He felt like he'd live forever

Jill made the bed on Friday morning. This surprised me; I didn't think she believed in making beds, and we've been together for 13 years. There were other signs. The doors to the kids' bedrooms were open even though they weren't in them. Blankets and pillows lay on the couch, in a position we'd consider perilous 24 hours prior. Nothing forced me out of bed at 5am, just a bit before my alarm, for the first time in forever. A package was delivered to our porch. Silently. In fact, everything was quiet. Empty.

It'd been 18 hours since we got the news. Even though he jumped to my waist three days prior, begging for a piece of that rotisserie chicken I was cutting for dinner, our little doggie had a massive tumor blocking his stomach. He stopped eating the day before, and now we knew he wouldn't be able to eat again. He was beyond repair. 

An hour later, Ollie was gone.

The Furry Heart

She knew Ollie before she knew me. "He's a furry heart," she told me. "All he wants is for people to love him." 

She was right. She'd first seen him on a website for rescued dogs. He had a broken front paw, but she was drawn to how playful he was, his Yoda ears, his energy. She didn't think it was the right time to get a dog, let alone an injured one. But her friend Claire convinced her to drive an hour and a half south to see him, and once she did that, the decision was made: the little guy known as Ernest Hemingway would be coming home with her later that night. She re-named him Ollie, after Oliver Twist, because of that broken paw, which turned out to be fine as long as he lived.

His arrival coincided with her new house in Oakland's Rockridge neighborhood, a place whose home values belie its reputation for muggings and home break-ins. Undeterred, the two of them walked for hours in the evenings, her headphones in, his tail wagging, sniffing every single plant on its leafy streets. Nobody ever bugged them, even though she advertised her iPhone to anybody who drove by, back before Apple let you brick a stolen phone, a sure sign of respect for her little guard dog.

I met him soon after we started dating. Just as Jill had warned, he quickly burrowed his furry little body directly into my heart. I had never loved a dog before; not truly. I loved this one after seeing him a few times. He had this lightning quickness that would make Steph Curry jealous; to play, he'd zig zag across the room at a dizzying pace. Chase me, come on, catch me. 

He liked the view from the front window, so he could bark at anybody who walked by, reserving his most ferocious sounds for anybody who dared ride by on a skateboard. The middle cushion on her couch had an Ollie-sized indentation. It was both the best perch to see out the window and his favorite spot to snooze.

A few months into our relationship, Jill and I drove to Lake Tahoe to spend the weekend with some of my friends. Rather than spread out on the big seat in the back, Ollie jumped into my lap in the driver's seat and lay down. That was when I knew he loved me, too.

The Story of Us

I can't really separate the Story of Ollie from the Story of Us. We'd both reached our mid-thirties particularly adept at finding that flaw in every romantic partner that meant we'd eventually have to break up with them. I don't think her family believed she believed in getting married. They'd assumed she didn't want to have kids. 

My family was similarly skeptical of me. Sure, I'd been in relationships, I'd even lived with a few of my girlfriends. But while I spent years living in the City and traveling the world, I was still growing up. 

Then she bought a house. Got a dog.

Then I did something truly terrifying. I bet on myself. I quit my job and bought a one way ticket to the world. I didn't know when I'd work again. I didn't really know where I was going, other than London in March and to volunteer in Cambodia in May.

Not long after adopting Ollie, she booked solo travel wrapped around a volunteer trip with a partner from work. Destination: Southeast Asia. First Vietnam, then Cambodia.

The rest is history. Well, kind of.

Is it a stretch to think a four-legged creature finally gave Jill the instinct to nest, to be willing to find the good in emotionally needy, colorblind dudes who leave a stinky, messy trail in their wake? Maybe.

And did her tenderness with that little guy assuage my fear of her unflappability, her refusal to engage in those gushy declarations I styled off romcoms, the part where you realize you were definitely in love and couldn't live without them? She wasn't like any woman I knew. She was tough but not bitter. Funny, smart, and confident. Didn't seem to need a man for anything but didn't hate them. Casually cool.

And her love of that dog revealed a soft side that soothed my lingering fear she'd realize she was too cool for me and decide to kick me to the curb. 

And, then, one night I thought she had. I'd just met her family on a trip, but the next day, she canceled our New Year's Eve plans. The following afternoon, a peace offering: let's walk Ollie up the hill. 

We've been together ever since.

Just the Three of Us

The first time I saw Jill cry, we were watching a video of a dog being rescued off the streets. It looked like Ollie, the taco terrier with pointy ears. Her name? Holly. It wasn't hard to imagine an identical situation playing out on the streets of Stockton and ending with our Ollie coming home.

When I moved in, she blamed me for inviting Ollie into our bed. To be clear, she was right about that. He'd previously slept at its foot in his own bed, and they had a routine: she'd call him over to the bed, give him a goodnight pet session, then he'd waddle over to his and sleep the night away. But I kept pushing the line until he spent every night snuggling up to me. For this offense, I have no defense. I loved the little guy and we were both happier snuggling up all night.

There was a rhythm to our life, the three of us. Long walks into the hills above Rockridge, weekend hikes up the Claremont Canyon hill nearby; cutting nights short at the wine bar up the street because Ollie must be lonely at home. He also had a very annoying habit of peeing on anything that wasn't bolted down, so we learned not to leave blankets or pillows out in the open and to get home to him quickly. That little guy would not be trained to stop it. For this, we installed a dog door. He tried it once and never again.

Our life as a family of three went slow until it didn't. 

Two years after that day I met Ollie, we took him for a walk on one of those stunning fall Oakland days that makes you wonder how the whole world doesn't want to live there. We'd been married for three months; five minutes before the walk she showed me the results of her second pregnancy test. I don't remember us saying a word for the first 10 minutes, maybe longer. I know that I was holding the leash. Ollie gave the walk its purpose, its structure. Inside me was all chaos. We'd agreed not to get ahead of ourselves until we saw a doctor. So we walked on, our third member trotting along the familiar path above Rockridge, totally unaware that our world was about to change.

Then it all sped up. 

I signed an offer letter to move to the Netherlands three days before our first doctor appointment. Jill's boss said her job could also move to Europe; as luck would have it, they needed somebody to lead the European team. We started researching how to move a dog to Europe, because there was no world where Ollie didn't go with us. And then we went to our appointment.

"Yep, you're pregn....

oh, it's twins."

Oh. 

Shit.

It was October, a few months after we got married, six weeks after we'd apparently successfully made a boy and a girl in one fell swoop, and two months before we were slated to land in our new home, Amsterdam, The Netherlands. We got to work right away, looking for housing, prenatal care, and flights that would allow our dog to fly on our laps instead of under the plane. 

He had the option for the luxury, door-to-door concierge trip, but there was no chance Jill was letting that furry heart fly alone in cargo. He could die of loneliness. So we found a way to make it work that involved two flights instead of one, including a test flight a few months in advance. In the depths of her first trimester carrying twins, Jill never considered that one long flight from San Francisco may be easier on her stomach. Ollie's comfort was all that mattered.

Ollie loved Amsterdam. The dog who wouldn't leave our house in Oakland at the sight of the tiniest drizzle ran through Vondelpark every day in the city that, I swear, rains 105% of the time. There's a spot not far from where we lived, an open meadow that served as a makeshift dog park. He made friends there every day. And they all loved that overly affectionate little terrier who tried his best to mount every dog in the park. Once we took off his leash, he sprinted the remaining 75 yards to the meadow like his life depended on it.

Just the Five of Us

Our kids never knew a world without Ollie. Each of their first word was "Ollie," an unintended b
enefit of naming him a two syllable word that we said roughly 100 times a day. 

So we didn't know how they'd handle the news. We told them together. He had been sick lately, a cough that wouldn't get better, enough for them to know he wasn't well. But it sure felt like he had more time, and repeated scans suggested he was okay.

He hit the breaking point on Tuesday, opting to sleep alone downstairs rather than try to climb up to the bedroom where he always slept. By Wednesday, he'd taken refuge on a tile floor in the bathroom. He wouldn't move, even when we showed him the leash. He's only ever had one response to the leash: jump up, run to the door, let's go on this walk, what is taking you so long?

Jill slept downstairs with him Wednesday night. By Thurs
day, it felt bleak. He didn't even eat a treat. Would barely drink water. Didn't want to move. 

We pulled them together in the kitchen and sat on the couch. "Guys, we have some bad news..." 20 minutes of tears and sobs later, we had our answer. 

The next few nights were tough, especially for Ike. 

"I don't want him to be a memory." 

"I don't want him to be a life lesson that I need to learn."

"I can't comprehend this. He was fine just last week."

"I never want another dog."

Now, a few days later, we've progressed through the initial stages of grief, but there will always be something missing.

It seems to me that life can feel like it operates on two timelines. There's the one we're focused on right now, with pickup and dropoff, work trips and vacations, soccer games, musicals, play dates, math homework, date night. But there's this other one that we carry around without realizing it. The one that hits you when you hear that your old friend's kid is 13. Wasn't she just two like yesterday? In reality, she was two the last time I saw her, back before they moved across the country to be closer to family. I watched my kids grow, so I know they're 10. But she's frozen at two in my mind. That's the other timeline.

This is what I've struggled with since Ollie died. Unbeknownst to me, I'd come to the conclusion that Ollie's life was operating in both timelines while our kids were young. Sure, he was with us all along and he showed signs of aging, but once they were older, he'd somehow be there ready to get the band back together, just the three of us at home, waiting for the grown kids to come visit. He felt youthful and exuberant just yesterday. It was yesterday, right? He felt like he was waiting for those days to come back.

He felt like he'd live forever.

RIP Oakland A’s

You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone 

I first went to Oakland Coliseum sometime in the summer of 1979 when I was two years old. We lived a few towns over, my dad had cancer and wasn’t doing great, so my uncle John took my brother Jeff (4 yo), sister Kelly (almost 6), and me to see an A’s game. It was a legendary disaster, we only made it a few innings. But thus began a lifelong love affair (so I thought) with the Oakland A’s.

My dad died the following spring and our family moved to a small town in the Central Valley, near Fresno. His six brothers knew one best way to bond with us: sports. Bill coached us from afar on everything and was our biggest fan; Larry was a Niners fan; David and Tim definitely weren’t, but they bet us on every Niners game v their favorite teams (the Giants and the Vikings). But Uncle Kevin? He was an A’s fan, and because of that, so were we. Every year on our summer break, we’d come back up to visit the Bay, and he’d take Jeff and me to at least one A’s game.

The routine: park at BART to save money on parking, buy cheap tickets in the bleachers and then move to better seats. Year after year. First it was Billy Ball, Dave Kingman and Dwayne Murphy, Rickey Henderson, a lot of empty seats and a Colossal Dog. You had to load it up with relish and sauerkraut, that’s the right way to eat it.

Then came the LaRussa years, the Bash Bros, three World Series in a row, two hours to leave the parking lot with Bill King and Lon Simmons on the radio recapping the game, energy still coursing through us. It was a foregone conclusion that they’d be in the postseason, and we had to sit in those cheap bleacher seats because the good seats were all full. One night, our grandpa came, too, and they went to extra innings. I made us all stay till the end even though post-game traffic would be murder, when my favorite player won it with a walkoff single. All hail Carney Lansford.  

They were the soundtrack of our summer, sitting on grandma’s back deck, playing wiffle ball in the yard, anticipating the next eruption of Bill King’s voice. I can still remember searching the radio back home in Lemoore while opening a whole case of baseball cards, finding the A’s game amid the crackle of static, hearing Bill call a Mark McGwire bomb off the concession stands in left field, just beneath the ice plant.

Uncle Kevin taught us the rhythm of the ballpark. Glove on, eat the hot dog in the early innings, try to guess what’s going to happen. “Trade him” when Jose Canseco didn’t hit a home run every at bat. We bought good seats one game, and I stood up and yelled at Cal Ripken when he struck out. Nobody knew where that came from, I’d always been quiet around my family. But something about that full Coliseum energy changed me.

He taught us about our family in those quiet moments between the action. He’d tell us things we didn’t know about our dad, usually with a lot of reverence and a few laughs. Not everybody is comfortable talking about your dead dad; in fact, most people either refer to him in vague platitudes or avoid mentioning him altogether. I guess they worry it’ll dredge up the pain, to remind you of the loss. The irony? No kid who’s lost a parent needs a reminder that they died; it’s all they think about. What they want more than anything is for you to acknowledge that he lived. Uncle Kevin was one of the only people in our lives who seemed to realize that.

And he also taught us to love the A’s. I wore #4 in Little League to honor Carney and #25 in HS for the guy who played my position, Mark McGwire. When I moved to the Bay for college in 1995, Jeff and I went to a game a week. McGwire hit a HR each game my first 9 trips to the yard that year. I could go to an A’s game anytime I wanted. Was this heaven? Nope, it was the Coliseum.

One Friday night in ‘97, we bought bleacher seats but sat in the lower bowl, near the RF bullpen. The announced crowd was something shy of 7,000. A guy in an A’s polo walked up to us, and we couldn’t believe we were about to get kicked out of the seats. There was nobody else in the whole section. Kicked out? Nope, they chose me as Fan of the Game because I was wearing an A’s hoodie. I got to be on the Jumbotron (we call that Diamond Vision round here) and they gave me a gift certificate to a shoe store in Berkeley. The best part? Roy Steele, the Voice of God, said my name for all to hear. 

I couldn’t wait to tell Uncle Kevin that I was Fan of the Game the next time I saw him. To this day, 27 years later, I still can’t believe that I never did. The following Wednesday, driving home from work and stuck in traffic because of a U2 concert at the Coliseum, he felt chest pains and went to the hospital. He was dead four hours later. Heart attack. 40 years old.

I can still hear his laugh, the high-pitched voice he’d use to make a joke, the way he pronounced Coloss-o dog, how he’d deal with the people who told us we were sitting in their seats. They say loss never hurts less, only less often. I say they’re right.

A few days after his funeral, Jeff and I did what we always did. We went to an A’s game. Sat in the RF bleachers and stared at the field. We weren’t there for the game. We were there for him. For the memories that place brings up. For the distraction we always turned to when we needed an excuse to hang out.

Then the A’s got good again! I spent the summer of 2000 promoting baseball for MLB in Europe, but I was right there in the first row of the RF bleachers when they clinched the division the last day of the season, hanging K signs as Tim Hudson mowed through the Rangers lineup. Friends from England emailed to say they saw me on TV. Baseball had shown me the world, and it kept me connected to people far and wide, alive and dead.

I went to 20 games a year for the next decade, including all three playoff games against the Yankees in 2001. We yelled to get a pinch runner in for Jeremy Giambi; we were right behind the A’s dugout. Art Howe didn’t listen. T Long doubles into the RF corner; why is Derek Jeter in that spot? To this day, I have still never seen proof that Jeremy was out. Show me the tag!

They may have lost in the playoffs, but the A’s were good and they kept replenishing the roster against all odds. They always kept my attention and I kept going to the ballpark, mostly with my brother but also with other friends and family. I was pretty sure I’d name my first born after Billy Beane, their revolutionary General Manager, who pulled rabbits out of hats year after year. I made instant bonds with new friends who were also A’s fans. 

Jeff and I walked around Cooperstown, NY in 2009, there to see Rickey inducted into the HOF. We had custom t-shirts to get Bill King in the HOF; we met Dave Stewart on the main drag. He told us he always kicked Roger Clemens’ ass.

The specter of the A’s leaving Oakland loomed as a constant subplot for A’s fans. My first exposure to fear of an A’s flight dates to the late 80s, when my stomach was in knots when I saw a report that they were on the way to Denver. In the summer of 2000, an MLB executive told me that the league knew they “had to get them out of Oakland.” A few years later, my colleague did a deal with the A’s owners, who had recently agreed to sell the team to a group led by a developer they’d recently added to their ownership group, a former fraternity brother of the commissioner of baseball who’d been active building commercial developments in San Jose. Why did they agree to sell? “The team has to move and it’ll get ugly. We don’t want any part of that.”

I would go to playoff games and stare at empty seats, fearing the implication, finally feeling relief when most of the stadium filled up. For many years, I hoped they’d land in San Jose, 45 minutes south and flush with tech money that could lead to bigger revenues and budgets. It seemed like that was also MLB’s wish; the only outstanding issue was how to appease the Giants, who were gifted “territorial rights” to the South Bay by a former A’s owner to help prevent them from moving to Tampa. I moved to San Francisco in 2002, and in the next 10 years, a series of technologies pioneered by local companies moved the Bay Area to the center of the universe, bolstering every town with rising property values and large scale construction. One emerging winner of the booming Bay? Downtown Oakland. 

In 2014, I moved to Oakland for the first time in my life. The A’s had been rebuffed from moving to San Jose, making it all the way to the Supreme Court, but they were making a real push to build a new stadium near downtown Oakland, where things were coming alive. I thought they’d finally thrive if they moved six miles north from the Coliseum to the city’s growing urban core. I bored my girlfriend (now wife) with frequent updates on the latest ballpark news. My kids were born in 2016 (alas, neither is named for William Lamar Beane), and I bought a house 1.5 miles from the Coliseum a few years later. On busy game days, admittedly rare occasions, it’s faster to ride a bike to a game than drive and park.

But then it all crashed. We rooted our faith in an empty suit who got the fanbases’ collective hopes up only to dash them in heaps of hot air, beautiful architectural drawings, and two failed ballpark location decisions that looked like the work of somebody totally in over his head. They finally walked away over a funding gap that amounted to a rounding error on the principal owner’s balance sheet. 

The A’s have had four ownership groups in my lifetime. But they’ve always worn white shoes. 

My last two core memories at the ballpark: Jeff and I went to the wild card game against the Tampa Bay Rays in 2019. We splurged for seats right near where we sat when Derek Jeter flipped away the playoff run two decades prior. The A’s got bombed, it was over in the first inning. But optimism about another A’s run still reigned.

And then last year, we all went back for one more game, a “reverse boycott” that Jeff actually had a hand in planning. I sat next to my Uncle John, the one who took me to that first game in 1979, and he pointed to ghosts all over the ballpark. Where he and Uncle Kevin sat for the World Series in 1973. They were always going to A’s games together back in high school. He told me stories I’d never heard before, about the generosity of my grandparents (he’s my Mom’s brother), and how he finally felt like an August that time my grandpa got furious at him because he “let” Kevin get his new bike stolen.

That’s how my parents met. My dad’s brother Kevin was best friends with my Mom’s brother, John. I’m Kevin John, named after two guys who spent their high school years going to A’s games.

I looked around the stadium and remembered a few ghosts of my own: those playoff games against the Yankees, the Fan of the Game seat, the extra inning game with Uncle Kevin and grandpa, the time I got Ray Fosse to sign a rattle for my newborn niece, when I walked around the outfield dirt with my Little League team in 1983, and all the games with my best friends over the years (Alex, Robbie, Colin and Shawn when the A’s played the Tigers or Sox, Canice, a million others). We were in the West Side Club for half the game when they won #20 in a row, then de-camped to our seats at the top of the stadium. I whined to Robbie that Scott Freaking Hatteberg was on deck, and he hadn’t hit a home run since April!  They were going to blow an 11-0 lead and not win 20 in a row! Well, what he did next is literally the stuff  of Hollywood lore: he hit a home run to win the game. Crazy.

And today we have the final, definitive word: the A’s are officially leaving the Coliseum and Oakland. I’ve been dreading this news for more than half my life, and I’m sad that my kids won’t have the same reference point for their relationships. I won’t get to visit those ghosts, the memories that flood back once you walk into a building, the conversations that happen when you’re sitting with somebody for three hours in the sun. 

Rest in peace, Oakland A’s. You were always part of the family. Thanks for everything. 

This Must Be the Place

And... The end is nigh. No more travel to plan. No more TripAdvisor reviews to parse for clues on commenter quality, no more flights to book, no more wearing the same thing three days in a row. In fact, there are just two things left: 1) a flight home (leaves in a few hours), and 2) culling the best pics out of the 3,000 I took for the three-hour slideshow I'm debuting at the August Family Christmas Party and taking on tour afterward.

Right before I left, my buddy and music sherpa Lee jokingly (?) predicted I'd be so homesick that I'd be seen walking around random European cities, headphones in, rocking The Mowglis' San Francisco with tears streaming down my face. And he got everything right, except for the part about the Mowglis and the crying. I was definitely homesick a time or two, and I had a pretty consistent soundtrack accessing my brain place through buds in my ear holes. 

I remembered this little prediction and it got me thinking. If I'm going to string together three hours worth of pictures into a single slideshow, I'm probably going to need some sort of soundtrack to spare my voice from telling so many stories. If the 80s taught me anything, it's that a well-placed montage is an effective diversion when you've run out of good dialogue. So while San Francisco didn't make the cut, here are a few of the songs that did.

Octopus's Garden, The Beatles

Last Tuesday, I went diving at the Murat Navy Pier in Western Australia. Ranked among the best dive sites in the world, it's in the extreme northwest tip of the continent on the Ningaloo Reef, which any Western Australian will tell you is more impressive than the Great Barrier Reef. (I'm sure that has nothing to do with regional bias.)

They call it an "open-water aquarium," because something about the pier, which extends a couple hundred feet (~75m) into the Indian Ocean, attracts an incredibly diverse array of marine life. There's a little spot on the floor called "Octopus's Garden" for very literal reasons: octopi hide among its coral and rocks, and they all continually sing Ringo's best vocal contribution to The Beatles. Which is pretty cool, I must say.

But that's not even close to the most impressive part. I'll just tell you this. I did not take this picture, but I could have if a) I had a camera and b) I wasn't busy suppressing my reptilian brain's very strong fight or flight response. I wasn't winning this fight, and, well, I wasn't winning this flight, either. So I floated there, 45 feet (~13m) deep, and watched three of these guys swim for awhile, making enormous groupers and entire schools of 25-pound cods look like goldfish. Absolutely mesmerizing.

Grey nurse shark (sand tiger shark to we Yanks)

Don't You Worry Child, Swedish House Mafia

I only include this song because Jenny O'Connor rocked our world in Cambodia by telling us we had the lyrics wrong. It turns out Sierra doesn't have a plan for you at all. "See, heaven" does. I know, shocking, right?

Which brings me to the rough silk shirt.

Siem Reap is one big commercial hub that sprung up because Angkor Wat attracts so many tourists. The most popular attraction in town is called the "Night Market;" essentially, it's a den of cheap consumer swag that's open at night, but you can get the same stuff during the day, too.

The protocol is simple: you look at something, the shopkeeper offers you a ridiculous price for it. You haggle for the sake of it. He laughs at you. Then you start to walk away and he cuts his price to 50% of the original. And if you're me, you end up walking away with a shiny blue shirt with a priest's collar and big buttons down the front, made of silk and looking damn cool in the package. 

Then I got home and put it on. We were all headed out to dinner and didn't have big plans the next day (just going to see Angkor Wat, one of the wonders of the world, that's all), which, unbeknownst to me and the shirt, sealed its fate. Out of the package and on to my body, I noticed some disturbing flaws the first glance in the mirror. I knew it was shiny when I bought it, but now it looked like a smurf with a greasy forehead. And the "big buttons" were clearly stolen from somebody's couch cushions. At least the collar still looked money. I mean, I'm sad they're not popular in the West. I'd wear them every day.

Hoping nobody would notice how ridiculous it was, I still wore it to dinner. 

Everybody noticed. 

"Did you mean to buy that?"

"Once you're done with it, you should cut off the sleeves and make it a vest."

So I did. Four hours later. At the club in town, which we decided to hit up since we didn't have to get up early the following day. I was busy imitating my friend Jill's favorite dance move (signaling "touchdown" and bouncing around with a huge grin on her face), and the right sleeve decided to rip at the armpit. Two minutes later, with help from my new BFsF Jill and Margo, I was rocking a one-sleeve shirt. Twenty minutes after that? Sleeveless.

Classy.

The buttons didn't even survive the 15-minute walk back to our hotel, and I just felt bad for whoever's couch they stole them from. What a waste.

The only known pic of the shirt: Vey thought his spell would make the shirt look better; I was too ashamed to show my face. Note: if you think you have another pic of the shirt, you don't. Right?

Something Good, alt-J

This song isn't really going on the soundtrack, but I wanted to brag that I'm going to see alt-J at the Fox in Oakland on Thursday night. 

And I believe I just did.

Lie in Our Graves, Dave Matthews Band

One of the best songs I know about carpeing the diem, it's made even better by DMB's classic technique of pairing Dead Poets' Society lyrics with Downtown Disney riffs. Dance, smile, laugh, feel good, and ignore Dave mockingly question why we live our lives as tiny bits of disposable tread on corporate tires.

A nagging feeling last year made me realize I had some serious day seizing to do, and in December I decided it was time to hit the road to find the reset button. I set off in March with loose plans and no official end date, figuring I'd find that damn button somewhere. 

And I did. Time and again, in very different places doing very different things. 

I found it while running six miles in Budapest with a fun and inspiring pair of sisters; carb loading with awesome new friends before running a half marathon in Oslo; in deciding to change my plans and go to Australia and Budapest and Bali because, well, why not?; while scouring this picture in a bar late one night in Hanoi with a few Limeys trying to figure out who that familiar face is right behind Joe DiMaggio (see below. And please help. I'm stumped.).

She's got Bette Davis Eyes. But who is he?

I found it with all the new people I met, including incredibly cool Brazilians in Copenhagen and Krakow (Brazil is definitely going to take over the world), Turks in Istanbul (a week before the shit went down, sparing my mother's blood pressure), Oklahomans, Jerseyans, Minnesotans, and Texans in Positano, Germans in Bali, and, in Eindhoven, an Israeli who heard I was from San Francisco and immediately assumed I was that thing everybody in the world thinks all San Franciscans are. A raging...

...stoner. 

They all spoke English, of course. Well, except for the Texans, but we didn't have much in common anyway. To keep up my end of the bargain, I learned how to speak the metric system, Celsius, the 24-hour clock, and attempted to use local pronunciations, which was the least I could do. Who am I kidding? It was the absolute most I could do. Balls, there are a lot of languages out there. It's hard not to feel like an atrocious stereotype when exchanging stories about how many languages you speak. My new German friend speaks five. I claim one and a bit, but my Spanish and French probably don't really qualify as "and a bit."

Nonetheless, in the last five months, I learned how to say "cheers" and "thank you" in a dozen languages; my favorite being, as always, England, where they mean the same thing. 

Aaaaaaand I've forgotten most of them by now. Whoops. 

Never Mind the Strangers, The Saw Doctors

I've had a very strategic adulthood, making sure to plop good friends throughout the world; it keeps the hotel bills down and all. And my trip has been full of them: Jay Malihoudis in 'nam; Jules, Gina, and Vern in various European locales; Nicky Carter in six different countries; the Donger in Bali; Al, Nat, and Ro in Tonbridge and Al and Nat again in Oz. (They're tough to shake.) I saw the Hans to my Franz, Mr. Evan Aydelott, and his lovely bride Crystal for dinner on Lake Zurich. I drove from The Netherlands to Switzerland with Tommy Ten Bucks; Ian Young and I solved all the world's problems in a four-hour drive from Zurich to Lake Geneva. (Don't ask. I forgot to write them down.) I had lunch with Liam Carroll and Jason Holowaty right after landing in London five months ago. And my old roomies, Ryan, Loni, and I rekindled our traditional roommate dinner night in London, being that they're still living together all these years later… since they're married. And I saw a shining example of how love and commitment can still look in 2013 while getting ice cream with the Lindberg family in Ahous, Sweden.

How did I spend the last two weeks of my trip? Partying hard, raging against the dying of my early retirement, refusing to accept my pending triumphant return to corporate life? Nah. I sat in Western Australia and made the same jokes about vegetarians that I've been making since I met Alex Malihoudis in 1997. Every night, I watched about 15 minutes of a Disney movie with his daughters before they went to bed (usually Sasha's choice...honest), and then Alex, Natalie, and I sat up and talked about everything and anything while half-heartedly watching a movie. 

It was absolutely perfect.

What's a great friendship if not one long conversation over several years between two people whose brains are somehow cosmically connected, conveniently interrupted by the other stuff they have to do so they don't get bored or, you know, go hungry? If they're lucky, they keep picking up those conversations where they left off, even as they start new ones. And I've been extremely lucky.

This Must Be the Place, Talking Heads
also: This Must Be the Place, Kishi Bashi cover (I couldn't decide)

And now I'm headed home. Tomorrow night, I'll be a zombie playing softball in the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge Anchor Steam Brewery (unless the damn fog has other ideas) and in a week I'll trade in the five t-shirts I've rotated since March for buttons and collars in my cubicle at the end of Pier One. 

I want to thank all four of you for reading my ramblings while I crossed the globe. It's been fun to write about some of the stuff that happened, and I hope you chuckled a time or two reading about it. I also hope some day you'll get on a plane (or 32!!) and see a slice of the world and write about; I can't wait to read about what you find. I know the list of places I want to visit got longer in the last five months, which tells me I'll never stop hitting the road.

Until then...

"If someone asks, this is where I'll be"

Where I went. Lots more to do. Africa? You're next. Unless South America beats you to the punch.

Eat, Pray...

I haven't kept an official tally or anything, but I'm fairly certain I've heard somebody make an "Eat, Pray, Love" joke about my trip something between 200 and 248 million times this year. And, frankly, I've done a pretty decent job of making it seem like I was fishing for them. Two weeks ago, I went and made it worse: after spending 11 glorious days eating my way through Italy earlier this summer, I ended up in Bali, where, according to the book/movie, I was supposed to find a four letter word spelled with an l, o, v, and e.

Didn't happen. Worry not, though, I found several other four letter words on the way to a very good time.

1. D-o-n-g

For those of you who don't know the Donger, I regret to inform you that your life isn't quite complete. For those of you that do, you probably don't need this disclaimer, but I regret to inform you that I can't provide much detail in this space about our two weeks in Indonesia. This is a family site, after all.

Mr. Dong W An

Dong's a buddy of mine from SF that I've known since the late 90s; he runs operations for a hedge fund, but he's about to embark on a new career in the East Bay. In order to prepare himself for a daily commute across the Bay Bridge, he decided to bolt to Asia for a few weeks and become a better surfer. He did all the legwork on planning the trip; all I had to do was book a flight that got me to Bali on July 27th. After getting scammed by a few guys in official-looking clothing at the airport, I was picked up by a few locals who whisked me away to our first stop: Kimasurf, an awesome surf camp full of very friendly people, 95% of whom were German. Throw in a few great people from the Netherlands, and we not only had instant friends, but we got to hear a lot of people talking in languages that strongly emphasize the loogie-hocking muscles. Which is always nice.

Dull moments are in short supply when you're hanging with Dong. He doesn't do mundane; he makes the mundane hilarious. Example: instead of learning campers' names, he pulled a classic Dongerism and assigned nicknames to everybody. Here's how he (and eventually we) referred to various luminaries:

Lars, the German manager of the camp - Hans Gruber

This girl who "showed up" on Wednesday but had really been there all along and he just didn't realize it - the self doppleganger

The group of insular Germans who didn't invite us into their circle - the nihilists

The way to say "good morning" - "Where's the money, Lebowski?"

One camper who happened to be incredibly attractive - Dreamweaver (and he sang her theme song aloud every time she walked by) 

To be completely honest, nothing crazy actually happened in the whole fortnight. Our 25-year-old selves would be ashamed. We did, however, go scuba diving at an old US WWII shipwreck, which was awesome.

Darling, it's better..

...down where it's wetter...

...take it from me

2. S-u-r-f 

My first surf experience was more existential crisis than exhilarating high. In my defense, I assumed that a "surf camp" would include instructions for beginners, but here was day 1's "lesson:"

Grab board

Walk to beach

Check out diagram in sand of safe spots to surf

"Have at it!"

Whoa. At this point in my life, the only experience I had holding a surfboard was the eight-minute walk from the camp to the beach, and I even screwed that up by accidentally swinging the backend into two very unimpressed French women. And it only took me two minutes in the Indian Ocean to realize that I was going to be very good at two things and very bad at a third: 

Good:

1. banging hard plastic on soft tissue (mine, luckily)

2. Drinking salt water

Bad: 

3. Surfing

In fact, halfway through my first hourlong "surf" session, in order to stave off the rapidly unfolding cascade of ego damage, I started to compile a list of things I'm naturally good at. Here's what I came up with.

Note: not an exhaustive list

After three more sessions of really bad surfing, I decided to enroll in a surf school, which I should have done on Day 1. And while I'm probably not going to enter the pro circuit anytime ever, at least I know how exhilarating it is to stand up on a board in a wave, even if the board is 15-feet long and we're only 5 meters from the beach. 

Bali's Volcano

3. G-i-l-i

The southwest coast of Bali shows all the signs of a major tourist influx. Large construction projects are underway on every vacant parcel along the beachfront, soon to add thousands of new rooms to the already substantial resort hotel inventory. A new terminal is under construction at the airport, designed to process 25MM new visitors a year, doubling the current capacity. And many streets feel more like a Hollywood set for "International Beach Resort City" than an actual foreign place, with most of the unique Indonesian experience stripped away by Western convenience, save for the locals sitting outside souvenir shops offering you a good price on something you don't need or cab drivers pulling over to hail you. Even the Indonesian restaurants promote their western options over local fare, usually involving some take on "Australian" beef. If Bali is the Australian Hawaii, the southwest beaches (Kuta and Seminyak) are Waikiki. 

I saw the same phenomenon in Thailand - in Phuket, Koh Samui, and even Chiang Mai - the more tourists come to see it, the more Western companies try to get their grubby little hands on the money that's escaped their homeland, invariably stripping away the local flair with over-processed foods and half-baked smiles. McDonalds, Burger King, Dunkin' Donuts, KFC, Starbucks, W Resorts, Four Seasons…when they flock, you've both arrived as a tourist destination and become the kind of place tourists ironically call "too touristy." Vicious cycle, that.

And then there are the Gili Islands.

If you pull out a world map and look for Trawangan, the largest of the three Gili Islands where Donger and I spent three nights last week, you either won't find it or will mistake it for an extra speck of ink the mapmaker dropped off the coast of Lombok. The "road" around its perimeter - mostly sand, brick, or sandy brick - is just 4.5-miles long (~7km), and is only used by three modes of transport: horses, bicycles, and feet.

It's the kind of place that teems with tourists but somehow doesn't feel touristy, managing to maintain its rustic, old-world charm. There's something so unique about it - so small, untarnished, anachronistic by choice - that it feels like a different world that happens to have a few foreign visitors dropping in to say hello instead of a soulless tourist trap.

Plus, it has a silent disco and some of the best seafood in the world. If I could choose my own setting for a sequel to Groundhog Day, starring yours truly, I'm pretty sure it'd take place in Trawangan. 

Representing Turkey in Trawangan

Horse taxi

4. U-b-u-d

Ubud is another soulful respite from the bustle of Bali's southwest coast. Tucked into the interior of the island, it's surrounded by terraced rice paddies, a forest full of monkeys, and easy access to the nearby volcano that remains active today.

I imagine it's something near Mecca for the yoga retreat set. Though I never got official confirmation, I'm pretty sure there's a local ordinance requiring every cafe to use the word "organic" in its name. And if you're ever stuck in Bali looking for an organic avocado and kale smoothie with bee pollen, green tea extract, and lecithin, go to Ubud. There's no better place to find Balinese oil paintings you'll feel tempted to ship home, price tag be damned; no better launching point for overnight hikes to the top of the volcano, white-water rafting trips, or rides along the two rivers that meet in town. And, say, for example, you have six nieces and four nephews at home? Ubud is an excellent spot for gifts.

MFT and Lotus Pond in Ubud

Organic cafe, Ubud

Coffee and tea tasting. Best thing ever.

One thing it's not great for? Two dudes who don't particularly love shopping who didn't book any yoga or outdoor excursions. So we only actually spent about three hours in Ubud. #Fail.

5. S-n-s-t

Okay, okay, I know I'm cheating, but if the crazy kids these days can shorten words to "cray" and "delish" and "ridic," and if I have to accept that "lol" is not a fad that the world will collectively come to its senses and reject (even though "ha!" has same number of characters), I can totally spell "sunsets" with four letters so it fits my story. Bali puts a huge magnet on the beach everyday at 6 PM, making it impossible for any breathing human creature not to find their way to the shore to watch the sun dip below the horizon. Here. See for yourself. There's a reason most ancient societies worshipped that spirit in the sky. I wonder how many of the world's problems could be solved if we just made everybody stop what they're doing and watch the sun set everyday.

Seminyak

Single Fin Club, Uluwatu

Gili Trawangan

Seminyak

And now we're sprinting down the homestretch. I keep reminding myself that most Americans would kill for a two-week vacation, so having two weeks Down Under until I go home is still quite the indulgence. I'm at my friend Alex's house just outside Perth, Australia, reconnecting with modern conveniences like safe tap water and toilets designed so that you can flush toilet paper, and the guy I spent so much time with in college that my cousin Emily wondered if we were getting married. Luckily, Al has much better taste than Emo gave him credit for, and his wife Natalie and their daughters have already made it feel like a family reunion. Sasha even wanted to wake up Uncle Kevin at 6:00 AM yesterday before going to day care and couldn't understand why daddy thought it was a bad idea. "Daddy lived with Kevin for two years in college, Sweetie. He's not exactly a morning person."

One last thing. Something about my last post struck a nerve, because it got the most pageviews since the first thing I wrote. If you've just stumbled upon this blog or checked back in after a few months, I'd love for you to check out the story about my week in Cambodia, undoubtedly the most memorable week I've spent on the road in a year of memorable weeks.

Oh yeah. I'm going home August 26th. Crazy.

Until next time...

This Whole Nutha Country

It can still be a blog if you take over a month off from writing it, right? Cool. I've been adventuring around Southeast Asia since the end of May (accompanied at times by one of a few blokes from Tonbridge, Misters Nick Carter and Jay Malihoudis, and a few other friends), taking full advantage of exchange rates that always come out in my favor and eating more rice than the previous 35 years combined. After a week in Cambodia and nearly four in Thailand, I've been in Vietnam since the end of June. It looks like a comma with a coastline, and it feels a bit like the Europeans tried to turn it into their summer beach house.

Because, well, they did.

And that's how Vietnam became what it is: an eastern country with a few recessive western traits - pockets of western-looking architecture; cities with wide, tree-lined boulevards; crusty bread and fruity pastries. In fact, Central Saigon feels a bit like somebody tried to copy Paris from memory but forgot to add in all the rude. Throw in harrowing experiences like "walking across the street" and "ordering something called chien on the menu,*" and you've got a mashup of East and West that demands you're always on your toes. And since western tourists only began converging on the country two decades ago, its tourist industry is still growing up, resulting in the most endearingly awkward place I've ever visited.

Saigon

Hanoi

*There are scooters and motorcycles EVERYWHERE here, and they don't believe in inconveniences like stopping - even for red lights - so crossing the street is always a game of Frogger. Chien, "dog" in French, means "fried" in Vietnam, essentially harmless but way too close for comfort, especially before you learn what it means in Vietnamese.

And it's a place that will always stick with me. Whether it was kids who giggled while saying the only English word they know, "hello," the bolder ones who asked to take a picture with me, or the constant glares in my direction while confused people tried to figure out how a human head could be so enormous, Vietnam is a friendly, gorgeous, quirky place. One that, sitting here in Singapore, I already miss.

Here are just a few of the many reasons why.

I Won't Tell No One Your Name

The first thing I noticed in Vietnam - in contrast to Thailand - was how genuinely friendly the locals were. Wait, that was the second thing. The first thing? Their names are ridiculous. Not the real names, mind you, but the names they've chosen because westerners can't pronounce the things g's and h's do to other letters. Instead of watching us butcher Nguyen, Gook, Anh, Luong, Ngoc, et al, many people there adopt Western-sounding names to make it easier on tourists, Jon Stewart style. (Gook's name, for example, has three syllables; he eventually told me to call him Henry.) At a hotel in Hue, I was greeted warmly by Amy, Anna, Mary, and Emma, whose names were definitely not Amy, Anna, Mary, or Emma. In Hanoi, a few of the guys took creative license with their names; Dragon and Happy were two of the best guys I met in the whole country.

And their commitment to service can be so personal that it borders on creepy. Everytime I walked into that hotel in Hue, Amy, Anna, Mary, Emma, and two bellhops I never met gave me the Norm Peterson treatment, standing up and saying "Hi Mr. Kevin" in unison. One day, I walked to the city's famous Citadel in the boiling heat, and Anna was there to greet me afterward. Which led to this:

"Hi Mr. Kevin, what did you did today?"
"I walked over to the Citadel. It's gorgeous. Can't believe so much of it was destroyed in the war."
"You walked there? It's too hot. You must be tired."
"Nah, it was okay. There's lots of shade and it's pretty close. I enjoyed the exercise."
"You sleep good tonight. And have many good dream. Tomorrow, I ask you about them and you tell me everything. All of your dream."
"Um, well, yeah. Okay, goodnight."
"I won't be here in the morning, but I will talk to you in the afternoon and hear all about your dream."

No, Anna. No you won't. Thanks though.

The Citadel, Hue

Everywhere I went - particularly if I was alone - locals took the chance to sit next to me and practice their English. One girl in Hoi An complained about her job and told me she was going to quit and go to a more popular bar/restaurant down the street.

With her boss standing five feet away.

My caddy at Danang Golf Course, a spunky 23-year-old named Hong (no Western name because Hong is easy to say), taught me a few new phrases in the language, including "hai wa" (good shot, which we didn't need to say very much), "come un" ("thank you"), and "mmm" (the slangy way to say yes). Unlike my friends the Ridgeways, who needed a machete to play golf along the Amazon, my foreign golf experience was, well, luxurious.

Danang Golf Club

Camera shy caddies

The best moment may have been delivered by Luong (David), my guide around Hue, who rattled off facts at historic sites like a sixth grader reciting the Gettysburg Address. No eye contact; can't be distracted and forget the next line. He took me to the elaborate tomb of an emperor from the early 1900s not well liked in Vietnam. He was a puppet for the French imperialists, he was consumed with vanity, he had no children. But the main reason he was despised?

"People think he was a homosexual."

I understood what he said, but he felt the need to enlighten me.

"It means he liked making love to the man and not the woman."

I see.

Name That Tune

There are few truly transcendent experiences in life. And rarely in my daily life do I come across things I must experience first-hand to fully appreciate, things where I can't take another person's word for it, visceral experiences that words are powerless to convey. You know, things like eating uni to realize how disgusting it is, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge on foot, and seeing an Asian man dressed like Kenny Rogers play "Fly Me to the Moon" on pipe organ.

Yep, I went to a live Muzak performance in Saigon.

Live.
Muzak.

It wasn't even all that shocking to see live Muzak in Vietnam, because from what I could tell, the entire country owns one of only three music collections: modern Muzak hits, loungey covers of The Beatles, Rolling Stones, and Rod Stewart, or Delilah's Favorite Hits. To say that Muzak and soft rock thrive there would be to understate their grip. They. Are. Everywhere. One delightful day in Hoi An, the most charming town in Southeast Asia, I sat in a restaurant eating cau lau and chocolate mousse and heard the following setlist, entirely in Muzak: "P.I.M.P" by Fitty Cent, the Theme Song from Rocky, and "Dancing Queen". Another night, I was walking down the main riverside promenade in Danang - Vietnam's third largest city and biggest magnet for Japanese money building high-end resort hotels - to see a very familiar sight in Vietnam: large groups of locals sitting on tiny plastic chairs on the sidewalk, drinking fresh beer out of ice-filled glasses. And I heard a very familiar tune on the cafe radio; familiar, at least, to my inner love-sick sixth grader: "Girl I'm Gonna Miss You," by Milli Vanilli.

It's a tragedy for me to see the dream is over, and I never will forget the day we met...girl I'm gonna miss you

(You're welcome)

The Great Outdoors

The biggest thrills in Vietnam don't happen in cities, though. I spent a lot of time riding my very own motorbike, despite Vietnam being the most dangerous place to drive in the world, and hopped of the beaten path for several hikes, bike rides, kayak trips, and more. Here are just a few pictures from the tours I took in the great outdoors, including one of the most remarkable experiences of my life hiking/swimming/climbing through the Phong-Nha cave system just north of the DMZ.

Hiking through the jungle

The mouth of the cave

Phong-Nha

With Mr Malihoudis

Everything Zen

Mr Carter and his kayak

And now I'm only a month from going home. I'm off to Bali tomorrow to meet my buddy Dong and, hilariously, learn how to surf all week. Off to Australia after that, and my trip comes to an end on August 26th, when Doc Brown and I travel back in time from Sydney to SF to tell the past me what a terrible idea it was to go home (depart Sydney at 14:25, arrive in SF four hours earlier at 10:30. May need a ride home. Ahem…friends?).

Round peg, square hole

Until next time...

Cambodia with GO

I met Bora on my first day in Cambodia. He looks like the prototype young associate you'd see in financial districts the world over: slightly built and smartly dressed, with short hair, wire-rimmed glasses, an easy smile and earnest, eager eyes. His work schedule would make any young investment banker jealous; he's only in the office 20 percent of the time, spending the remaining 80 percent in the field with clients. 

Bora's boss, Vichetr Uon (pronounced "vee-chet"), was born in 1979, a time of great strife in the former Khmer Empire. A young man by Western standards, Vichetr's considered old in Cambodia, where as many as three million people of his father's era were murdered by the brutal Khmer Rouge regime, eviscerating an entire generation of intellectuals and leaders whose ideas threatened its existence. Vichetr's father was one of the victims. 

Bora and Vichetr live and work in Kampong Speu, an outpost an hour outside Cambodia's capital, Phnom Penh. It's a quick drive out National Highway Four, past the textile factories where Old Navy t-shirts are made for pennies, where rules of the road are merely suggestions, and scooters zip by carrying entire families of four. On one bike.

That's where you see the real Cambodia, tucked away from the main road. A vast maze of dirt roads delivers you to the villages, where 80 percent of the nation's population lives in a kind of squalor tough to comprehend for a Westerner like me. Dirty green ponds supply drinking water; skinny white cows mill about next to the ramshackle huts the families call home, staring longingly at the mangoes and rice and whatever else is for dinner that day. And then there are the kids. Everywhere kids. Five of them for every adult. Data here are murky, but somewhere between 50 and 60 percent of the population is under the age of 22, a sobering reminder of the Khmer Rouge's genocide.

This is where Bora spends 80 percent of his time. He works for Vichetr's Sao Sary Foundation (SSF), doing the kind of work this country desperately needs. Together, they spend their days drilling wells in villages and installing water filters in huts, bringing families clean drinking water for the first time. They rescue kids from families who can't afford them and put them in school instead; saving them from being sold as forced laborers or tragic suppliers of the world's oldest profession. Vichetr educates villagers on basic concepts like saving for tomorrow - literally tomorrow, the day after today - to lessen the crippling grip loan sharks have on the village population. 

Vichetr teaching villagers about basic budgeting

And all of this comes for a price. If the villagers don't maintain their wells and filters, they lose them. Vichetr realizes that merely handing out things for free won't kill the fatalism that pervades in Cambodian society. He knows the path forward involves education, helping people create new habits that could turn around a culture whose people can't help but feel like the losers of a global game of wealth and security. Both Vichetr and Bora have an impressive work ethic, and each admits to crying sometimes when villagers don't hold up their end of the bargain, allowing their filters to fall into disrepair. 

But that doesn't deter them. It just means the work is nowhere near complete.

Bora and a BioSand filter

GO to Kampong Speu

Last Sunday, I met up in Phnom Penh with a delegation from Groundwork Opportunities, a San Francisco-based nonprofit with a simple, ambitious mission: to end extreme poverty. Founded and run by Bart Skorupa and Jenny O'Connor, GO scours the developing world for social entrepreneurs just like Vichetr: locals who are working in their homelands to combat poverty. Their model is relatively simple. Find people who are doing good work but need money and material support, and pair them with champions in the West who help provide those things. Unlike some NGOs who fly in and out without much follow-up, GO focuses on the data, making sure to track the results of every dollar donated, and guarantees that all donations make it to the field. Overhead is handled separately. A couple of times a year, Jenny and Bart bring groups to meet their partners on the ground and see the work they're doing.  There's no special qualification to join the trip ("just an open heart and an open mind," Bart told me when I met him for lunch earlier this year), and while several members of our 13-person team had already done something tangible to support GO's work, I merely tagged along to see what it was all about. 

And this is how I spent the week. Watching guys in t-shirts and bare feet install wells in villages while skeptical kids looked on. Helping build and install BioSand filters, miraculous little cement boxes that kill the bacteria in well water, bringing for the first time drinking water to huts that previously had to lug buckets of water from dirty ponds and boil it to make it safe. I stayed at a guest house started by SSF, where girls rescued from a future as sex workers are taught the hospitality business. I taught an English class in a village outside Siem Reap, at a school started by a Cambodian named Vey Lav in 2006; it's supported by Western donors and fees Vey ("way") earns from his tour guide business. I ate lunches in villages prepared with care by host families, eating unpeeled bananas and mangoes, chicken that was mostly bone, and ants. Yeah. Ants.

WATER!

And maybe I destroyed a perfectly good rough silk shirt, a highly traditional fabric in these parts. But that's a story for another time.

Elma School, Siem Reap

Vey is an entertainer; frankly, it'd be more efficient if - like the Joker - his mouth constantly formed a smile, because that's what he's doing most of the time. He hadn't even met our whole group before he was climbing a palm tree and bringing us its juice to drink. He wrapped a scarf around his head for a photo op, then perched dark shades on the face of a 60-year old village woman for a photo of her own. One day, when we all grabbed lunch on the long bus ride to his hometown of Siem Reap, we'd barely gotten our food when he grabbed his plate and thrust it in the face of a total stranger, lest they miss the chance to smell the fish he ordered. 

Vey being Vey

Vey studied English literature in University - his favorite book and movie are both Love Story, "Ali McGraw and Ryan O'Neal, so lovely" - and that's where he got the idea to teach English to the kids of his hometown. His school doesn't look like much: just two small cement buildings, three classrooms, a library, and a courtyard where the kids play soccer and volleyball. But here the staff teaches English to 288 students out of donated books with donated pencils, markers, and white boards. Say what you will about cultural imperialism, but learning English, in today's world, means one essential thing: opportunity. 

The kids here are the same as kids anywhere. Quick to pick up new concepts. Always ready to laugh. Much better than me at paper, rock, scissors. Huge fans of Angry Birds, even though there's no chance they've ever held a smart phone, let alone played the game. Pure, innocent, ready to be molded; generally well behaved, afraid to make mistakes in front of their friends. You know, kids.

Class, repeat after me: "Hello, my name is Kevin"

Kids, presumably not named Kevin

A few years ago, I did a six-week course with Junior Achievement in San Francisco, teaching second graders at a school in Chinatown the basic economic concepts "want" and "need." We'd show them pictures of things they could buy and ask them to identify which it was. Water? Need. Playstation 3? Want. Cheeseburger? Want/need, and so on. Standing in front of the kids at Elma School, kids who farm half the day and go to school the other half, who opt to spend an additional hour at Elma so they can learn English, who live with their families in huts the size of my living room and count toilets and t-shirts among their extravagances, who aspire to be tour guides and teachers and anything but beggars and sex workers, I was reminded of that lesson I gave about wants and needs. Only this time the kids were teaching me.

Cambodia's Future

Vichetr, Bora, and Vey are the Sergey Brins and Steve Jobs' of Cambodia, the bold visionaries who see a problem and dare to try and solve it. They're Indiana Jones in that cave searching for the Holy Grail, stepping blindly into the great divide, having faith there's a hidden rock or something there to land on, knowing that falling into the crevice is better than turning around and walking away. 

Sometimes, when he's not laughing, transitioning into a British accent to crack a joke, or spontaneously climbing a tree, Vey's demeanor changes, his voice gets lower, his eyes fix on a spot in the distance instead of darting around to make sure he sees everything in the room. He starts to talk about Cambodia, about the political challenges of de facto single-party rule, of stagnating nepotism and history books that scrape away entire sections of Khmer's plight. "Sometimes I lose hope for today's kids," he told me one night. "They'll never know what happened here. History is told by the winner and we didn't win."

I know I've only been here a week. I didn't know anything about Cambodia a week ago, and I still don't know much now. I know nothing about the leadership vacuum created by Pol Pot's genocide, or the cultural forces that kept this country poor while much of the world got rich. I know nothing about the post-Khmer Rouge agreements that Vey thinks ceded too much power to Vietnam, potentially shielding kids from a history they should learn so there's no chance it gets repeated. And I've seen only a tiny glimpse of their problems. 

But I do know this. There is hope for these kids. I'm not naive; I know the incremental nature of change means we're generations away from a fully-developed Cambodia. But Bora and Vichetr and Vey grew up here. They're products of the very system that, in their more defeated moments, each can sometimes doubt. And they're taking it upon themselves to change it, one step at a time.

I have a few ideas on how to help, and Bart and Jenny have identified several projects that need support. When I get home in the fall, I'm probably going to ask you to give us a hand. Stay tuned for details.

Aim high

Building filters

Delicious ants

In Thailand now. Scuba school all week. 

Until next time…