Why I Stopped Writing

Midway through my 3 month long round-the-world honeymoon, I decided that I was done with travel writing.

As most travellers know, you don’t get a lot of sympathy when you describe how exhausting travel can be. “Oh! Poor baby! Did your lobster and filet mignon give you indigestion?” Put it in perspective, they say. No matter how tired you are, at least you get the chance to go travelling. There are orphan children starving in Krablakistan, etc.

The problem with this argument is that, taken to its logical conclusion, it means that no one – except a starving orphan child or possibly someone trying to assemble Ikea furniture – is ever justified in complaining. That’s silly. Everyone has a right to complain about something.

So I’m going to say it: travelling round-the-world in three months is exhausting. You are changing hotels every two to three days, and often wake up in the middle of the night with no idea of where you are. You try to put yourself back to sleep by playing a bizarre game of 20 questions. “Am I in Asia? Are those characters in Chinese or Japanese? Why is the toilet singing to me?”

The other problem with travel writing is that, even while enjoying a ‘once in the lifetime trip’, you still feel as though you should be carefully remembering every moment of your experience so that you can blog about it later rather than just, you know, enjoying it. This is fine at first, until you find that you have gotten so far behind in your writing that you now have 6 countries worth of extra-special-moments trying to find their way out of your head and you still have no idea where you are going to sleep tomorrow night. Then it is a bit stressful in the same way that Japanese bullet trains move a bit briskly.

So, one evening in New Zealand, I decided to stop travel writing and just enjoy the rest of the trip. I stuffed myself with meat pies and thought that was the end of it.

Why I’m Starting Again

Someone tried to buy this website last week. They ran their algorithms and social media statistics on it, and decided that it was worth $300. That’s probably a fair price, considering that this site has been drifting like a ghost ship for almost an entire year. But I knew immediately that I didn’t want to sell it – I want to keep writing.

For almost a year, I have been trying to decide on a new writing project. I even started a rather sad personal finance blog. It wasn’t enjoyable to write, nor did it receive any hits. At all. Meanwhile, HTBD continued to get hits from people people eager to play Airport Bingo and learn how not to get stabbed Tamarindo. The memories of the trip are still there, fighting to get out, and a writer needs to write.

And travellers like to read. After all, how else will you learn how to cook a New Zealand meat pie when all you have is a stove element? Or why you might be offered more than you bargained for at a ‘Japanese barbershop’ in Vietnam? Or why it’s a bad idea to watch ‘Yes Man’ when there’s a paragliding centre nearby?

So, for those of you who are reading this – thanks for sticking with me, and I look forward to bringing you the funny once more.

The band at Envy Club and Lounge performs a cover of Lady GaGa’s “Paparazzi”

By our second night in Da Lat, we had run out of evening activities.

Atop the Vietnamese highlands, the resort town known as the City of Eternal Spring and “Le Petit Paris” has much to offer for travellers. The cool weather offers a respite from the heat of the coast, and the European influence can be seen in architecture and cuisine alike. It is a fine place to spend time in cafes or take part in outdoor activities, such as kayaking or canyoning.

What Da Lat is not, however, is a bustling night spot. Beloved had decided to call it an early night by 9 pm on Saturday, and I was left at loose ends. Cafes were already starting to close their doors, and even the house band at the Ngoc Lan Hotel had ended their show for the evening.

The only spot to show some promise was the nearby Envy Club and Lounge, which was radiating an indescribable amount of light and sound, like a Vietnamese lighthouse against boredom.

As soon as I stepped inside, I was living like a Vietnamese rock star.

The club was packed with sound and lighting equipment, and filled with chic, comfortable couches and chairs. Da Lat’s movers and shakers sat around the side of the club, consuming endless waves of Heineken, cavorting with their entourages and hobnobbing with members of the band. I’ve seen my share of house bands before, and Envy’s was very good. I counted as many as five singers, and they played a mixture of Vietnamese, English and French songs.

I pulled out a cigar that I’d been saving for a special occasion. The server rushed over, and I resigned myself to what inevitably happened when I tried to smoke a cigar; they would look at me like I had just set fire to an orphanage, and tell me I was not allowed to practice my filthy habit in their establishment. Not this time, though. She rushed over so that she could light my cigar for me.

The prices at Envy are extravagant, but only by Vietnamese standards. (“How dare they charge $3 for a glass of 12 year old whisky!”) They offer bottle service for those who truly want to live like a rock star, and the fabulously rich can buy a bottle of Hennessy Richard for a mere 55,000,000 Dong (approximately USD$2,800). The price is matched by the service, and the staff will be by on a regular basis to top up your beer and add more ice, as needed.

Envy was clearly the place to bring a date you wanted to impress, and the club provided ample fodder for those travellers who indulge in flagrant people-watching. (There is no more fascinating cultural activity to witness than the process of Wooing, of which there was an abundance.)

I had a good time in Da Lat. I enjoyed the beautiful scenery, the temperate climate, the restaurants and the cafe lifestyle. But, for me, Envy was the highlight: a chance to enjoy great music, live the high life, and take the pulse of the new Vietnam.

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I put on my glasses and looked down at my watch. It was 2:18 am.

We had a flight to catch next day, and I’d gone to bed later than I should have. There was the usual list of excuses: Skyping to do, e-mails to send, and a book too good to put down.

I tried to sleep, without success. And now I was hungry. Not just hungry, ravenous.

Usually, I travel with food. Or I stay at a hotel with a mini-bar stocked with Pringles. Or they have room service. Or there’s a late-night restaurant nearby. You get the idea.

It was the middle of the night in Saigon, and I was famished. And there was no food to be had.

I tried to ignore it, at first. Mind over matter. Don’t think about food. Think about something else, anything else. That strategy lasted for about 6 minutes. By the time I gave up, I was even hungrier than before.

My mind went over the list of items we brought on our trip, trying to determine if any of them were edible. Did I still have the gum I was given in lieu of change in Egypt? No, we’d thrown that out. Beloved’s chapstick, which was made of beeswax and honey? No, she only has one of them and, when she inevitably asked where it went, would not take kindly to the excuse “I ate it.”

I’m not too proud to admit that I raided our First Aid kit and ate some of our Tums. At first, they seemed to hit the spot. Then, the bicarbonate in the Tums mixed with my stomach acid to create my own 5th Grade Science Fair project in my digestive tract. I spent the next 12 minutes burping. Beloved was not impressed.

I went downstairs to see if the hotel had any food. The bellhops were asleep on their couches, but woke when they heard me shuffling around the lobby, looking for stray peanuts. I mimed holding a plate and shovelling food in my mouth with imaginary utensils, the universal gesture for food. They pointed at their watches and held up seven fingers. Not until 7 am.

I went outside, hoping there was at least one restaurant open at this hour. There was nothing. Not even the roadside cafes or the convenience stores were open at this hour. I shuffled back to the elevator, wondering how much Vietnamese toilet paper I could eat before I got sick.

Inspiration struck before I got back to the room. I went to the top floor, where they serve breakfast in the morning. To my amazement, the door was open. Through the near-total darkness, I could make out that they had set out some of it in advance. I was in raptures when I found the jam. Then I saw the cereal.

I had peeled back the cellophane and was searching for a plate when I heard the noise.

“Snuh… uh…”

To my absolute horror, I realized that the breakfast staff was sleeping in the room, less than 10 feet from where I stood. And I had my hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Delicious, delicious cookies…

I froze like a deer in the headlights. Then, abandoning what little dignity I had left, I quickly shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind me.

But then I paused. Could I really go back to Vietnamese toilet paper when there was cereal to be had?

With the utmost stealth, I reopened the door and tiptoed my way back to the buffet table. The crunch of the spoon dipping into the serving bowl sounded like a car crash, the tinkling of the cereal onto the plate like a thousand glasses shattering. I counted my scoops, pausing between each to ensure that I hadn’t been discovered. After 10 scoops, I could bear the tension no longer. I slowly made my way back to the elevator, closing the door gently behind me.

It was the best cereal I’ve ever had in my life, and I feel asleep moments later. I just wonder what the staff thought the next day, when they noticed that the cellphone had been peeled off the cereal bowl.

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