And Then ...
April 12, 2012

The train just pulled into the station, so it must be 08:39 because the train schedule said the train will arrive at 08:39. I am in Switzerland, on my way by train from Zürich to my daughter Nina and the newest granddaughter, Freya, in Geneva. Outside, with an early Spring, the deep green cow pastures zipping past the high speed train look neat like golf courses.

  They make me jealous because they remind me how soon thistles, burdocks, and sorrels will emerge from my sheep, cow and horse pastures in Vermont in fierce competition with the grass.

  Late last night in Bangkok's Khao San area, my last in Asia, a line, like gander, goose and goslings; Dad, with a giant backpack, Mom with a big backpack, one child with a smaller backpack, a smaller child with a yet smaller backpack and the Benjamin with a tiny backpack, passed my observation post. They, probably having arrived on a late bus, like many others, were clearly in search of lodging.

"Dad! Here?" Benjamin said and pointed at the outside tables where I sat. He looked dead tired. "That's a bar," Dad said. "Oh," Benjamin said. The gander, goose and goslings moved on. Imagine the lasting, vivid memories these children will have of the time traveling with their parents.

 ... I was so tired I could have dropped dead!

... we missed that bus and it was raining cats and dogs!

... you won't believe the food we got! ... we all slept in one room without windows! ... the bus broke down and a guy with a truck took us to town!

... Dad caught the guy who tried to steal my pack!

... this was the most beautiful sunset, ever!

... we stayed with that family on the mountain!

... I almost starved!

... etc. etc. etc.

 No risk.

Somewhere in one of the first blog postings of this southeast Asia trip I claimed to know the secret for not getting Montezuma's revenge, or the Asian Runs, or just simply becoming a captive of toilets or having to constantly run for the bushes. With the proper method and without Imodium or similar medication, I said, one can travel everywhere, eat and drink everything, anytime without worrying about food-born illness - at least not any more than one might expect at home.

   Now, after hanging out for almost three months in this part of the world, eating and drinking from street vendors, roadside stalls, in villages without even the most rudimentary sanitary systems, everything, everywhere, anytime, I am sitting in the Bangkok airport waiting for a flight to Switzerland where you can set your watch according to the posted arrival time of your train - and super hygiene. No time during this southeast Asia trip was I condemned to eat crow about my cocksure claim, and now, the day of departure, feeling totally fine, I boast and claim vindication of my method - no medication but natural immunization.

    Almost every other traveler I met was on one of the numerous, often very expensive, anti malarial prophylactic medications - and quite a few complained about gruesome side effects. Some had their yellow international immunization certificates full of entries, vaccinations against all kinds of exotic-sounding diseases. My card has an entry for Yellow Fever (some countries won't let you in unless you have a Yellow Fever Vaccination) and Tetanus. My medicine supply, in a little plastic box, contains Tums, Aspirin, Viagra, sore throat lozenges (in case of trekking at high altitude), antiseptic ointment, bandaid, gauze, tape, Iodine, mouthwash, and ... can't think of anything else.

   Also, unlike many of my fellow travelers, I can enjoy a cold drink, no worries about local ice cubes - if there are any - and feast on salads. With no need to carry provisions on some trips, because I eat whatever the locals eat, my luggage is lighter and less voluminous.

But ...

I must have a homing beacon on me that directs bureaucrats my way. For the flight Bangkok - Zurich there was a transfer in Delhi from Thai to Swiss airline, a transit without checking into or out of India. There was an interminable line at the security checkpoint - for people that came from other flights without ever getting out of the secure area. When I finally came to the machine, ready to take off shoes and belt that holds up my pants, etc. a uniform stopped me and said:

"No DT on your boarding pass."

"What?" I said.

"DT, here on boarding pass," he said.

"Sorry, I don't understand," I said.

"DT, like dog and, ah,... Tamil," he said.

"Where do I get a dog and a Tamil?" I said.

"Desk outside.

"Outside where?" The uniform pointed past the security checkpoint's interminable line, the one I just endured to get to where I was waiting for the x-ray machine passage. I went past a gazillion people to the desk outside.

"I need a DT," I said.

"A what?"

"DT, like dog and, ah .... Tamil."

"Oh!" The lady wrote with her pen "DT" on the boarding pass, no stamp, no sticker, nothing but a scribbled "DT".

"Thank you." I took a direct route back, avoiding the security check line, waving my DT-ed boarding card. With the scribbled "DT" on the boarding pass, I was allowed to pass through the x-ray machine.

 This now is the end of the southeast Asia blog. On the way back I went skiing in France with my daughter, Nina and her family, plaid cards in the mountains with my brothers, ate all the nostalgia food I could cram into my maw, went for lunch in Lichtenstein with my daughter Jade and her family, arrived in the Big Apple and fell in love with it, all over again.

If it doesn't surpass my IT skills, there might be an addition of trip photographs. Especially during the Buddhist Monk Initiation ceremony in a little, way out in the boonies, Burmese farming village, some really cool pictures found their way into my camera. In the villagers' memory I was the first foreigner to visit after an Englishman many years before.

Back in the US, I'll be for a couple of days in the Big Apple, see friends, take care of some business, have a lot of sushi (and sake), then, via my son Tony's go to the farm in Vermont to start the garden.

Maybe, if there are interesting happenings on the farm, I might put them in the blog.

During that past trip I was reminded in an e-mail of a frequent exclamation of mine when frustration set in: "I'd like to own a whore house in Borneo", or, "I'd rather manage a whore house in Borneo!" I often said.

Now with time catching up - getting closer to what might be considered old age - maybe next time when snow and ice chase me from the farm in Vermont, I'll go off checking out the Borneo territory - maybe the continuation of the blog!