Netflix and the Dreadmill

Damn you, Anthony Bourdain! Damn you, I say! Until this morning, I was perfectly content with my place in this world. I was fine with writing little travel books about weird America and with the idea that, if I was careful, lucky, and could finally adhere to a budget like a grown up, I might get to see all of Europe before I die, but now?! NOW?! Well, now, I. Must. Go. To. Myanmar.

I must eat chicken curry with fried chili peppers in peanut oil. I must eat fermented tea leaf salad. I must drink strong sweetened milky tea in a political hot bed of a chaotic tea shop. I must have fried baby birds from a Burmese street fair where the Ferris wheels are powered by flip flip wearing teenagers cantilevering like charming physics chimpanzees. You did it, Anthony, you finally broke me.

The most comforting part of the whole desire frenzying episode is the knowledge that there is Punk Rock, even in Myanmar. And that cool rockers -even Burmese rockers-love the Sex Pistols and HATE Creed. As it should be. The end.

About peikleberry

What's to say? I'm a chronic fun seeker and life marrow sucker. I live in an ancient brick house in a darling town with my perfect and tolerant husband, my two amazing teenagers (The Giant and The Ginger) and two blue Danes (Oliver and Periwinkle). A lover of obscure roadside attractions and museums of oddity, I travel, write, laugh, make friends, write letters, sometimes run, eat great food and drink good whiskey. I've never had a bad journey and every single day is my grandest adventure.
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