Ten months into my year long Living Like I’m Dying tour and I’ve acquired quite the visa stamp collection.
When my infantile ego needs stroking, I’ll casually flip through the pages of my passport, standing in immigration lines, carefully examining each country’s entry emblem.
Proving to the world I’m hot shit… which only proves how full of shit I am. Yet the compulsion exists.
Regardless, stamps or no stamps, I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.
A comfy, slightly upscale place to call home.
A cozy wine bar within walking distance.
A lively weekly Mahjong group. Pickleball, obviously.
A nearby park to walk Wolf Jr.
An iMac with high-speed internet to write my first book.
And good, affordable low-carb munchies.
That was the game plan. Easy peasy. Lemon squeezy.
Turns out… not so squeezy.
Every place I’ve appreciated so far is unique, with its own personality… and honestly, they’re all like one big, slightly dysfunctional family.
Japan was stop one. The regimented father who respects—and demands—order. A country filled with history and culture up the ying yang. Elegant, tasteful, refined. They’d kick me out in a heartbeat.
Thailand? My ADHD-inflicted twin brother. Unorganized, chaotic, a total risk taker. So alike… we’d probably murderize each other.
Indonesia? My erotic aunt. Stunning, exotic… way too hot for me to handle these days. Once upon a time though…
Malaysia? GrandmaMa. Warm hugs, a house full of grandkids leaving little room for me, and way too old school.
Borneo? That wild cousin who lives off the grid. Untamed, a little feral… no access to Botox, wine, or DEET. Absolute deal breakers.
Vietnam? My sassy older sister. Says it like it is. You go girl. I love visiting… but every three months she has to kick me out. No chance for establishing true intimacy.
Cambodia? My shy baby brother. Quiet, a little reserved… takes a minute, but he grows on you. Love you dearly, but I’m programmed for the fast lane. I’ll visit every chance I get.
Each of them are filled with immense treasures, pleasures, shortcomings, attitudes, platitudes, destructive tendencies, physical disabilities, mental disorders.
Typical family stuff. Love them all.
Somewhere between Vietnam and Cambodia, my desire for a doggie door kicked in.
Sharing a bed with Fluffy, Spot, Wolf or Grizzly is not the norm in Southeast Asia. For real. Even if I could work around the visa situation, finding a decent living space that allows a fur-covered family member is rare. Can’t live if living is without my future puffball.
Heading into the home stretch of available Southern Asian countries under consideration is Laos.
Laos? First impressions.. In my opinion physically stunning. Picking up red headed step child vibes for some reason. HMM Time will tell, however, chances are slim to none I’ll be setting up shop here.
The landscape of Laos is made up of limestone mountains, dense jungle, and long river valleys, with the Mekong River tying it all together. It feels quieter… and a little less touched than surrounding Vietnam or Cambodia.
Word from all the peeps I’ve met along the way—the hiking is off-the-charts amazing.
Damn, mentally I’m gung ho… my body needs to shape up… quick like.
Better get myself acclimated before I go balls to the wall. Give my carb-riddled, deflated, bloated carcass some time to catch up to the sculpted, ripped, toned frame my mind believes me to be.
Vientiane, my first stop over, is the unassuming capital of Laos. This is what I’ve been told anyway, so I shall unassume. My hotel is located on the main drag… I think. Fits the unassuming moniker. Cool little street. Very hot city. I thought Kuala Lumpur was the pizza oven of Southeast Asia. This place is an incinerator.
Talk about toasty. Then there’s the bugs. OMG… I’m the sacrificial virgin (metaphorically OK geez) thrown into the mosquito den. For real. This is insane.
Hidden in my room, AC and mini fridge on full blast, covered in non-aerosol mosquito (supposed) deterrent, drinking room-temperature Laos beer, I connect my computer to the very intermittent WiFi and search for things to do.
After an hour of power cutting in and out every ten minutes, Buddha Park pops on my screen. Now we’re talking. I’ve officially moved beyond tourist… and landed somewhere around voyeur.
Buddha Park is a must-see.
Next day, three layers of sunscreen, half a bottle of bug spray, and an hour and a half van ride later, I enter Buddha Park. OMG what a trip.
Here a Buddha, there a Buddha, everywhere a Buddha… haha this place is awesome. It’s exactly what it says it is—a park filled with Buddhas.
Buddha Park isn’t some ancient, centuries-old site—it was actually built in 1958 by a local artist and priest, Bunleua Sulilat. He mixed Buddhist and Hindu beliefs and basically created his own interpretation of them, turning it into this park filled with hundreds of concrete statues that feel part religious, part imagination.
And it’s a ton of fun. There’s this giant head with its mouth wide open, and you literally walk into it. Inside are three levels—hell, earth, and heaven. The bottom is dark and cramped, a little eerie, and as you climb up through narrow passages, it slowly opens into the light at the top. It’s weird, slightly claustrophobic. I actually make it to the top of the rounded head, snap a few pics before my brain registers my body is 65 feet in the air.
The moment I exit the Buddha’s big mouth, my phone starts overheating. WTF? I just started taking photos. The weather app reads 39°C, feels like 44 (102.2 and 111.2 F) a.k.a really freaking hot… and just like that, my phone shuts down.
No photos.
Perfect.
I stand here, sweating through my shirt, covered in bug spray, slightly delirious…
and irrationally annoyed.
If I can’t take pictures of Buddha Park, then what’s the freaking point?
OMG!! Who are you?
Why do I need the photos? Why do I need the stamps.. the proof. the record of it?
I’m here. Now in this moment.
I’m always here.
And somehow, that still doesn’t feel like enough.
