dedicated yogis

one struggles, while traveling, to keep up with any sort of exercise regime.  ten years ago, road-tripping through europe with my father, my solution was running.  one of my best memories -- both of running, and of that trip -- is of cruising uphill through the cool morning air in luxembourg, the crisp crunch of pine needles under my feet, my ears full of church-bells, while the villagers below me file in to worship.

here in malaysia, while the dawn call to prayer could arguably substitute for the bells (and certainly does a fine job as a sometimes-romantic, sometimes-dreadfully-inconvenient alarm clock), there is no such thing as "cool air" at any time of day or night.  so its a wonderful thing that, after doing some seriously intensive time at a yoga shala in mysore back in february  (details on this later), we are still super-dedicated to almost-daily yoga practice.  

it leads to some pretty ridiculous situations.   i've spent a lot more time on the floor of some sketchy guesthouses than probably any previous occupant.  hopefully.  i've spotted socks and crumpled-up hotpants and plastic bags full of mysterious lumps, shrouded in the mystic anonymity of underbed dust.  i've hung out with all kinds of spiders.  i've discovered the precise sweat-limit of my yoga mat before it becomes completely, slipperily unusable. (this last during an ill-advised noon yoga session outdoors in the perhentian islands.)  we've switched rooms to get more yoga space, and compulsively moved furniture (unearthing archaeological-quality mounds of dust in the process) to eke out just a few more inches of precious yogic space.

 if only i'd had the presence of mind to record a few more of these shoehorn-type situations.  but this one, in melaka, is pretty representative: armchair and dresser dragged in the yoga-unusable space between the two beds, traveler detritus scooped up off the floor and onto various surfaces, mats spread and ready for use.  i will never, ever again give the evil eye to someone who creeps up on my space in a yoga class.  now i know, and viscerally, that space is only borrowed. 

and its all worth it, to make this possible.

chinese astrology

tom is a dragon.

i am a horse.  note the prancing. 

mellow ... that's my style

yes, inexplicably, the beach really is this deserted.  i had heard that cherating was full of surfers and garrulous old local characters, lounging around, just dying for a chat with some random americans, or ozzies, or whatevers.  but instead, in the super-off-season, it is just clouds and sky and sand and silence, radiating a kind of purity.  lots of space for me to learn how to throw a frisbee, with no one around to watch or judge.  this is key; i am entertainingly incompetent with a frisbee.  at the far left end of the beach, a couple of vendors sell roasted corn, ice water, and delectable cups of fresh coconut-water jelly; there's one beachside restaurant with lovely teh tarik and edible pineapple fried rice, and, about a hundred meters further down, a little bar with wireless, guinness, and the opening game of the world cup.  something about the end-of-day light at this east-facing beach feels, i don't know, subtle ... its the kind of refined light that makes a dramatic west-facing sunset beach feel a little vulgar and overdressed, like when you wear a rhinestoned bustier to a tea party.  its the perfect place to lose a few days or weeks: a time vortex, a deeper shade of soul.

late stories: buenos aires rocks

it is impossible to resist.  volcanic-level creativity.  the shadows of old brilliance; the piling-on of the new; the traditional marries the cosmopolitan marries the commercial.  robot dinosaur-bugs.  gateways to everywhere.

we cruise through the traditional produce market on the corner of carlos calvo and defensa, housed in an arcade built in 1897.  fruits, vegetables, raw meat and hanging housemade sausages all crammed up cheek-by-jowl together with depression-era glassware, pillboxes, fur and leather jackets, hand-painted army figurines, watches, jeweled knives, yellowed photographs of weddings and parties and civic events, the participants almost certainly long-dead.  i am amazed that there remains so much old stuff in the world to continually populate so many antique stands.  isn't there a finite amount?  don't we run out of old stuff eventually?  in the center of the arcade, tourists snap pictures of a freestanding kitchen encircled by a counter and wooden bar stools, filled to capacity with old portenos sipping strong coffee and eating crepes stuffed with jamon and covered in thick bechamel.  past the market, we stroll down defensa street, past the design boutiques and cafes, to the plaza de mayo, so named to commemorate the end of spanish rule in may 1810, and the presidential palace, from whose pink balconies various demagogues and dictators have raised various iron fists.  o, and this lady named evita.  she looks sort of like madonna -- have you heard of her?  there is a veteran's group camped out in the plaza -- another set of old men talking and sipping coffee -- but it's unclear what, if anything, they are protesting.  what's that sound of thunder, of drums, of chanting?  it's a labor protest, unions marching in colors like ancient guilds, music and majorettes and art cars constructed to look like a graffiti'd neighborhood street corner, full of boombox music and the lounging unemployed.  at bolivar, we jump on the subway towards the palermo district.  some local music is part of the ticket fare, in the form of a handsomely trashy young guy, all smooth muscled skin and tangy body-smell, sounding beats on his backpack-cum-chair-cum bongo set.  in the crush, tom's wallet departs our company and chooses to join up with someone else's cause.  around the corner, here is the xul solar museum, a man who i would love to claim as our own, but who am convinced is neither dead nor fully human.  i am rolling in it, observing it and loving it and claiming it. 

it just bursts out of everywhere.  why resist?

a harsh life in the perhentians

the perhentians were described to me as paradise: talcum-soft white sand, wide expanse of clear blue ocean, lush green jungle.  you might think that one gets accustomed to this level of total gorgeousness.  but no, actually, one doesn't.  it rocks, spectacularly, every time. 

tom is touching his nose every time he sees the letter "d" on a card that contains, in grid format, various d's, b's, p's, and q's.  it's not the weirdest thing he's done on this trip.  or even in the last 24 hours, come to think of it.  but today, dee (left) is timing him, and will ask him to do the same thing 24m underneath the ocean's surface, to find out whether tom is susceptible to nitrogen narcosis.  getting narc'd makes a person incredibly silly and giggly and ridiculous and i must admit that i love the feeling despite the fact that its technically sort of dangerous.  i spit in the face of danger.

here is an example of extreme sensitivity: narc'd at the surface.

the matahari lodge was slightly dank and suffered from limited electricity.  but the reptile factor was off the charts: this awesome monitor lizard lived underneath the deck! 

royalty

the pomelo king of kota bharu holds court in front of the kelantanese royal family museum.

s'pore shanghai dumpling-off

din tai fun's shanghai soup dumpling:  no fewer than 18 perfect folds in the paper-thin dumpling wrapper, warm salty soup surrounding a fatty nugget of pork.

vs.

crystal jade palace soup dumpling.  she was, perhaps, not quite as structurally sound.  but her wrapping was whisper-thin, so overflowing with soup that her edges spilled out over the lip of my spoon, and her pork nugget dissolved silkily into the rich soup. 

crystal jade wins.