Photo Blog - A Very Venetian Orphan's X-mas

From Click on image to view album 9.

CLICK ON IMAGE TO VIEW ALBUM 9.

Cokelore Claims Santa

To a vast majority of the Western world, Santa Claus is an essential figure in our upbringing. I know that, as a child, I’d spend the wee hours of Christmas Eve in my pajamas, on the windowsill, nose pressed hard to the glass, inspired by holiday season, television viewing, desperate to catch a glimpse of Father Christmas clamoring around on our roof top (despite the fact that we did not have a chimney – like every other house nearly astride the Equator). But times have changed. My parents told me that Santa wasn’t real and half hearted, counter-corporate culture activists told me that Coca-Cola invented him.

This gift-giving icon, understood to deliver gifts on Christmas Eve to sleeping children and adults who have been ‘good’ all year, is a widely treasured character, the most significant symbol of secular Christmas celebrations. But just where did this kind, fat man in a red suit come from? The North Pole we were told. The North Pole? Not So. Like many things to do with Santa Claus, this was a fabrication.

A prime example of folklore/ mythology, adults know Santa Claus is fiction, but present him to children as fact. An evolutionary character, Santa Claus gathered iconography and history from European folklore, acquired a fancy, new costume in the U.S.A., and spent time on developing his character and finding his ‘motivation,’ before bursting finally onto the world stage.

‘Father Christmas' is the name given to the gift-giving figure of Christmas in the United Kingdom, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, other Commonwealth countries and many other countries - translated into local variations (‘le Père Noël’ in France and ‘Papa Noël’ in Brazil for instance). The traditional Father Christmas was not at all associated with children or the bringing of gifts. He is alleged to have roots in paganism, associated to the Saxon custom of dressing an elderly male in robes as ‘King Winter.’ In ‘The Vindication of Christmas,’ a book dating from the time of the Commonwealth, Father Christmas was portrayed as being a character of merriment and alcohol who questioned the charitable motives of the ruling Puritans of the time.

For some time in Europe, Father Christmas was superseded by a figure of baby Jesus, sometimes known as ‘Christkindlein’ - the Christ child. In Afghanistan he is ‘Baba Chaghaloo,’ in Armenia he is known as ‘Gaghant Baba’ and in Mexico, he is ‘El Niñito Dios.’ He has many names in many languages. It is generally considered an Americanism for people from countries that have traditionally acknowledged ‘Father Christmas,’ to address him as ‘Santa,’ even though, essentially today, they are one and the same.

Santa Claus is the popular, American term for the Dutch, ‘Sinterklaas’ which is a contracted form of Sint Nicolaas (Saint Nicholas). ‘Santa Claus’ is actually a mispronunciation of the Dutch word ‘Sinterklaas’ by the English settlers of New Amsterdam - later renamed ‘New York.’ Sinterklaas was and is a major, annual celebration in the Netherlands, Belgium and Germany. It falls on the eve of St Nicholas’ Day, December 6th, which is the day for gift-giving and the climax of many days’ festivities.

Saint Nicholas is the beloved, true-to-life star of a Dutch folktale which tells the story of one Bishop’s generosity. As folklore tells it, Saint Nicholas used his entire inheritance to assist the needy, sick and suffering, his charity so widely received that his legend traveled far across several continents. It is here perhaps that the earliest recognition of current day Santa Claus’ attire began – with Bishop Nicholas’ red Episcopal vestments.

Among Orthodox Christians, the historical Saint Nicholas is well revered. Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of sailors, merchants, archers, children, and students in Greece, Russia, Macedonia, Serbia and Montenegro. He is also the patron saint of Barranquilla (Columbia), Bari (Italy), Amsterdam (Netherlands) and of Beit Jala in the West Bank of Palestine.

Another contributor to the evolving life and look of Santa Claus was the Russian character of ‘Ded Moroz’ or ‘Grandfather Frost.’ His German folklore equivalent is, ‘Väterchen Frost’ and they are both said to magically travel around the world in one night.

But it was in the city of New York, where modern-day Santa Claus truly began to blossom. In 1804, the New York Historical Society was founded with Nicholas as its patron saint, its members reviving the Dutch tradition of St. Nicholas as a gift-bringer. For ensuing decades, clever and witty, literary New Yorkers depicted him in various states of merriment by way of books, poetry, essays, and illustrations, and his appearance varied as often as the creative method employed. He was small, he donned furry gloves and hats, he had a mane of long locks, he was bald, and he was tall.

On Christmas Eve of 1822 another New Yorker, Clement Clarke Moore wrote a series of verses for his children; his poem was published a year later as ‘An Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas.’ This is more commonly known today by its opening line, ‘Twas the night before Christmas ....’ In this poem, Moore gave St. Nicholas eight reindeer, naming them all and devising the now familiar entrance by chimney.

In 1863 Thomas Nast, a caricaturist for ‘Harper’s Weekly,’ began developing his own version of Santa. Nast gave his figure flowing whiskers and dressed him all in fur, from head to toe. Nast's 1866 montage entitled ‘Santa Claus and His Works,’ established Santa as a maker of toys; an 1869 book of the same name collected new Nast drawings with a poem by George P. Webster, that identified the North Pole as Santa's home. Although Nast never settled on a consistent size for his Santa figures - they ranged from tiny and elfin to giant - his 1881 ‘Merry Old Santa Claus,’ drawing is very close to the Santa that we know today.

A Boston printer named Louis Prang introduced the English custom of Christmas cards to America. In 1885 he issued a card featuring a Santa sporting a red suit. Eventually it was this red-suited, kindly, chubby and ruddy-faced Santa - Santa as superhero - that proved more popular than the fur robed Santa.

In the early 1930s the ever growing and successful Coca-Cola Company was looking to increase its profit during the characteristically slow-for-soda, winter period. Enter exceptionally talented, commercial illustrator, Haddon Sundblom. From 1931–1964, Sundblom created memorable Santa paintings that, via extensive and wildly successful, seasonal, Coca-Cola advertising campaigns left the red-suited, fat guy visually embedded in our psyche forever.

Contrary to urban myth, Coca-Cola did not invent Santa. But why let the truth get in the way of a good story? What they did do however, during an enduring era of mix and match Santas, was pick and promote what would become the standardized Santa Claus of the modern world. Today, he is arguably the world’s greatest pop culture icon. And to anyone under ten, he is very, very real.

The Lights Go Down on the Emerald City

Imagine a city, so beautiful by day with a shimmering harbor, perfect, rich, clean blue skies, endless green park lands, rocky outcrops teeming with wildlife and stretches of pure white sand, the consistency of raw sugar. Presiding over all this natural beauty, imagine, after dark, a modern, vertical and dense business district, its twinkling towers pushing themselves up into the stars, a famous harbor bridge ablaze and abuzz with thousands of cars and bustling trains, lights whizzing by. Imagine an opera house, its peaks like the sails of an expensive yacht, lit up like a majestic, white apparition, drifting in busy waters that support ferries, taxi boats, yachts, tall ships, cargo ships and cruise liners. Now shhh … imagine somebody pulls the plug and the city plunges into darkness.

At 7:30pm, on March 31st, 2007 this is precisely what will happen. For one hour, on this date, Australia’s largest city, the city of Sydney will turn its lights off. This is the ambitious project, ‘Earth Hour’ that was launched yesterday by WWF Australia. With the support of Australian publishing giant, Fairfax, the City of Sydney Council and the state Government, WWF will ask Sydney households and businesses to turn off their lights for 60 minutes. The city's electricity providers will measure the power saved and the greenhouse gas emissions avoided. The broader objective of Earth Hour is to cut Sydney's Greenhouse gas emissions by 5%. It doesn’t sound like much, but it was a figure nominated by the WWF as it is totally achievable. To put this 5% into perspective, it is the equivalent of taking 75,000 medium sized cars off the road for one year.

Opposition argues that too many businesses will lose too much profit on a busy Saturday night. Electricity is vital to all industries, not least of all the well renown and highly regarded Sydney restaurant industry. As Clover Moore, City of Sydney Lord Mayor and WWF organizers put it, “We will just have to use our imaginations.” And if there’s one thing I know as a Sydney native, that’s something my home town is not short of. On the contrary, I tend to agree with supporting arguments that with the right marketing and hype leading up to the event, it will be a night Sydneysiders will go out particularly for. Without electricity, the city will take on an ethereal aura that Sydneysiders will be curious to experience and support.

Perhaps even as vital as the actual energy savings from coal-fired power stations that will occur during that one hour, is the exposure it will give to the dire and urgent circumstances surrounding green house emissions. Such a symbolic event will educate the masses (by way of immediate effect upon them), sending a clear message as to the connection between the electricity people use in homes and offices and the climate change pollution that coal-fired power stations generate.

Switching electrical appliances off at the power point would cut electricity demand by up to 11 per cent, the Federal Australian Government's National Appliance and Equipment Energy Efficiency Committee says. This is something that can be executed with little effort at home and that we can contribute to on an everyday, domestic level. WWF estimates that turning off lights when buildings are not occupied and installing energy-efficient lighting, could slash the electricity used to light office blocks in Sydney by as much as 80 per cent.

The campaign, launched yesterday has the support of some major players in the Sydney government and business sector. There are sign-up applications being distributed by various mediums citywide so that residents and businesses can commit to the event on March 31st, 2007. Unfortunately I am not due to be home for this event. However, perhaps I can execute a campaign of my own right here in L.A. Why not? Anyone want to fade to black with me on March 31st?

To Waltz Matilda - Setting the Story Straight

Contrary to common, international belief and the demand of a large percentage of the Australian population, ‘Waltzing Matilda’ is not the Australian national anthem.

Australia is currently a constitutional monarchy. At a referendum on November 6th, 1999, Australians voted 55% to 45% against a proposed model to make the nation a republic. The Australian national anthem is currently ‘Advance Australia Fair’, which replaced ‘God Save the Queen’ in 1984.

‘Waltzing Matilda’ is a much loved folk song, the lyrics penned in 1895 by famed Australian nationalist and poet, Banjo Patterson. ‘Waltzing Matilda’ is the tale of an itinerant swagman (or hobo) who meets an untimely end, during a showdown with authority.

Lyrics:

Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong
Under the shade of a Coolabah tree
And he sang as he watched and waited 'til his billy boiled
"Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me?"

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me
And he sang as he watched and waited 'til his billy boiled
"Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me?"

Along came a jumbuck to drink from the billabong
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee
And he sang as he stowed that jumbuck in his tucker bag
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me."

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me
And he sang as he stowed that jumbuck in his tucker bag
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me."

Up rode the squatter, mounted on his thoroughbred
Down came the troopers, one, two, three
"Where's that jolly jumbuck you've got in your tucker bag?"
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me."

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me
"Where's that jolly jumbuck you've got in your tucker bag?"
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me?"

Up jumped the swagman and leapt into the billabong
"You'll never catch me alive," said he
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by the billabong
"Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me?"

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by the billabong
"Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me?"

This narrative is of strong appeal to the Australian characteristics of ‘a fair go’, perpetually rooting for the underdog and poking your tongue at authority. It also plays perfectly upon the rural ideals of Australians and our love for the outback. A ‘Matilda’ is a bedroll made of canvas, with leather straps that can be worn on the back like a backpack when traveling. The term ‘Matilda’ has since been replaced by ‘swag’. ‘To waltz Matilda’, is to roam the countryside with your swag and all extraneous possessions on your back.

More than a simple item, the swag is symbolic of a freedom of spirit, of a roving heart that leads Australians out to explore the vast lands. My swag is one of my most prized possessions. Always at the ready, the canvas lining contains a light-weight, foam mattress, down pillow and comfy quilt that are made up permanently in covers. Tightly rolled and fastened with straps, it would stand in the corner of my cupboard, ready to be fetched for a drive into the bush, ready to be unfurled beside a campfire at a moment’s notice, so that I might sleep under the stars.

Whether an urbanite or a country kid, Australians generally have a deep connection to the land and its unique wildlife. In my opinion, it is our greatest common, our biggest unifier. I wait in anticipation for the day Australia becomes a republic. When we do, competitions will abound to pen the perfect, Australian national anthem. Whatever it may be, I hope only that it will truly capture the spirit of the land and Australia’s history of waltzing Matilda.

If it were my decision, I’d nominate the little ditty, written in 1987 by Bruce Woodley of ‘The Seekers’ and Dobe Newton of ‘The Bushwackers’ and riddled with strong cultural reference, ‘I Am Australian’.

Lyrics:

I came from the Dreamtime from the dusty red soil plains
I am the ancient heart, the keeper of the flame
I stood upon the rocky shore
I watched the tall ships come
For forty thousand years I'd been the first Australian

I came upon the prison ship bowed down by iron chains
I cleared the land, endured the lash and waited for the rains
I'm a settler
I'm a farmer's wife on a dry and barren run
A convict then a free man I became Australian

I'm the daughter of a digger who sought the mother lode
The girl became a woman on the long and dusty road
I'm a child of the depression
I saw the good times come
I'm a bushy, I'm a battler
I am Australian

We are one, but we are many
And from all the lands on earth we come
We share a dream and sing with one voice
I am, you are, we are Australian
I am, you are, we are Australian

I'm a teller of stories
I'm a singer of songs
I am Albert Namatjira
I paint the ghostly gums
I am Clancy on his horse
I'm Ned Kelly on the run
I'm the one who waltzed Matilda
I am Australian

I'm the hot wind from the desert
I'm the black soil of the plains
I'm the mountains and the valleys
I'm the drought and flooding rains
I am the rock, I am the sky
The rivers when they run
The spirit of this great land
I am Australian

We are one, but we are many
And from all the lands on earth we come
We share a dream and sing with one voice
I am, you are, we are Australian
I am, you are, we are Australian

Coupe de Gras for Geese

Last night I sat forward on my ever so soft leather dining chair, in the wine cellar of a dimly lit, expensive restaurant in Beverly Hills, whose decor evoked the spirit of a Free Mason’s get together at a Swedish sweat lodge, and I took in the culinary arrangement that a model/waiter had placed before me. It was at that moment that I was overcome with a plague of guilt.

It wasn’t the fact that I was eating a $47 piece of one of the best Kobe beef fillet mignons I’ve ever had (cooked to perfection ‘blue’ as I ordered), when there are 20 billion people who live below the poverty line. Nor did I even attempt to vaguely reconcile the $157 bottle of Californian red that the Sommelier suggested, with any thoughts of the 1.7 billion people who have no access to clean drinking water. No, there was no starving population/ fine dining nexus tugging at my foodie strings. What it was, was the two, fine-cut, lightly grilled slivers of Foie Gras (bringing the steak dish total up to $65) that were topping my Kobe fillet. It was the fact that I knew that I would be far too weak to not eat and thoroughly enjoy them.

‘Coup de grace’ is a French expression for a blow of mercy, intended to end the suffering of a wounded creature. It couldn’t come too soon for a goose or duck being farmed for Foie Gras. Foie Gras or ‘Fatty Liver,’ is the French delicacy of overfed goose and duck liver. It is not to be mistaken with regular and much cheaper pate. Globally, animal welfare organizations deem this force feeding practice or ‘gavage’ and its side effects - resulting from a grossly engorged liver - as animal cruelty. The production of Foie Gras is illegal in some countries and states of the USA.

Despite France being the world’s largest producer and consumer of Foie Gras, producing 18,450 tons of the 23,500 tons produced worldwide in 2005, two companies in America do produce Foie Gras. Hudson Valley Foie Gras in New York and Sonoma Foie Gras in California contribute to the domestic (and some international) consumption of this light and buttery, luxury product.

In order to produce the varying quality ranges of Foie Gras from the absurdly expensive to just expensive, the ducks and geese raised must be force fed. ‘Foie Gras Entier’ is made of one or two whole liver lobes and comes cooked, semi-cooked or raw. ‘Foie Gras’ is made of pieces of livers reassembled together. ‘Bloc de Foie Gras’ is a fully cooked, molded block that is 98% or more Foie Gras (if labeled ‘Avec Morceaux’ it must contain at least 50% Foie Gras pieces of goose and 30% pieces of duck). There is also Pate de Foie Gras and Mousse de Foie Gras (which must contain 50% or more Foie Gras), Parfait de Foie Gras (must contain 75% or more Foie Gras) and other preparations which have no legal specifications.

The quality of care and measure of life span during which the ducks and geese are allowed to free-roam before being housed in confined, force feeding spaces, is at the discretion of the farm, but they all must force-feed. Generally, the ducks and geese are left to free roam as chicks some months and feed by natural means in order to strengthen their esophagi. A strong esophagus is needed for the two to three week force feeding period that follows. During the gavage period, the geese and ducks have a tube inserted into their esophagus two times daily and are fed a large, pre-measured quantity of nutrient deficient feed (in order to induce liver disease). This process continues until the liver has swollen up to ten times its size, nearing organ rupture proportions (and sometimes they do rupture). This engorged liver is Foie Gras.

There are myriad unpleasant procedures and unjust circumstances that surround the production of many goods and food stuffs that are created for our consumption. It is our duty to be vigilant about educating ourselves on the background of the things we buy, so that we can make informed decisions. This way, we can make the right, individual choices for ourselves. Last night, I made the wrong one for me.

90291

I am sitting in a dark backyard in Venice on a warm autumn night, my hands turned unnaturally up, so as not to get the remnants of my first ever crawfish boil on my clothes. Someone from the Brian Jonestown Massacre has just finished spinning some tunes and I am licking my fingers and watching as a fellow arranges a motley collection of wooden crates, hub caps, number plates and other debris in what can only be described as a sort of drum kit. This, as it turns out, is seriously infectious, hip shaking, swamp stomping, local electro-punk band, “Restaurant.”

I am standing on the corner of Abbot Kinney and California in Venice, absentmindedly scuffing my shoe against the curb as my companion, brilliant Singer/ Songwriter “Matt Ellis” – having handed local vagabond John his nightly tea - picks up where he left off in conversation with one of Venice’s most well known homeless identities. My ears prick up when I hear John telling my companion about his experience of Coachella. He’d just returned, having been treated to the trip by his local friend and one of my personal idols, freak folk artist extraordinaire, Devendra Banhart.

I am traversing the footbridges and narrow pathways of the always magically lit (and particularly so for X-Mas if you care to go for a wander) Venice canals, when I am forced to a sudden halt by a territorial duck and her five ducklings on a spooky, late-night Halloween stroll. Forced to back up into near by bushes, I am delivered a genuine Halloween fright, in the flashing orange eyes of a grim reaper-like identity that has appeared out of nowhere and unexpectedly come to life. This ruckus sets off my fellow countryman, a boisterous, Australian Cockatoo who contributes to the general scene of pandemonium.

I am riding Mathilda, my beloved beach cruiser, under an almost full moon and we are speeding along the boardwalk. The water is a sheet of navy hued, stained glass and the back and forth of light between sky and sea is sprinkling everything in stardust. The palm trees bob their heads as if attempting to shake the silver dust from their coiffed afros. And far away but growing louder with each revolution of Mathilda’s pedals, I can hear the lonely notes of a melancholy piano. Every day this old man rolls his upright down to his post on the beach and plays tunes that speak of a life that used to be his.

This is Venice in all her beauty. I am a legal alien who fell in love with planet Venice. Abbot Kinney, the founding Father of Venice was one of those creative-thinking entrepreneurs who led quite an adventurous life for such times. It seems then that Venice beach, from the boardwalk to the canals, is an appropriate legacy for him to have left behind. This is Venice reveling in her joie de vivre and being adored by all who call her home.

Travel: Emails from Angkor

The Kingdom of Cambodia is a country and peoples on the mend, rebuilding their economy and morale after decades of civil war, violence, suffering and oppression. Sharing a boarder with Thailand, Laos and Vietnam, 75% of its 69, 900 square miles lies very close to below sea level. Like its neighbors in Asia’s south east, Cambodia is subject to tropical Monsoons, wet season commencing in May and continuing through to October and dry season commencing in November and continuing through to March.

Cambodia has changed hands and hats many times. Its boarders have (and continue to) ebb and flow like the tides of the mighty Mekong River. Since declaring independence from France in 1949, Cambodia has been subject to a monarchy, the communist Khmer Rouge, the Lon Nol led government, a Vietnamese sponsored government and even the United Nations transitional authority before emerging to its current state as a democratic, constitutional monarchy.

With a population of about 14 million, the current day Khmer speaking Cambodians make up the vast majority of the populous, the remainder being Vietnamese, Cham, Khmer Leou and Indian. Although Khmer is the official language, there is also a less common Cambodian French and among young Cambodians, English is becoming more widely spoken. Theravada Buddhism is the dominant national religion with a small portion of the populous practicing Islam and Christianity.

I traveled alone to Siem Reap, Cambodia, flying in from Bangkok. I was on a mission to Angkor the capital of the Khmer in 1300AD. It had been a life long dream to see Angkor Wat – which as it turned out, became my least favorite of the magnificent Khmer temples, my favorite, the breathtaking Ta Prohm.

It is safe to travel as a woman alone and there are extensive on-line and printed materials available to assist you in all you would need to prepare for a visit to Cambodia. As extravagant as it sounds, it is very economical to have your hotel organize a driver/ guide for you for the duration of your stay. It’s a nice way, if traveling alone, to have the companionship of a local who can teach you a thing or two and with whom you can interact as much or as little as you like. Otherwise there is readily available and cheap tuk tuk, moped or motor vehicle taxi as transport options or the availability of bicycles or mopeds to hire for your self.

Although civil war has devastated Cambodia’s road and rail transportation system, traveling into Cambodia by way of boat and/ or bus is still popular among adventurous travelers. One US dollar will buy you 4,196 Cambodian Riel and living is cheap in Cambodia. If traveling from the US, I would recommend buying a return ticket to Bangkok and purchasing your air ticket in to Cambodia separately from one of the myriad travel agents in Bangkok. This way, you will achieve much better deals.

A country of magnificent beaches, remote and dense jungle, ancient temples, unique architecture and beautiful food, Cambodia’s isolation and history of civil unrest, has largely preserved it from the effects of tourism. Siem Reap, home of one of the Seven Forgotten Medieval Wonders of the World, Angkor Wat is Cambodia’s biggest tourist draw card. Overall however, compared to other South East Asian destinations, you can have a relatively tourist-free experience in Siem Reap and a totally tourist-free experience in other provinces of Cambodia.

There are an inordinate number of orphans in Cambodia, the legacy of a long civil war and the after effects. The Children’s Hospital in Siem Reap provides free care for all children and they are open for blood donation, which I did during my stay. Despite the often sub-standard conditions of hospitals in third world countries, donating here is safe. I cannot reiterate that enough. Please consider a donation if you visit.

It is very easy to fall in love with the natural beauty of this country and its citizens. For a people that have suffered so greatly and a place that has seen and inherited the effects of much blood shed, Cambodia exists as proof of the resilience of the human spirit and Mother Nature’s ability to regenerate herself.

From: V
Sent : Sunday, 11 September 2005 5:03:27 PM
To : Summer
Subject : Cambodia.

How beautiful! Flying in, I wasn't entirely sure that it wasn't sinking. The endless rice paddies and seasonal rain give the landscape an appearance of being mostly a collection of tiny seas. The green, the green the endless green. I am flooded with childhood memories of Papua New Guinea. The jungle so dense and the air so sweet, as the fat drops of monsoon rain gather scents from the canopy along their journey to the ground. Fresh air again ... hooray!

Not particularly a fan of hotels, I am sincerely appreciative this time for this cool refuge, tropical blue swimming pool and wide balcony with lovely French doors to throw open and let in the moderate bustle of the streets. Siem Reap, I was told by Thierry - my lovely guide for the next few days - has a population of 60,000 and they are mostly all farmers. It explains why this pretty town isn't filthy I guess. It's just dirty - organically so. And in my book, dirt isn't really dirty anyway.

I found a lovely little neighborhood today, crammed between the India-like market stalls. The French colonial, cultural creek has dried up to but a trickle, but the architecture in this prefecture still remains. I sat street front on the wide, tiled balcony in a huge, high backed whicker chair, imagining I was Catherine Deneuve in Indochine and had a beer and an amazing vegetarian, spicy dish for a whopping 4US Dollars.

Apparently mostly only the old folk still speak French, but between their dodgy English and my rubbish French we seem to be able to cover all bases. The young here are almost all lost to the French tongue but for the legacy of names such as Pierre and Thierry that seems to linger on. I found that you could rent bicycles for $2 for the day. I seriously considered this for all of 1 second until I realized that:

A) It would be very cruel to push my Fiancé dangerously closer to the precipice of controlled hysteria on which he already teeters, as he tries to cope with me being a girl alone in Cambodia. A girl alone on a bicycle in Cambodia could spell the free-fall.

B) I don't actually know how to drive and if I did, this would be a great advantage when trying to stay alive on roads that have no lines, no rules, no lights, no signs and no idea.

C) I am simply not mentally or technically equipped to be competing in the Great How-Many-Mothers-Fathers-Grandparents-Babies-Puppies-
Refrigerators-And-Other-Building-Materials-Can-We-Fit-On-Our
-Mopeds Challenge that is held here every day.

After a much needed siesta during an afternoon thunderstorm, Thierry picked me up to head out to the elephants. I will not actually enter Angkor Watt until tomorrow, but I bumped to the rhythm of my elephant all the way to the top of the mountain on the opposite bank of the river to Angkor Watt, to watch the sun set. The journey up the mountain was mesmerizing and I was overcome with such peace. That is until the tour group traipsing up the mountain also, came into earshot (from half a mile away). Despite their obvious inability to hear themselves and their complete and utter lack of reverence for one of the most magnificent and majestic wonders of the world, I didn't stray too far from this general feeling of peace and happiness.

Sitting atop a tower of stairs in the middle of the jungle, looking out over the great watery expanses of green and beautifully crafted, ancient rock, with the rising steam providing a misty aura, I was incredibly moved. The saffron robes of the scattering of monks among the grey-green rock were like ambers stoking the ruins and setting the sky on fire. As the Sun drifted off to sleep, slipping below the paddies, I felt so perfect. It felt so perfect to be alone with all that in that moment. Thank you Angkor Wat. Thank you Sangia the elephant. Thank you Cambodia. Sweet dreams and goodnight. xx V

From: V
Sent : Tuesday, 13 September 2005 01:12:14 PM
To : Summer
Subject : Cambodia.

I am having the most amazing time in Cambodia! The incredible temples … faces everywhere carved of rock, watching you wherever you go, nodding at you knowingly. The temples empty caverns but for the thousands of Micro Bats. And then, deep within the lonely bowels, doubling back on each other like riddles, a surprise Monk laying at the feet of yet another Buddha. A tiny, single-person abode eked out in the rocks and bathed in a riot of color. Offerings of incense, candles, coconuts, shiny, foil paper flowers and pig heads abound. A little confused you press on and pop out into a lush, tropical garden before an enormous tree swallowing a building whole. It confuses you further as you try to ascertain which came first - the tree or the temple.

On a long, wooden boat, I meander through a floating village. It is a quiet group of three who enter this magnificent expanse of lake, residence to mostly Vietnamese and Cambodian Muslims. The poverty here is obscene. Yet, through the wall-less houses you see the flicker of a color TV. My boat driver asks if I like Karaoke. It's all the rage out here in these shanties you know?! Children race each other in single-infant vessels that resemble upturned top hats. Naked for the most part, they laugh hysterically as they navigate their tubs through the wash with long wooden poles.

Outside some temples, I come upon a group of small children jamming. The Little Drummer Boy - the most beautiful smile I've ever seen - heads up a group of impassioned, clapping back-up singers. None of them is more than ten years old. The music is amazing, mesmerizing. I want to take them all home. I want to record their music.

I meet a 12 year old boy named Harry. We talk for a long time. Handsome, with street smarts to rival a Rocket Scientist's academia, he asks me many questions and tells me everything he knows about Australia. It is a lot incidentally. I leave his company to go into the temple and he says, "Please, you no forget me. Please lady you remember me, Harry." Hours later when I emerge from the temple, he is waiting for me outside. He has written me a beautiful letter. I will never, ever forget you Harry and yes, I will always keep your letter. May you grow strong and clever and transcend your circumstances with your sheer joie de vivre! xx

Riding Along in My Automobile No Baby Beside Me at the Wheel

Since I can remember, wanderlust has coursed violently through my veins. So it was an aggressively adventurous seventeen year old girl who stepped aboard the Paris Metro for the first time, with no particular place to go. As the spider’s web network of the Parisian metro spun itself to the farthest reaches of the city, I let it deliver me to the threshold of experiences that would become the fabric of my life - a particular favorite was disembarking at Montmartre at dusk, bottle of wine in hand, with a short meander up the hill to sit atop the steps of Sacré Cœur, and watch the sun set over Paris. But all of this was simply a bonus. Riding the metro was what I really wanted to do.

To this day, whenever I arrive in a new city, I hit the public transport system. If you want to get down to the nitty gritty of a city and have it reveal its true self to you, there’s nothing like a few rides on a general public, commuter train or bus to show you a city’s personality and its repertoire of people. So it was this way that I befriended the city of Los Angeles.

Each morning, after I tether my beach cruiser to whatever pole is available and board my “Rapid” bus from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills, I become one of the 152,435 Angelinos who commute to work on public transport. It is only a small portion really of the 1,690,316 people in the city of Los Angeles (not county), who are of working age and work.

My insistence on bus riding is a constant source of surprise and then bewilderment for my work colleagues, acquaintances and most people I meet here. Because I am a foreigner, I find that the common misconception held by many Angelinos that public transport is for those fallen on hard times, foreign college students and the help, is lost on me. Fortunately for me, this stigma holds about as much weight in my world as a Rubik’s Cube in a rabbit's let’s say.

In a city where only 152,435 of the working populous commute on public transport, only 53,386 walk, only 9,052 ride a bicycle and only 220,408 carpool, leaving a small portion who use other, extraneous methods and a vast majority who drive to work alone in a motor vehicle or on a motorcycle; it is fantastic to note that last year, use of public transportation actually grew 23%, twice as fast as car use of 13%. Even better news, the city of Los Angeles is leading the way in the national trend in increase.

When I first arrived in the City of Angels, I felt an old, familiar, teenage rebellion rising in me. I did not like that the city seemed to be dictating that I drive. I don't like being told what to do. And I don't like thinking I have little option. The way it had been explained to me, there was not really an operable public transport system here. People led me to believe that if I even attempted to catch a bus, I would find that I would need a packed lunch and a good book to while away the hours I’d spend waiting for it and then, it was likely that I would disembark on Mars. They were obviously misinformed. Other than a dangerous experimental stage I went through early on in the piece, catching buses randomly, without reference, boarding anything that appeared to be heading in my general direction, I have found the bus service here to be nothing but efficient.

The Los Angeles County Metropolitan Transport Authority or MTA's website offers access to any information you could need to set off on a public transport excursion. Easy to use, you punch in the co-ordinates of where you want to leave from and go to and the time you need to arrive at your destination and voi la, your entire route, including changes and alternatives listed neatly for you to choose from. It even tells you how far your journey is, how long it will take, what the fare is and what it would have cost you in gas. And from my personal experience, the bus has stayed within five minutes of its scheduled time every time.

In a world that will soon enough no longer be able to sustain the 600 million motor vehicles that exist, with a current projected increase of 30% over the next decade, the USA leads the world in car ownership. There are 776 cars for every 1000 people and approximately half of all the petroleum refined in the U.S.A. is used for motor vehicles and their infrastructure. It is of course necessary for us to be mobile, but the resulting impact on the environment is great. In the U.S.A. alone, the transport sector accounts for 30% of our total greenhouse gas emissions.

There are many countries all over the world where public transport systems are the primary method of transport. In cities such as London, Tokyo, Madrid and Paris, a public transport commuting community, is as commonplace as the palm trees that line the boulevards of Los Angeles. There is no reason that more Angelinos can’t be using public transport and/ or some other alternative to private motor vehicle.

Government conspiracies and gripes with bureaucrats aside, the existing system already works. There is much room for improvement (like introducing electric or alternate fuel vehicles), but the system works enough to be using it regularly right now. I know because I and hundreds of thousands of others do it every day. I ride my bike, I walk and I catch the bus. Occasionally I take my petrol guzzling car.

See your city from a different angle, through the window of a bus. You will soon find that you have an hour and a half in your day to yourself to read, think, write (I wrote these very words you are reading on the 720 to Santa Monica), knit a scarf or have a conversation with a willing stranger. Save the world and reconnect with the citizens of your city.

What started out, so long ago as the eccentricity of a teenage girl, has grown into something so much more. I still ride the bus because I am curious about the world and the people in it, but now I know that I have to ride the bus if I want there to still be a world in which to continue my curiosity.