FANTASTIC VOYAGE
Two reporters go around the world in 20 days.
If only we had 80 days. Unfortunately, we don’t have Verne’s generous vacation allotment, but we do have nearly three weeks — more than enough time to take a short lap around the world. For our circumnavigation, we will touch down in five countries, one island city-state and a former British colony administered by China. The boots-on-ground segments will last from a brief 24 hours (Reykjavik, Iceland) to a more languorous three days (Seychelles). For each destination, we will embark on a miniscavenger hunt: we must visit a landmark, eat a local dish and snap up a souvenir. Over 20 days, we will cover thousands of miles and several time zones on four continents. And on the 21st day, we shall rest.
Day 1: Reykjavik, Iceland
First stop: Reykjavik, Iceland Population: 331,918 Known for: Natural soaking tubs, Viking lore, fermented fish, Bjork, an affinity for elves Must see: Blue Lagoon Must eat: Hakari (fermented shark) or sheep’s head from the BSI bus station cafeteria Souvenir: Icelandic wool hat
Neither one of us mentioned the S-word. We had only 24 hours in Reykjavik; we could sleep on the morning flight to Stockholm.
On the island, Jabin and I moved like the Icelandic wind that could seemingly push the Nordic country closer to Greenland. About an hour after arriving on the red-eye, a nearly six-hour flight from Dulles International Airport, we were bouncing along toward the Golden Circle, the nearly 200-mile loop with geologic features that bubble, spew and spray. The route provides layover lubbers like us with an alternative to the 830-mile Ring Road, which demands at least a week of your devotion.
With foggy heads and clear skies, we hiked down to the first attraction on the route, Kerio, a volcanic crater lake that is a mere baby at 3,000 years old. The gravely path down to the caldera felt like shifting coffee grinds underfoot. I fell more on that short walk than I had over the past two winters. Fortunately, the landing was soft and silly. I also wasn’t the only tumbler in the crowd. A dad and mom created a human chain with their daughter and young son — who eventually lost to gravity. Thankfully, the sliding stopped just shy of the shore; one false step into the icy water and you’re an instant Popsicle.
At Gullfoss, or “Golden Waterfall,” the water thundered down the Hvita River gorge, releasing frothy white plumes high into the air. In the distance, the mountains wore snowy stoles around their shoulders. The wind started to kick up, and I had to resist invisible
hands pushing against me. The force grew even stronger at Geysir Hot Springs, a site gurgling with geothermal activity. On the short stroll to Strokkur, which puffs steam every four to eight minutes, my headscarf blew around like a kite and my mitten flew into a rivulet near a boiling hot pot. I knew that I had to take immediate action; I couldn’t wait till the shops in the capital.
I disappeared inside the store across the street and, a few minutes later, returned to the field in my new armor, an Icelandic wool hat. You see, sometimes a souvenir is more than a keepsake; it’s a tool of survival.
We completed the circle by mid-afternoon and scooted into Reykjavik for a one-two punch of diversions. We rode the elevator to the observation deck of the 244-foot-tall Hallgrimskirkja church and stood on stools to peer at the colorful buildings cascading toward the sea while keeping a polite distance from the steely mountains. Afterward, by the harbor, Jabin stood in line at the food stand, Baejarins Beztu Pylsur, whose name translates to “the best hot dog in town.” When his turn arrived, Jabin, who had trained for this moment, ordered a hot dog with everything (onions, sweet mustard, remoulade sauce) and a Coke. An employee dressed his dog and placed it in a narrow wooden holder on the counter for pickup.
“I can taste the lamb,” Jabin said as he parsed the medley of proteins.
In our 12th hour in Iceland, we finally arrived at one of the country’s most popular attractions, the Blue Lagoon. (For proof, count the buses and American accents.) Guests of the geothermal spa follow a ritual that includes a pre-soak shower and the slathering of conditioner on one’s hair to protect locks from drying out. Once in the pool, which steamed like a witch’s cauldron, Jabin and I swam-walked to the bar, where he ordered a cider and I re-energized with a blend of orange juice, carrots and ginger. After dawdling in a particularly hot spot, we wandered over to the facial bar and scooped white silica mud out of bowls. I spread the goop over my face as if I were making a fluff sandwich. An employee advised us to leave it on for 15 to 20 minutes; I kept it on for twice as long, embracing the mime look.
We later returned to the little hut for a second treatment, an algae mask. A staff member told us to wash it off after 10 minutes. I turned my greenish face toward a less-inhabited cove. By the lava rocks, I searched for a quiet place. I had many more hours before I could S, so the least I could do was grab a few minutes of R&R.
Days 2-4: Stockholm
Second stop: Sweden Population: 9.8 million Known for: Island-hopping; minimalist design; ABBA; royal palaces; medieval time travel
Must see: Junibacken, a museum dedicated to Swedish children’s books and characters, such as Pippi Longstocking
Must eat: Swedish meatballs
When I walk into an H&M store in the States, I often wonder whether Swedes also shop there. The global clothing chain’s birth certificate reads “Vasteras, Sweden,” after all.
Soon after landing in our second around-the-world destination, a nearly three-hour flight from Iceland, I set out to learn the truth. Inside the mall-size store in central Stockholm, I feigned interest in tribal prints to eavesdrop on others’ accents. I left with my answer (yes, they do have those prints) plus a pair of $10 tassel earrings that disproved the notion that Sweden is ridiculously expensive.
Stockholm is a cosmopolitan city on par with other Western greats. Locals dress in the urban uniform of black-on-black and shame monolinguists by slipping seamlessly into English. But Swedes also embrace traditions that I had assumed were unsanctioned stereotypes but turned out to be truths.
“I eat Swedish meatballs at home,” our waiter at Slingerbulten told us. “We eat them any day of the week.”
Jabin ordered hemmagjorda kottbullar med graddsas, rarorda lingon, pressgurka och potatismos, which translated, on the plate, to four meatballs covered in gravy and paired with mashed potatoes, pickles and a ruby-colored mound of lingonberries. While chatting with the server, we were interrupted by an eruption of singing from the front room. He explained the Swedish custom of belting out a song before each glass of aquavit. The table next to us dropped their utensils and chimed in.
Jabin polished off his meatballs, and we left before their second round — or set.
For a souvenir, I had an idea in my head (keeping it a secret) but feared that no modern Swede would dare own the particular trinket I sought. At K&U, a clothing store on the island of Sodermalm, I plunked a pair of clogs on the counter and, while an employee rang them up, prodded staff members for ideas. The daughter of the shop owner pointed to the wooden shoes and said, “Those.” As a second option, she recommended a Dala horse (secret’s out) and assured me that her family owns several of the wood-carved, painted figurines.
She directed me to Ahlens City, the country’s largest department store, which was founded in 1899. I found shelves of horses on the fourth floor, near a tourist information booth. (Yes, it’s that mega.) I selected a red Dala horse with a folk-artsy flower on its back and a white stripe on its nose. The Vasa Museum, said to be the most-visited museum in Scandinavia, offers a cautionary tale about Swedish design — but, in the country’s defense, the Dutch were also to blame for the tragedy. In 1628, the 226-footlong warship set sail, a move by King Gustav II Adolf, who was seeking Baltic domination. The vessel, which was built by a Dutch shipwright, sank less than a mile from the dock. The Vasa squatted on the seafloor for 333 years before it was salvaged, restored and lodged indoors, safe from unsteady seas and royal fancies.
The museum sits in the Royal National City Park, home of several cultural institutions, oak tree groves and woodland creatures. At Junibacken, across from the museum, I made my way through a parking lot of prams and stepped into a Swedish childhood. “I have been reading them since I was 3 or 4,” said a young woman running the Story Train, a magical spin through the tales of Astrid Lindgren. “This ride always makes me cry.”
On the street, I noticed a slow line of cars trailing behind officials riding high on horses and boxing in a carriage. I asked a resident about the processional. She said that King Carl XVI Gustaf was turning 70 the following day and was supposedly throwing himself a birthday bash nearby. This was all so new to me but was so old for the Swedes.
Days 5-7: Antananarivo, Madagascar
Third stop: Madagascar Population: 23.8 million Known for: Lemurs, chameleons, lemurs, frogs, lemurs, baobab trees, lemurs Must see: Andasibe-Mantadia National Park Must eat: Ravitoto Souvenir: Madagascar vanilla
How badly did we want to see lemurs?
So badly that we spent nearly 24 hours traveling from Stockholm to Madagascar, testing our resolve through one red-eye, two layovers
(Paris, the Seychelles) and four semi-edible airplane meals (among the dishes: a greasy egg-roll-meets-burrito snack paired with fruit salad, ratatouille and rice with a creamy carrot salad, and lots of vacuum-sealed bread). That we clocked more than five hours in a car that corkscrewed along twisty roads crowded with trucks, parading children, crayfish vendors and carts drawn by zebu, the local cattle. That we sacrificed much-needed sleep by rising early for day hikes to view the diurnal lemurs and staying up late (in jet-lag hours) for night walks to see the nocturnal residents. (Our solution to the lack of zzzs: snoozing during every car ride, no matter the length.)
We also braved leeches, malarial mosquitoes and giant spider webs that hung like lace curtains in the rain forest. All for a primate.
But lemurs aren’t just any animal, and Madagascar isn’t just any African country. The island off the eastern coast is home to all of the wild lemurs in the world — 105 species. And they are nearly everywhere.
Andasibe-Mantadia National Park is one of the lemur habitats closest to the capital, Antananarivo, a clamoring metropolis with colorful buildings stacked on hillsides and trimmed with rice paddies and barren fields. The reserve counts a dozen lemur species among its kingdom of critters, which also include birds (many endemic), chameleons (ditto), frogs, beetles, butterflies, stick bugs and so many spiders. We started in the Mantadia section, which is accessible only via a deeply rutted, unpaved route.
My back ached not from the 90 minutes of jostling but from trying to twist into a semihorizontal slumbering position. Jabin’s suffering was much worse: His head was repeatedly acting out a knock-knock joke on the window.
Our guide, Liva, was like a heavy dose of caffeine. He was deeply attuned to nature (birds actually answered his calls) and his enthusiasm for the local wildlife jolted us awake. We dived into the thick of the forest, stepping high over roots and crouching low to avoid sticky webs. In the distance, we heard the cries of the black-andwhite ruffed lemur, a sound that resembled a heavy metal band’s cover of whale song. Cocking his ear, Liva followed the vocals to the source. While we watched a family defend its territory against intruders (little ol’ us?), Liva darted off to scout for other species. He returned with a slew of finds: sleeping Eastern woolly lemurs (so jealous), the rare red-bellied lemur and the diademed sifaka, or dancing lemur, which seemed to be wearing orange leg warmers.
“Sometimes, people come to the park and don’t see any lemurs,” he said. “You saw four species. You were lucky.”
Unlike that of my jeans, which ripped on one of the uphill scrambles, our luck with lemurs continued. We added the bamboo and the common brown on Lemur Island, a refuge for lemurs rescued from domestic situations. On the night walks, we stared into the Beanie Boo eyes of mouse lemurs and watched a Parson’s chameleon change color from banana yellow to a more chic orange with green stripes.
The indri, one of the largest lemurs, kickstarted our morning trek in Andasibe. A family of four swooped over our heads, their furry white legs propelling them across the wide expanse, their humanlike hands grasping the opposite trunk. The visit ended with the dancing lemurs — too busy scarfing down strawberry mangos to jig for their rapt audience below.
Back in the parking lot, exhausted but elated, I again heard the bellows of the indri.
“They are saying goodbye,” Liva said.
The following morning, we said our own farewells — at a lower decibel, of course. Goodbye, kindly staff member at Eulophiella lodge, who broke from the set menu to prepare for us ravitoto, a traditional meal made of mashed cassava leaves mixed with zebu meat. Goodbye, Josefa, our ever-buoyant guide who, during our mad dash to the airport, accommodated our request to purchase Madagascar vanilla, our chosen souvenir. Goodbye, Raymond, the driver who navigated the gnarled traffic in Antananarivo like a rude New Yorker. And a special screeching goodbye to the lemurs. Sadly, we will have to leave you behind as we fly northeast to the Seychelles. You are endemic, after all.
Days 8-11: Mahe, The Seychelles
Fourth stop: Seychelles Population: 92,430 Known for: Beaches, nature reserves and marine parks, Creole culture, watersports, coral islands Must see: Vallée de Mai National Reserve Must eat: Chicken coconut curry Souvenir: Coconut carving
It was inevitable. We were going to experience a glitch — or depending on who’s telling the story, a major screw-up.
For the first three countries, we glided through our itinerary with the greatest of ease. Our only delay lasted barely an hour, and the aircraft ended up leaving Stockholm before the estimated departure time posted on the overhead screen. My blood pressure didn’t even have a chance to rise.
And then we arrived in the Seychelles.
A little background info: We had planned an outing from Mahe, the largest island in the East African archipelago and our home base, to Praslin, a nearby isle with a UNESCO World Heritage site. The agent in the States told us to be ready for an 8 a.m. pickup; a representative at Seychelles International Airport said the driver would come at 9. After processing the schedule change, I flashed Jabin an ecstatic expression usually affiliated with winning the lottery. Our Powerball ticket number: an extra hour of sleep.
The morning of our excursion, I was luxuriating in bed, gazing dreamily at the palm trees outside my window, when I heard a knock and a stranger’s voice telling Jabin that our ride was here. I checked my phone — 7 a.m. — and rushed to the front door to speak with the innkeeper. She said the plane was taking off shortly; we had to leave N-O-W.
I don’t want to point fingers, but okay, I will: The airport employee gave us incorrect details. But my phone was also to blame: It was still on Madagascar time, an hour behind. We ended up missing the flight, plus the next one, plus the ferry — an alternate mode of interisland travel. At the airport, we added our names to the standby list for the 11:30 a.m. departure. I slumped down in the plastic chair, feeling like a delinquent student in the principal’s office. My punishment: no trip to Praslin that day. (We attempted the outing the next day, and succeeded.)
Instead of wallowing, we turned the mishap upside down. We drove (on the left side, a remnant of British rule) to Victoria (all hail Queen V), where we spent a sunny-rainy-sunny afternoon. The compact capital mixes the styles of past colonial powers with the colors and textures of the African culture. A symphony of English, French and Creole drifts through the streets.
We set out in search of a souvenir, eschewing goods made in China for the homemade crafts at the Cooperative des Artisans, which the British established in the 1930s to promote local talent. I hovered around the raffia baskets and handbags woven by three elderly ladies, but Jabin nixed the idea: The delicate handiwork would never survive the crush of travel, especially in the overhead bins. The shopkeeper suggested a more durable wood carving that was the size of a mini-bagel and resembled — well, let’s just say a placard in the palm forest on Praslin describes the seed’s form as “pornographic.” The piece is a diminutive replica of Lodoicea, the largest coconut in the world, which grows only in the Seychelles. The government protects and regulates the giant nuts, which sell for hundreds of dollars. I would need thousands more rupees to purchase the real thing, plus a bowling bag to transport it home.
Coconuts are a recur-
ring theme on the islands. Our traditional dish, which we sampled at the Bonbon Plume restaurant on Praslin, was chicken coconut curry. (Pass on the fruit bat.) For our landmark, we hiked around Vallée de Mai Nature Reserve (the site protected by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization), one of only two locations in the country where the coco de mer palm, the parent of that husky coconut, grows. I kicked around rugby-ball-size coconuts on the white-sand beaches and noticed coconut ice cream’s high placement on menus.
On the ferry back to Mahe, I watched the palm trees on the shoreline shrink to pencil height. The sky set off red and orange flares. Halfway through the journey, passengers clutching white bags rushed into the open air. I offered them a consoling smile and then turned my gaze toward the sunset and beyond — to India, our next destination.
Days 12-14: Mumbai, India
Fifth stop: India Population: 1.25 billion Known for: Hindu temples, Bollywood, beaches, mad shopping, even madder
traffic, curries, yoga Must see: Gateway of India and Elephanta Caves Must eat: Biryani Souvenir: Bangles from Colaba Causeway
I knew that we had been making serious headway around the world when I started to recognize the pilots’ names (why, it’s captain Patrick of Air Seychelles again), stopped calculating the time change (I set my clock to “Now”) and was close to memorizing my passport number (448 ******* ). Another sign: At our next destination, the top item on our laundry list of activities was actually doing laundry.
Before departing Washington, Jabin and I had agreed to pack light, so that we could avoid checking bags. We hoped that our limited but thoughtful choices would carry us through the extreme poles of the thermometer — the layer-to-strip approach. But dirt, sweat and lemur licks happen. We had planned to wash our clothes in the Seychelles, until we learned that the nearest facility was on a different island. By the time we reached Mumbai, after a nearly five-hour flight, we were desperate for a washer and dryer.
Jabin was surviving on two sets of underwear and socks, a white T-shirt and one pair of shorts. I was trying to protect three clean dresses from being contaminated by shorts covered in red mud and brambles, a skirt encrusted with the salt of the Indian Ocean and a bathing suit that smelled of sulfur.
Before setting out to explore Mumbai, a financial center bedazzled by Bollywood, we considered our options. We could pay for the hotel’s itemized laundry service (sample price: $2 per undergarment), wash by hand in the tub ( Jabin had a six-pack of Tide) or introduce a few new pieces into our tightly curated wardrobe. But any additions could feasibly throw off our delicate luggage ecosystem. (Prior to India, we had been prudent with our purchases, buying only palm-size or flat gifts.) Jabin scrubbed several items, taking a chance that they would dry before we departed two days later. I, meanwhile, decided to see what Mumbai was sending down the runway this season.
South Mumbai sits at the tip of the city and could easily dip a big toe into the Arabian Sea to cool off. Many of the precinct’s buildings remember the British Raj well, such as the Gateway of India archway, which was built in 1924 to mark a visit by King George V and Queen Mary. Crowds of tourists, many from around India, congregate around the landmark to snap photos of one another and the odd Westerner (I now appear in more than a dozen family photos, including one in which I am holding someone’s wiggly baby) to celebrate special moments such as weddings and anniversaries (look for the women in red) or to catch the ferry to the Elephanta Caves, an ancient stone gallery of carvings of Hindu gods, with real cows and monkeys in attendance.
Long ribbons of shops and stalls unfurl behind the Taj Mahal Palace, the stately hotel across the street from the archway. On the way to Shahid Bhagat Singh Road
to buy jangly bangles, we met a feisty woman in an aquamarine sari who anointed herself our shopping guide. She led us to a closet-size store lined with bolts of fabric. Jabin selected a textile and a style, then stood as still as a mannequin while an assistant took his measurements. The proprietor told us to return for the shirt after 5 p.m. In the bridging hours, we promenaded along Colaba Causeway, buying Kashmir shoes from this vendor, a cotton dress with its own ventilation system (butterfly sleeves) from that one, and a few outfits from Fabindia, a chain store that specializes in handcrafted creations. Come sundown, we definitely had clean clothes. I didn’t even care if I spilled biryani from Bademiya, a neighborhood restaurant, on myself. I had a bagful of replacements.
Before heading back to the hotel with our packages, we took a seat at a beauty salon and held out our palms. An artist drew flowers, tendrils, paisleys and dewdrops on my wrist and hand. Per request, she inked a camera aimed at a bride on Jabin’s skin. She explained that mehndi is a traditional adornment for betrothed-to-bes, who will typically cover the area from their fingertips to their elbows and their toes to their calves.
The plant-based dye also contains salubrious properties that can calm individuals about to embark on a stressful adventure, such as marriage or packing for the Singapore leg of a jaunt around the globe.
Day 15: Singapore Sixth stop: Singapore
Population: 5.67 million Known for: Modern architecture, multicultural neighborhoods, street food, cleanliness Must see: Buddha Tooth Relic Temple and Museum or Singapore Flyer, the largest Ferris wheel outside the United States Must eat: Kaya toast Souvenir: Merlion chocolates, Tiger Balm
My ears relaxed first, then the rest followed. No one was blaring their horns or raising their voices above the sleeping-baby decibel. We were in Singapore, a timeout between the contact sports of India and Hong Kong.
After the aural jackhammer of Mumbai, the hush of the island city-state was as soothing as a pair of velvet noisecancellation headphones. Riding in a cab after a 5½hour overnight flight from India, I eased into the back seat and listened to the soft-spoken driver point out attractions along the route (Botanic Gardens, the Hindu Sri Mariamman Temple) and recommend activities (the theme parks on Sentosa Island, shopping on Orchard Road). After he took a wrong turn to the hotel, he pulled over and turned off the meter as an apology. Jabin and I had less than 30 hours on the ground, and I could have easily spent all of it cruising around in his quiet car.
By now, we were accustomed to bumbling around in a partial zombie state, and we knew exactly what we needed to rejoin the living: kaya toast. The breakfast food is seemingly found on every block and eaten at any hour. We sought out the most authentic version, returning to early-20th-century Singapore for a taste. (The pocket-size restaurant we chose resides in a mall at People’s Park Centre, so time travel required a fair bit of imagination.)
Ya Kun Kaya Toast, a chain with more than 50 outlets Asia-wide, was founded by Loi Ah Koo, an immigrant from China’s Hainan Island who worked at a coffee stall, serving the characters of the day: laborers, merchants, boat operators, money-lenders. In the spirit of entrepreneurship, he and his wife started selling a happier morning meal of grilled toast slathered with kaya jam, a spread of eggs, coconut milk, sugar and pandan leaf, with a cold pat of butter inserted in the middle. Two soft-boiled eggs and a cup of coffee or tea accompanied the short stack of slices.
Jabin took a bite of the sweet bread.
“It would be really good …” he began to say.
“Jet-lag food?” I interjected.
“Hangover food,” he continued. “I really wish they could put bacon on it. Then I’d be set.”
Singapore’s population is comprised of three main ethnic groups: Chinese, Indians and Malays. In Chinatown, lanterns hang like plump red moons over narrow lanes. Shops sell a dizzying array of souvenirs. Signs urge bingebuying: one for $4, three for $10. The Merlion is Singapore’s mascot, and the hybrid lion-fish appears
on every imaginable (and even un-) object, including poker-chip lighters, clocks, thermometers and sets of olive forks. I browsed the shelves of Merlion-shaped edibles, resisting the pack mentality for a single sleeve of gold-wrapped chocolates. I also picked up some locally made Tiger Balm ointment to help alleviate a cold that ended our healthy streak.
Meandering through Singapore was therapeutic. The streets are vacuum-clean, and the buildings glisten in the sunlight. The tropical temperature is set on steam room. As I decimated my face towelette supply, I imagined that I was purifying, not perspiring.
On my stroll to the Singapore Flyer, the largest Ferris wheel outside the United States, I detoured at an open-air food court (the heat made me do it) and ordered a longan chin chow. The mound of shaved ice wore a cap of grass jelly cubes, tropical fruit and mystery beads that popped like candy caviar. The dish turned into a puddle, and I had to switch from spoon to slurp.
In our dwindling hours, Jabin and I squeezed in a visit to the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple and Museum, which houses one of the spiritual teacher’s pearly whites in a solid gold stupa. I lit a stick of incense and contemplated my wish. I could have asked for a quick recovery from my sneezing and coughing, but I didn’t want to squander the moment. Instead, I called on Tiger Balm to heal my health. I applied the ointment before our flight to Hong Kong, thereby freeing up Buddha to take care of the rest. Seventh stop: Hong Kong Population: 7.14 million Known for: Striking skyline, Victoria Peak, traditional junk boat rides in Victoria Harbor, shopping (see: electronics), Temple Street Night Market
Must see: Po Lin Monastery on Lantau Island Must eat: Dim sum Souvenir: Goods from Goods of Desire
Hong Kong welcomed us with a dance party in the street. In the SoHo neighborhood, bars blasted the universal playlist of Britney, Bieber and Bruno, a siren call for the multinational revelers to down shots delivered by syringe and peel off their shirts. I looked over at Jabin, who was eating tacos, and suggested that we skip sleeping on our final night. We could dine, drink, boogie, grab our bags and go straight to the airport. He told me that pulling an all-nighter was one of the best ideas I’d had since we started our epic journey. And I thought booking us aisle seats had been my finest moment.
The leg that had seemed so far off had finally landed at our feet. After a fourhour flight from Singapore, we had only two full days left in our final destination. We could’ve eased up on the sightseeing, but no: We were going to push ourselves to near-exhaustion. Extreme fatigue was the ideal condition for the 14 1/2-hour flight home.
The autonomous territory off the southern coast of China pulsated like Manhattan or Bangkok. The gritty, textured city brimmed with discoveries, curiosities and dramatic vignettes. Shadowy alleyways appeared like film noir settings for a shootout or an illicit kiss. Breathing in the warm air felt like guzzling an energy drink.
Our walk from the hotel to the subway station turned into a much-needed workout. We climbed steep staircases, traversed cramped lanes and skirted obstacles — specifically, pods of slow walkers glued to their gadgets. We rode the subway (public transportation, a first for us) to Lantau Island and boarded a cable car to Tian Tan Buddha, a giant bronze statue perched cross-legged atop Mount Muk Yue. I peered through the glass floor and noticed a lone hiker wobbling on the trail below.
By the time we reached the top, Jabin was hungry, and I was still vegetarian. Our positions dovetailed at the Po Lin Monastery, which serves a multicourse lunch of vegetables, tofu and rice. Afterward, we scaled 260 steps to the Big Buddha. A woman asked Jabin to snap her photo. She held up two sheets of paper on which she had written “Hong” and “Kong.”
“I am traveling around Asia and Europe until my money runs out,” she said. “It should last for a year.” The adventurer, who hails from Vietnam, was sending the images to her father, who was undergoing dialysis and could travel with her only in spirit.
We stayed up late wandering around Mong Kok, a teeming commercial district that keeps insomniac’s hours and is illuminated like a Lite-Brite board. At the Ladies’ Market, a night bazaar with more than 100 stalls, we perused cheap trinkets that were most likely made in the motherland.
(We ended up buying our souvenirs — a tea cover, chopsticks and a rest stand shaped like a local mountain range — from Goods for Desire, an Urban Outfitters-style retailer founded in Hong Kong.) Jabin dared to sample foods — a spicy tomato noodle soup, ice cream in mystery flavors — that could have resulted in a trip to the first-aid kit.
Our last meal in Hong Kong, and for our entire round-the-world journey, almost didn’t happen. During our quest for dim sum, the first two restaurants we tried said they stopped serving the small plates at 4 p.m. We rushed to another spot, arriving just in time to order six dishes.
“You are so excited,” a diner told us. “You are acting like you are going to a first-class restaurant.”
During the mango-pudding course, a waitress mopped around our table. I skated out the front door.
We returned to SoHo and joined the throng of celebrants gripping cocktails and wearing headbands with blinking lights. We took several laps around the track of bars and then climbed onto a wall overlooking the Bacchanalian scene.
Day 20: Home
At New York’s JFK airport, a certain kind of freedom lay just after the customs line: the freedom to eat a hamburger with fresh toppings at Shake Shack (pile on the produce), to drink a Diet Dr Pepper (none of that horrid Coke Lite) and to gulp down water with ice (no fear of gastro-wrenching bacteria). At the American Airlines gate, we couldn’t find the burger outlet or the soda pop, but, while waiting for our flight to Washington, we chugged several tall glasses of cold water.
Welcome home, indeed.