Lankalicious!

Here's another tasty sample of some of the culinary delights I've been enjoying since I got to Sri Lanka.  This time, there's a theme - we're going to track through a normal day in my life of edibles.  Please note my use of interesting transitions this time...as soon as I download the 'starwipe' feature, I'll use it exclusively, I promise.

First up - freshly picked papaya.  Supervisor picked this up from his garden at home (yes, they grow papayas in their yards here) and we enjoyed a few slices before starting in on protecting human rights.  This beats the living crap out of my light 'bagel-from-a-truck' breakfast that I normally enjoyed in Midtown every morning.

Afterwards, another set of rice and curry classics - first is the standard lunch that has enough different names that I can't remember any of them.  Basic components - red rice, dal, stir fry veggies and a pickled egg curry that's out of this world.  Going rate for this awesome lunch spread?  140 rupees.  Yup. That's a buck twenty five kids.  Following soon after that is some homemade stirfry chicken and red sauce with milk rice.  Don't worry ma, it's coconut milk, so my tummy is ok.

Once I've sufficiently filled up on lunch rice and curry, I'll take a walk over to the only restaurant in town open after 7 pm and pick up a nice variety of rotti's for the evening.  Here we have a simple egg rotti, then veggie and chicken.  The chicken one has a spice in it that I don't even pretend to know how to identify, but it's absence from my life up to this point is nothing short of criminal.  If you internet folks know what it is, I'm waiting to figure it out so I can stock up and then give it to everyone for Hannukah in a few weeks.

Finally, we close out the day with a little well earned dessert.  What you see here is a ridiculously sweet coconut and jaggery crepe.  It'll give you a cavity and you'll come back begging for more.

Just When You Thought It Was Safe to Take Your Pants Down...

Deadly home invader

"An old rat is a brave rat"

French proverb

I was finally getting comfortable with my surroundings.  The blackouts, the mosquitoes, the dog that barks all friggin' night for no good reason, the Buddhist temple that starts ringing a gong at 6am every morning, the school kids screaming through my window, the rice and curry for 3 meals a day, the speaking of pigeon English all the damn time, living right off of a highway, being stared at all the time, having an uncomfortable bed, never leaving my house past sundown - they all stopped bothering me a few days ago.  I was finally getting really, truly comfortable with my way of life.

Then a rat attacked me in my bathroom.  I won't say that the little bastard entirely flushed away nearly a month of acclimation to my Sri Lankan abode, but he sure did his best to unnerve me about walking around with any confidence anymore.

A couple nights ago, I was experiencing what could only be described as an unprecedented level of focus and energy.  After an extremely productive day of protecting the rights of humans everywhere, I continued to work well into the night with a fervor for my work I have not experienced since... well, ever.  While job searching, I was engaged in a well-argued and riveting conversation with my worthy intellectual opponent Jen, editing a paper I'm trying to get published in a law journal, and doing some quick research on Sri Lankan criminal law in anticipation of the next day's drafting session.  I was in the g d zone.  Eventually the hour grew late, and my diligent hydration schedule caught up to me.  It was time for a bathroom break (ominous thunderclap).

Wearing my normal sleepy-time outfit of tattered gym shorts and equally tattered tshirt, I donned my less than protective Nike sandals and headed to the restroom unprepared for the fate about to befall me (lighting strike, another ominous thunderclap).  I innocently skipped into the bathroom, humming a jolly tune, and went about my dirty sinful business.  As I was ever so carefully returning my vulnerable bits to the safety of my trousers, I heard a rustle at the window situated not half a foot above the toilet.  It was more than a breeze, and Primal Eric went into DEFCON 3 to quickly assess the situation.  In a snap I made judgments:

Noise, Assess Noise, Rustle, Rustle at Window, What Rustles at a Window, People, Its a Person - Assess, Second Floor Window, Not a Person, Re-asses, Animals Rustle at Window, What Animal Goes to Second Floor Window, Too Large for Lizard, Not Lizard, Assess, Bird, Too Late at Night for Bird Activity, Assess... oh fuck me its a....

And just as my puny little brain put the pieces together, a giant honkin river rat comes flying through my window.  I thank Buddha that I wasn't going number two as I watched the rat crash down onto the toilet, freak out, jump three feet across the room into my shower area, and then proceed to look me in the eye and aggress into a full-on charge at my exposed little tootsies.  Now, I might not be tough, but damn it all I'm smart, and my fight or flight mode kicked in like nobody's business.  The next 20 or 30 seconds were a flurry of perfectly executed chess moves between me and my intruder friend.  He went left, I went right.  He spun back around the toilet, I shuffled around the other side.  He went for the garbage can, I kicked it out of his way.  And then he made a crucial error - he forgot that I can jump too.  As he doubled back against me and went for the door, I saw the perfect opportunity to effect my exit and seal up the little bastard in the process.  I dove for the hallway, flinging my unathletic Jewish frame towards sweet freedom, snatching the door shut behind me right as he reached the precipice of escape.  I tell ya, it was a chess match of competitors and he was the Kasparov of rats.

But they don't call me Eric "Deep Blue" Feldman just cause I got pretty eyes.  Mentally drained and heart racing, I looked back at the door just in time to see it thud half open and closed again.  Now of course I was convinced Kasparov turned into a 10 foot tall bouncer rat with huge biceps and a mom tattoo, his big red eyes unblinking and his pliable ears pressed tightly against the door jam, waiting for me to approach so he could blast the plywood off its hinges sending Eric flying dramatically across the hallway.  Well, I certainly wasn't going to fall for that, so I walked away, figuring I'd just let Kasparov sleep it off in the bathroom for the night.   If he got in there, he could probably get back out.  Best let him find his own way home, or at the very least let Supervisor deal with him in the morning. 


Now sufficiently shaken and quite awake despite the late hour, I returned to my desk in the hopes of waiting out the rat until morning.  My criminal law research seemed less immediate.  My editing, unnecessary.  Even riveting conversation wasn't going to bring me back from the brink - no, the only way I was going to be comfortable was knowing that Kasparov had taken his leave.  I let about 20 minutes fall off the clock, heroically laced up my New Balance shitkickers and took a step into the hallway...tiptoeing across the room, I listened for scratching on the door lock or heavy rat breathing.  Nothing.  Maybe the nightmare was over.  Not yet brave enough to open the bathroom door, I gave a soft knock to see if perhaps he would answer.  Only after the third rap against the jam did I realize that this was ridiculous and that I was, by all accounts, a giant pansy.  Still too scared to overcome my shame though, I returned to my room and decided to hide under my bed sheet.  This would all look a lot better in the morning.

A few fitful hours later, I awoke to my normal alarm clock of screaming school children and echoing Buddhist propaganda.  I had made it through the night.  Recon on the bathroom showed that Kasparov had indeed fled, clearly bested by his opponent of superior in wit and strength.  But while I may have won the battle, I fear that my devilish friend may have won the psychological war...I don't think I'll be wearing sandals into the bathroom at night anymore.

Or using the toilet.

Sri Lankans Observe Holiday in Relative Sobriety, Confound European Travelers

 "It only takes me one drink to get drunk.  

The trouble is, I can't remember if its the thirteenth or the fourteenth."  

George Burns

Last Friday was a full moon holiday here in Sri Lanka.  For the Buddhists, it's known as Poya, as the full moon is a key religious symbol because of their allegiance to a lunar calendar.  For Eric, and a vast number of party-seeking Westerners who look for any excuse to take their shoes off and get hammered, "full moon holiday" means fond memories of my trip to a Full Moon Party in Thailand a few years ago.  When I heard it was going to be a full moon holiday here in the Lanka, I got pretty damn excited that my sleepy little town was finally going to perk up a bit and the drinks were going to start flowing.  My expectations of joy lifted me high, high above the every day milieu...and then reality caught me in its heady pull and brought me thundering down to crushing disappointment.

As it turns out I grossly misunderstood how Poya days work in this country.  Instead of "beach filled with scantily clad Europeans slamming vodka red bull by the gallon," full moon holiday here means "the very few services and entertainment options to which you have become accustomed are now closed for the entire day leaving you alone again with your thoughts."  Oh goody.  I was growing concerned about my lack of alone time, so this was just what I needed.  Ultimately Supervisor made some food for us for lunch, a tasty cucumber curry and prawns in red sauce, and it was actually a pretty relaxed afternoon.  The hours melted off the clock and we passed into Saturday without any notable occurrences.  My thoughts however drifted to my bar trip, the last time I was in Asia for a full moon holiday... 

After what felt like the most stressful summer of my life, spent mostly indoors studying for the New York State bar exam, I decided to throw fiscal caution to the wind and jetted over to Southeast Asia for a month-long pad-thai-and-cheap-beer binge.  I was going to drink and travel and adventure all memories of the Bar Exam off of my soul - and since I was so sure that I would have amazing job security when I got back to the states, I blew a shitload of cash without sweating it too much.  Part of the non-stop spending orgy took me down to Koh Phangan, an island in Southern Thailand that plays host to the famous "Full Moon Parties" that have resulted in innumerable bad decisions amongst its party-going elite.

My globe-trotting-gal-pal Kate (of Peru Mountain Hike fame) joined me again on this misguided quest. With our twin goals of leaving no whiskey undrank and no hirsute Eurotrash un-flirted with, we set up shop at a classy little hotel about 10 minutes drive from the beachfront that hosted this small gathering of friends.

Thai version of a flier

Because of the promised insanity on which we were about to embark, Kate and I left behind any devices capable of taking photographic evidence of our sins and proceeded towards the beach.  The only ride anywhere on Koh Phangan of course is the random "taxi jeep" that incessantly drives around the island, loading up a completely unsafe number of aggressively drunk strangers in its rickety confines and then speeding forward to parts unknown.  We all trusted that simply by hopping aboard, the nice Thai fellow driving this death trap would get us to where we needed to go.

Amazingly we reached the entrance to the beach area without getting thrown from the jeep's gentle grasp, and proceeded to punish our livers with a fury reserved for failed writers and fraternity pledges.  The only real drink options were the aptly named "buckets" that you buy for about 10 dollars US from any street vendor you can find, which consists of little more than a child's sand pail, two small containers each of diet coke and red bull, and a fifth of your death-bringer of choice.  I voted for Sangsom whiskey, for which the term fire water is euphemistically employed.  Perhaps the term "brownish bathtub liquor" doesn't appeal to consumers.  Sadly I cannot drink caffeine as it hurts my stomach, and with no other mixers around I was forced to chug straight Sangsom for the remainder of the night.  It was a stupid decision and a punishment I wish on no man, but it was a party goddamn it and I was gonna hang tough.

In a Sangsom induced phase, I wandered the beach lost, having parted ways with Katherine after she went off to dance or some such nonsense, encountering fire twirlers, people covered in body paint on what I could only guess was acid, any number of couples making out in the trash-covered sand and even an Israeli shawarma shop.  I made a mental note of the shawarma shop and hazily continued on my path.  Drunk Eric has like a homing beacon in his brain, and he found his way safely back to Kate and her new French friends on the beach with a new whiskey bucket in tow.  As I cracked open my second fifth of Sangsom, I managed to break the cap on it and somehow slice open three of the fingers on my left hand.  As my hand gushed forth what was probably Sangsom-with-some-blood-in-it onto the fresh sand, I realized that I had few first aid options available to me.  Employing some quick thinking and battlefield medicine tactics I probably learned from LOST, I poured out some of my precious Sangsom onto the wound assuming it would cleanse and seal it up post-haste.

My friends, it worked like a fucking charm.  Despite the visible gash and general fear that I was going to get hepatitis if I touched anything for the rest of the night, I was able to stumble forward without fear of scaring off chicks with my bloody meat-hooks.  I danced. I drank Sangsom.  I drunkenly ate Israeli shawarma with a pack of Frenchman who spoke nary a word of English.  It was delightful.

As the dawn approached, I left Kate to the fate of the party and hopped a jeep back home.  Unable to speak or really stand for that matter, I attempted briefly to strike up a conversation in Spanish with the adorable chick across the bench from me.  I managed to say something like "yososgysfuckginamericnasquecomsellamala" and decided to cut my losses and just shut up from then on out.  Jeep driver took me right on home and even made sure I got into my hotel ok, and as I stumbled up to bed I took a moment to test once again my ability to speak.  After a brief chat with myself in the mirror for about five minutes in some kind of broken English accent I decided the Sangsom had pickled my brain so thoroughly that no good could come from remaining awake.  You win this round, alcohol.

All in all, I had myself a fine evening.  I guess I didn't expect a Koh Phengan level of craziness in the quiet little burg of Panadura, but even one body painted fire juggler on acid would be nice.  I mean, it is a holiday after all.

Privacy Concerns

"I'm your biggest fan

I'll follow you until you love me

Papa, paparazzi"

Lady Gaga

So far, any attempts I have made to blend in since I've gotten to Sri Lanka have been less than successful.  This is certainly owing to the fact that I'm the only white person for a few miles in any direction, and I'm not exactly living in the most multi-cultural metropolis on the planet.  Add in a dash or two of me crashing at the place in which I work and my private little "Eric Fort" is essentially reduced to the confines of my bedroom.  Just so I'm clear about this right up front, it's not like I want to be ignored all the time.  I mean, I like attention as much as the next guy, but sometimes you want to be able to feel invisible for a little while, you know?  

This is not to say Sri Lankans are not absolutely lovely people and extremely welcoming of me into their country - they absolutely are and they absolutely have been.  In fact, the vast majority of the attention that I'm receiving is of a very friendly and positive nature.  Kids waving from school buses, people stopping to say "good morning" and show off their English a bit, and the like.  For the most part I smile back and give a wave or make a face at the little kid eying me from the nearby tuk-tuk.

Sometimes though, I want none of it. Perhaps this is the New Yorker in me rearing its pompous head, but there are definitely days where I just want to get my lunch and not engage with the pleasantries.  I'm used to the almost crushing anonymity provided by swimming through the sea of self-interested Manhattanites for the past few years and it is going to take more than a couple weeks to wash that attitude off of me. 

Aside from the occasional attack of the grumpies, there are some other more systemic concerns that play into my daily struggle to run and hide.  For instance, I really want to figure out how the hell cricket works, and when I walk past the nearby athletic pitch, sometimes I stop to check out what the local school team is up to in order to learn.  Were I a local Lankan this might to the untrained eye appear to merely be whimsical love of sport, but when I'm hanging out by the fence wondering 'what's the deal with that guy in the middle of the field who looks like he's having a seizure every time he throws the ball,' I feel like a 50 year old lecher eating a hot dog and clapping along to a Little League match that his kid isn't playing in.  I might as well just buy a van at that point and troll around the neighborhood giving out candy.  So I walk on, having learned nothing of the ways of the cricket.

This fear is only compounded by the fact that there's a goddam school right next to my building and from what I can tell, any kids on the second floor or higher can pretty much see directly into my bedroom.  Luckily, god decided in all his wisdom to make me a little bit short and the windows in here a little bit tall, so you can only really see my fat white face bobbing around the room as I go about my morning routine.  Showering, however, is just about the scariest part of my day because I'm forced to hide behind my wall making sure at no point to move into line of sight.   As anyone who has ever lived with me knows, I'm a huge fan of 'towel time', which is exactly what it sounds like - I sit around in my towel for like twenty minutes while catching up on my favorite fantasy sports teams (you'll be happy to know that my fraternity league team, the Smitten Wittens, is turning around an otherwise abysmal season).  Towel time has sadly gone the way of the dodo.

All in all though, I think I'm adjusting pretty well to the change.  I pretty much figured coming in that Panadura, Sri Lanka was going to be a teensy bit different than the East Village, NYC.  The level of comfort that I have in smiling at strangers and throwing out the errant "hullo" to passers-by who I catch taking in an extra-long glimpse of the Feldman Show is increasing on a daily basis.  I'm becoming quite adept at sneaking in and out of my room in the mornings post-shower and hiding my shame from the rest of the universe.  And I've gotten quite good at striking up random and meaningful conversations with strangers who just want to know what country I'm from.  As long as I can still stomp around like a miserable bastard on my occasional off-day, I suppose I'm going to be alright.

On the Conquering of Ridiculous Travel Apprehensions

"You have to do your own growing up, no matter how tall your grandfather was."  

Abraham Lincoln

I've bungee jumped in blinding rain in Northern Thailand.  I've been hit full on in the face with a folded up phone book.  Hell I've even gone swimming less than forty-five minutes after eating, and there are only two things under heaven and earth scare the living bejesus out of me - zombies, and taking the bus in Sri Lanka.  When I hear the blaring horns approaching and the Doppler effected screams of bus routes buzzing all around me, I shut down faster than a diabetic kid after a candy corn binge.  The general advice to "just listen for the town name you want and they'll shout it!" feels vaguely insultory when all I can make out above the traffic noise is "MATATARATARATARARARA! MATATARATARATARARARA!"  God help you if you're trying to hop aboard the Puthukkudiyirupu line.  But in the interests of drinking cheap arrack on a sunny beach front, I decided to brave the storm and try my hand at public transportation.

For the trip from my home base of Panadura down to the Southern coast, I knew from reviewing my guidebooks that I was supposed to catch an air conditioned bus that runs every fifteen minutes down Galle Road.  That's about all I knew though, because the bus stops aren't really listed, there are no schedules and basically when you see the bus you want, you wave your arms wildly in the hopes that it sees you and deigns to take you on board as a passenger.  My supervisor at work said he would make sure I got to the stop ok, so I felt confident that I wouldn't screw this up too badly.  I packed my backpack for my weekend trip, stuffed the carefully counted out and pre-folded bus money in my front pocket to make life easy when it came time to pay and took stock of how expert a traveler I was by giving myself a nice congratulatory wink in the mirror.  So confident was I in my on-the-road-prowess, in fact, I even changed into a more travel friendly tshirt and ditched the extra pair of pants and button down I was going to bring along.  Packing light meant less to worry about later, I assured myself, as I took my first steps out into the greater world of bus travel.

Supervisor and I took a slow five minute stroll to the unmarked bus stop where we waited for the Number 2 down to Matara and my super awesome beach weekend.  Only then did I realize that I had failed to eat breakfast, and it was going to be three hours until I got to my next stop.  And then I further realized that I didn't go to the bathroom before I left the house.  So in five minutes I had already ignored the prime directives Mom always set before starting out on a trip - food and bathroom awareness.  As I looked up at Supervisor to see about asking for a snack and a bathroom break, he started waiving down my bus and I knew that my time was up - looks like I was gonna have to rock some Stride gum and pray the road wasn't too bumpy.

I stood waiting to get on board, clutching at the straps of my back pack and looking back to wave at my boss to let him know I was going to be ok, feeling as if the Sri Lankan bus system had reduced me to being a friggin' five year old on his first day of camp.  In one fell swoop I admitted to myself and the whole world that while I am quite capable of holding down a respectable law career, booking my own international travel and making a delightful pb&j should the need arise, I could also in one moment forget myself entirely and be so blinded by the prospect of getting on a bus that I would fall to tiny little child-like pieces.  Somewhat disheartened by my epic emasculation, I slumped down in my seat at the front of the bus and figured I might as well enjoy the ride.

Now you might think that having a perfect head-on view while driving down a Sri Lankan highway is a great way to see the areas you're passing through, but it's also a great way to see your life passing before your eyes - luckily, of the thirty or so close-calls we had, we only had to slam on the breaks and swerve entirely off the road to avoid oncoming trucks like two or three times.  No big whoop.  Conductor came around to ask for my money, and I instinctively reached down to my shirt pocket to grab my pre-counted fare to hand to the kindly bus-keep.  When I felt no pocket where pocket should be, it quickly dawned on me that while I was smart enough to pack light, I wasn't smart enough to realize that the shirt I left behind was the one with my money in it.  I scrambled to gather up the necessary paper from my wallet to pay the conductor and luckily had enough to stay on board, but I received at least one angry harumph for wasting the nice man's time.  Once I finally forked over enough rupees to cover my passage, I settled in for the long-haul and started chomping on my spearmint gum to pass the time.

Ultimately, I reached my destination, hungry and in need of a restroom but all in all no real worse for the wear.  I had successfully taken a bus, despite my apprehension to the otherwise, and in so doing had opened up a whole new world of travel around Sri Lanka.  I can hop a 2 or 3 hour bus and get pretty much anywhere at this point - and hopefully I won't have to feel like a five year old in the process.  Despite some growing pains, I'm becoming quite the adult over here.      

Now the only thing left to fear is a deadly zombie attack...but so long as they don't figure out how to use the buses, I think I can get a nice head start on 'em.

Get Your Ass to Mars

Or Sri Lanka.  Either way, you're out of excuses to not come visit me, world.  This concert is not to be missed! Although it might be a phone ad...I can never tell what anything is around here.

Blaming the Carpenter

Eric Feldman; Poet, Warrior, Dumb-ass

Before heading out for Sri Lanka a few weeks back, I took a trip with Moms to my local outdoor adventure gear store in order to stock up on supplies for the tough road ahead.  Although I was never a boy scout, my rugged, mountain-man of a brother was, and he's been preaching the importance of "being prepared" to me for probably as long as he's been able to climb the refrigerator.  He encouraged me to get cool new boots and hiking clothes a few years back before my trip down Peru way, but did I listen to him? Of course not.  But I'm listening now.  Cause like anyone who has ever hiked up the Andes in shredded Old Navy khakis and six year old New Balance cross-trainers with only a half-length Banana Republic windbreaker to protect you knows, having the right gear makes all the difference in the world.

What kind of half-witted dullard with zero sense of survival skills and an unwarranted nonchalance towards nature would be stupid enough to do something like that, you ask?  This half-witted dullard.

Let's back up a half-step just so I can hopefully save a little bit of face here.  At the time that I embarked on my Andean trek up the glacial mountain Apu Salkantay towards the ancient Inca stronghold of Machu Picchu, I was living in Lima, Peru and working as an intern at a law firm in the posh neighborhood of San Isidro.  My morning routine consisted of taking a nice hot shower, grabbing a delicious breakfast of toast and coca tea and then hopping in a cab to the office.  Around late July, my traveling companion and erstwhile partner-in-crime Kate got super geared up to take a four-day trek to Machu Picchu and get jiggy with the Peruvian outdoor scene.  Being somewhat the dandy that I am, I of course made her double check with the tour guide that we'd have actual sleeping cabins and real ass bathrooms and showers along the way.  "Of course," lied the tour guide, "you'll have all that stuff."

Figuring that I would slumber each night in a comfortable mountain chalet with the chance to kick off my sneaks and relax each evening, I didn't have much worry in donning my shlubby day to day outerwear and heading up the 14,000 foot precipice.  Aside from a bit of sunburn and some mosquito bites, Day One was clipping along nicely and I felt pretty awesome about the whole adventure...that is until we got to our first "camp site."  My friends, when I say to you that we were sleeping in a cow field surrounded by oxen and wild horses, I want you to understand that I'm in no way using any degree of hyperbole.  We literally set up tents in a field full of oxen and wild horses and were told to get some rest.  "So no cabins, then," I inquired of the guide who snickered and went back to his sancocho.  "Ok, well, where's the toilet?"  His small, tanned hand took a break from ladling soup to us poor misled gringos and pointed off to the woods in the distance.  "So no toilets, then?"  He failed to smile at my witty retort.

Day Two proved to hold in store for us more of the same - sub-freezing temperatures in the morning and then blazing heat by early afternoon.  Luckily I dressed in preppy layers, so I was able to ditch my windbreaker and just stomp around in worn-through khakis.  I began to wonder if perhaps my performance fleece wasn't really designed for this kind of performance at all, but was too exhausted to write the requisite angry letter to the manufacturer so I just went to bed instead.

You're gonna die on that mountain, Eric. Oh, I mean "woof!"

Little did I know that up to this point, Mother Nature was just toying with me.  As night turned to dawn on Day Three, she launched a full-frontal assault.  I awoke to find that my ever-happy and faithful companion Kate had been stricken down by illness.  Unfit to walk and in need of medical assistance, the decreasingly trustworthy guide tossed her on the back of a donkey and sent her into the wilderness with an 8-year old boy to lead the way to the nearest "hospital."  When she fell off said donkey moments later, they strapped her down onto its back with twine and assured me everything would be ok.  Now convinced that Kate was already dead and I was next on the archangel's list, I descended carefully into the valley below, 100% certain I marched headlong towards doom.  Ankles wrapped in duct tape and feet now bleeding due to the fact that New Balance cross-trainers aren't really designed for extended mountain hiking, I plodded forward through the thousand degree heat, unable to remove my outer layers because of the swarms of mosquitoes awaiting my delicious Semitic blood should I give them the opportunity to strike.

My limits were tested by steep declines that would trip up even the most nimble of billy goats.  I was forced to wade through a river of crystal clear mountain water that managed not to refresh me but to fill my sneakers with enough mud and grime to completely destroy any protection the duct tape provided my fresh wounds.  And when I in my lonely procession reached a mountain pass that veered off in two equally viable directions, with no guide present to help me choose, I took a 50/50 gamble that the path to the left would be my path to salvation.

It was a lucky guess.

On Day Four, I rose to the piercing cawing of roosters, one of which found its way into my tent somehow, and was equally as surprised to find Kate returned to me no worse for the wear.  Our trek was coming to a close, and we could finally get ourselves a shower and some real rest.  As we hopped on board the train bound for Aguas Calientes and Machu Picchu, I cursed the trip as an unmitigated disaster and prayed God to spare me from further anguish.  My shoes were destroyed.  My khakis, in bad shape.  My spirit - broken. 

Perhaps you're familiar with the proverb "a bad carpenter always blames his tools."  Well I've never claimed to be a good carpenter, so I saw screw my tools.  I lay fault entirely on my outerwear and absolve myself of any hint of sin in failing to recognize that an outfit that can barely help you survive a winter in upstate New York would certainly be unfit to help me survive an Andean mountain trek.  From the torture I suffered at the hands of Gap, Inc.'s various branches, I did however learn the valuable lesson that the right gear can make or break your trip.  This time I'm well stocked up on adventure gear, specifically designed to handle heat, cold, rain, wind, bugs, sun, L.A. riots...anything you can throw at it.

So, with a well deserved bow of respect, I tip my cap to my brother for being right at least this one time.  See buddy? All it took was me nearly dying from exposure on a South American mountain for me to listen to you.  Don't get used to the recognition though - there's no proverb about a carpenter being gracious.  

Sri-conomics

A rupee saved is a penny earned.

I'm no dummy when it comes to finances, but I usually find myself in the 'do as I say, not as I do' camp of cash flow politics.  As anyone who has ever accompanied me out to a nice dinner or the dive-iest of bars will tell you, I normally approach recreational spending with a reckless abandon normally reserved for sultans and rich Persian kids.  Have you ever seen me shoot down an extra order of mozz sticks?  No, no you haven't.  Which is what makes my recent fiscal policy switch so intriguing.  You see kids, I've become a 'frugal traveler.'  I'm price comparing my food options.  I even spent half an hour today debating internally whether or not I should save ten bucks by going with a non a/c room on my upcoming overnight trip down the shore.  And you know what I did?

I asked for the non a/c room so I can save ten bucks.

By now you're thinking, "WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE TO ERIC?!"  I appreciate you rushing in to my rescue, and justified use of caps lock aside you should have no fear.  I'm still just as sane as I ever was (citation needed).  Part of my new-found frugality comes from having quit my job before exiling myself from Gotham, and although I did receive a handsome parting gift, as the golden parachute snaps shut behind me I have effectively reduced my prospective earnings to zero for the foreseeable future.

Even more influential than fixed-budget living though has been the economics of the environment around me.  In my first few days here, I felt like a kid in a candy store - for 150 Sri Lankan rupees I could get three vegetable rotti, a bottle of water and a dessert crepe to boot.  That's about $1.50 US.  For 250 rupees I could get a Sprite and an order of rice and curry bigger than your head. That's about $2.50.  But the more time I spend here, the more perspective I get as to how the purchasing power of a native Sri Lankan compares to any given tourist, and its a pretty sobering comparison. 

A few days ago, I had a really interesting conversation with the night watchmen who makes sure no one will come steal my precious iPhone while I sleep, wherein I found out that he makes about 400 rupees a day at this job.  That's just under $4, and he works from 6pm until 6am every day. 7 days a week.  And from what I can tell, he actually has a pretty good set up.  He said he cannot afford to buy meat for his family because at any market, 1 kg of fish is about 350 or 400 rupees.  1 kg of pork? Try 500.  And if you're thinking about having people over for the big cricket match and putting out a shrimp cocktail?  Prawns are 1200 rupees per kilo.  Considering cricket matches can last for like a month and a half, you're gonna need a lot of prawns. 

Afterwards I started to look at my lunch options a bit differently.  My standard midtown Chop't salad and strawberry lemonade combo I was getting all summer ran me about $13 bucks after all was said and done.  That's 3 1/2 days work for the night watchman.  For a goddamn salad.  I'm sure I would probably approach life with a different tack if I knew that at the end of each day I was only going to get paid two tacos per night for my efforts.       

Now I'm no preacher and I certainly ain't no saint, so I'm not advocating giving away all of my worldly possessions and finding enlightenment on the road.  I like my extra order of mozz sticks.  I like getting that extra bottle of red wine just in case we're going to drink it after our cocktails.  But as someone who just quit his job to pursue a half-baked dream of working in human rights advocacy, it's time to realize that just because I like those things doesn't mean I need them every day.  If jumping down the rabbit hole means a couple less a/c rooms here and there and a few less vegetable rotti along the way, then I'll count myself lucky for even having this opportunity in the first place and make sure I save enough to get myself safely to the other side.

And hell, Chop't is overrated anyways. 

This Little Piggy Went to Asia...

I swear on my mother's rugelach I've been meaning to photograph all the cool stuff I've eaten since I got over here, but whenever I end up with food in front of me my brain switches off and I go into chow mode.  Thanks to some polite reminders from my fans stateside, I have been more diligent about taking pictures lately so here are some sample dishes so far!  Since I'm a proud Mac convert, I'm finally utilizing the myriad tools to make sweet multi-media presentations that the rest of you have been employing since like 2002.  The dishes shown in the video are pretty classic examples of set menu lunch fare items, usually involving some kind of typical Sri Lankan curry over rice with a vegetable accompaniment.

If you find yourself moved by the simple beauty of this video, it's because I used the Ken Burns cropping setting in iMovie to really add to the drama of each dish.  You're welcome.

First up, crispy fried fish curry over a vegetable rice with a slice of omelette and Chinese vegetables.  Lightly spicy, simple flavor and relatively easy on the foreign palate.

Second, a classic prawn curry, served shell-on in a basic fish sauce, also over veggie rice with omelette and Chinese vegetables.  A mess to eat thanks to the full-shell service, but quite tasty.

Third, and my favorite so far, a standard Sri Lanka set menu offering with a small bit of chicken in curry sauce, dal, chopped greens, some vegetable I cannot pronounce and as an added a bonus serving of crispy fried fish and peanuts.  The fish flavor was intense but pretty damn good.  Dal is a huge favorite here, and from what one coworker told me, "Everyone in Sri Lanka likes dal."  No arguments from me!

Finally, after a long day of eating strange new curries, nothing says 'my afternoon is shot' like a frosty glass of Lion Lager to wash it all down.  In the background there is the Barefoot Cafe garden eatery I visited on Sunday, located in back of a pretty nice souvenir shop in the capital city of Colombo.

Bon apetit!

So Fresh and So Clean-ish

So where do I put the quarters?

"It's better to have loved and lost than to have to do forty pounds of laundry a week."  

Dr. Laurence J. Peter

Now, I'm somewhat useless the in the economics of homemaking, so my idea of 'doing laundry' is shoving all my clothes in a bag and leaving it at the nearest drop off place near my apartment.  Panadura is somewhat lacking in drop off service laundromats, so I went the old fashioned route and washed everything in a bucket in the bathroom. 


First and foremost, I had to check the directions on the back of my Tide laundry soap package, mercifully written in plain English so I didn't have to rely only on the picture directions.  Looked easy enough - soak clothes, then rinse. Step one - opening the Tide soap package. 

This proved far more difficult than anticipated.  The package had clearly been reinforced with some kind of titanium alloy preventing me from tearing it open with my bare hands.  When I failed to open it with my teeth (gross), I tried tearing at it with a nearby fork.  Carefully I lined up the outermost tine, and sloooowly opened the package... nice and easy... nice and...explosion.  Dry laundry soap everywhere.  Convinced that the dog who lives here was going to lick up the dry soap and melt into nothingness, I diligently kept at the cleanup, however futile my efforts may have been.

Finally I got the ground in a relative state of clean and dumped water, soap and clothes into the bucket to soak for half an hour.  I felt pretty good, thinking to myself that I was nearly home free - all I gotta do now is wait!  This is of course the functional equivalent of tying one's shoes before a marathon and thinking "well that wasn't so bad... guess now all I have to do is run a bit!"

How wrong I was.  If I do end up in some kind of mythological Greek hell, my Sisyphean task will be attempting to wring the soap bubbles out of my Hamilton College tshirt for all eternity, only to watch it be soapy again every time I apply more water to it.  With every rinse and wring, I felt like I only making the clothes that much soapier! I was getting nowhere so I decided to goof off instead by rolling up my HamTech shirt into a rat tail and giving the wall a playful snap.  The sound was quite rewarding, and I would've been entirely proud of myself had not the snapping action caused a backlash of epically ironic soap residue to go careening off the wall and directly into my eyes.  Now slightly blinded, I decided that I had had enough fun for one wash and returned to my wringing duties.

Another hour or so of angry wringing later, I tried to empty out the soapy water bucket into the sink, making sure it wasn't overflowing over the top of the bowl.  To my dismay, the entire friggin pipe system started to overflow, releasing no less than 5 gallons of tepid, dirty wash water onto my feet and into the area that also doubles as my shower floor.  This was made all the worse by knowing that I still had to wring out yet another goddamn tshirt when I was done standing in the run-off of my own filth. I was displeased.

Accordingly, I have decided to edit my wash schedule.  Socks and boxers will still be washed on a weekly basis, because even I have some standards.  However, Techwick button downs are demoted to being washed once every two weeks.  Dont judge me yet, because it gets worse.  Only in the event that I soil myself will pants be washed ever again.  They have cargo pockets, within which are more pockets with hidden zipper compartments designed to hide things like your passport, keys and possibly that emergency condom you carry with you cause one of these days you just know you're going to get laid in a hostel bathroom.   These pants are so ingeniously designed that I'm going to be storing soap bubbles in the damn things for months to come.  If I get caught in the rain, I'm going to have to explain to people why my pockets are foaming over, and with my limited Sinhalese that will be hard to do. 

Pachyderm, Pack It In, Let Me Begin...

This is, in fact, me feeding an elephant a papaya.  I'm the one on the left.

Seeing as how I've been waking up at 2 or 3 a.m. everyday so far this week, I decided to take advantage of that fact and have a little adventure up to the capital city of Colombo this morning.  After a nice 6 a.m. walk down by the river, I grabbed a quick breakfast and was tuk-tuk-ing my way up the coast before I normally even contemplate the snooze button.  I partied with the lions and tigers and bears at the National Zoo (yes they really had all three, this isn't just some stupid joke this time) and then got my knowledge on at the National Museum (did you know that Sri Lanka is an island? super sweet!).

Driver said we should check out a Buddhist Temple on the way to my lunch, and considering I hadn't eaten more than a roll in nearly 18 hours I was hesitant to oblige him but I figured KFC could wait another half hour so we dropped on in to see what Buddhism had to offer.  Now, I've heard that much like the male anatomy, once you've seen one Buddhist Temple you've seen em all, but this was my first Sri Lankan Buddhist Temple so I kicked it into culture-overdrive and put my learnin' cap back on.  I got to see some pretty awesome archives, a cool collection of old school Mercedes and printing presses for some reason, and then... um... a friggin' elephant.

He was just chillin chillin there!  For the exorbitant fee of $1.79 US I got to walk up to said elephant and feed him a papaya.  Also, I got to cringe in fear as he absorbed most of my hand into his mouth and then started pushing me around with his tusks.  Let me say that again so you can catch the full impact here - an elephant basically grabbed my hand in his mouth and then pushed me around with his goddamn tusks.  And iiiiit waaaas aaaaawesome!

To be totally honest, friends, I actually walked by Mr. Elephant the first time I passed through that area of the temple and thought 'oh that's ok, I guess I don't really need to feed an elephant a papaya.'  I turned around to walk away and I mean like the nanosecond that he left my view I regretted not running up there, so I made Driver take me back so I wouldn't miss this chance to walk with the animals.  And I'm stoked I did too - I wasn't about to let a little thing like the rational fear that a 5 ton beast with the sheer killing power of an M198 Howitzer would turn on me in an instant if I showed weakness stop me from enjoying this moment!

Totally worth it.  I'm glad I had a second chance to overcome my initial terror of said elephant and try something completely different and completely Asia.  And besides, I let the nice German couple go first to see if anything would go horribly wrong, and they made it out unscathed. 

What.  I'm adventurous, not stupid. 

On the Challenges of Sleeping Abroad

And Alarm Clock wept, for there were no more Eric's to conquer.

  

Oh how I wish I could say that Day 2 in Sri Lanka was easier than Day 1.  Oh how I wish I could... but the weak veneer of my cocky attitude towards jetlag, fueled by some well timed plane sleep and my delicious Tranquila PM experiment, has been cracked and torn.  After a relatively productive morning of learning about the Sri Lankan criminal justice system, I was invited to grab some lunch with a couple of my co-workers and I happily accepted.  We shared a delightful meal of rice and curry, and they even got to laugh at me for employing my own fork while they engaged in the local custom of eating with ones hands.  I tried to explain to them that I didn't finish every last bit because I was saving it for dinner...little did I know, I wouldn't be making it to dinner (ominous foreshadowing noise!!)...

After wrapping up my leftovers and tossing them in the fridge so that the ants, geckos and spiders in the kitchen wont get to them, I returned to my studies but found myself a bit worn down from the day.  Apparently waking up at 530 am is still foreign to my system and I just needed a recharger nap...so I set the ol phone alarm for half an hour and down I went.  

Now, I don't know if it was simply the time difference catching up to me or if perhaps the ten-thousand mosquito bites I got so far were finally taking their toll, but I didn't wake up again until like 2am this morning...aaaand I've been up ever since.  Needless to say, I'm less than pleased about the situation.  At first I started panicking a bit, thinking that I needed to get back to sleep lest I ruin up my tight schedule and destroy my whole day.  Then I realized something - I work in my room. I can nap during the day!  Also, I don't HAVE  a set schedule... I don't HAVE minimum billables... as long as I can get my work done, I think I'm actually going to be alright!  Plus on the upside now I have some leftover curry for breakfast! All was saved!

This positive wave of optimism lasted about fourteen minutes.

Sure, this still beats having a bout of insomnia back in NYC when I knew every minute was ticking down to me waking up and joylessly droning about my daily binder making for thankless overlords, but not being able to sleep when you want to sucks no matter how you slice it.  I'm gonna chalk this one up to adjustment pains and try to stick with the Sri Lanka daily schedule I wanted to in the first place - up at the crack of dawn, and not a minute before that.  Now that I can start to see some light come up over the horizon, I'm not quite as upset to be milling about and starting my day.  I figure I'll have me some leftover curry in a couple of minutes, maybe take a mid-morning walk and hell I might even get some more research done.

All in all, it could be worse.  It could be doc review.

Section 2: Getting There and Away

Good news, everyone!  I live in Sri Lanka now!

I'd like to tell you exactly how long ago I touched down on the teardrop island which for the coming months I shall call my home, but my body clock is more turned around than a stoned college kid staring at a fuzzy MC Escher print his roommate bought at Hot Topic the week before second semester started.  It was dark and rainy when I left New York at 11 pm two days ago, and I haven't seen the sun until about two hours ago today so...that whole circadian rhythm thing is now slave to the clock on my crappy world phone.  Everyone I spoke to before the flights all gave great advice on how to best adjust - some suggested staying up late then having a drink or four, some said time out sleep to match the schedule for when I landed, yet others pushed the ambien/nyquil/advil pm route to help knock me out on the flight to make life easier.

I of course ignored all of you.

Relying on some complex sleeping formula seemed burdensome, booze only keeps me going for longer and for some reason I didn't want to deal with the "unnatural" sleep enhancers side effects of cold medicine head the next day (like I had sooo much to focus on, right?).  Instead I employed the completely experimental and totally non-FDA approved method of chugging some sort of elixir of melanin, vitamin B and elf magic called "Tranquila PM."  After jawing with the Kazakh music producer in the seat next to me and then subsequently hiding my tears from him while watching Toy Story 3, I rocked that Tranquila and buckled in for the long haul.  Toy Story spoiler alert - unless you're a robot made up of smaller parts of other heartless automatons, you WILL well up with tears at this movie.  I'd like to quell your fears right now, because that tranquila shit worked like a charm.  I woke up like 12 hours later ready to rumble.

In a sleepy haze I worked my way through my Abu Dhabi layover, spending my time reading and window shopping Arabian gossip mags, and then napped right through the second leg of my flight and right into Colombo, Sri Lanka.  The founder and head of the organization I'm working with here came to collect me at the airport, a gesture I appreciate greatly because if any of you have ever landed at a major South Asian airport before, you'll know that the buddy system was frigging invented for those times you find yourself walking outside into the melee at 5am with no sleep in 90 degree heat. 

We hopped in a micro bus and headed the hour or so down to Panadura, on the West Sri Lankan coast south of the capital, and it was only then did it really hit me that I was living here now.  Thousands of tuk-tuks slicing in and out of traffic in a manner that would make even the steeliest NYC driver flinch, wandering dogs roving in packs through the streets, motorcycles loaded with entire families following closely behind a dump truck and just inches in front of yet another dump truck, jet black fumes pumping out of each passing bus as they struggle to accelerate through the chaos without running smack into the half dozen cars shooting across the median just to avoid waiting at a left turn - it's life in fast motion set to the soundtrack of a cacophony of blaring horns and squealing breaks.  The familiar assurances provided by the McDonalds to my left quickly faded when not ten feet away in the parking lot there was also a few loose water buffalo and at least two military guards armed with machine guns.  Kansas this ain't.

Finally, not a few moments ago, I got to the office where I'll be working and my apartment on the second floor of the same building - it's simple but nice, and I'll have my own workspace replete with ceiling fan and air conditioning unit.  The omnipresent a/c makes Eric a very happy boy.  I unpacked, putting away the few items I actually brought with me, and for the first time in nearly three days got to take a shower and lay down in a real bed.  As I relaxed, finally and restfully settling in to my new digs, I contented myself with the knowledge that I'm really doing this.  Tomorrow I'll be starting in on work so for today I can focus on letting myself believe what's going on around me.

And you know what's more?  I saw a new ocean today.  It's not everyday that you get to say that.

Section 1: Introduction

While the journey of a thousand miles may begin with just a single step, I see no reason why it can't also begin with a blind double somersault into the deep end.  So here we go.

Tomorrow evening I leave for Sri Lanka and points philanthropic.  Over the next six months I will be volunteering with a pair of amazing organizations that provide a voice for the unrepresented and a support network for the lawyers advocating on their behalf in the developing world.  Behind me, I leave the bright and lucrative future of corporate law and a good deal of nervous family members who all know me well enough to have each separately told me to behave while I'm traveling.  My canned response "no promises!" has received, to my count, one nervous smile, a couple of awkward chuckles and at least five angry glares.

The good news is however that everyone so far seems pretty confident that this is the right move for me.  Sure this wasn't exactly the plan when I graduated from law school, but no plan is ever really perfect.  No map or guide book will perfectly predict how things will actually turn out and usually the best experiences you have along the way are the ones that you didn't read about first.  That photo above, my friends, isn't some stock Google Images result for "most epic sunrise ever," although you'll get plenty of that kind of fluff from me in the future.  Nor is it the sweetest rock album style cover-shot in history - cause everyone knows that this is.  I'm sure you'll recognize that the slightly-overweight shadow second from the left is yours truly, watching the sunrise over the Negev desert in Southern Israel.  While birthright tripping a few years back, I had the totally original idea to climb up the dunes at the ass-crack of dawn and watch the sunrise with a few of my friends.  It wasn't on the itinerary.  It wasn't a suggestion from the guide.  Hell, it wasn't even advisable to be climbing a steep sand and rock face in the pitch black in my well-worn New Balances, but it was friggin awesome.  And it was definitely worth going off-plan for the experience.

Don't get me wrong - having a guide book and a solid plan is a great way to get started.  There always seems to be something that they don't quite cover though...on all of my travels, there always seems to be some vitally important detail that the book just doesn't cover!  My friends and I always called those 'Dear Lonely Planet' moments, wherein you want to contact the people who wrote the guide book and say "um... fellas? Reaaallly could've used that extra bit of info...." 

At the end of the day though, those moments always end up being the best stories from the whole trip.  At the end of the day, those moments always end up being the most important lessons you learn from your travels.  And at the end of the day, the best parts of life are made of up 'Dear Lonely Planet' moments - you find out more about yourself when you face the unknown, or when the plan fails.   I invite all of you to face the unknown with me via 'Dear Lonely Planet' and together we'll find out where this little bit of chaos takes us next.