"Good Morning Vietnam!"

It's 0h-seventeen hundred hours along a dusty road connecting the far reaches of the Mekong River Delta to the epicenter of South Vietnam, Saigon City. As buffalo graze near the asphalt, families of three and four stream by, carefully balanced on a single motor scooter. In a distant field, young men play volleyball and soccer as weary Americans ride this road attempting to stave off sleep after an exhausting day of maneuvers.

That was 1968, or was it 2015? Can you tell the difference? In 1968, my dad would be the American, surrounded by a melting pot of Latinos, African-Americans and other poor Southern farm boys and street wise city kids banded together by their early-20s age range and the fear of Vietnam's early dusk. You see, what makes 1968 Vietnam's twilight hours different from today's is that we were on our way to the safety of our hotel room nestled amongst the vibrant night markets and street vendors awaiting in what is now called "Ho Chi Minh City" by the Hanoi-based government.

Dusk marked the start of a nightly hell on Earth for American G.I.s as the shadows closed in and made men wonder if they had just witnessed their last sunset.

Today, our exhaustion was the culmination of river cruises and samplings of coconut candy, cheap souvenirs and fresh fruit. We had been dodging people selling post cards and bamboo carvings of Jesus along our pathways, not Bouncing Betty land mines and trap door ambushes by the Viet Cong.

So yes, the Vietnam my father left when fate lifted him from the clutches of an un-winnable war was different from the Vietnam I experienced today. When my dad left SE Asia, he left behind the country, but the ghosts of his experiences stowed away in the recesses of his mind. Though the  phantoms did not haunt me directly, they did lurk in the hallways of my home growing up. They were there when the slide projector and the bed sheets were brought into the sunken-floor living room dad built for us 10 years after leaving here. They projected a scene that will forever be in my conscious -- those of desolate plains created by Death's slow-acting partner, Agent Orange. They were images of the women who were kind to the G.I.s and the dead VC that were not. These were my specters, and today, I was able to start laying many of them to rest. It is my hope that this trip, with its photos, its stories, its anecdotes -- and a pinch of time's healing hand -- can help exorcise some of my dad's ghosts as well 46 years later.

In a very odd way, Vietnam and Mount Airy aren't that different. When you tell someone who is not from Surry County that you are from Mount Airy, they immediately think about Opie and Andy, and haircuts at Floyd's, a double-cell sheriff's office complete with Otis' personal set of keys. The Vietnam projected onto my 1970s living room wall is the same one written in our limited scope history books. It was the War. It is the War. For most Americans stateside, it is to forever be the War. Vietnam was that place where America had to intervene back when dominos were a war strategy and not a pizza delivery option. The viewpoint of both places -- the one I am from and the one where I am now -- is dated and unfair. I'm proud of what Mount Airy has become since its black and white days on the small screen, and I'm also oddly proud of what South Vietnam has become.

It's is a Communist country, don't get me wrong. The first image thrown in your face off the plane is a blazing yellow hammer crossing a yellow sickle, draped in the middle of a fiery red background. You may know it as the symbol of the Soviet Union back before Gorbachev and the moderates decided that maybe Glasnost was a decent replacement for command economy oppression. But, for every piece of Communist propaganda you see (and there's plenty, I assure you), there's an equal number of McDonald's, Popeye's Chickens, Burger Kings and enough Starbuck's Coffees to cover an entire block of downtown Seattle. Well, maybe that's a stretch.

You see, modern Vietnam is more than the War. It's an interesting blend of "capitalistic Communism" as such. Or, is it?

"Vietnam is Communist only in name alone -- the Party doesn't want to lose their seat," says our guide for the day, Tha Ven. If anyone knows the transition from Dad's 'Nam to my 'Nam, it's him. I'm not sure if that's the correct spelling of his name (especially since I cannot type Vietnamese characters on this keyboard), but we'll go with it. It was such a unique experience to spend the day with my newfound friend. His story boggles the mind. He was a member of the South Vietnamese Army and fought alongside American (and Aussie, and Kiwi, and Spanish, and Taiwanese, and Korean) soldiers in the attempt to keep Ho Chi Minh above the 17th parallel. As we know, the attempt failed, and as the US Embassy was evacuated in 1975, Vietnam was soon after unified under the direction of Chairman Ho Chi Minh. Almost as the last U.S. chopper left Saigon, banging clamored across Tha Ven's family door.

Because of his excellent English skills, the North Vietnamese Army concluded he must be a spy for the CIA. "'Shoot me,' I told them. I always was brave," Tha Ven told us from the passenger's seat of our rented Toyota van. "But, my mother she told me to go with them. For one month, she did not know where I was." One month after watching her son dragged from their home, she found out he was in prison on suspicion of spying against Ho Chi Minh. It would be 23 months later before he would be released. Apparently, it took the government a full two years to determine he was telling the truth. In the meantime, all six of Tha Ven's siblings became refugees stretching from Philadelphia to Houston to Los Angeles. Though he visits his siblings from time to time, he chooses to spend his retirement years in his native country after a successful career with British Petroleum (BP). He balks at the thought of ever calling Saigon "Ho Chi Minh City" and notes that most all men his age in the surrounding area served as members of the South Vietnamese Army (SVA). Most who served with the Viet Cong went to the north after the war.

Interestingly, he says at least 10 American Vietnam veterans currently live in his neighborhood. "It is so much cheaper for them to live here compared to America," he explains. The fact that 22,000 Vietnamese Dong is needed to equal an American dollar, that makes sense. "In South Vietnam, we love America still. For so long, in Hanoi, they hate America. But now, the young people -- the new generation -- they love America, too."

Today, without realizing it, Tha Ven played the role of Ghostbuster for me. Not the traditional Bill Murray type (and I'm assuming not the upcoming Kristen Wiig version either) mind you. But, today, he told stories about Dad's Nam, and American GIs, and the role they played in his life. He talked about quarreling with his British English teacher about the nuances of American pronunciations sounding better -- the ones he learned among the soldiers sent to protect people like him. He told these stories unwittingly as I sat behind his seat fighting back tears. He told these stories prior to learning that he shared the 1967-68 Vietnam with my father. He gave me a connection I so desperately needed to make sense of the scattered puzzle pieces of my Vietnam perceptions.

Today, there were flashbacks to the 1968 Vietnam I heard so much about growing up. Small girls offering to sell gum on the streets. Endless miles of rice paddies and triangular shaped hats darting up from the planting. When trash from the river coiled around the motor of our boat, our shirtless captain clenched a knife between his teeth and swam below to free it again. Then, as he climbed back aboard, he threw the knife to the floor so that he could answer his ringing Smart Phone. I don't think I could have scripted a better example of how the old and the new merged today -- and no, I'm not making that up.

So, today's Vietnam -- the one I am currently sitting in -- it's better. Investments in the 80s, America's investment in an international partnership during the Clinton years and continuing progressions in human rights tell you quickly that this isn't the Communist Party we tried to sequester in the Johnson and Nixon era.

"No one won that war -- America didn't lose, and Ho Chi Minh, he did not win -- but we all lost. We all always lose in war," Tha Ven stated stoically as he stared through the rain pelting . "The Americans, they just didn't do it right. They had to use might. They should have just given money and weapons and support like the Chinese did to Ho Chi Minh. He was smart like that -- I do not like Ho Chi Minh, but his strategy, it was better."

I guess that kinda sums up what happened and why Vietnam is still that red wine stain we can't get out of America's proud military history. Today was about more than just recounting war stories. There was food and laughter and culture and Giant Happy Buddhas and family time. It was no different than our trips to Bali or Nepal, Siem Reap or Langkawi. It just happened to be in Vietnam. Not Ho Chi Minh's Vietnam, or Dad's Vietnam or General Westmoreland's Vietnam. Just ... Vietnam. Which, honestly, is a little less weird today than it was yesterday.

And to think, this was just the first day.

From Malaysia to Mayberry

Well, I suppose it was bound to happen. We American-Asians get homesick from time to time. So, we decided to go back to Mayberry a year early for 5 weeks, and here's a few musings of the trip.

1. Intercontinental flying, take two -- This whole blog thing was inspired by my less-than-fun gastrointestinal hell when we first flew to Asia last summer. If you're new to the MtoM blogosphere, you can read all about my tumultuous time here. Eating bland food on both ends of the trip, I was able to have a whole different perspective on intercontinental travel. For one, I was able to sleep this time instead of sitting on the toilet for the majority of the trip. This was fine until I realized Jared had his head placed firmly on my femoral artery for about 3 1/2 hours on our way to L.A. from China. Imagine about 10,000 tiny pins piercing through the bottom of your foot all at once as the blood flow returned. The trip over to 'Muricah was pretty uneventful otherwise, save missing our connector flight due to a mysterious "fallen passenger" in the Guangzhou airport. We were set to board after an hour delay and were making it through the line when it suddenly stopped. Ethan went ahead of the other three of us to the plane. Suddenly we were not allowed to move forward. Apparently, someone had fallen on the ramp to the tarmac. Also apparent was the fact that no one in China is trained on how to handle such a situation. Countless China Southern attendants and airport workers huddled around discussing the situation, but no one seemed to do anything about it. Note to any Chinese people who might be in this predicament going forward. If someone falls, help them up.

(Translated) "Read it again! It has to be in there somewhere. 'What to do when someone falls' -- check the index!"

Now, as accident prone as Ethan tends to be, I will admit I had a sneaking suspicion he might be involved. In fact, it was kind of sweet (shocking?) to see how worried Jared was about his big brother. But, in typical teenage boy form, we found him at his seat, headphones on, screaming, "This entertainment system is awesome!!! Hey ... where were you guys?"

Now, the trip back to China was quite fun. Each of us received a little baggie that contained a blindfold, ear plugs like you'd use in a woodshop, a toothbrush, Chinese toothpaste and a comb. That was big time. It was just a riding crop away from being 50 Shades of Tool Time with Tim and his minty fresh breath and impeccable hair. I slept for almost 7 hours this time around! I guess it was the combination of the goodies in the baggie and the thermo-nuclear blankets Chinese people use to treat hypothermia. I guess those blankets are used to prep your body for the People's Republic of no Air-Conditioned airports. Between being able to count the dust particles in the air outside the terminal, the balmy 80 degree inside and $13 coffee, I think the layover in Hong Kong 2014 was a much better experience.

This poster was obviously created in a Chinese factory ... I think they kind of missed the point though. 

UPDATE (added 12:52 June 28) -- I forget this the first time I published. When we were leaving RDU to head to Los Angeles, the TSA worker asked Jared what his name was as she checked his passport. Not having known Jared for more than a nanosecond, she did not know what she was in for. "Jared Gray Lowe," he told her. "Nothing fishy about me." To my knowledge, this woman is still laughing. I know she was when we were well through the X-ray machines. This is my life. All the time. Jared never turns off.


2. You can't see everybody all the time -- No matter how we would have arranged this trip, we weren't going to see everyone. We kind of kept it on the down low for that reason, but that darn Facebook and posts like this one kind of let the cat out of the bag:

I may not have a future in the C.I.A. 

So, we had to make the quick, impromptu decision to focus on the "need'tas" over many of the "want'tas" on the visit spectrum. A "want'ta" consists of people you have worked with, gone to college with, shared a bus seat with and so on. The "need'tas" are folks that maybe you hadn't seen in quite some time, or meant to see before you left to see the other side of the world but didn't have time because the Malaysian government has really weird residency requirements when it comes to paying taxes. So, if you are among the few dozen people who wanted to see us when we were in but did not make the cut (and, many of you have made that quite clear via social media), it was not personal. We obviously spent about 85% of the time with our parents. Along the way, I saw a couple of great aunts now in their 90s, my wonderful 4th grade teacher who was celebrating her birthday with a few hundred of her closest friends, Norm and his chillren, Norma and Normette along with his mom. I also got to see my Aunt Rachel for the first time in forever and let her know what a wonderful influence she was on me growing up. That seemed to make her happy. I know this because she kept telling me, "You have no idea how happy this makes me." I'm good at reading people. It's why I'm so good at online poker.

For the 15% of the time we were in the Triangle, that was spent with Meg and Amy. When you have friends as dear and close as they have been for nearly 20 years now, you want to get in as much time as you can. They were gracious hosts, and I think the boys only broke three or four things while we were there. So, yeah, that's pretty good overall.

3.  We miss baseball -- So, Ethan and I did manage to sneak away to the Cedar Ridge-Orange attempt at at summer baseball game one Wednesday night. Prior to 2 inches of rain falling in about 30 minutes, it was great to see a couple of baseball mama colleagues, the new press box and the brick backstop. Good to know all those sweltering days conducting camps were put to good use. We stumbled across Ethan's former coach and he invited us to play in a tournament while we were in. Make no mistake about it, there are NO viable baseball opportunities in Malaysia. If you are reading this and considering a move to the peninsula, I cannot express this enough. There are a couple of little league teams, but it's not N.C. competitive baseball. So, we jumped at the chance. It was great to see Ethan on the field again, but it was also great to catch up with our old ball field buddies. When you spend freezing March mornings and sweltering June afternoons under a canopy tent with folks, you build a bond. The boy played well considering he only played in one tournament the whole time we have been American-Asians. I can't believe I'm saying this out loud, but I think I took baseball for granted even though it was a part of my life pretty much since I was 8 years old.

So, yeah, maybe they updated the uniforms since we left, but other than that it was just like old times. #shadeofgray

4. Summer sleeping (had me a blast ... of pain in my back) -- So, we're homeless now. We sold the house back in October, just before Halloween. I kept walking by the house while we were staying at Meg and Amy's, but the new owners never came out to see me. I thought they would be like, "Oh, thank you for giving us your house for a song! We are so blessed to live in a home that was full of love before us! You have given us a reason to move on in our lives!" Or something like that. They basically just stayed in the whole time. But, being homeless brings up a whole new batch of problems. Like, where were we going to sleep? Say no more! After five weeks of living out a suitcase and traveling from twin bed to couch to floor and so on, I now have ample excuse to get 2-to-3 massages a week! One of the cool surprises was the summer home my mom and dad bought for us! To some it may simply look like an Amish-built storage building, but when you've got DLC ingenuity and Janie at the design helm, it becomes so much more. Completely tricked out with bunk beds and a generator-powered A/C unit, we spent a lot of time at the summer home. This allowed for lots of fun -- and it was nice to not share a couch with my mom's dogs as in previous visits.

The summer house that love built (along with some Amish guy named Ronald or some Amish name like that).

I also got to mow -- a lot! I really like mowing. I guess I had taken that for granted, too. Living in a concrete jungle of 4.2 million people can do that for you. I guess I could volunteer to mow the field at MKIS, but the guy in charge of that likes to push mow. I'll let him keep push mowing a soccer field in 90 degree shadeless heat. But, mowing the area outside the summer home along our creek was just one of the ways I made it more homey. I also found a place for my painting of Angkor Wat I purchased while in Cambodia. Now, you're going to be AMAZED after you look at the picture below, but Jill didn't really want to the painting to be hung in our American-Asian condo. Luckily, it was a perfect fit for the Amishtron 3000 Summer chateau.

Look at those colors! How much would you pay for such a work of art? Thousands? Tens of thousands? 

5. Pork-a-Palooza 2015 (with apologies to Robin and Blaine) -- We might have made the mistake of telling people how much we miss eating things like bacon and sausage. I say this because everywhere we stayed, we were inundated with pork. Now, I'm not complaining. I'm all about some pig, but what I have come to realize is that pork products fulfill the three major Southern food groups at an alarming rate: 1) Fat; 2) Sodium; 3) Yumminess. Now, if it weren't for those first two, the third wouldn't be that big of a deal. But, that yummy factor really makes you want to keep eating said pork goodness. Factor in trips to Scoops and Speedy Chef in Mount Airy along with Goodberrys and Krispy Kreme in Durham and you've got the making of some serious weight gain. Moving back to the peninsula might ultimately save our lives. Oh, and a true story ... as we were devouring a dozen KK doughnuts, Ethan said, "I don't remember the last time I had one of these!" I do ... like 2 months ago. There's about three KKs within 15 miles of our Condo. Heck, I walked past one yesterday as I tried to shed some fatback off my fat back. But, we're back on the bandwagon now. I swam for 30 minutes yesterday morning at 7 a.m. before walking for 2 1/2 hours. I mean, I had been awake for four hours, so it wasn't that big of a deal. Which brings us to the last key point ...

6. Jet lag is worse coming back than going to 'Muricah -- Maybe it was the excitement of seeing our family for the first time in a year. Maybe it was the belly full of Chick-fil-A we had devoured in the Atlanta airport. For whatever reason, we really adjusted to good ol' Eastern Daylight Time at at record pace. It was great to see the sun up past 7:30 p.m. It was rather cool to sleep until 9 a.m. the next day. That has not been the case since we returned. "First breakfast" and "Second breakfast" are now part of our American-Asian lexicon. We actually slept until 4:30 this morning. It was great. Jill had to go to work this morning. Nothing like being up for 4 1/2 hours before you head off to work, huh? On that note, I guess I should go take her some 3rd breakfast, or 1st lunch, or whatever it is.

Until next time ... glad to have you back, blogosphere fans.

Butterflies in Nepal

Butterfly Effect (from our source verified friends at Wikipedia): "In chaos theory, the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear state can result in large differences in a later state."

You can also refer to the God-awful movie Ashton Kutcher was in by the same name back in 2004, or I can put it in even more simplistic terms -- you never know what effect one action might have on a future action. Most people use the analogy of an African butterfly wing flapping, causing a disturbance in the meteorological system that results in a hurricane half a world away on the Florida coast.

Why am I choosing to talk about the Butterfly Effect? I assure you that I have started writing this blog entry in my mind no less than a dozen times, but I truly don't know how to reflect what our trip to Nepal was like last week. So, I'll talk about the Butterfly Effect.

A little over a year ago, Jill and I decided we would take a job in Malaysia. We took a job at Mont' Kiara International School. This is a school where Michelle Bliss used to teach French.

Michelle became acquainted with the country of Nepal as a tourist and began working with children there to make sure they had the best opportunities possible for education in the world's 3rd poorest nation based upon national GDP figures. She left her job at MKIS four years ago and dedicated her life to helping these kids full time. Now, the home she has created is self sustaining and managed by 23-year-old Leela -- the first Nepalese student Michelle sponsored over a decade ago. There are currently eight children ranging in ages from 3 to 18 living there. So, instead of a 2 hour hike down the mountain to get to school each day (and yes, the 2 hour hike back up the mountain), the kids have a 5-minute walk, a place to eat two meals a day and study. And, when I say study, throw your concept of studying out the window. While we were there, we were entranced by 4-to-5 hours a night of continuous study time. Many times, as they read their notes aloud, the humming of the house echoed similarly to the Tibetan monks we had heard chanting days before in our excursions.

The house itself is a rental and is approaching its second full year of operation. Michelle and her friends who comprise the Board of Directors devised a plan to help finance the home through a travel program she calls, "A Taste of Nepal." Several MKIS teachers have taken the trip in the past. Michelle depends on word-of-mouth advertising to get other folks interested. It helps pay the bills and finance upgrades such as solar powered water heaters and upkeep of the organic garden that supplies the majority of the food they eat each night. Sustainability isn't just a buzzword in Nepal -- it's a way of life. Go a day without clean drinking water or eight-hour periods without electricity to get a feel for Nepal. Leela told us, "God did not bless us with great material things, but he gave us this to wake to each morning," as he pointed to the Himalayas surrounding the home.

Our actual view from "the Garden" each day.

Last fall, I randomly opened an email from a colleague discussing a travel opportunity in Nepal. Jill and I were enthralled by the opportunity and soon booked it for our spring break last week. As you probably have figured out by now, this was through Michelle. Her eye for detail and strong sense of organization made for an unforgettable start to our vacation, but when we boarded the 25 minute flight from Kathmandu to Pokhara, our vacation (and maybe even our family's life) changed.

We immediately fell in love with the children at the home in Pokhara and realized that the revenue from our trip was going to be well spent. But, we wished we could do more. We also wished there was some way we could describe the magical feel of Nepal to our friends back home, but we also realized that a few snapshots and some blathering on a blog would never do justice to the way we felt when we were there. We left the home with a heart full of blessings and a feeling of inadequacy.

On our final morning in Kathmandu before flying back to Malaysia, Jill and I decided to take the steps instead of the elevator to breakfast from our 7th floor room. We nearly ran into a woman at the fourth floor. Jill paused and allowed the woman to pass with a smile and apology. Good ol' fashioned Southern hospitality travels with you world wide, you see. We sat down at breakfast, and a few moments later, the same woman asked to join us at the breakfast table.

After an hour of talking with Jennifer from Montana, we shared our experiences as educators (she had taught art and English to a village in Nepal years ago and was returning for the first time since the experience) and also the program Michelle had started known as "the Garden." We also talked about Bimala -- a native Nepalese woman who also had started a school that had grown to 170 strong. We joined Bimala for dinner the night before where she shared her exuberance for her country, her culture and her school. She and her husband had rallied support and financing for the school from locals (remember that this is the 3rd poorest country in the world) to give Nepalese kids a chance at a proper education. The three of us marveled at the resiliency and determination of these two special women, Michelle and Bimala, in their desires to make a difference in this world.

At the close of the breakfast conversation, Jennifer admitted she was painfully shy and Jill's sweet spirit at the stairwell had helped draw the courage to ask if she could sit with us. She also shared that many of her friends and family back home had given her money prior to her trip and asked that she find a good use for it in Nepal.

A sweet smile, a little courage and a few cups of coffee later, we were sharing both Michelle and Bimala's contact information with Jennifer because she felt the work they were doing would be worth the money she had to share. And that, my friends, is the Butterfly Effect.

Butterfly wings are beautiful and deceptively strong agents of change. Moments of kindness, humility, graciousness and maybe even chance added to our Nepal experience that morning. I could tell you about the paragliding and the mountainside resorts, the hikes and the food. I could tell you that both Ethan and Jared have pledged to be better people because of the experience. But, instead, I'm just going to share this story and hope it may cause a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear state that results in large differences in a later state in your life.

If anyone would care to help Michelle in her noble endeavor, feel free to do so at their website: http://sansarnepal.org/welcome/about/.


Namaste.

Peninsular Poetry

Oh Malaysian peninsula
As you jut out into the sea
Your culture, your food, well, I must conclude
They are causin' a change in me.

My words, they sound a bit different
My temper has become quite tame
I wear shorts year round, I bound at the sound
Of a street hawker's quaint "Same-same". 

Oh, the multitude of skin tones,
Varying tongues and vibrant dress;
Each day that I grow, I reap and I sow
Opportunities so largess.

I study your streets and rivers
Your children, your wise and your old.
The sounds and the smells, the fried prawns with tails
The richness of cultures so bold. 

I am but a wayward Gringo,
But yet I find open your arms.
The me you see, you allow me to be
And that portrays much of your charms. 

Back home they sit and they wonder
"What must it be like in this land?"
Depends on the day, to Starbucks we stray
Or is a jungle trek at hand?

As great as the adventures seem,
I turn to a point of address:
The smell of the grass, my TOK class
I miss them so, I must confess. 

But life is full of twists and turns,
And this is the one I now find. 
My boys how they grow, with so much to show
And this we all must keep in mind. 

So blessed are we to live today
On a planet filled to the brim. 
So travel shall we, with so much to see
Still humble and and gracious to Him. 

Traveler's Guide to Potty Breaks and Teenagers

Hello, Blog fans. Today I bring you essential information if you are ever to travel along the Malay Peninsula. These tips primarily are designed for people riding on buses, but if you are planning to ride on a scooter (or by unicycle), I suppose they will work for you, too. Buses tend to be the better option though if you are taking 22 teenagers along for the ride.

I am currently a coach on the MKIS girls' softball team. Spring seasons (which are known as snow season back in North Carolina these days) basically consist of about five weeks where you play three weekend tournaments and practice in the gym with whiffle balls while torrential rain storms pound the roof. So, in other words, it's not that different from high school baseball in North Carolina.

We went to our first big tournament this past weekend in Singapore, and both the boys' and girls' teams from our school were in tow. When you sign up to be an international school varsity coach, you have to make many sacrifices. For instance, I had to skip an event known only as "Pork-a-palooza" amongst fellow Gringos. As both girls' coaches were invited, I was insured it would be okay because once we got to Singapore, we would be inundated with multiple pork opportunities -- the Chinese culture is more prevalent than the Malay Muslim one we have here in KL. Translation -- morning bacon ... from a pig. It's not a pulled pork sandwich, but I was getting very excited.

So we loaded up at 7 a.m. and headed off with no problems. Well, actually, we had lots of problems.

TIP No. 1 -- when working with high school students, make sure you take NOTHING for granted.

We were actually proud of the fact that most of the kids showed up on time for the bus ride. It then dawned on us that maybe some of the kids didn't have their passports, especially since we were taking some middle school kids on the trip with us. For several, this was their first sports trip out of the country. Just as we suspected, one boy and one girl had forgotten their passports. Middle Schoolers? Of course not ... it was the older high school kids who had traveled out of the country several times. Luckily, the female player lived next door, but we had to wait about 15 minutes for the boys' mom to bring it from their condo downtown. After a 3 minute "this is how you ride a bus" lecture from our guide, we were off.

Don't leave home without it!

TIP No. 2 -- Malaysian travel centers are all the same-same.

About every two hours or so (assuming a bus travel speed of roughly 95 KM/h), you have a Malaysian travel center. You may recognize one of these about every 10 miles or so along the I-40/I-85 corridor if you are currently living in an area missing school for snow. But, instead of a Burger King attached to a gas station and a Truck Stop, these typically are a hybrid of a rest stop with toilets and hawker stalls. Hawker stalls are basically local food like rice and noodle dishes, occasionally with a fried chicken stall ... and at least one "Western" option. If you ever choose the "Western" option, you are not actually "Western" -- you are an Asian who thinks what you are eating can be found in restaurants all throughout Canada and the US. You would be SADLY mistaken, my Asian friends. In actuality, we do not have "meat" burgers topped with 16 oz. of mayonnaise, a cucumber, onion slice and ketchup. We also do not slather our chicken hot dogs with 12 oz. of mayonnaise (smaller buns, smaller portion) and ketchup. In other words, our food does not primarily consist of mystery meats and a pre-mix portion of Thousand Island dressing. Except for the Big Moe ... it actually kinda does fit that at O'Dells, but I digress, Mayberryians. 

The 22 teenagers did what all teenagers do, bought bags of junk food and sugar based soft drinks. They do this to sustain the unrelenting noise levels generated on a chartered bus. The coaches elected to go with the Roti stand. "Roti", in case you are not familiar with Malaysia, is basically the word used for any type of bread. But, Roti Canai, the dish, is an awesome dough that is spread paper thin and pan fried with your favorite fillings. I like mine plain and dip it in curry or dhal, but one of the coaches wanted Roti Pisang, which is basically banana Roti. When she ordered, she was told, "Finished" -- oh that horrible word that all Gringos hate! It translates to, "we only carry a limited supply of food at all times, and once it is gone, you need to get over your hedonistic ideals of getting what you want when you want it -- if you don't like it, feel free to get the hell out of our country, Gringo." But, for simplicity's sake, they just say, "Finished."

If we had a Malaysian Costco, "finished" would be finished!

Never underestimate the wants of North Americans though. Like an episode of Captain Planet, the combined forces of the Southerner, the Northwesterner, the Rocky Mountain Man and the Canuck came together to devise a plan to defeat the evil "Finished" fiend! Across the way (just like with EVERY Malaysian rest area), we knew there would be a fruit stand ... with Pisang. And, there was. And, we bought it. And we brought it to the stand. And, we said, "No more Finished!" Suddenly the tyrannical "Finished" collapsed to its knees! 

We knew that this would be our last Malaysian meal for two days and pork paradise was just 2 hours south of the border, so we feasted and got ready to board the bus. But first, there would be the necessary last bathroom break of the trip. This brings us to ...

Tip No. 3 -- Using the restroom in Malaysia

Don't you feel the waste basket is a nice touch, American-Asians? 

Bathrooms in Asia are a lot of fun. You never really know what you are going to get because bathroom habits are cultural. Some use toilet paper, some do not (don't ask). Some use squat toilets, others use regular toilets. What's that you say? What is a squat toilet? Well, I'm glad you asked. We'll start with a basic illustration (look to the right of your screen). Now, there are all types of scientific research that says there is less pressure on your rectum to squat instead of sit, and I suppose this is the reason why Asians prefer the "squatty" as we call it 'round here.

Has this ever happened to you, ladies? 

Luckily, I'm a guy, so rarely does the squatty issue apply to us. However, while standing to do your business, you are still reminded of all the issues that can occur in an Asian rest stop wash room. They are posted on every wall. For, you see, we Gringos are here, and we are loud and we are proud and we like to sit when we poo even if it means our rectum has too much pressure on it! With the blended cultures, you have squattys AND toilets at almost every roadside stop (incidentally, you usually only have squattys in authentic Chinese restaurants, so be prepared).  The combo approach leads to washroom logistic symbols, such as this one...

Ready ... aim ... aim better ... aim better ... fire!

Luckily on this trip, I just needed to stand to complete my mission, but this brings me to another point that is fascinating. If I'm being honest, I'm not really high on putting my bum on some of the seats I've seen in ANY public restroom regardless of continent. But, I don't understand this commonality in Malaysian public restrooms ... the urinals are always numbered! I do not have photographed evidence of this. Guys typically get a little uncomfortable when you are standing at a urinal and whip out your camera. Just take my word for it ... it's true. 

I wonder sometimes if there's like a lottery or something. Should I choose Urinal 3? It looks like a winner. Will bells and whistles sound from a speaker system? Will confetti collapse out of the ceiling? Can it be used as toilet paper if it does? Malaysian toilet paper is so bad it makes the stuff in Port-a-Potty units seem like triple-ply Charmin.  

Maybe on a busy day, the numbered urinals are just part of a policy that makes it easier for crowd control. "Urinal 5 is now available with no one in line." Part of me wonders if it is to help investigators track down toilet crimes. "The perpetrator was last seen emptying his bladder at Urinal Two along the Travel Station outside of Johor ... you know, the one with the noodle stands and really good Beef Rendang. No, the other one ... no, not that one ... no, the other one ... the one with the banana stand ... no, the other banana stand ... no the one with the Roti place that is always "Finished" with its Roti Pesang." Either way, I usually go with Urinal 3 when I travel. I guess it's just a comfort thing. Plus, it gives you something to look at while finishing your business.

After filling up on banana dough and analyzing bathroom etiquette, it was time to go. We ran about 10 minutes over our expected leave time, but we had a huge window of time to get ready to play softball in 95 degree heat on Astroturf!

Tip No. 4 -- Do not assume your driver knows where he is going. 

So, yeah, we get to ride in a chartered bus wherever we go for sporting events or field trips. In my defense, we had to ride in a small 12-person van when I was coaching U15 basketball, but it's hard to argue with the travel amenities during volleyball and softball seasons (did I mention I coach four sports at MKIS?) We thought we were in good shape once we got into Singapore, but then I suddenly felt like I was a character in the movie, "National Lampoon's Singaporean Vacation." You know the scene from "European Vacation" right? Clark Griswold (yes, this is his second mention in a MtoM blog) has decided he can manage to drive around London and gets caught in a round-a-bout from which he cannot escape. They keep pointing out Big Ben and Parliament over and over again while trying to get left. In case you are overtly uncool, I provide evidence:

Now, the other girls' coach pretty much lives in Singapore in her free time. She had stayed in the hotel in which we were registered about five times before. She kept telling the driver he was going the wrong way, and he kept nodding. And then we saw the Raffles center ... again ... and the convocation center ... again ... and the Ferris Wheel ... again. So you kind of see the Griswold analogy. After circling the world's only independent city-state about six times, we finally rolled into the hotel. We had 12 minutes before the host school bus would pick us up. I would have no time to get a BLT from Subway, but that was okay ... I'd have that scrumptious bacon the next morning.

Tip No. 5 -- Never assume a Singapore hotel will have bacon on its breakfast buffet

This one, sadly, is self-explanatory. What we did have was a tad short of expectation all together. It was bad enough I had to shower the night before in a stall so small I turned the water off four times with my elbow while washing my body (this is NOT a hyperbole). It was bad enough that the TV didn't work. It was bad enough that the wi-fi code could only be used for one device only, and you had to pay for extra device usage ($10). But, to top it all off, no bacon AND a crappy alternative buffet. There was no meat. Just your typical powdered eggs, baked beans (it's a British thing, Americans), and hash brown sticks. Actually, the hash brown sticks were pretty good. So, I ate my weight in hash brown sticks, with a bowl of Cocoa Krispies and some nasty instant coffee that I had to cut with three heaping spoonfuls of brown sugar. Luckily, things could not get worse. 

Tip No. 6 -- Never assume things cannot get worse

Alright, we didn't win any games (though the boys won a big one), but our young team got better and scored 19 runs in four games. Our focus was to get better offensively, and we did that. For once, fortune actually seemed to be on our side when we got done about an hour early. The bus, you know the one that got lost in downtown, was supposed to be there by 5, but we thought maybe we could get a head start. We tried to call the driver. And then we tried again, and again, and again. And then it was 5 ... and then 5:15 ... and then 5:30 and then 6:00 and then 6:30. So, we have a bunch of restless, exhausted teenagers who haven't eaten since 11 a.m. sitting out in the Singaporean sun waiting for our driver. Word came that a Malaysian charter bus was located at the "other" campus, the sister school of the one we were at. But, we were told that bus was for the other Malaysian school in town (ISKL), so we kept trying to track down ours. We finally got in touch with the tour guide. Not only had they gone to the wrong campus, but they also told the people at that campus that they were there to pick up ... yep, you guessed it ... ISKL. Things were not pretty when they showed up two hours late. I spare the details but they can pretty much be summed up in this meme:

Yep, hammer meets nail on this one. 

The driver showed me it was all a misunderstanding because they had been given the wrong address. The address he showed me was the address we were at. Despite multiple attempts, we could not convince them to write the directions down the previous day. Batman has illustrated our feeling about that decision above. When you get on the road two hours late, you're starving and you're really limited in where you can stop to eat. It doesn't make it any better when one of the students forgets, uh-huh, you can't make this stuff up ... his passport on the bus at the immigration center. So, we decided to stop at the first travel center we encountered after crossing the Malaysian border. Our choices ... noodles and rice and some fried chicken. Oh, and a Baskin-Robbins. Real Western food finally. So, our starved teenagers decided to all get ice cream as their main meal, and I wanted to cry. I ended up getting toast with peanut butter, two servings, and some ice cream. The girls fully sugared and the boys all complaining about heat rashes in the nether-regions, we headed off for home. I finally rolled in bed around 1:30 in the morning and slept through the morning. This blog was pretty much all I worked on until dinner. Which I fixed.

Fried Pork Chops with mashed potatoes and rosemary green beans and carrots. Comfort gringo food. What a great weekend. 

From Dark Desperation Comes American-Asian Memoir Gold!

Okay, I admit it. As with many Tar Heels, I'm not taking Coach Smith's death too well. So, I have decided to do what I always do when I'm experiencing pain. I'm turning to the funny. It's Freud's forgotten defense mechanism. You just laugh and laugh and laugh, and in doing so, you push that hurt down just a little bit farther. That's completely healthy. Been doing it for years. What's the worst that can happen (prerequisite twitching eyelid, shoulder tick ensues)? It's why the most successful comedians tend to be tortured souls. Or, cocaine addicts. I'll lean toward "tortured soul" because I get a little jittery when I drink a cappuccino. Probably should avoid the Blow.

This idea dates back to the early 70s (the funny, not the drugs ... no drugs in the 70s). For those from Mayberry and a select few Gen X'ers at UNC, you are aware of the legend of Norm and Jay. It is a powerful, powerful force that cannot be explained with words. It can only be experienced. For those not versed in Mayberry lore, Norm is my childhood best friend. Pretty much inseparable until this whole marriage/career thing got in they way. I would tell you Norm's real name, but I'm not fully sure I remember it. Maybe it started with a "B"? No that was Bryan Lynch, no, wait, it was Bryan King ... or was it Bryan Lowe? Levering?  Was Brian/Bryan the only name available to Surry County parents in 1972/73? Let's just stick with Norm.

What many back home may not know is the fact that Norm and I shared a front yard for about 9 months while Pa was building the current Lowe Homestead back in '77. As you could imagine among 5 year-old boys, there would come times when one of us would get hurt. Typically, if I remember correctly, this involved one of us falling off the swing set. You would assume this would compel the other to run and fetch an Emma or a Janie for help, but since it was most likely the not-hurt Jay or Norm that caused the accident, this would never happen. Instead, in order to avoid severe grief and punishment, the non-hurt Norm/Jay would immediately begin a comedy routine to shape the tears of pain into tears of unmitigated laughter and joy.

It was a formula that worked for decades, well into our adulthood. Not ironically, in my time of sorrow, it was Norm that IM'ed me to make it all better on this past Malaysia Monday/Lynchburg Sunday. And, it did. Granted, I was in the middle of class and probably should have ignored the FB ding of doom. But, it was Norm. I wish I could have IM'ed the rest of the afternoon, but it was late in Lynchburg. Also, have I mentioned I had a classroom full of kids? It was short, it was quick, but it was oh-so-therapeutic. So, to Norm, I say thank you. As always. Mark March 13th as your day to celebrate Norm. I suggest making t-shirts to commemorate the day. I know a vendor that can get them direct from China on the cheap-cheap. Same guy who sold me the $15 Beats headphones for Christmas. And yes, all three sets are already broken. But the shirts ... oh they are very nice! Good price! (I'm becoming an elderly Chinese street vendor)

I've been trying to decide what my next steps should be in this crazy life turn I have taken (in case being an elderly Chinese street vendor does not work out in the saturated Malaysian market). Some have suggested I write a book after reading the previous blogs. Though flattering, I'm pretty sure the great authors of our day were probably pretty well read. I do manage to read from time to time, but much to Lowanda's chagrin, I'm not really what you would call an avid reader. Lowanda Badgett, of course, is the "first name basis only" figure in the annuls of North Surry English lore. At best, I'm a "read the back of the book and pretend I might read it ... nah, probably not" reader. Or, a "book looker" as it might be. Okay, I drink coffee at Borders once in a while.

I've got a collection of stories that would bring Augusten Burroughs and David Sedaris to their collective dysfunctional-memoir knees. Granted, I have never read either of their works, but I have experienced them second-hand through Jill's love for both. From what I understand, they basically just embellish the details of their past and make lots of money on it. Apparently, Burroughs used to run around with kitchen shears or something, and that makes for a great read that lady book clubs eat up. Of course, I'm not a gay man. I think this is possibly a prerequisite for a great memoir writer. I have gay friends. I voted against Amendment One. Maybe I could write a dysfunctional novella?

I have a family tree that sort of interweaves. That has to provide some potential for a good memoir. I was fat when I was young. People love fat kids. That might sell. I have all kinds of wacky stories from my ultra-White, rural upbringing, actually. I'm pretty sure watching the Jeffersons and Good Times was as close as we got to minority exposure in Bottom, short of playing baseball with Charles Tucker. Okay, maybe I don't have the goods for a sizzling childhood memoir. What else is selling now?

Ah yes, middle aged, mother-of-two-point-five soft porn. That's burning up the shelves these days -- and you've got to think about the movie rights! Pretty formulaic. Easy. Twelve Shades of Chartreuse ... that's catchy. Obviously doesn't take a lot of talent (again, haven't read it, but based on what I hear, it makes grocery store romance novels read like ol' Bill Shakespeare).

I guess I could write about my days in public school classrooms ranging from Hillside to Cedar Ridge. There's plenty of stories from my coaching days. Not a lot of wins, but plenty of stories. Or, there's this private school gig I've got going now where we have monkeys, geckos and kids getting dropped off by "Driver" in a Mercedes Benz. Now that I think about it, I have a few stories about a lot of my life, but not a lot of stories about specific aspects of my life. I guess that's why great authors need to read ... so they can find inspiration. It's kind of like Sam Smith listening to a lot of Tom Petty records for "inspiration" if you hear me (wink-wink).

I do like to read comic books! Well, I used to. That's what we used to call graphic novels. Today, we just call them blockbuster movies with recovering drug addicts featured in John Hughes' movies in the 80s (but not the 70s ... no drugs in the 70s). I could take all the best of my Marvel Comics recollections and work that in as well. Maybe I could get a consult with Joss Whedon just to be safe. Okay, this is coming together. What if it goes something like this ...

DARK DESPERATION by Jackson Lau

(how's that for a clever pseudonym ... no one will EVER figure out it is me) -- the following description will be found on the back of the book:

Norm Edwards Smith is a man on the run. Unbeknownst to his colleagues at the prestigious Bon Kara International School, the girls' softball coach has more on his mind than just bringing home a championship to the Geckos. His mutant powers successfully suppressed by a controversial procedure developed in the Research Triangle Park, he must travel throughout Southeast Asia to track down clues to his past. Since a traumatic head injury incurred in a sex dungeon, Smith has had to live his life as a slightly overweight gay Black man in hopes of recovering the missing pieces of his forgotten life. His only reasons to hold on to hope -- a mysterious note from a secret benefactor known only as "Uncle Grandpa" and the recurring thought of fish frying in a kitchen and beans burning on a grill.

Well, that's all I got. Remember, I don't actually read anything past the back of the book. That will have to do for now. I will be available for a (back of the) book signing at a Borders somewhere near you this summer. I'll take great care not to spill coffee on it.

Boys' Day Out, Part Deux

While Mamacita is away, the hombres play ... ah yes, it was another typical, crazy weekend for the testosterone driven wing of the Lowe household. Jill, in an attempt to show her true altruistic side, volunteered to go with our school's tennis teams to Myanmar (pause to allow for Google Maps search ... up, up, to the right of India ... no, not quite that far ... no, that's Laos ... there it is!). Because both coaches are males, they needed a female chaperone to basically do bed checks for the female players at night. Forget the fact she got a big ol' fat travel stipend and an all expense paid trip to see the world's largest gold temple in Rangoon, it's for the kids, people. She truly is a saint.

Would you rather ... boys' weekend or go here? Duh! No brainer. 

So while Jill was gallivanting around the land-once-known-as-Burma, the boys and I realized it had been too long since I had written a good ol' fashioned "My, how things are different here" blog, and we took off to explore the big city. Now, those of you who are regulars here at the "May to Malay" Blogosphere know that food is a big part of the Malaysian experience. We returned to the site of one of our first bloggable moments, the Kuala Lumpur City Centre, or KLCC as we call it here, and we decided to make a day of it. Luckily for you, there was just a whole slew of blogtastical stories to share -- and that was just during lunch.

PART ONE: Traditional Gringo Lunch

So, the last time we went to KLCC, the regular readers might remember that the only "American" food we could find was Belgian waffles. Well, this was because expats, in the first month of living in a new country, have a disease known as "Chain food blindness" and it's serious. It affects countless half-dozens of people -- semiannually. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie have (thought about, in passing) foundations to bring awareness of the affliction. Sarah McLachlan would sing about it if she didn't have to change litter boxes all day. 

For only pennies a day, you can help a Gringo see Potato Skins again.

For, you see, in those first critical days in KL, we never saw Chili's at that mall. I know, I know ... those of you in Durham right now are probably thinking, "What? That's like not noticing that new Hillsborough Road Krispy Kreme!" And, people in Mayberry are thinking, "What? That's like not seeing, uh, the Chili's on 601!"

In fairness, Chili's does not have a "Hot Now" sign to stop traffic. 

So, our Chain vision restored, we sauntered into Chili's, needing some legitimately Gringo-esque food to start our day at KLCC. The first thing you should know about U.S. chain restaurants in KL (and we've got 'em all from Applebee's to TGIFriday's to Outback Steakhouse) is that they don't serve pork products. Oh, you can get pork products in this country, just not at American restaurants. Typically, you can get pig in restaurants that serve European food (enter ironically witty "no-go zone" Fox News joke here). So, if you're going to get your back-home-favorite appetizer, expect it to come with beef bacon. No, not turkey ... that's non-Halal, too. Beef bacon cheese fries. You get used to it. I mean, at least it's not good for you, right?

The concept of the 'Murican chain restaurant in Asia is so fun to examine. It makes you wonder just what's on the minds of these corporate trainers who convince local Malay folks to act SOOOOOO out of character to make us, "feel at home" at Chili's. I mean, I felt so comfortable, I could have closed a Dunder Mifflin/school system paper account right on the spot (despite Jan's attempts to ruin the deal). 

You need some for instance? You need the examples? Do you? Do you? I thought you might. So, as per usual in blog-o-rific settings, I took a few notes on the 'ol iPhone 4 for enjoyment. Here you go:

1. American portions! -- In Asia, you kind of get used to the fact that portions are a portion of the portion that you are used to getting in the United States. It's why the people at your favorite Chinese restaurant snicker when you order two entrees. You know that weightwatchers.com commercial you saw about gluttony on Super Bowl Sunday? You might as well show an Asian an episode of Hee Haw -- either way they have no concept of what is going on. That is, UNLESS they go to an American chain restaurant! Ethan and I both ordered the Honey Chipotle Chicken Fingers. I'm pretty sure 1/3 of the Malaysian chicken population had to be sacrificed to fill both our plates. He's a pre-teen -- he has been known to finish off 2500-to-3000 calories in a single setting these days. He barely knocked a dent in it after eating for about 15 minutes.

You mean, they ordered TWO servings ... of the same thing? Why did I open an American chain restaurant?

2. Bottomless soft drinks! -- First off, don't order a soda in Asia unless you fully intend to drink a virgin Gin and Tonic. It's "soft drink", and you have four options in most places -- Coke, Coke Light, Sprite and Fanta. Yes, Coke may get its butt handed to it domestically, but globally the company that invented Santa Claus and the polar bear have a monopoly in restaurants that feature fountain drinks. Fountain drinks are about as rare in this country as people who look like Junior Samples (that's another Hee Haw reference for those playing at home).

Junior, with a belly full of Fanta Grape straight from the fountain.

You get a can drink, or a bottle drink, and you sip it gingerly until your food comes out ... UNLESS you are at a US chain restaurant! Then, somehow, you are transformed into carbonated royalty whenever your glass gets more than half empty. They have a wait staff specifically trained to sniff out a half-full (half-empty? ... you decide) glass. These special ops trained warriors swoop in and take your glass, hurry away, and come back with more glorified bubbly corn syrup than you could even imagine.

Soft drink ninjas, hurry! A glass is half full ... uh, empty ... uh, just hurry!

3. 'Muricah talk! -- That's right. Those corporate trainers who come from across the globe want to make sure we expats notice no difference in our dining experience. They even train the wait staff to use awkwardly placed colloquialisms when asking how your glass became inexplicably half empty (wait ... last time I said half-full; should I see a therapist?). Now any good Southerner knows that his/her tip-o-meter raises exponentially when Helen down at the Waffle House uses the words, "Hon," or "Sugar" or "Sweetie" when asking if you need more low-octane coffee. 

"What else can I get for you, Shug?"

But, when a middle aged Chinese Malaysian man comes up, puts his arm around your 12 year old son and says, "How about some more soft drink, handsome?" you have to believe that something was lost in translation along the way. After about 5 minutes of uncontrollable laughter, we were able to settle ourselves, Ethan's cheeks returned to a bit less pink hue, and we continued to watch ...

4. Sports on TV! -- Who hasn't enjoyed a good rugby match or badminton tournament when chowing down on an Ol' Timer burger at Chili's? Huh? Oh, no one? That's just a Malaysian thing? I guess I've been gone too long.

And the Chili's crowd goes wild because (I think?) this is something good. Maybe?

PART TWO: Afternoon Boy Bonding

Maybe it's because I now have two boys in double-digit ages, or that Ethan is just a couple of months away from being a teen-ager -- perhaps Nationwide Super Bowl commercials have made me realize my kids could die at any second -- whatever the case, I feel like every moment with the boys is precious right now. I can't believe how quickly they have grown up. So, you look for those moments when you can just experience life with them. Whether that is watching Chinese New Year Dragon dances, or pushing away old men trying to sell you stolen iPhones in the park, these are the moments you'll treasure for a lifetime. That's why, when your two babies tap into their youth and ask you to play hide-and-seek tag in the largest park in Malaysia ... in 95 degree heat ... in the middle of the day ... with about 10,000 people around ... you say yes.

Heat and humidity are relative in this setting, right? 

You realize that your knee aches, and that your back is stiff, but you say yes because they want to play tag. They aren't asking for money or XBox time, or asking where babies come from (we covered that already) or why their friends are all making out behind their parents' backs. They are wanting to be kids. So, you say yes and you love every minute of it. For those of you who are not familiar with what a "Jared" is, let me try to explain. A Jared is the perfect blend of every slightly devious trait found in the Lowe/Hiatt/Gentry/Hudson gene pool, wrapped up in a curly haired, dimpled-cheek package of awesomeness that can be nerve-wracking from time to time. When you are playing hide and seek with a Jared in the largest park in the country that features about 20 (no exaggeration) different play sets, you realize that playing tag with a Jared may not have been the best idea. Then, there's an "Ethan" -- this is what you get when you mix all the neurotic traits of the Lowe/Hiatt/Gentry/Hudson genetic cocktail into a stick-skinny package of constant worry.

Yep ... this pic pretty much says it all about my boys' personalities.

I found Ethan first. He later admitted that, while I was chasing him relentlessly through the trees, branches and occasional city workers' lunch break, he was smiling the whole time. Not because he was enjoying unadulterated fun with his father, but instead because he didn't want anyone to think I was a pedophile chasing young boys for sport, or an abusive father about to beat him incessantly. That's my Ethan. Now then, where was my Jared? That boy takes his competitions seriously. He wasn't about to be found and probably would have stayed put until the sun went down if I hadn't found him sprinting between hiding spots. He took off running for the base and gloated in his victory just before I started to pop a Xanax and prep my speech entitled, "I know, Granny, but they wanted to play tag".

We played a couple more times (with much, much smaller boundary areas) and just collapsed into a pile of sweaty, happy exuberance after trekking across the plastic urban jungle side.

Just a fraction of the hide-and-seek opportunities!

With just another hour to wait until our movie started, we decided to lay down (amongst the fire ants and mosquitoes) and stare up through the trees at the Petronas Twin Towers and a beautifully bright blue afternoon sky. As I lay there soaking in a moment of happy daddy bliss, Jared waxed on about how everyone in Malaysia smokes and Ethan worried that we were going to get in trouble for lying on the grass. Yep, these are the moments, for sure. After a quick trip to see "Into the Woods" and veg out on cheap movie snacks (2 popcorns, 2 sodas, 2 bottled waters = $6.85 USD), we headed back home for a FIFA tournament on the XBox and Ethan-prepared cheese quesidillas. My boys are growing up. 

All in all, I'd call that a pretty successful boys' day.