The People

Last night I was grabbing a quick pad thai on the streets in Bangkok and a man noticed how I said pad thai with vegetables. “Thatsa very american accent you got there,” he said as he waited for his veggie fried rice. Turns out he’s from Fort Wayne, Indiana, and was a fellow IU Alum. Even more, he makes a living writing a travel blog, www.hobotraveler.com. We spent two hours discussing everything from religions to computer showrooms in Bangkok to how hard it is to shag an Israeli girl. When I got back to my hotel room I began to reminisce in my head about all the people I had encountered along the way so far and it made me want to record their images and stories, no matter how short and insignificant they were at the time.


People like to talk to me. I'm not sure why. Even in the states, I get randoms coming up to me.


Easy to make friends with a cutey like this.
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Europe was filled with less backpackers than I thought it would be and we didn’t really meet anyone similar to ourselves. There was the lady who rented us a room in her apartment in Amsterdam, Colette. She was short with red spiky hair (dyed not natural). She smoked a lot and didn’t really make a huge effort with us, nor us with her. Then there were the two German hippies we stayed with in Berlin. Annette and Johannes. Jo was all smiles as he showed us around the apartment. We arrived at 8 am and we woke him up. His hair was a mess, sticking up like we forced his finger into a light socket. Annette had blonde natty dreads and was sexy in a German accent kinda way. I had a long talk with her one night about music festivals, the world cup, California, Berlin before the wall came down. I hope to see her again some day although I probably won’t.

In Karlovy Vary I bumped into a wandering homeless-type at a bus stop that asked me how long it would take to walk into town. He was speaking the unfriendly sounding native language. I was waiting outside my hostel and he seemed lost and disheveld. It was interesting how many people thought I was native Czech. Must be the beard.

In Poland we had a long and confusing conversation with the front desk ladies who were the only people we encountered who spoke no English. None. Zippo. We were trying to check in and they were lost. Their 50-something faces were rough and downturned and their hair was done up like it was Friday night. Of course there was plenty of make up lathered on and they were both smoking.

We met two backpackers in Hungary as they made breakfast one morning in the hostel we were all staying at. Names forgotten here as it was two long ago, but one was 20 years old, cute blond girl from Boulder and the other strapping dude was from Fort Collins, Colorado. They met in Prague and were traveleing together for the short term. They talked of the places they had been and were friendly enough towards us, the elders in the hostel. It was one of our first conversations with an American since we had left. In that same place I put myself in the fire and went to the common room where the Aussies were drinking heavily, dominating the scene. I sat myself down next to a 24-year-old Belgium guy who rather than going to school for his degree in Marine Biology should and could have been a male model. He had long, flowing hair and the perfect face. We talked about his schooling and journalism and the lack of a “free” press in the world. He was smart but probably that was overlooked when talking to others because of his stunning features. Even I was mesmorized by him.

In Croatia we came across Marco and his brother, whose name I forget. They ran a bike rental shop and sold wine out of their shed. Marco painted and smoked cigarettes all while always keeping his wine cup half full. There was no way he saw it as half empty. I never asked but I’m sure he always looked on the bright side. We talked about the beauty of Vis, Croatia, and the quiet serenity that ruled his existence. He was as happy as I had ever seen a man; content, giving, all smiles. He liked to pat my stomach and nudge my arm, not sure why though. When we returned the bike after a week we met his brother, a little older, a little bigger, but just as warm. We talked about Croatia as a whole and they debated in Croatian where the most beautiful places are. We were headed to a more popular tourist island next and they argued, playfully, regarding its charm. Even though we couldn’t understand a word they said, brothers are no different there than they are in America.


Our friend Mena. She was making her "the place was closed" face

In Greece we met a solo traveling man who was a bit older and was running from island to island trying to find a good sunset and a quiet beach. He wound up at the Pink Palace with us and hated it. He seemed old, sad and needy. There were others in Greece as well. The brothers who owned the hotel we stayed at for three weeks, Yanni and Vasilly. They looked like your typical Greek stereotype would. Thick heads of hair dominated their features. They had dark skin and larger than necessary noses almost as if they were bred to smell things from miles away. Both treated us with warm greetings using our names every time we walked through the restaurant. “Hallo, Areek and Andrea. How ar yoo?” Then there was the couple we met from NYC while in Athens. Yanni and Menna popped into and out of our lives quicker than some TV shows. We spent two glorious days exploring the sites. They will stay embedded in our minds forever as the connection that grew was stronger than we had anticipated.

In Thailand we met people at a much more rapid pace. First, there was an Israeli couple who sat in front of us on the 18-hour bus trip down to the islands. Never got their names and didn’t interact with them much, but we did make eye contact many times and to me, that was enough. We smiled and commiserated about the travel ordeal we were all embroiled in just using our facial expressions. There was Big Nigel, an expat on Koh Samui who ran an American-style BBQ restaurant. He was 400 pounds of joy and only rarely missed his former Los Angeles life. He talked about Tivo and video games and traffic and full moon parties. He was big fun and believe it or not, he was sweating more than me.

On Railay beach there was a woman traveling alone who asked to join our table as we drank beers and watched the sun set behind the warm, salty waters, the same waters that were part of the tsunami a year ago. She was from Sacramento and had just arrived. She was friendly, a bit too loud for my tastes, but not to the point of annoyance. She was just a little more type A than I’m used to. Also, we met two girls from England who had quit their jobs to travel for six months. We shared a long-tail boat together and they were hard bargainers. They forced our driver to give us money back because he had initially overcharged us. I could never do that. And with the Pound as their exchange money, they were haggling over 20 cents. I loved that scene. We shared the taxi boat with some German ladies, one of which I am sure I saw in a porno movie once, got upset with us for bitching about the price. “It means more to them than to you. Let him have it.” We felt miserly in the end.


Andy making spring rolls. A good way to meet people is by taking a class. Damn that day was fun!


We met Chris during our cooking class. We ate sooooo much that day. I strapped it on and envoked the spirit of the Shark

In Chiang Mai, an older, bald British man sporting a physical ailment walked up to me out of the blue. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with him but he kept shaking his head like he had a tick. He wanted to shake my hand. His eyes were popped wide open and he rarely blinked. He introduced himself and I to him. He held my hand longer than necessary and told me I looked like his brother Eddie. I took my paw back and thanked him, although I’m not sure if that was appropriate as I had never met his sibling before. Then he was gone.

In Pai, I tried to make conversation with a cool looking hippie couple. We were picking out movies at a theater house where you can rent a movie and they give you a perfectly set up living room to watch it in. (Brilliant idea by the way) They were rude and unwilling to put any effort into the initial back and forth. When I asked where they were from, their reply peaked an eavesdropper’s interest. “Portland,” the girl said. Out of nowhere an older man in his 60’s pops out like a hedgehog, “I’m from Portland!” The three of them talked as I sat there being completely ignored. I got up and walked away, didn’t even say goodbye. Never saw them again. I met an expat bookstore ownere in Pai who told me about the mudslides and floods from the previous year. He was cool but also very cold; something about his unwillingness to ask me any questions about myself. It was all me, the journalist, asking him questions. He also wouldn’t buy my already read books and forced me to run around to three other bookshops in the heat trying to get a good exchange.

In Luang Probang, Laos, we shared a taxi from the airport to the downtown area with an Aussie couple on their honeymoon. He was a massive rugby player who was happy and friendly and she was a cute blondie who liked tube tops. We had dinner with them and talked through the night. We got drunk because that’s what you do with Aussies. He told us about a horrific accident he was in where he almost died. They were riding bikes and he got hit by a car. It had only been six months but he had made a full recover. He even showed us his scars. Also in Luang Probang we met a lesbian couple from Canada at the waterfalls. They were friendly and we shared a moment swimming in the blue waters at the base of the falls. Later I ran into them in Ventienne, Laos, and shared a dinner with them at a restaurant on the Mekong River. We talked through the sunset about pushy Vietnamese and women travelers who showed too much skin.


I tried to make friends with the elephante but he was hit so many times by his handler, he wanted nothing to do with me.

My shortest and most memorable meeting happened just two days ago when I bumped into three older women traveling from Nong Kha to Laos. I was going the opposite direction to Bangkok and they peppered me with questions about Laos. I answered dutifully as a man walked up to sit with them. Lucas was short, dark skinned, big nose, white curly hair, lazy eyes and wide smile. He was wearing freshly bought army paints with the legs tucked into high, black shiny boots and a black t-shirt. His face reminded me of my Uncle Sam's face. (No, not that Uncle Sam, I really have an uncle named sam) He had a European accent but spoke perfect English. In the ten minutes that we talked I learned more about him than I know about some of my closest friends. He was Jewish and his family escaped Poland. As he said slowly and with a fierceness that I assumed he carried deep inside “that asshole Hitler made us all run.” I told him I was Jewish and his eyes lit up. Lucas was 42 years old but looked a bit older than that. He was a retired UN worker and had a daughter going to high school on the upper east side of NY. We talked briefly about his pension, my weight and having kids. He advised against having them and that made us both laugh. Lucas gave me his cell phone and home numbers in case I wanted to call him. He seemed taken with me despite only knowing me for about 600 seconds. He was an enigma and will remain that way in my mind. I know a lot about him but almost nothing about him at the same time. His cell phone ran and he had to pick up a friend at the 7-eleven. And just like that, Lucas had vanished.