I am now slightly paranoid of catching malaria. After drying off from my somewhat shower, I spray myself with Off! Before leaving for work in the morning, I re-spray. I bring my forest green can to work with me. In between meetings, I walk out to the porch and spray myself. The staff members joke, “Is that your new perfume?” Yes, it is.

I sit on the edge of the pool, dangling my feet. A swim would be lovely. A wonderful way to relax after a long day at work. But it’s nighttime and the water is cold. I argue with myself. Just jump in. You won’t even notice how cold it is once you start swimming. I could go back to my room and curl up in bed and read. A swim would feel great. Stretch your arms, get your blood pumping. I don’t have any hot water, I’ll be freezing when I come out. I finally jump in and come up shivering. I quickly start swimming laps. After a few, I’m warm. I’m glad I’ve taken the plunge. After swimming for a while, I flip onto my back. I float, staring up at the night sky and the stars that are twinkling above. The air is heavy with the scent of gardenias. I’m completely relaxed and completely happy.

Mosquitoes swarm in a thick black cloud. I stare with disbelief. I didn’t think this was mosquito season. And the website said there was no malaria risk in Vientiane. I equated that to no mosquitoes. Wrong, wrong, wrong. With each one that comes near me, I wonder what the symptoms of malaria are and how quickly I might recognize them.

It’s a grey, drizzly, damp, morning in Vientiane. What happened to the high of 82/low of 78 that weather.com promised? Local time: 10:32 am. The king size bed is beckoning to me, “Come, come, come, just lay down for a minute…” As much as I want to abide, I know that to have any chance at all of staving off jet lag, I must stay awake until evening.

I make my way to the reception desk. As they see me approach, the two men start laughing. Yes, I already have a reputation, and I haven’t been in the country for a day yet. I smile, greet them with Sabai Dee! and ask what there is to see. They show me a map and circle the temples. I thank them and start to walk away. The one who fixed my shower asks for my key. Oh, yes. I always forget to leave my room key. I smile, hand it to him and he offers, “Because you might lose.” I simply smile.

I walk through almost deserted streets. There’s little traffic and even fewer pedestrians. I follow signs to one temple after another. I eventually end up at Pha That Luang, considered to be the landmark of Laos. As I’m about to enter the gates, a tiny, elderly Laotian woman rushes up to me and grabs my hand. She pulls me into another group of elderly women. I realize we’re posing for a picture. I smile and put my arm around her. The top of her head reaches my chest. I feel like a giant. The photographer snaps the picture and I hear lots of giggles and Khap Dais (thank yous). I make my way into the compound surrounding the massive stupa. The drizzle is heavier now, almost a mist. I pull my hood up over my hair.

I watch the faithful paying respects to Buddha, kneeling, bowing, placing garlands of brilliant orange marigolds on the altar. I continue walking. The stupa has three levels. I mount the stairs to the first. A young Laotian couple come behind me. When I turn to the side, the man offers a forceful, “HI!” I smile and say Hi, Sabai Dee. “Hey, lady, are you here alone?” I’m startled by his question. He doesn’t look dangerous. His wife/girlfriend smiles at me. How in the world would he have learned that phrase? “Yes,” I smile. “Good,” he replies and walks off.

The rest of the afternoon unwinds, I wander, I watch, I get my bearings in this city that will be my home for the next two weeks.

I ask the desk clerk and his friend if there is an ATM nearby. “ATM?” he queries. “Yes, for the money.” “ATM closed. Today Sunday.” “Closed? Not always open?” “No, bank close. ATM close. Go to morning market to change money.” “ATM not open all the time?” “Yes, all the time, but give you Laos money. Kip.” “What do I have to use to buy things? Dollar or Kip?” They look at me like I’m crazy. “Kip.” To myself I think, so then why wouldn’t I want to use the ATM? I smile and thank them.

I’ve been in transit for more than 30 hours. As soon as I check in and unpack my bags, I make way for the shower. Shower. Depends on your definition, but it could be considered such. There is a water source. And a hose attached, with a nozzle. It’ll work.

I turn on what I think is the hot water. Cold water sprays from the nozzle. I turn the other knob. More cold water. I try every combination of the two knobs, still getting cold water. Cold water it is. I hop in the tub and straighten the hose. Hm. The hose reaches to my belly button. I’m tall, but I’m not that tall. So I squat, shivering, trying to rinse 30 hours of travel from my body. I wash my hair and soap up, braving one more frigid rinse. I turn the knobs to turn off the water. Nothing happens. That’s odd. I try again. Still nothing, the chilled water is spraying at me with full force. I feel waves of anxiety creeping up behind me. No. I can do this. I turned the water on, I can turn it off.

Except I can’t. After turning each knob as far left, and as far right as I can, the water is still spraying. Oh, geez. I quickly towel off, throw on clothes, and call the front desk. Did I mention the lack of English skills among the staff? What is the simplest way to convey my situation? The desk clerk answers. “Shower. Water not stop. Lots of water. Help!” He is in my room in seconds. He goes to the shower, turns, turns, turns each knob, and the water slowly stops spraying out. I stand there, feeling like an idiot. “You turn both all way off. Okay?” I thank him, feeling quite incompetent.

I’m in the Thai Airlines Royal Orchid lounge. It’s 3 am and there are only two other passengers in the lounge, both men, both sleeping. I wake from my nap, somewhat disoriented. Where am I? What time is it? Where’s the bathroom?

I stumble through the lounge. I see one of the exquisitely dressed employees, shiny black hair pulled back into a perfect bun, glowing skin, glossy lipstick, and a purple silk top and sarong that fit like a glove. I feel very disheveled.

I ask her where the rest room is. She looks at me and smiles. “The bathroom?” “Oh, yes,” I reply. I forget that when I’m in a foreign country restroom is generally not an understood term. She points. As I start to walk in that direction, she stops me. “Bathroom? Or toilet?” I smile and nod, not sure what she is asking.

“I think you need the bathroom. I think you need a shower.”

After being on two planes and in transit for 23 hours, there’s nothing like stating the obvious to bring you back to reality.

Flying from San Francisco to Japan was the most turbulent flight I’ve had in a long time. Ten and a half hours of almost constant bumps and jarring. You know that feeling when the plane jolts and your stomach feels like it’s in your groin, then in your throat, then back in your groin? That’s where mine is now.

I actually packed before the last minute for this trip. Sort of.

I found my passport. Found my WHO card. Packed my clothes. Packed a swim suit, packed appropriate shoes. All days before this trip. I was so proud of myself.

And then. This morning. Throwing toiletries in my suitcase. And all the things I forgot to pack a few days ago. A yoga cd. A lightweight rain jacket. A couple of books to read. A hairbrush. Insect repellent. Emergen-C. It seemed each time I turned around in my apartment, I saw something and thought, “Oh, yeah, I should take that also…” Which lead to the chaos. Of a second suitcase. Throwing items in, realizing I needed to leave for the airport RIGHT NOW. Rushing into the kitchen and quickly checking the refrigerator for anything that might spoil in the month that I’ll be in Asia.

And leaving in a rush. I hate leaving in a rush, yet it seems that’s always what I’m doing. The sad thing is, I’ve become good at it.

This is awesome. I’m on layover in Tokyo. I sign into Blogger, and suddenly everything is in Japanese. I’m glad I’m familiar with the interface…