What To Do on a Wat Trip (In Southeast Asia, there will be a wat trip)

By Perrin

1. Wake with the paper boy.

The curtain rises on Angkor Wat.

Don’t take this literally. In our experience, you’ll be waiting awhile for a paper boy to show up in Cambodia.

On a serious note: as introductions go, a Siem Reap sunrise wields greater panache than even the best-paid show host. Growing light casts into relief profiles of 12th century “homes of gods.” Mirror-like moats and untamed silk trees frame the stage, and visitors gasp reverently as the rugged scene illuminates. It’s as though the curtain has risen on opening night.

Another benefit: An early start is the first defense against equatorial climate. A trek in midday heat can inspire a body to sweat through two outfits in under two hours. Fact.

2. Get in with the out crowd.

The tourist-free entrance to Banteay Srei.

Cambodian government surveys estimate that 57% of all visitors to the country tour Anchor Wat, specifically, during their stay. It’s up-and-coming neighbor, Ta Prohm, has seen similar crowds ever since Angelina Jolie staged a showdown there in Tomb Raider in 2001.

Though those two sanctuaries are a highlight of any trip, there are over thirty other temples that welcome visitors. These less-frequently others are more likely to provide the “Oo la-la!” experience of stumbling upon a deserted temple that looks like it has not been touched for centuries. Mossy, crumbling temples tower as high as the centuries-old trees that shroud them. Peaceful faces of Hindu and Buddhist deities, carved from stone panels the size of a Wal-Mart storefront, stare overhead. Sculpted elephant tusks jab from walls. It’s easy to imagine how explorers must have felt when happening upon the temples for the first time.

3. Ditch the guide.

Climbing a Banyan tree that is swallowing a doorway.

Spend at least one day to let your senses reign independently. Climb refrigerator-sized blocks that have fallen from temple walls. Sniff the fig trees. Lick up the sugary candy goo that the local children force you to buy. You’ll feel like Jane of the Jungle, Indiana Jones, or at least a five year-old enjoying a jungle gym.

4. Enjoy a day (or several) off.

Getting groovy with the Apsara dancers.

These wats are large. Even with a car or tuk tuk to drive you between each, trekking within the buildings themselves is literally breathtaking. Take a day in Siem Reap city to leisurely explore the artisans markets, silk-making factories and $3 massages.

5. When the sensory overload has subsided, listen.

Two little locals couldn't resist creeping in for a look as our guide Munny sketched Khmer symbols.

The more famous wats have seen enough (well-documented) action to inspire many a Hollywood mega series, so let a personal guide tell you about it. Angkor’s certified tour guides attend months of preparatory schooling and pass a series of rigorous exams, yet they charge only about $20/day.

Traveling in a small group (2-3 people) makes a huge difference. While large tours stick to wide passageways, our pack of three was able poke into munchkin-size rooms and sidle down shoulder-width alleys.

Our guide Munny (that’s Cambodian for “smart”) stood my height at 5’2” and smiled more than Mr. Rogers.  He sported a starched yellow shirt and trim black visor and slacks. He reminded me of the Cheerio’s bee.

Within 5 minutes with Munny, we learned that he was in the midst of reading a book on the history of rice patties, just for fun.  He’s the type of guy you wish you hadn’t asked about rice patties.  But he’s also the type of guy you want to take you to Angkor Wat.

For reflection
Scores female sculptures throughout the temples stand in perfectly in tact – except for the fact that their breasts have gone missing. Gaping holes and indentations indicate that the mounds have been carefully removed.

One has to wonder: Are these “take-aways” good luck?

A full set! Two uniquely intact Apsara dancer figurines at Banteay Srei.

McDonald’s, the American Embassy

Sofia: It's almost as if we speak Bulgarian!

Before Sarah and I left the US, we generally avoided McDonald’s.  Admittedly, we sampled its wares and enjoyed some of them. (Sarah can even plot from memory the price distribution of its frozen yogurt throughout Manhattan – cone cost ranges from $0.90 in Columbia Heights to $1.62 in Times Square. However, most other foods under the golden arches made our stomachs churn.

Kandersteg: McDonald's adorable Swiss relation McDoris.

Perhaps this decidedly un-American abstention from Mickey D’s stemmed from our father, who has boycotted the restaurant since the age of 17, when he noticed that a golden arch had sprung up by a favorite beach.  Surveying the greasy red and yellow blemish on the smooth face of the sand, he vowed never to set foot in a McDonald’s as long as he lived.

Belgrade: McD's changes things up with some Mediterranean flavor - looks like fish sticks.

Such a vow was easier kept in 1968.  Over the past year, Ronald McDonald beamed at Sarah and me throughout our treks in Europe, Northern Africa and Asia.  His was the consistent friendly face in 23 of the 25 countries we visited.  As for Laos and Cambodia, where the big M was MIA, we probably weren’t looking hard enough.

Prague: Stylish al fresco seating in which to enjoy a sloppy, juicy burger.

Our perception of the food chain began to transform five weeks into our travels. On one Italian afternoon, the Sisters Bailey and our buddy Bogdan sweltered for over an hour on the side of the highway to Pompeii.  The egg-frying July heat drew sweat as we stared collectively towards the horizon, aching to spot our bus in the distance. No bus arrived.  Taxis and public transportation were far beyond reach. The only thing in sight was a pair of golden arches.

“If the sun sets and the mafia comes out, we can stay at the American embassy,” Bogdan concluded.  He indicated the McDonald’s.

Berlin: Rock and roll art suits this young city. McDonald's keeps a higher standard of decor in Europe.

Suddenly, the giant M shone as a welcome beacon of familiarity.  We embraced it. For the rest of our journey, the chain’s boldly colored huts provided us with WiFi, English speaking employees, and recognizable edibles.  On lucky days, we found outposts that kept soft American cookies baking on hot plates behind the counter.

We salute McDonald’s for its backpacker comforts, in addition to its sumptuous one dollar/euro/pound/lira frozen yogurt.

Istanbul: Kahvalti or Egg McMuffin - a rose by any other name...

Turkey's take off on McDonald's, Burger Turk, suggests that super-sizing is a transnational impulse.

London: 200 seats?! Almost spacious enough for a Royal Wedding after-party.

Vienna: You know a city is posh when McDonald's is housed in a Park Avenue-ready townhouse.

Iceland Day 3 | Blue Lagoon

En route to the Blue Lagoon, a swimmable Icelandic lake, I hardened myself for a polar bear dip.  I envisioned daredevil bathers darting through arctic air, sporting bikinis and speedos in lieu of parkas.  A character-building frigid dip would follow, and survivors would then bask in the cool aura of victory. And the hot embrace of pneumonia.

However, as Dave and I neared the snowy enclave I noticed people of all shapes and ages wading leisurely through the opal waters.  These would-be polar bear dynamos looked just tough enough to survive a thumb-wrestling match with Winnie the Poo.

As it turns out, hot springs and geysers surrounding the lagoon provide phenomenal insulation.  Moreover, steam and low-hanging mist create privacy.  The viscous, salty water glows opaque turquoise and buoys swimmers.  Under the surface, a white clay lake floor rubs and squishes satisfyingly between the toes.  I’d sooner expect such a well-administered spa experience from a $200 Brookestone device.

Visit for serenity, romance and pruney but fresh skin.

Iceland Day 2 | Rugged

By Perrin

Famous Geysir, namesake of all geysers: 23 meters deep and 120 degrees Celcius. Kabaam!

The Golden Circle acts as a taser, jolting Dave and me out of hibernation.  The circuit gallivants through Geysir zone, a geyser minefield the size of an airport; Gullfoss waterfall, a two-tiered glacial cataract and natural wonder; and Þingvelli national park, the only place in the world where you can easily see tectonic plates move.

I must first confess: we took a coach bus.  Of course I wouldn’t normally stoop to travel means that provide comfort and convenience.  If locals employ idiosyncratic vehicles or smelly animals, I say, grab jumper cables and stirrups and follow suit!

That said, Reykjavik chill alarms principles into remission.  Here, I hunt radiators with a crazed fervor normally reserved for pursuing chocolate.  My scientific comparison proves that tourist coaches emit more heat than the hotel sauna.  No glacier mobile for me.

A geyser minefield: water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink

Coach drivers obligingly warm vehicles to simulate Jamaican heatstroke.  As windows steam, tourists press noses against heating vents like pink lichen.  Sighs resonate as airways defrost.  Dave catches sunburn.  I scan for a cabana boy with palm frond.

Here we go...

We arrive at Geysir geothermal region.  This could easily be where NASA took its pictures of “Mars.”  I’m no conspiracy theorist, but I can recognize the barren, steaming and craterous horizon when I see it.

“Hold your breath,” Dave advises.  The mammoth geyser two meters ahead of us explodes.  Water launches upwards and I launch with it: shock jolts me three feet into the air.  Geyser explosions, which can send boiling water up to 70m high, are now among the coolest things I have ever seen.  The vat burps and discharges again.  It thunders through the white sky like an inverted waterfall.

Woooow

That accomplished, the geyser simmers.  The hot spring churns and bubbles like a bewitched cauldron.  The crowd stares hypnotically.  Surely I’m not the only one humming the Macbeth witch chant,

“Bubble bubble, toil and trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

I do hear some (fellow Americans, probably) cheer the geyser like it’s the home team,

“Spray baby, spray!  This is the big one!”

A five-year old boy throws an ice block towards the geyser and I chuck a volcanic rock.  We miss, likely because we’re nervous about seeing these objects regurgitated at top speed.

Several explosions later, the cold ushers the group back to our heated chariot.

If your hat blows into the Gullfoss waterfall, try a more Muslim look.

We move to Gullfoss, the Golden Waterfall.  Captain Ahab’s jaw would drop at this watery confusion.  Thundering reverberations press my ears as the glacial river plummets 32 feet into a narrow 70-foot deep canyon.

My eyes squeeze shut.  Between a tangible rumble and icy rain, I imagine the otherworldly falls crashing at my fingertips.  I reopen my eyes on the hill over fifty meters away.

We head to our next stop, but brake for wild horses.  Icelandic horses are a unique breed: Law prohibits the import of any steed onto the island, and once a horse leaves the country it may never return.

These horses are the only animals in the country to spend the winter outdoors. Their 4-inch thick coats inspire mass jealousy in tourists.

Iceland Day 1 | Land of the Freezing

By Perrin

The afternoon heat of tropical Iceland.

Upon arrival at Iceland’s airport, an attendant bestows upon Dave and me a Reykjavik Excursions brochure.

The viking interpretation of the bull differs greatly from the chic rendering on my old Wall Street doorstep.

The front features a pale sky, which a graffiti artist must have vandalized with streaks of streetlight-green aerosol.  Fog envelopes jagged volcanic boulders below.  The Land Before Time, which illustrates dinosaurs confronting extinction in an earthquake-ridden desert, portrays more hospitality than Iceland’s tourist brochure.

The back features a coat ad that reads, “This is Dyrafjordur.  The sea temperature is 5°C.  On a good day.”

How did we manage to vacation somewhere with worse weather than Britain?

Dave and I cling together - if one of us slips, we're going down together.

______________________________________________
Later that day…

“How long is the walk to center city?”

Dave and I smile eagerly at the Hilton receptionist.  The blond Amazon, Inka, retrieves a map.

“10 minutes by taxi,” she replies. “Walking…” She shrugs.

The city looks close, so Dave and I stroll out the door and wave off the cabs at the entryway.  We step blithely onto the sidewalk and slide 5 meters on black ice.  Clutching each other, we experiment with walking the way toddlers might, by cantilevering off one another and rolling across passing surfaces such as parked cars, bushes, and a friendly fire hydrant.

By the time we make it 5 more meters, the sky opens an ambush of ice darts.  Chunks of sleet billow through the wind at a right angle, rebounding off of our noses and forcing into our mouths.  A grey-white sheet covers the sky, blending with the white ground.  The Icelandic gods have enclosed us in a village-size igloo.

While Dave pioneers the sidewalk, I home-base slide back through the revolving door.

I regard Inka through frozen hair, which has restyled itself in a face-shrouding Cousin It fashion.  I can finally relate to Boris Johnson, mayor of London, who styles his hair each morning by inserting a wet finger into an electrical socket.  Melting ice chunks run down my eyebrows, imbuing my wet face with what is, I am confident, a becoming glow.

“You look like a frozen mop,” Inka observes gently.

Truthfully, what she says is, “How can I help you?” But it carries the same sentiment.

Superlatives | Craziest Transportation

And the Bailey goes to…Southeast Asia!

By Perrin

A crafty tuk tuk chauffeur repurposes CD's as tail lights.

Long boats, windowless buses and wooden train tracks rumble through Southeast Asia. These vehicles entered this world with the baby boomers, and these days they run about as quickly as a toddler taking its first steps.

Head of the transportation monarchy.

Obstacles inherent to local roads make the ride even bumpier: during a 10-minute trip it is possible to skid over both a mattresses-size pothole and a pot-size monkey.  Dirt and exhaust pepper the air like teargas.  Passengers launch skywards like popcorn kernels and baggage and children topple overboard.  Luckily, locals are used to being ejected from vehicles, and they swing back aboard with the practiced finesse of John Wayne straddling a horse.

The roof of this caravan looks like a yard sale. Dibs on the fan!

We rate longboats the smoothest ride in the Mekong region.

After one month of nerve-numbing transport, Anne and I hopped a plane.  We flew uneventfully from Vientiene, Laos to Siem Reap.  It was wonderful.

Unfortunately, when our plane deposited us at the airport – which makes a phone booth look like a spacious facility – there was only one thing in sight: ground transportation service.

The service manager informed us, “Taxi $10.”

$10 for a taxi?  Parked before us was a collection of local cabs, usually referred to as “tuk tuks.”  Cable cars are a trademark of San Francisco; yellow-top taxis are linked to New York; and tuk tuks are a cornerstone of daily life in SE Asia.

A colorful Bangkok tuk tuk awaits.

A tuk tuk, for those who have not yet encountered one, is essentially a motorcycle dragging a 3-wheeled golf cart.  Carved buddhas swing from the roofs and embroidered elephants decorate the upholstery.  Windows and doors lack covering, which can be unnerving, but this does accommodate panoramic views.

Anne and I began negotiations with the tuk tuk drivers.  To our chagrin, the drivers had formed a cartel and the fee stuck at $10.  The priciest tuks of Bangkok had never charged us over $5, so we defiantly left the airport and began walking towards town.

A driver followed.  He quietly explained, “Outside airport, tuk tuk only $4.”  Not surprised, we hopped aboard.

The drivers – not just their vehicles – can throw travelers for a loop.  But as with any old engine, knowing their tricks smooths the ride.

All aboard the Thai limousine!

This we can get used to: the boat from Sihanoukville to Ko Russei, Cambodia.

Collections | Water Closets Worldwide

Restrooms don’t feature in heated dinner conversation, generally. But after several months of navigating non-English speaking countries, we began to excite over any successful communications. Toilets – bless them – consistently transcend language barriers.

This Berlin sign says it all.

1. To signal that you seek the porcelain throne, cross your legs and wince. 2. To find the loo, scan for a stick figures. It’s universal!

A number of venues when beyond the call of duty, and showed real lavatory flair. A sampling is below.

Siem Reap's public powder rooms prohibit smoking, standing on the toilet, washing shoes and/or showering. (Sorry to ruin your plans.)

Pee and pray zone in the Fez train station.

Even the crapper emits mood lighting in this dim Barcelona salsa club.

Budapest suggests that you can meet singles anywhere! Who needs Match.com?

Moorish flourish brightens les toilettes in Marrakech.

Alice's trippiest mushroom yet: a 'shroom bathroom in Edinburgh.

Laos ladies are curious aren't they?

We know how you feel! Animated potty people at an Istanbul cafe.

Former sultans' stone throne in Istanbul's Topaki Palace.

If you think Czech models are risque, you haven't seen the woman behind Stall #1!

An London loo. Brits always carry umbrellas.

Tacky Architecture Award Goes to…Vientiane, Laos!

By Perrin

Befriending my neighbor the guardian demon.

I love a room with a view. Imagine my excitement at waking on sun-soaked sheets in the capital of Laos, waltzing to the hotel window humming Celine Dion and throwing the curtains open — to face two toothy gremlins grinning back at me.  They resembled Keebler elves dipped in pond scum.  I screamed.

It’s possible that Laos’s lush landscape escapes further development because its architects have been banished.

But Vientiane deserves credit for obliterating building boredom.  The ostentation serves a purpose: 1. Bright colors keep tourists on their toes.  2. House-size Buddhas attract attention from even the most oblivious lost souls.  Religious buildings and sculptures are the loud ones, and the town certainly remembers to pray.

Some of my favorite structures are below.

BUDDHA PARK

Omm on the Mekong River

The aptly named Buddha Park hosts over 200 Buddhist and Hindu sculptures. The only question is, is that enough?

PATUXAI (“Victory Gate”)

Concrete monster belittles Anne (locate girl in red dress).

Oh, the irony! America provided concrete and funding for an airfield during the Vietnam War. Lao architects built Patuxai instead. Locals jokingly refer to it as the Vertical Runway.

Reborn as an East-Asian Biker Babe

By Perrin

Ever expect a pink bike to be so terrifying?

Anne and I fritter 3 languid days in the postage-stamp sized town of Luang Prabang, Laos. We sample the local brew, which is advertised as, “Any beer you want, as long as it’s Beer Lao!” We experiment with discreet execution of food sickness. We observe locals washing laundry, without success, in the chocolate-colored river.

These activities exhausted, our pores seethe with the suppressed impishness of Doc Brown in Back to the Future. When a motorbike shop materializes in our path, we scurry inside to hire a bike for the following day.

Morning comes. Anne, regretting our impetuous rental, reviews our route to Kuang Si Falls with all 3 bike-shop employees and acquires 3 maps. The map features a single road. Anne finally boards vehicle.

The hot pink Hello Kitty motorbike inspires a quick photo shoot. [Photos to be submitted to Harley Davidson should it develop a Girly line.] We spend 5 minutes attempting to flip on the motor, and another 5 practicing our steering and singing the theme from Top Gun.

The salesman, once cavalier, now sweats and reaches out gingerly as if to say, “Don’t go.”

I turn the handle, which doubles as an accelerator: Blast off!

Don

At 10 minutes, we exhale and switch drivers.

“This is not like a regular bicycle,” I warn as I hand over the wheel. Anne looks like she’d been tasered.

“No shit Sherlock,” she responds.

Guest Blog | Sisters Kircher on the Road

By Anne Kircher

Sometimes, being an older sister feels like a weight-bearing exercise. Erin and Anne on Newport Beach, California.

“The Sisters Kircher” doesn’t quite have the same ring as “The Sisters Bailey”, but my sister Erin and I are a lot like Sarah and Perrin: we talk so quickly to each other that only experienced listeners can follow, we are both (intelligent) blondes, and we both adore traveling.

Luckily, we’ve matured past our childhood family road trips, where Erin, four and a half years my junior, fiercely defended her “special spot” – littered with crumbled animal crackers and sticky from spilled juice – against my attacks of launching Gushers fruit snacks at her from the back seat of our mini van.

Anne, Erin and Brother Kircher Scott, brought (close) together by a car trip

Now she’s my partner in crime.  Two summers ago, we traveled through England and Scotland with our parents. The trip brought us closer together as we bonded over insane jet lag, great English street names  (Cockfosters, Balls’ Pond Road… see a theme?), and, after 3 weeks abroad, our intense craving for McDonald’s. She was also essential in helping me keep sane whenever our parents accidentally lapsed into treating us like 8 year olds – we could at least commiserate with each other.

College visits are far more fun when you're 1) traveling abroad with your sister and 2) not trying to get in. Erin and Anne on an Oxford quad.

When I came home from my recent travels with Perrin in Southeast Asia, full of tales wildly different from our SoCal upbringing, it inspired Erin to do more traveling of her own. I convinced her to apply to ACLE, to give her a chance to experience Italy and backpack through Europe this summer. And that’s the other benefit of having a sister: going to visit her will be a great excuse to go on another trip!

Anne and Erin above and beyond Oxford University