The tremendously relaxed people of Laos (some might even call them lazy, and in all likelihood, few Lao people would find it worth the effort to argue) don’t understand how the ‘s’ got added to the end of their country’s name.   This is common knowledge, captured brilliantly by Tom Robbins in Villa Incognito, but reiterated by backpacking Lao veterans across the world.  They have a common habit, these travelers, of trying to correct others as indirectly as possible.

“How was the weather in Laos?” someone might ask.

“Oh, the weather in LAO was so gorgeous and beautiful.  LAO was like a heaven on earth.  I loved LAO, and LAO people as well.  Make sure you try the beerLAO.  And the LAOLAO.”

[Note: Laolao is the local whisky.  Be very careful with the Laolao.  It's three bucks a bottle, and half a bottle will have you idly conversing with stray cats as you lay in your own filth.]

Wondering perhaps if the person you are speaking with suffers from an extremely rare, geographically induced speech impediment, you might be inclined to probe them about the strange pronunciation.

“Oh, ‘LaoS’ is what westerners call them,” they explain.  ”Westerners just attached the ‘S’ to their name long ago for no reason.  Their country’s always just been ‘Lao.’  And ‘Lao’ is the adjective to describe them too.  They hate ‘Laotian.’”

It’s uncertain how much they actually care.  The Lao people I met were, as I’d been warned in advance, very… relaxed.  But it seems to be a very common theme that even after being told that the ‘S’ is extraneous, no one seems keen on dropping it until they actually reach the country.  Even there, it’s not like any locals pay much attention to mispronunciations, and they even more rarely correct foreigners (except maybe  over polite conversation).  It just starts to feel wrong.

So yeah, when I talk to Lao people, I’ll call them just that.  And the Lao beer (known affectionately and on the labels as “Beerlao“) would sound ridiculous with an extraneous ‘s’ mixed in.  And I might even talk of vacationing in Lao (no ‘s’)  without giving it much thought.  But after living a year in “Chongguo” (China) with frends from Suomi, Deutschland and Rossiya, I just don’t get why the Lao people get special treatment on the botched Anglicized version of their name.

Either way, I did a fair bit of damage in calm, peaceful Lao.  Or Laos.  Or whatever.

And things started off so nice and quietly, too.

Options

Whatever you call them, the Lao people have been conquered, divided, bombed and colonized for hundreds of years, and seem to have taken it all in stride.  Despite not being a land of strategic importance geographically, sometimes I guess it’s just nice to conquer another country just because it’s there.

Siam had a steady grip on the country for much of the last 500 years, followed by France, who wanted a buffer for the more prized Vietnam.  Japan had a light grip on the whole region in 1945, before the country was given independence in 1953 (with a French-friendly monarchy).  Sadly, the communist north favored North Vietnam a bit too much for the liking of the United States during the Vietnam war, and despite our never declaring war on Laos, we dropped 1.9 metric tons of bombs on them.  To put this in perspective, the Allies dropped a combined total of 2.2 million tons of bombs throughout Europe during World War 2.

Today, Laos is officially the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos.  It’s communist, but not in any way one would notice when dealing with the average, laid-back Lao person.  Tourism is hardly booming when compared to Thailand or even Vietnam, but it still gets its fair share of visitors.  Land-locked as it is, no one goes to Laos for the stunning beaches.  There aren’t any.  But there is the Mekong, twisting its way past the capital city of Vientiane as it makes its way from the frigid peaks of Tibet to the Mekong Delta outside of Ho Chi Minh City (nee Saigon).  Laos tourists tends to take the long, nearly epileptic bus journeys over the rarely-paved roads of the country to take in a few key sites:

Vientiane: Capital city of Laos.  Possibly the most “small town” capital city on the planet, Vientiane is about as lazy and laid back as its decidedly chill inhabitants.  Normally a good place for catching the sunset on the Mekong, a tremendous construction project had bastardized the entire landscape during my visit, creating a massive wall of mud between the city and the river.  The French ran this place for far less time than the Siamese, but the French colonial era had some of the most significant impact on this city in particular; in addition to the architecture, the French cafes and bakeries here produce some of the best pastries and rolls you’re likely to find anywhere in the world for what must be the cheapest prices.

Luang Prabang: Possibly the most recommended destination in Laos by all but the drunkards, drug addicts and other assorted wastrels (their choice was Vang Vieng).  A UNESCO world heritage site, the town is one big collection of ancient Buddhist temples, coupled with one of the most famous night markets in southeast Asia.  Both a “must-see” in general and a “didn’t-see” in my unfortunate case.

Vang Vieng: The lazy river.  Home of one of the most infamous tubing experiences in the world.

“So you just ride an inner-tube down a river, going from bar to bar?” I’d ask people in doubtful anticipation.

“Oh, man, it’s so much more than that!” they would tell me.

“Well, what else?”

“Um.  Actually, that’s all it is, really.  But you have to experience it to understand!”

There are other spots, too: Lao, or Laos (or whatever you want to call it, really) has plenty more to see and do, obviously.  But I’ve got just over forty days of vacation (not a bad perk to working at a Chinese university) and I plan to make my way around this region as much as I can.  So that famous hostel in the north where visitors use zip lines to get to their rooms and cavort with monkeys?  Can’t make it, this time.  Pakse and the “four thousand islands” that surround it?  My recent swimming in Thailand’ll just have to do for now.

Vientiane

Arrival in Laos’ capital city was soft and painless after the debacle that marked my first and only night in Vietnam thus far.  About the only sign that I’ve been traveling about for a while is my collection of passport photos ready for any impromptu border crossing.  I drop a dapper shot of myself, replete with hair of a vaguely purplish hue, down on the counter after waiting in line less than five minutes, and for a minor fee — around thirty dollars — I’ve bought my way into Laos.

The shuttle ride to the city center is long, but only costs me about five dollars — even less than the incredibly cheap Chongqing cab prices I’ve grown used to.  Exchange rates at airports rank among the worst on earth, but it’s uncertain how many places in town will be interested in Chinese Yuan, despite the proximity.  I toss over a handful and receive a slightly larger pile of Lao Kips (8500 of them to the dollar, to be more or less precise) and hop into the pre-paid shuttle.

The city center is squat and quiet, marked only by a few tall buildings (5 floors, tops), some nicely aged Buddhist landmarks and the well-fenced Presidential palace that borders the Mekong.  Tourist agencies are quick and friendly enough to provide maps to newcomers, and the small subsection they deem worthy of exploration can be traversed in less than a day.

The city is short on hostels.  Most of southeast Asia is this way, which can be daunting and depressing for lone backpackers.  The reason seems like a good enough one: hotels are so cheap that there’s no need to split a bedroom with seven strangers to get a discount.  Sounds good, indeed.  But if you’re alone and new in town, having a big common room full of sofas, games, books, movies and like-minded globe-trotting deviants can make breaking into a new city exponentially easier.

Instead, I get advice from the US Embassy.  They’re centrally located and well protected, which stands out next to the extremely laid back nature of Vientiane.  Thanks to being homeless on an international scale for one and a half years, my passport is awash with stickers, stamps, stains and scribbles, calling for the addition of a few new pages.  The service is free for now, but goes up to fifteen dollars a supplement in mid-2010.  My passport’s twice as fat now as before, but the kind expats there let me use their American internet (as Laotian speeds) and hook me up with maps and advice about getting around the city and country.

Ten bucks gets me a private room for the night.  It’s worth it for the hot shower alone, as my ad hoc Vietnamese jail cell lacked any means of self-cleansing.  The Laotians (according to the Laotians, and not really anyone else I’ve spoken with) are known for their silk, so I buy a selected assortment of extremely cheap “hand-woven” scarves for  friends and family.  The streets are jammed with mostly elderly tourists; the kitschy shops and French bakeries are right up their alley and the flat streets and sedate pace of the city goes well with bad hips and overall languor.  Snack-like meals for lunchtime can be bought for one to two dollars; internet, at 10 cents an hour, is about as cheap as it comes.  The data just barely trickles through, though.

A nice fountain marks the city center, and it’s surrounded by some of the more expensive French restaurants — up to $20 for some of the main courses.   If it sounds high, one must consider that similar dishes in France or the States can run well over a hundred dollars, and the flavors and richness found here are almost impeccably identical to what can be found elsewhere.  Masha, a Russian girl from Chongqing, calls out to me from the balcony of the Scandinavian Bakery, one of the more recommended cafes in most tourist books.  She’s a sweet girl and I wish I’d gotten to know her better.

There’s simply not very much to do here that I discovered beyond eating and shopping.  Sure, there’s the Patuxai Gate:

Semi-ironically translated to the “Gate of Triumph,” this monument was erected in the early ’60s to honor the liberation of Laos from France.  It was designed to mimic the style France’s Arc de Triumph while providing some distinctly Laotian flair.  It’s worth a climb to the top for one of the better views in Vientiane.

The main cultural tourist attraction of the city is the finely gilded Pha That Luang, located a few miles from the city center.  At my hotel, I’m advised against hiking out on my own, when the local tuk-tuks are so relatively cheap.  Despite my hotel being only a slight step above “shady dive,” a willing driver waits listlessly outside for someone just like me.  He wants 15 thousand kip for a return trip, but I knock him down to ten and we’re off.  Along the way, he uses his limited English to make small talk.

“You want girl boom.  Make boom boom?”

“Boom boom girl go boom?”

He smiles.  ”Good boom,” he says, nodding his head.

“No boom boom,” I say, shaking my head.  He shrugs with a smile, as though any answer would’ve garnered the same reaction.

I probably should’ve asked how much.  Just, you know, in the name of good reporting.

Outside Pha That Luang, stooped elderly Laotians and cripples bearing tiny bamboo cages come up to all visitors trying to sell these birds for the equivalent of three dollars.

A man with two mangled legs approaches me well beyond my personal boundaries.  Somehow he manages to walk on crutches while also carrying two small, handmade bird cages.  He holds one out to me.

“No, thanks,” I say, “I’m traveling, see, and can’t really take on any pets.”

It would’ve been a great, subtly comedic dismissal had I meant it jokingly, but sadly I did not.  He looks taken back a bit before, grasping my confusion.”

“Not pets.  You free in temple.  Good luck.  Very good luck.”

“Hmm.  That does make a little more sense.  Ok.  I could use some luck…”

The birds flutter about in their tiny cage as it’s passed off to me before calming down.  Inside the temple complex, I don’t see any other people with birds, though a small pile of empty cages at the entrance shows this is fairly common behavior.  The door to the cage is clunky and opens slowly, but both birds dart through as soon as they get the chance, lifting up above the golden structure and immediately out of sight.  I don’t feel much luckier.

Dining Out

Outdoor crepe vendors can be found without much difficulty, much as they can be throughout southeast Asia.  It’s a cheap, reliable treat, though hardly endemic to Laos.  Other street vendors offer fried patties of questionable content, though they’re all tasty to varying degrees.  French meals tend to be the most popular though, given the value for the price.  The few famous French restaurants in town feature classically trained chefs with brilliant menus, all at Lao prices.

Intent on such a meal, I meandered about the tourist section of the city, scoping out restaurants with names like L’Adresse de Tinay, La Belle Epoch and a small assortment of other “Le”-based names.  As small as the town is, the selection dwarfs the variety found in Chongqing, making passing by the lone Tex-mex joint in a prominent spot along the Mekong quite difficult.  A large chunk of dirt road running alongside the river is spotted with outdoor barbecues mostly specializing in seafood, though I pass them up as well.

Reaching the end of the tourist district, I turn back, deciding upon the menu featured at La Belle Epoch.  The streets are strangely deserted, though February isn’t exactly the height of the tourist season, and it’s already quite late.  Walking alongside a large convention center clearly designed to look like a Buddhist temple, a motorbike pulls up from behind me, its rider bedecked in a white T-shirt and black leather jacket like modern Lao has just caught up now with 1950′s America.  A thin, dim-eyed man with a brown track jacket on sits behind him on the bike, visibly disinterested in me.

“Hey man, you speak English?” says Fonzie.

It’s a valid question, despite my not looking in any way Laotian.  All of southeast Asia still gets a huge chunk of visitors from France, and many locals that specialize in tourism in some way speak not only Lao and English, but French as well.

“Sah-mai-DEE,” I say at first, attempting the only Lao I know.  ”English.  Sure, sure.”

“Where you from?” he asks, turning off the bike.

“America,” I tell him.

“Oh, good.  What state?”

“Maryland!  You know it?” I don’t expect him to know it.  Everyone always asks me what state, then looks disappointed when I don’t say New York or California, as those are typically the only states most non-Americans know.

“No,” he answers disappointedly.  ”My name Pon.  Hey.  You want some weed?”

I don’t.  I haven’t really smoked marijuana in years, and the Internet is filled with information about undercover police here selling pot, only to go ahead and arrest the buyers for possession.  I doubt most of these stories are true, but still have no interest, regardless.

“Ahh, not really, thanks.  I’m gonna go get some dinner,” I say, as I start to walk off.  He starts his motorcycle almost immediately and follows me.

“What you want?” he asks me.

“Dinner.  I was thinking about La Belle Epoch, but you know, though this other place — Le ‘Something’ had scallops.  Maybe some good wine…”

“You want a nice girl for some sex?”

In general, sure.  But there are loads of issues with this offer.  Like for starters, she’d probably be a prostitute.  And even then, how does he define “nice”?  Will we really get along?  A friend of mine once hired a Vietnamese prostitute just to watch American Idol with her, and she bitched about the relatively easy job for the entire hour, asking to leave at each commercial break.  I’d hate to put up with that.  Also, I should’t forget that it is technically illegal for a Lao person to sleep with a foreigner without prior government consent.  That one’s particularly daunting.  Hefty fines are involved for both parties.

“Nah, no thanks,” I decide. “Just dinner.  But thanks, though.  Really.”

“You want ladyboy?”Ahh, the infamous ladyboys of southeast Asia.  Practically inescapable in Thailand and the Phillipines, these manly beauties are still fairly ubiquitous throughout the rest of the region.  Some people have been known to get fooled, only to find an unwelcome surprise later in the pants of their bad romance, but usually the manly features are just visible enough that there’s little question about the original gender of these “boys.”  Oddly enough, in comparison with Western mores and attitudes, they’re mostly accepted by society at large here.

“Hah!  No thanks, man.  But thanks for the offer, like, seriously.”

“I can get you ladyboy real nice.”

“Huh?  No.”

“I know this ladyboy.  So pretty and very good for you.  Very close.”

“Ok, really?  You offer me weed once and a girl once, but you ask about the ladyboy three times?”

“I can get her right now.”  I notice that his friend is suddenly staring at me.  His face is still fairly impassive, but he’s at least got minor interest in these dealings now.

“Like, do I radiate ‘I need a man-woman’ or something?  Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m a little insulted.  I don’t think you really know your sales audience very well.”

“I’m going go drop off my friend and come back to you.”

“I’d really rather you didn’t.  I just want some steak.” For some reason my responses only seem to come off as petulant.

“I come back,” he says as he takes off.

With perhaps more spring in my step than I had before, I dart to La Belle Epoch for the fixed price menu and splurge on some red wine.  ($14 for everything)

The steak was exquisite.

There are four different immigration methods that countries employ to deal with tourists, businessmen and other assorted travelers attempting to gain entry into their country:

1. No Visa Required – Let’s say you’re an American looking to visit Canada (and yes, I know it’s technically “America” too, but I think we all know what I’m talking about here).  Up until a couple years ago, citizens of both countries could traipse over their respective borders for a weekend or two of fun without even need of a passport.  Since shortly after 9/11, that’s changed and a passport is now required.  But there’s no need for a formal visa.
2. Visa On Arrival – Show up at the airport or across a land border and fill out the necessary forms on the spot and a visa is granted.  A fee of some sort is generally required and you might need to have a spare passport photo on you, but the process is painless and generally takes under five minutes.  Laos and Bolivia are examples.
3. Visa in Advance – Depending on how cozy your homeland is with that of a potential tourist spot, you might actually have to apply for a visa days, weeks or months in advance.  To work in China, it was actually mandatory for me to return to the United States to apply for the Chinese visa in Washington, DC, and even then it took close to three weeks for it to be prepared.  Brazil and Russia took about a week each and required visits to respective consulates.
4. No Visas Available: We Don’t Want You Here – Some countries just don’t like you and/or your ilk, short of extenuating circumstances.  Most Americans can’t get into, say, North Korea.  And just try going to Lebanon, Syria or Saudi Arabia if you’ve got an Israeli stamp on your passport.  Many experienced travelers start looking to these places as challenges, but most sane people write them off as lost causes.  I feel no great sense of loss at not being able to visit Pyongyang.

This is the Story of How I Discovered that Vietnam was Not “Visa On Arrival”

Tourists from Germany, Russia and even America excuse themselves from the dimly lit terminal that serves as my holding cell, regarding me with the odd, confused stare generally reserved for someone that just flatulated loudly with no sign of shame.  Alright.  I get it.  Vietnam is, for Americans at least, a #3 country.  NOT #2.  My bad.  By this point, I’m more irritated than nervous, and the irritation is heightened by the fact that somehow, every other passenger from my plane has been alerted as to my faux pas.

“How could you not know you needed a visa to get into Vietnam?” they seem to say with their eyes.

“How could you not know you needed a visa to get into Vietnam?” one seems to say with her mouth.  ”It’s on the Internet.”

I thank her for her concern.  She’s American and doesn’t wear her excess weight well, displaying exaggerated facial features that make her look like 25 idle minutes spent using iPhoto’s Face Changer or perhaps discarded footage from the animated trial scene at the end of Pink Floyd‘s The Wall.

“My friend told me… I…”  My words trail off.  Anything else is just hollow justification defending an impossible situation.  ”I don’t know.”

The Viet Cong, or “Customs and Immigration Officials of The Socialist Republic of Vietnam” as they now call themselves, stand in a huddle discussing my situation.  One has the gall to laugh at the condemned man, slouched on a cold metal bench and locked in handcuffs.  Not real handcuffs.  Worse.  Handcuffs of shame.

Actually, real handcuffs would’ve probably been worse.

They’re all laughing now.  This seems to be the highpoint of February for them, thus far.  Laugh it up, dinks.  You won’t be getting anything more than my name, rank and serial number outta me. The conversation stops and Charlie struts over me, his gun so well hidden as to be virtually undetectable.  He’s talented.  But is he gonna be Good Cop or Bad Cop?

“Just a few more minutes.  Very sorry.  Would you like something to drink?”

Yancy Davis.  Programming Instructor. 231-84-6261.  “Yes, thank you!”

They all disappear, leaving me in the cold, empty terminal by myself.  I take note of the exits.  One at 6:00.  One at 10:00.  Wait.  If I’m sitting facing the door, it’s 12:00, right?  Yes.  And 4:00, not 7:00.  There’s a bathroom at 3:00, though, and I really have to pee.  I take the 3:00 option.  No windows in here.  Those VC bastards thought of everything.

When I get out, the pudgiest of my captors is waiting by my bags with a crooked grin.  The Bad Cop.  Let’s have it, then.

“Here, we got you beer.”

Good Cop, Better Cop?  He passes me a Tiger beer and a bag of potato chips.  Plain flavor potato chips.  I smile as I take a sip.  Drugged?  I’ve dosed myself with the excretions of a terrified Amazonian tree  frog.  Do your worst, fellas.  The Tiger is cold and refreshing — a nice change from the libations in China consistently served at or above room temperature.

“We are supposed to send you back to where you came from.  You really need visa.  We very sorry!”

“It’s ok,” I tell him.  He looks relieved.

“That was the last plane for the night.  You have to go back to China tomorrow in the morning.  You should complain to China.  They should not have let you come here with no visa.  This never happens.  You can’t go outside.  You have to sleep at airport tonight.”

So I’m being extradited to China, then.  Not good.  If I could somehow just cross the border into Laos, I’ve got some connections there with the Overground Highway.

“Hmm.  Man.  I’d hate to have to fly all the way back there just to come back again later.  Couldn’t I, like, go to Laos tomorrow morning instead?”

“Uh, I think.  Ok,” he says, without thinking about it too much.

“Do you know if they need a visa in advance also?”

“No, I don’t know.”

“Good enough for me!”

He leads me out of Immigration Control into a much larger waiting room filled with about six or seven people sleeping uncomfortably.  Their beds are standard airport seats, arranged in attached clusters of three, with armrests sticking out like sadistic implements of subtle torture.  A few of them have already given up hope and collapsed on the floor, using their worldly possessions as a pillow.  The horror.

The horror.

I move toward an open patch of seats and set my beer down, followed by my bag.  I retain the bag of chips, and as I attempt to savor the stale, round disc of grease, salt and starch, he stops me, embarrassed.

“Oh, you cannot sleep here,” he informs me.  ”These people have Visas.”

As an afterthought, he adds: “You do not.”

I take another swig of beer as my tormentor explains that I’m to be quarantined… taken away from the prying eyes of journalists and dreadlocked backpackers.  An armed guard will be placed between me and my only exit, conveniently located at 1:00 from the entrance to my new bedroom.  The room is small and features three beds, one of which is already occupied by a still figure, clearly lulled into near unconsciousness by a severe beating and/or general exhaustion.  The light is off and the room feels distinctly uninviting.

“I’m just supposed to pee in the corner, then?” I ask.

“Bathroom right there,” he points.  Stall.  Sink.  Urinal.  Indeed.  We sit in the guard’s booth looking up flight times on the Internet until my watchman arrives to take responsibility for me.  Laos.  $80.  Tomorrow at 8:30 AM.  Worried about an early onset of Helsinki Syndrome, I take my leave of my chaperon and head back into the bedroom.

As the guard, a new man, takes his place by the locked door outside our room that separates me from freedom, my cellmate stirs in the dark and looks at me.

“I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor,” his eyes seem to say.  ”That’s my dream; that’s my nightmare. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor… and surviving.”

He goes on to explain that he’s a Canadian of Vietnamese descent named Edward, here to visit family.  His passport had expired and he was waiting for the embassy to clear things up.  How long would he wait?  Two years?  Three?  Longer?  As it stood, he’d been there since four in the afternoon.  How much longer will he be an unwilling marionette  in this unwholesome masquerade?

He looks toward me like he’s got something to say and I know what he’s thinking before he even opens his mouth: “Horror has a face… and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies!”

“Good night,” he says.

The filling of my pillow is as thin as three large t-shirts pressed together.  Good night indeed.

At 7 in the morning, I do not wake up so much as decide that my hours-long state of uncomfortable sleeplessness must officially end.  The guard is awake but without coffee, and it shows.

“Hello, my friend.  I’m kind of supposed to be on a flight to Laos.  Aaaand it’s in like an hour or so.  So maybe, let’s, well, get going?”

He stares at me peculiarly and then says something in Vietnamese before looking down at a single piece of paper with a few numbers on it.  The list of numbers is short and, giving him the benefit of the doubt, I leave enough silence for him to have potentially added, multiplied and factorialized every number on the page before speaking again.

“Hmm, do you speak English?  No?  Ok.  Me [I point at myself]. Fly [I stretch my arms out and do a half-rotation across the room, making a buzzing noise].  Soon [I point at my watch, sharply and repeatedly].”

He barks something at me with a commanding tone and points at my room.  Go to your room.  What am I, some kind of enemy detainee in Vietnam?  Oh, wait.  I shuffle back quietly.

Good Cop from the night before pops his head in at ten to eight in the morning.   No rush or anything, pal.  He chats with my guard for a bit before taking control of me.

“You can leave your bags here,” he says.  ”You can get them when you come back and pay.”

Pay?  This has hardly been Holiday Inn service here, gentlemen.  The next 40 minutes go by in a confusing blur.  I’m led into and out of every section of the airport before my tickets are procured and my exit is cleared with all the powers that be.  At 8:20, I’m back in my cell and we’re haggling over a price.  The room for the night is $70, I’m told.

“Seriously?  Seriously??  But I had to share it!  Maybe Edward and I can split it?”

They’re not laughing or smiling.  I’m not really sure I’m joking.  Pulling out all my cash, I have just $50 in American money (which they desperately want) and well over 1000 worth of dollars in Chinese Yuan (which they desperately don’t).  My flight leaves in ten minutes, supposedly, though he tells me with assurance that I shouldn’t worry about that.

“I’m sorry, but this is really all I have if you don’t want Chinese money.” The bluff is fairly effective being that it’s completely true.  An argument takes place in front of me, but I’m focused solely on my watch and each tick of it pushing me farther and farther from my liberation.  They take the fifty.  Good Cop seems content with the situation, but my armed guard is decidedly less so.

My instinct is to run, but Good Cop is content with his nice, leisurely pace and he’s my key to bypassing all other lines and security checkpoints.  It’s 8:42.  Freedom’s wings have lifted, leaving me officially Missing In Inaction once again.  Good Cop simply smiles and keeps walking.  My flight is, of course, located at the furthest possible gate from our starting point.  At the door, an attractive Vietnamese girl waves us over franticly.  Is it possible the plane’s still here?

“I called and made them wait,” he tells me.

“Whoa.  Thanks!  I’ll never forget you Good Cop!” I didn’t actually call him ‘Good Cop,’ of course.  I just can’t remember his name.

On the plane, the passengers are a single entity seething with eyes firing burning hatred at me, now that they’ve been given a focal point for the source of their delay.  The emotional bullets bounce right off;  I’m free.  After all this time, I’m getting the hell out of Viet-fucking-nam, never to return.

At least, not for eight more days…