuring out what had happened before tearing me to shreds – after batting me around a little. I actually trusted the tigers more.       

     I was able to pet and sit with the big guys, rub their bellies a little and scratch behind their ears.  Got really close to the under one-year old cubs.  It’s a remarkable thing they’re doing at the temple.  Many tiger species are already extinct and many more are headed in that direction.  Watching the monks and the tigers interact was beautiful.     

   Fortunately, all were well fed, though I noticed a couple worried parents looking around and calling for their children – just kidding.  As one of my martial art instructors advised – “you do not need to worry about the tiger that is not hungry, but watch out for the one that is hungry.”  Hmmm…..

     My time in Thailand nearing an end, I race back to the hotel, shower, and change – just a few more meetings. 

     Later that evening, after dinner and as I packed my stuff, preparing for bed, I realized I felt – good.  Real good.  Something about those majestic, spoiled and playful tigers at the Tiger Temple – and even the lost Dutchman and the camera crone – had set me right and my moment of travel fatigue had passed.  I once again yearned for adventure and the unfamiliar.     

     Tomorrow, I’m off to Singapore.