The Brothers Grime

SEA Part 9

The journey was nearing the end. It was Friday in Siem Reap; we would leave Sunday evening from Ho Chi Minh City. Two days and 500 plus kilometers. But today, we would go nowhere.
We began the day at our usual breakfast joint a short walk from our hotel. Situated near the river and bordering the large souvenir market, furnished with plastic chairs and tables, friendly chatting staff and buzzing black flies, its storefront left open to the cool morning breeze, this nameless establishment offered cheap but delicious Khmer food. For fifty cents a pop, why not sample all their fruit shakes, except once you tasted one it was impossible to imagine anything better. Jeff got stuck on the banana, I was partial to the papaya. The dishes were pilled high with sautéed vegetables and rice, the quintessential Asian meal, the breakfast of champions.
With filled bellies, we walked over to main avenue I described earlier, where the banal and ostentatious trappings of a Universal Tourist Mecca prospered. The street was lined with bars and restaurants offering every kind of food, from Mexican to Middle Eastern, pop music drifted out from each bar and beer and liquor advertisements proved that, as far as spirits went, Cambodia was as advanced as the rest of the world.
We chose one place with a name like, The Silk Tiger, chiefly for the fact that they could supply a chess board with which to while away the hot afternoon hours. And this is what we did, playing chess and staring at the passersby.
First a young European, tanned the color of tabbaco stained fingers, long gnarled dreadlocks wrapped in a faded bandana, sandals slapping against the pavement. Next, a middle-aged man with no arms, a box of bootlegged books slung around his neck, an inimitable grin on his prematurely aged face. After reading the message attached to the box about his four children’s empty stomachs and his need, not for charity, but for hard-earned money from the sale of his product, Jeff bought a biography of Pol Pot for the ludicrous cost of six dollars. But, it was for a good cause.
Tourist and beggars and tuk-tuk drivers passed all day long. There were funny little fellas with bare feet and third- or fourth- hand shirts and contagious smiles, roaming up and down the row of bars, collecting empties. They'd wait outside the railings of the bar, and when you made that final deep neck bend to get at that last warm sip of your Tiger Beer, they'd be right there to demand the empty carcass. One kid, a little older than the others, would even make a go at the can himself, sucking up whatever beer might have been left behind. It was funny at the time, but writing about it makes me wonder how funny it actually is.
Later that day we went to the souvenir market to get the necessary gifts for those we needed to ameliorate back home. It is an open-air market covered by one large roof, filled with a maze of stalls selling basically the same shit. Postcards, shawls, T-shirts, jewelry...there is a wide range of products, but it is the same list at each stall. It would seem one large monopolizing manufacturer sells the same catalogue of junk to every merchant in the village, homogenizing the market and making shopping a very dull experience. We got what we needed and got out.
Our last night in Siem Reap dissolved into space after our final happy pizza of the voyage. The bars were brilliantly lit in the warm night and a dulled gaiety permeated the town center. Tired tourists filled the bars and restaurants, filling their stomachs with food and drink, full of wonder after a day at the temples and the minor decadence achieved by the wealthy west in the indigent east.

Legoman Jeff and Magnificence

That's me @ Angkor Wat

SEA Part 8

The issue now was money. I was the only one with a card that could work in Cambodia, and the two times I had tried it in Phnom Penh I had failed. Of course, this was pathetically mere user error, and when I finally figure out the correct option to choose, we were once again in the money.

The night was cool and there was a festive feeling throughout the tourist area of Siem Reap. This part of town could have been anywhere in South East Asia, any tourist area in the world, really. The strange and thrilling aspects of Cambodia were mostly kept at bay outside the brightly lit, well-kept bars and restaurants. It was a glowing oasis in the dirt and destitution. There were paper-white parents and their little children, older teens dressed in the sad fashions instituted by western pop culture and fragile old couples whose sensibilities would not have survived the realities of the surrounding country, but here in Siem Reap they were perfectly at ease. I felt a sense of comfort at these familiar surroundings, and also a sense of disappointment. It was an uneventful evening.

The next day we headed out with the crowds to see what we had ostensibly made this trip to see, Angkor Wat. It was impossible not to find a tuk-tuk to take us there, and we joined an entire entourage of tuk-tuks headed in the same direction.

The title temple, Angkor Wat, we saw first. As we entered the park we saw the tops piercing through the forest canopy. When we turned a corner and began following the moat that borders it, this marvelous structure slowly entered the frame and was soon laying before us like the skeleton of a once eminent king.

Once eminent, but now crawling with little parasites who fed on its extinguished glory, smoking cigarettes, taking yottabytes of photos and shouting their oohs and aahs across its hollow, though no longer hallowed, halls. Jeff and I, just two more little germs out to discover what has already been discovered and lost again, bought a beer a piece at the crowded and obnoxious market located not 10 yards from the magnificent bridge and crossed the moat into one of the grandest examples of ancient architecture in the world.

We spent two days wandering through the various other temples scattered throughout the park, occasionally stumbling across a quiet pile of rocks towards the rear of the park where a quiet contemplation of the religious beauty was possible. There was the Bayon, a crumbling old temple reminiscent of a drip sandcastle with tipsy stupas adorned in each of the four cardinal directions with large, smiling faces. There was Ta Prohm, untouched in regards to reconstruction and restoration, where large trees literally grow out from the fallen stones, giving the temple a magical quality I had previously only experienced in my dreams. This is probably why it was featured in the movie Tomb Raider, and also the reason for the flood of people that poured incessantly through the entrance, eddied in crowds around the main attractions then rushed on through the rest of the temple. It was amazing to see...the temple I mean, not the human sewage flow.

We had one final day in Siem Reap before we had to begin our two day journey back to Ho Chi Minh City. While we had paid for a three day pass to the temples, we decided against returning for a third day. We had, with our own eyes, witnessed the glory of Angkor Wat and dozens of secondary buildings surrounding it. We had seen the beautiful Khmer script engraved in the rock walls, the graceful Buddhas posed enigmatically in dark, cool chambers and atop towering walls; we had seen the tourists and their trash, the little children selling useless junk in jittery flocks like pigeons; we had seen what we had come to see and had no desire to return.

SEA Part 7

Itchy feet and ltd. time got us up early, wandering once again through the city, seeing what we could before we boarded the bus to Siem Reap. We went to Phnom Hill in the north of the city, where we missed the temple because we refused to pay the dollar entrance fee; it did not look very interesting besides. We also found out that the Silver Pagoda, which is the Kingdom of Cambodia’s royal residences, closes at precisely the time we arrived and reopens at the exact moment we would have to depart. We had scant money and a little more than a hour to kill. Did we enjoy another happy pizza? Outlook is good. Did we spend the last of our cash on an extra one to bring with us on the bus to Siem Reap? All signs point to yes.

We barely made the bus in time, and were immediately on our way. The terrain passing by outside the window of the air-conned bus was beige, dry as a bone and so destitute that in some areas it appeared not so much poor as ancient, belonging to a time before any of our modern conveniences had yet to be dreamt of. Houses constructed of wooden slats and raised 5-10 feet off the ground on stilts lined the dusty road. Naked children played in the dirt and behind the houses their parents and older siblings toiled in the hot and not so verdant fields. I felt like a chump in the bus' cool, upholstered interior. Occasionally catching the eye of an other on the outside, I could feel the abyssal gap between our two perspectives.

Nonetheless, the 4 hour trip moved slowly onward. The pizza churned in my stomach and Jeff and I mindlessly gaped at Mr. Bean and his ridiculous slapstick playing on the bus’ television monitor. They had also played Mr. Bean on our trip from Ho Chi Minh, and they would play him again on both buses back to Vietnam. A truly unique form of torture is Rowan Atkinson.

Our arrival at the Siem Reap bus station must be documented, for it shows just how reliant the town has become on tourism, and the absurdities faced being a foreigner in such a poor and struggling country. It was as we stepped off the bus, into a dusty lot encircled in a chain link fence, that we heard the noise. It was dark and we wanted an ATM; then we wanted a cheap hotel to drop our bags and catch our breath; finally we wanted a quiet bar with cold beers where we could relax after a long bus ride. We did not want a mob of thirty or more Cambodians massing up against the only exit from the lot, shouting and pushing like a pack of starving hyenas, their hungry eyes trained like fangs on Jeff and me.

We paused a moment, just to take in this awfully ridiculous sight. The guard manning the gate could barely keep it shut and he gave us a meaningful glance, like, ‘OK, you ready?’ Jeff and I exchanged bewildered expressions and the humor of the situation hit us both at the same moment. Assuming the ready stance, we nodded at the guard, who nodded back and opened the gate just a crack to let us through.

Like running backs busting up the middle on a 3^rd and 1 rush, or the Beatles escaping their hotel through a mass of hysterical teenage girls, we lowered are heads and pushed through the crowd. I could feel hands grabbing at me from all sides, shouts of ‘You want ride?!’ and ‘Where you go?!’ melded into one terrible howl. I kept my head down and pushed on, dodging the human obstacles that tried to block my path and finally reaching breathing room about twenty yards from the gate. We now made a break for freedom. At not quite a dead sprint, but certainly more than a stroll, we distanced ourselves from bedlam. But it was not over yet as the tuk-tuk drivers mounted their vehicles and gave chase. We walked fifty yards with four or five tuk-tuks following us, hollering nonsense. After another fifty yards only one persistent driver was left. We very well might have given him our business, had there been any business to give. But he, too, eventually gave up and motored back to his pack of fellow drivers.

SEA Part 6

Temporal and spatial details grow hazy at this point, but some time after dining we made our way to the Russian Market, which is far to the south of where we were staying. Somewhere along a deserted street, the tuk-tuk driver pulled over to the side of the road.

“Russian Market,” he said and pointed at a network of small shops and alleyways, dark and empty. The sun was set and public lighting was a mere faint glow from above that only made the surrounding darkness more disquieting. Our special meal was in full effect and I could feel the paranoia lurking in the corners of my mind. The previous evenings experience had robbed me of more than my money; much of my confidence in this city had been pilfered too.

But, we had come this far and didn't want to head right back. We decided, a bit tentatively, to walk down the road towards some brighter lights. About a block later we found the only open spot within sight. We stepped into the large room, lightly populated with a few groups of Cambodians, and were led to a table. The TV at the other end of the bar showed a typical Cambodian music video, two lovers chasing each other like innocent little rabbits through some sunny pastoral setting, and from somewhere a terrible voice poured through the room singing karaoke. A pretty girl brought us lukewarm beers. We protested, so a bucket of ice was procured, and we sat quietly and waited for out beers to cool.

Meanwhile, the girl had not left our table. The karaoke was blaring and the beer was cooling and the girl was smiling. Something wasn’t right; were we being scammed? Was this girl’s strange, unsolicited attention and care going to end up costing us more than we bargained for? In Ho Chi Minh City, we had been the center of attention with the waitresses at one unassuming bar until they began demanding we buy them drinks, when we refused they promptly ignored us. Is that the deal here, or is something even more devious at work?

“Man,” I whispered, “why is she standing there?” I looked up and she was looking right at me. I smiled, she smiled. I looked back at Jeff and he seemed to be thinking the same thing, or something equally paranoid. Neither of us could talk, unnerved by the girl’s unexplained presence, lost in our imaginary fears. About 5 minutes later, we prematurely opened one of the beers, or rather the pretty girl opened it for us, and we drank it warm, thankful for something to occupy our mouths and hands.

We were calming down, feeling a bit more comfortable. Then a group of 6 young men were standing over our tables. Alarm bells were ringing in my head. I eyed them suspiciously, but said nothing. In poor English, they asked if they could sit. They sat. Then, the one who seemed the most comfortable with his English looked at Jeff and asked, “Can you tell us about Christmas?”

At first Jeff didn’t know what to say. The question took him off guard, and whatever he had imagined these youths were about did not mesh with this innocent question. He looked at me and I shrugged. It turned out that they were high school students who were looking for a chance to practice their conversation skills with some native speakers. So, we joined them at their table with their high school English teacher. His conversation was worse than his students, yet he tried to keep appearances and I decided not to call him on it.

But something wasn't right. The problem with eating marijuana is that its effects become less predictable and more fluctuating than when you smoke it. Thus, just as I relaxed and let my mental guard down, I was flooded anew with qualms and questions. Why are these students drinking with their teacher? Why is their teacher trying to sell me a visa extension? Why has the one on my left said nothing, yet his wide-eyed glare has yet to leave my face?

It was around this time that Jeff and I realized our money was almost gone, and that another round would suddenly find us in debt to this establishment. It was a convenient excuse to jet, though I don't think our new friends actually believed us. The idea of a couple of tourist being out of money was absurd. Nevertheless, soon found ourselves out in the dark, heading vaguely north, without enough money for a tuk-tuk, hoping to find a couple cheap beers from a street vendor to see us back to the hotel.

We walked through a timeless panorama of darkened buildings and darker alleys. We would reach main intersections and the streetlights would welcome us back with their illumination. But soon the lights would peter out and the darkness would return.

We found beers and sat in the central park in Phnom Pehn. It was well lit, and the grounds were beautifully manicured. Families play in the open square, while young people and couples walked along the surrounding paths or sat on the many benches. Suddenly I was totally at peace. Jeff lay out on the lawn and took a nap; I sat and watched all the people, and wondered at the stark contrast to the beauty and love I saw here and the poverty and violence that seemed breath heavy, lurking at the edge of the luminance.

But the contrast is not surprising, because all the evil things that stand out so vividly throughout the city, all the terrible poverty, the weapons and whores and the sad history of violence created this peace, this perfect feeling. Such a scene in my home town would not move me at all. But here, the shrill shouts of children playing with a ball, a couple holding each other lovingly as they pass, a group of young boys and girls flirting awkwardly, it is all so beautiful. These scenes are as human as the frightened cry of that painted harpy from the night before, or the casual offer to shoot live chickens. These scenes, however, are certainly much more pleasant.

Some sinister stocking stuffers

Rambo?

SEA Part 5

The dye was cast and the reality of Phnom Penh was no longer to be denied. If we were to experience this city properly, it was going to be ugly and dirty and, in most countries, illegal. Christmas day came and we set out to see what we could. It was in the morning when we ran into the tuk-tuk driver from the the other day, who suggested we go shooting. Since both Jeff and I had heard with a bit of excitement about the high caliber opportunities in Cambodia, we readily agreed.

The shooting range is outside of the city, somewhere near the airport. On arrival, we were presented with a menu, as if we were ordering lunch, divided into two sections: handguns and machine guns. I asked a bit incredulously about shooting a rocket launcher and the guy working at the shooting range just flipped over the menu, where the B7 rocket launcher was listed, one shot: $200. This backside also held such rarities as hand grenades, $50, and an M2, all a bit too pricey and possibly too frightening for me to consider.

Jeff and I both shoot 30 rounds a piece with an AK-47, and a full clip off a double action pistol. We shot at targets, declining livestock, because Jeff's a vegetarian and even I can't see the point in shredding a chicken with thirty rounds of automatic savagery. The AK-47 was loud as hell and it felt like holding on to something living and vicious when I tried let it rip. Neither Jeff nor I let off more than three or four consecutive rounds before releasing the trigger. Any longer and the gun may have jumped from our hands and caused some serious damage.

Guns are nice, but what Christmas would be complete without visiting the Killing Fields, where less than 30 years ago, thousands of Cambodians were senselessly put to death under the idiotic regime of the Khmer Rouge. The field is beautiful and serene, the harsh sun blocked by gnarled trees, the flat land marked by dozens of large holes where corpses had recently been exhumed, with other suspected graves still unearthed. In the center of the field is a tall pagoda made of glass and filled with hundreds of skulls. There were ghosts in the air and the peace I felt resting below a tree was somber and depressing.

The tour didn’t stop; we were riding a crazy tuk-tuk hell bent on bringing us to all the terrorful and horribling destinations Phnom Penh could offer. Our next stop was at Tuol Sleng, the converted high school that acted as a processing center for prisoners sentenced to torture and death. The terrible senselessness of the Khmer Rouge becomes apparent in the names and descriptions of the 10,499 people (not including children) that were tortured and sentenced to death at this institution. For it was Khmer Rouge themselves who made up a large percentage of the executed, party cadres who for paranoid and highly questionable reasons were suspected spies or dissidents. When one KR cadre was tortured and put to death, his coerced confession usually indicted nearly everyone he knew; simple mathematics reveals the absurdity and self-destruction intrinsic to such policies.

Out of the prison, past the blind, crippled and terrifying beggars, it was now time to celebrate. Time to forget the violence, death and dust that had surrounded us all day and do the vacation thing like we know how to do it. Jeff and I gratefully settled into the plastic chairs out front of Happy Herb Pizza, located along the river, down on the southern end of the main tourist strip. We ordered two Asahis, about 80 cents a pop, and a spinach and feta pizza, extra special please!

“Special” means the chef will add one more integral ingredient to the pie, marijuana. Although the plant was made illegal in Cambodia in 1997, it is still readily available to buy and smoke, and perfectly acceptable when served in pizza form. Dope!

Phsar Thom Thmei: Phnom Penh's major market

SEA Part 4

Our first day in Phnom Pehn was uneventful. We spent it along Tonle Sap, the major river in Phnom Penh, second only to the Mekong, with which it mingles then splits off from in the north of the city. Here are the hotels and bars built for the growing tourist industry, and a safe and comfortable place to relax on a Christmas Eve. We took full advantage.

Around two in the morning, it was time to call it a night and we shuffled the three or four blocks to our hotel. Not twenty meters from our destination, just after we turned off the main riverside road, we hear a strange sound behind us. I see Jeff’s face as it registers what is approaching, and it is a mask of surprise, disgust and maybe a little fear. I turn to find out what’s the deal.

And there she was, or, there he was. A skinny frame dressed in dirty, slutty rags, face smeared with a mess of eye shadow and lipstick. There was no trace of a smile in the visage, only a half crazy look of destitution and deceit. I am reminded off a news article I had read earlier in the Cambodian Times about the brutal beating and murderer of an accused sorcerer somewhere in rural Cambodia. There was something supernaturally evil about this person.

“What the fuck?” Jeff was a little ahead of me and began to increase his speed. “That’s fucked up!”

Being fairly drunk I was less worried than he was, and did not run, as I should have, when the wretched harpy approached me at this devilish hour and offered sex for $5. Then she was holding me by my waist, in a disgusting pantomime of flirting. Her grip was stronger than I was comfortable with, and I twisted away. I spun around, and she lost her hold on me. I was now facing her, an eerie sort of showdown under the dim street lights. What was her deal? Then it hit me. She had taken my money. I must give credit where credit is due, and had it not been for my front left pocket being slightly pulled inside out, I probably would not have noticed.

“Oh, fuck. She took my money!”

Jeff looked at me without too much surprise. He had known she was trouble from the minute he spotted her and the fact that I even entertained her sorcery for a moment was to him idiotic and well deserving of my fate.

I then made a pathetic attempt to regain the money, which totaled to about $8.50. It was strange because even though I could tell it was a man, the soiled dress and the sorry make-up acted like a force field and held me back from any physical reprisals. She just kept walking as I demanded she give me back my money. Her bold disdain for my demands angered me and eventually influenced me to step in front of her, blocking her path, from where I then shouted at her to return the money. Up until now, she was playing innocent, and maintaining a feminine aspect. But as the confrontation came to a head, she reared up like a cornered animal, and her face mutated into a horrible specter of bared teeth and burning eyes. Then she bellowed in a low, horrible roar, “NO!” Even if she had not suddenly bolted down a dark alleyway I think I would have let the matter drop. It was early morning, Christmas day, and I had just met the Cambodian Grinch.

Vietnam on the left; Cambodia on the right; Owl in the middle

SEA Part 3

As a traveler, I am avid and rabid in my quest for new sights, sounds, smells and experiences. This present quest was focused on Cambodia, a country neither Jeff nor I had yet to encounter, and the Mecca of all South East Asia temples, Angkor Wat. With our limited time, we felt it wise to expediate our travel plans, and against all better sense of adventure, decided to return to the airport the next day and catch a flight to Hanoi’s southern counterpart, Ho Chi Minh City. It was from here that we would be able to travel to the Viet Nam-Cambodian border and the unknown lands beyond.

But first, we had way too much weed left, which overcautiously or not, we decided not to bring with us on the plane. We did, however, put forth a valiant effort aboard a swan paddle boat in the choppy waters of Lake -----. And later as we walked outside of the airport surrounded by police and military personnel, cupping a joint palm down and acting with the boldness unique to these vacations, we got ourselves right for the upcoming flight.

We spent one, too-short night in Ho Chi Minh City, before we boarded a bus early the next morning, on the eve of Christmas, which took us three hours to the Viet Nam-Cambodian border, over the Mekong River on a shabby ferry and finally to the center of Phnom Penh

When the bus stopped in the dusty lot outside the Orussey Market in downtown Phnom Penh, we piled out into the hot midday sun. Most of the other passengers had a sense of where they were headed and Jeff and I were soon the only ones left standing there, easy prey for the lurking tuk-tuk drivers who watched us from the other side of the fence, like vultures eyeing two fresh carcasses.

The tuk-tuk is Southeast Asia’s answer to the taxi. There are many versions of the tuk-tuk throughout the various countries, but in Cambodia a tuk-tuk was simply a metal frame carriage hitched to the back of a motorbike. The streets swarm with these indigent taxis, being the only apparent means of intra-city public transportation.

Due to the abundance of these vehicles, their drivers are, to say the least, a bit overzealous in their sales techniques, especially when it comes to foreigners because with foreigners the standard fare is quite a bit higher than with locals. It seems there is no real way to let these gentlemen tuk-tuk drivers understand that we are not looking for a ride other than a terribly unfriendly, cold hard stare, and even that deters only the weak or lazy ones. The true entrepreneurs will walk with you, talk with you and stalk you for an uncomfortably long time. Their conversation is nonstop imperfect English and can occasionally hold some interest; but to reveal such interest only adds to the time it will take to shake them from your coattails. One driver, whose name I forget, made a good impression with his informed tidbits on Khmer culture, and though we eventually ditched him that day he would reappear the following day, Christmas, and lead us to some twisted activities.

SEA Part 2

It was Jeff’s third or fourth time to the capital of Viet Nam, my second, and we both felt a liberating relief when we stepped out of the stifling airport van and onto the bustling avenues of Hanoi’s Old Quarter. It is more or less the tourist section of the city, but retains an indigenous atmosphere from the shops and various industries sharing space with the hotels and cafes. There is a theme to each stretch of narrow street, each section claiming their own corner of the market. We were dropped off in the hardware area, where we could, if we were so inclined, purchase all manner of tools for all manner of projects. Our current project, however, required tools of a far colder, more alcoholic nature than were offered nearby, so we headed down the bustling street in search of refreshment.

Later that night we found ourselves seated comfortably on plastic chairs out front of a small bar, drinking cold glasses of Bia Hoi, the local term for draft beer, which we thoroughly enjoined, it being a little more flavorful and a lot less expensive than its equivalent in Korea.

We were pleasantly stoned on some seedy, shaky dope purchased with ease while relaxing earlier alongside Hoan Kiem Lake, then smoked in marvelously large joints later on in our hotel room. The night was warm and the motorbikes moved up and down the streets like large, noisy fireflies. The excitement of arriving in a socialist country had worn off, and left us content to sit and watch the evening progress towards the close of our journey’s first day.

Morning bus to Incheon Airport

SEA Part 1

He wouldn’t answer his phone, so I went down two floors and knocked on his door. It was 6 am on a Saturday, so as a connoisseur of weekend sleep and a subscriber to the golden rule, I knocked softly at first. There was no sound of life behind the door, and my patience was hanging by three hours of sleep and a residual drunkenness too far dispersed to hold back the gross, enraging effects of a pre-dawn wake up. Gradually, my knocks grew louder until I was pounding, closed fisted against the door, sending booms echoing up and down the deserted hallway.

Ten minutes later, I was deciding whether to pull the fire alarm in one final desperate effort, or to leave my sad somnambulistic friend in his drunken slumber and leave for Southeast Asia on my own. As I pondered with weary sincerity, I continued at intervals my assault on the door, and just before I turned to pursue my adventures alone, Jeff came to the door, bleary eyed and half dressed.

“Give me a second to pack,” he mumbled.

I stepped into his 5^th floor room in the large, newly built apartment we both lived in at the expense of our respective employers. It is common practice for the private schools in Korea to supply their native English teachers with housing; it is also common practice among these teachers to then decorate their rooms with a sort of itinerant destitution including an odd assortment of discarded furniture, empty beer bottles and whatever other accouterments maintain the resident’s sanity. In this case, Jeff had filled his excess space with musical instruments, which he put to use quite prodigiously when he was not passed out on the floor.

He was packed and ready in less than 5 minutes.

“You got everything?” I asked. “Passport, money, camera…change of underwear?” Neither of us brought much more than the essentials. We both understood that whatever could carried safely and comfortably through jostling, sketchy markets, or on the back of a motorbike swerving recklessly through crowded city streets was kosher, anything more than that had no business in our bags.

Jeff confirmed. We were ready. We sealed the deal with a shot of Jameson before heading out into the cold, Korean morning.

Enter the Fool

Through nothing I will create something.