krabi, not crabby.

Shameful, this month-long interlude between postings...undoubtedly a result of the slower-paced Thai lifestyle and an unfortunate obstruction to picture-taking (due to some stolen items on the island of Koh Phi Phi). Looking back, it is bizarre to recount the hesitation I felt when first landing in Bangkok en route to India; I had considered taking a bus into the city to enjoy my 9 hour layover, experiencing a brief introduction to Thai culture rather than meager (at best) entertainment in the airplane terminal, but in the end opted to wait on account of a) not wanting to activate my 30 day visa too early and b) cultural intimidation. Now, I laugh at this thought. So many of my traveling companions have described Bangkok using such terms as chaotic, disorderly, dirty; funnily enough, the only people I have met that describe it as clean and organized (like myself) are those returning from India. The streets are so predictably navigated, the drivers are seemingly responsible (though I have since been told that there is no regulation for driving in Thailand, aside from two hours of experience), and the city as a whole is remarkably Western. Surely there are exceptions to this general pleasantness, like the cheap housing accommodations that offer a po-dunk fan, cinder block walls, and a windowless perimeter for roughly seven dollars. Unable to put myself in an asylum such as this, I instead coughed up double the money for triple the comfort on Rambuttri Road (the little sister to Khao San Road, of "The Beach" fame). Outside my front door were vendors selling crappy clothing and flip flops to the new travel recruits that had not yet learned to effectively haggle, but they offered good bargaining experience which has come in quite handy down the [travel] road. Better still is a vast selection of the best and cheapest food stalls in much of the country at no more than $2 a plate: spicy shrimp salad with glass noodles…som tom (green papaya salad with salted baby shrimp)…mango sticky rice with coconut sauce. ..lychees and mango steed.

With so much to see in my one month in Thailand, I had contacted my good friend Rakhal for recommendations, since he has traveled through the country practically every year since we met. As if the travel fates weren't already blessing me with a splendid trip, they gave me Rocky, as we call him, in person…just returned from an exhausting stint in China and Mongolia and in need of recuperation like myself. I welcomed our mutual tiredness by rejecting the guilt that accompanies going to the cinema in a foreign country, partly due to the regalness of the venue. The Paragon Theatre is located in Siam Square, one of two shopping malls in Bangkok and the wealthier of the two. How do I know? Um, the floor dedicated to Lamborghini's. It is so popular that taxi drivers often kick you out of the car before you have the opportunity to reach your destination: its faster to walk. The theatre was every movie lover’s dream: comfortable reclining seats, 2 dollar beers sold at the concession stand, and a cultural mecca since viewers are obligated to stand for the Ode to the King that precedes the film. I have every intention of returning for a second flick in the final days of my travels, but in the same vein as splurging on a posh 5-star hotel, I will instead upgrade to hiring my own private bartender under the V.I.P. ticket.

Culture and celebration were definitely not missed while in Bangkok. In fact, the former was made easy by water boats costing a measly 50 cents per ride (and offering endless amusement in the form of "lady boys", or "shims" as we call them, working as ticket agents). Via said boat, I toured one of Bangkok’s most reputed sights with Rocky’s girlfriend Annabel: the Grand Palace…most easily described as "bling". The Thais in the area were all using umbrellas on the Palace grounds to shield themselves from the sun (great value is placed upon pale skin, so much so that whitening lotions and deodorants are the norm), but I argue the sun shade was for bling deflection. The stupas are adorned in gold, the doors are patterned with mother of pearl, and roofs are tiled shiny blue. Annabel, who is more familiar with the customs of Buddhism from her extensive travels, explained that in prayer, Buddhists light incense sticks bound to a lotus flower and place them in either sand banks or buckets in front of the Buddha statues or, alternatively, adhere pieces of gold leaf to the statues themselves; worshipers kneel, careful not to face their feet pointing at the Buddhas, and while placing their hands together (finger to finger, palm to palm) bow in what looks like a yoga pose three consecutive times; when walking the perimeter of the wat (or temple), it must be done in a clockwise motion, including entering through the left-most door and exiting through the right-most door (the central door is used only by the King and Queen of Thailand).

And the celebration, oh the celebration. Though I generally avoided the mess that is Khao Sahn Road, it was all too appropriate to partake in the madness for the World Cup Finals. Stationed at an Irish Pub with Rocky and Annabel, we tried our damnedest to stay awake for the 1:30 a.m. start, a feat that was facilitated by the out of control drinking which makes the road famous. In fact, one bar is titled Strong Drinks Bar with a disclaimer stating "we don't check IDs". Walking along this street is horrible on an average night, but throw into the mix a highly competitive soccer match with as many Dutch travelers in orange as there were Spanish in red, and you have a heated match which lasted until well past 4:00 a.m. Many of the folks who perpetuate the Khao San reputation were at it at all hours of the day, including a rasta man who was infatuated with the Mehndi still inked on my hands and would attempt to kiss them each morning while nursing an open a.m. beer. Outside the throws of the backpacker’s center, however, is the Chatuchuck weekend market with an excess of 10,000 stalls. Here you can purchase anything you wish and, like the rest of Bangkok, it is bizarrely organized by item: pets, terrariums, vintage cowboy boots, silver jewelry, asiatic pottery, levis knock-offs, etc. When being transported by taxi, Rocky and I often joked that we were passing through the “chair district” followed by the “metal fittings district” and so forth. After wandering for nearly three hours in Chatuchuk, one hour of which was dedicated to trying to find the stalls which I had passed early in the day but naively thought I would return to after perusing other items, I finally got out of dodge with my wallet a little lighter…and, presumably, my friends a little happier.

Ready to leave the big city and the shirtless Abercrombie models that wander its streets (everyone is inordinately attractive and collectively forget that they are no longer beachside and therefore in need of clothing), I left via night bus with a Belgian traveler named Laure who I met ever-so-briefly at a food stall serving the aforementioned glass noodles on Rambuttri Road. I was less than enthused by the herding of sheep sensation on the touristic bus trip (most travelers were white 20 somethings en route to Koh Phangan for the infamous full moon party). We were subjected to crappy food at the mandatory bus rest stops en route to our final destination and the seats, oh the seats, bounced so violently with the road bumps that it became a source of amusement rather than annoyance. Unlike the rest of the bus, however, I was headed to Koh Phi Phi off the western coast of beautiful Krabi province. In retrospect, beginning one's Thailand adventures with beach time is less productive than ending them...but then again I have always been a fan of “palindromes” and might find myself beachside again. Recounting the awe of my first glances of the remarkably beautiful limestone rock formations of the Krabi province, I find myself counting the minutes until I can return. Maybe tomorrow? Southern Thailand is immensely different from Northern, though I can only assert this in retrospect since I now have the comparison to make. Prices are high and you are more or less locked into the numbers set forth by tour companies because once on the island, options are few. The trip from the mainland to the island itself occurs over 1.5 hours on a ferry boat which travels only twice per day, and we (my Belgian compatriot and I) were fortunate to have front row seats on the bow of the boat. Small uninhabited islands were everywhere; fishing boats that were over dramatized in shape (almost cartoon-esque) were both heading to sea and waving at the tourists onboard; strange eel like fish were skipping across the surface of the water like flat rocks on a river. Upon docking, we found the representative for our hotel waiting for our arrival, along with a long boat to take us to our home around the crux of the island. The good news is it was secluded from the party-goers that monopolize the main beach, the bad news is the boats only operate until sunset after which you have no choice but to stay at the hotel. But we did learn a few fancy tricks during our stay at Relax Resort: most open bottles of booze have been watered down... just order a glass of vodka [neat] and you’ll see. Because our first night was a bit boring in light of our solitude, we took a walk through the jungle to the main beach the next morning and found alternate accommodations, a bungalow on the beach beneath Tonsai Tower. It was picturesque, to be sure, had a fruit shake stand with delicious watermelon shakes, open access to beautiful turquoise water, and a good view of the rock climbers attempting to set a new 5.13a route. The island itself is shaped like a butterfly, with one side erupting in inordinate noise and partying each night...apparently this has grown since the tsunami in 2004 when the formerly charming beach bungalows were replaced by high end resorts. I made the mistake of checking out the scene one night and, opting to take a beautiful moonlit swim down the beach from the madness, found myself without a camera, phone, and 10,000 baht (300 dollars) upon returning to the dune where I had left them. I chose then and there not to be angry, because frustration won’t replace my belongings but it will ruin my trip. So I instead rebuilt my negative impression of the island with: a) a charming Frenchman named Vincent and his 14 year old flamboyantly gay son Martin, b) the goal of trying a new Thai sweet every day (oh, the coconut donuts), and c) a camping trip to Maya Bay, also of “The Beach” fame. Earlier in my travels, I heard that the normal daytime visit to the bay is overrated and overrun with tourists, but the camp trip is amazing so Laure and I opted to fork over the big bucks and join seven other campers for a night on the island. We took a two story boat off Phi Phi and a brief stop to snorkel and explore some of the crevasses on the island’s far side. I was the first to jump from the top of the boat and the only to snorkel (mind you, I freaked out every time the coral ended and the deep water began). To reach the bay itself, the water is rough so they have installed rope lines that serve as a quasi under-water tight rope walk that prevents you from being forced into the rocks with incoming waves, then a steep stairway leading to a short path on the back of Maya Bay itself. For those who know the film, there’s a scene in which Leonardo DiCaprio and the french girl wake in the middle of the night and run through a jungle path to the beach, where they proceed to swim with plankton. That’s the path, and that’s the beach, and there are plankton. Though the whole adventure was grand…from the games to the fire dancing to the experiment of seeing how hard a crab can actually pinch...but best of all was being the first to wake and set foot on the beach at sunrise. I took a kayak out into the bay, just me and the waves, and will never forget the peace of that isolated beach.

india, adieu.

No doubt my descriptions of India intimate how foreign it was for me, but after having spoken with other travelers who had the courage to view the country by their lonesome, I am even more convinced that I must return and see it in its full glory (but I'd prefer to go with a buddy). I had intended to spend almost two weeks in South India after the wedding, partially to prove to myself that I could and also to see the terrain in Kerala that I'd heard spoken so highly. There are tea plantations where you can spend a week learning about processing green tea leaves with the women who work there; there are houseboats that travel the backwaters and show stilted houses where remote fisherman and rice farmers live. But in the end, there is a great deal stress attached to traveling alone (as a girl) in India and though I have every confidence I could do it, I opted not to force stress or discomfort during a vacation that should be about relaxation and enjoyment (a decision that has since been validated by every female traveler I've spoken to in regards to India). So, with only a few days left in Chennai, I decided to see the sights Madras has to offer and take a break from being driven by drivers in exchange for my own two feet.

Relaxation post wedding. Aparna and I spent one blissful afternoon escaping the heat at a rooftop pool on the 8th floor of The Park Hotel. The whole time we were keenly aware of the frivolity of our day, especially compared to the poverty we could see just beyond our poolside seats. It was interesting, though, that much of the walls were covered with mirrors which conveniently prevented guests from seeing the lives led by the less fortunate members of the caste system below but instead looking at their own reflections. I find great value in having seen so many sides of India, including heading to the cheaper markets to track down what a local assures me is the best coffee powder in Madras. I purchased three kilos made to my aromatic specifications and two filters which I have been instructed on how to properly use for potent caffeinated drip. It works as a sort of percolator and french press synthesis and makes some of the strongest coffee this side of the U.S.

Temples, temples, and more temples. I can honestly say that my fascination had less to do with the temples' age or construction but everything to do with learning more about Hinduism. Mahabalipuram is a bit over an hour from the center of town and requires driving on a two lane highway at high speeds. Have I talked about the driving yet? It's madness. The acclimation to driving on the left side of the road is nothing compared to the video-game like maneuvering drivers do (and do well). They honk constantly, not as a sign of aggression but either to 1) inform other cars of their presence and approach or b) warn pedestrians and bicyclists they are turning a corner...I still hear honks when falling asleep each night. Within the city center, the driving is certainly crazy but crashes are only fender benders due to their slow speeds. On the highways, it is different. Two lane roads are converted to four or five lane roads because drivers use the shoulder and the opposite lane of traffic to pass slow vehicles in what seems like a game of chicken. While driving to Mahabalipuram, there was one instant in which our driver and front passenger simultaneously buckled their seatbelts (something I had not even considered in my entire stay in Chennai) and, when we went to mimic the action, discovered they had the only two seatbelts in the vehicle. But, the point of this post is the temple[s], the most famous of which is called the Shore Temple and now shows much wear based upon its proximity to the wind and salts of the ocean which have left salt deposits nearly a half inch thick on the sea-facing walls. The history is unaffected through, as you can still smell the fire smoke in the ceiling and the sculptures of the gods are safely concealed (I was most intrigued by Shiva, which is represented by a simple cylindrical shape with a rounded top as compared to Vishnu, who is often shown as a crawling child but here shown reclining).

The Mylapore Temple was much more indicative of what you saw on the streets of Madras, only in much smaller replicas. They remind me very much of gingerbread houses painted with frosting made of powdered sugar + dye (lumpy and a little off). But its symbolism was very beautiful and included such things as a wishing tree where people visited primarily to wish for a successful marriage union or fertility, and sat adjacent to the cow corral. It was in an area of town that was surrounded by kiosks selling trinkets only tourists might want, but so far as I could see I was one of three tourists in the area and, as such, stood out. Upon entering the temple, an old man tried to approach me and I've learned enough to know he would try to hassle me for money so I kept walking. He found me minutes later and insisted that he was not looking for money but was a man of the temple and wanted to teach me something of its significance. He was quite informative, if not rehearsed, and I was saddened by the end of the tour in which he demanded 200 rupees for his time and insisted that he had informed me of this at the start. I should have assumed from his disfigured feet that he was a gypsy, but his assurance of being a religious man swayed me otherwise...in the end his treatment was so forceful and rude that I gave him nothing, but perhaps selfishly left with an amazing portrait of him.

Mangoes...and more mangoes. Almost two years ago, I got in touch with my friend Abi's mother Latha to discuss some particulars about their newly purchased mango farm, which I hoped to use as the source of a project I was conducting on small farm economic viability. Since that day, and due largely to the culmination of hours spent on the project, I had hoped to visit the farm and see the details in person. Having since had the good fortune to do so, I can easily see myself living on such a farm (if it weren't for the management salary that Abi's father offered as "unlimited mangoes"). There were an excess of 20 banana varieties, with almost as many mangoes, and a proximity to nearby villages that very much remin me of the heart of Indian culture as it was and (in some places) still is. I'm grateful to have made this visit since for me it was a source of closure for a project that proved to by trying, frustrating, and perhaps not so rewarding as a half day spent on the Kuthambakkam Farm with the Devans.

knot tied.

After the Sangeet, there were three remaining events: an official engagement ceremony (in conjunction with a ceremony that prepares the couple for husband and wife - dom), the reception, and the tieing of the knot (which is in fact quite literal). The first and last of these three were the most traditional, and the middle event consisted of a long line of 3,500 guests (yes, that's right) invited to greet the couple. The rest of us who didn't have the obligation to stay headed to a local hotel where there was air conditioning (sarees are frightfully hot, given they involve wearing petticoats) and the World Cup semi-finals. Though tired, the following morning's event was remarkable and full of traditions which I have yet to understand. It was presided over by two priests that have grown up with the family and, apparently, are incapable of not cracking jokes in Tamil for only the family to hear (for instance, when Mayura's mother Bhavani was given the rope with which to "tie the knot", one priest repeated "WWW" when handing it to her, which we later learned meant "wife with whip"). Speaking of Mayura's parents, can I say "father in-law envy?" Kumar is spectacular, a true gem of a person with charisma oozing from his white hairs. I am hardly the first to take note, as his house is full of photos of him with Queen Elizabeth, Tony Blair, Yasser Arafat, etc etc etc. But the wedding...one of the most interesting things from the ceremony (and truth be told much of it was only decipherable by those who had been to Hindu weddings before) was a gesture Anirudh made where he wafted his hand through a plume of smoke and across each shoulder and then his head. I later learned that a fear in the Hinduism is the "evil eye", or so the cousins call it. It's believed that when much attention is focused on an individual, he/she becomes susceptible to the eye's harmful devices. I've heard this before with respect to Kieran, who is undoubtedly the prince of the family, but shortly after the wedding I too was able to participate in the event meant to purge the eye's presence.

A man came to Paati's and prepared what appeared to be a watermelon with a hole cut in the top, and added a substance to the hole which, when lit, emitted smoke throughout the room. We were not meant to look at it until asked, but rather stay in a separate room while each nuclear family had completed the ceremony. This was one of two remarkably memorable events with respect to Hinduism in India, the second being a special visit to Paati's home to say goodbye. We had a phenomenal conversation, especially considering the language barrier which separated us: the sincerity we both felt was comforting, and the explanation of her piety was inspiring. She said that the body is unimportant, that it is merely a physical structure that risks self-involvement at the expense of faith; no matter the religion, Hinduism or otherwise, there is one God which unites everyone and who everyone pays tribute to (Allah, Vishnu, Jesus, etc); and with every meal, every gathering, every breath, she thanks him/it/her. I don't say this as a believer, but as a person that is humbled by her faith and simplicity. Her family is so gracious with their willingness and want to provide for her, but she explained that all she wishes for is a small bedroom, a small kitchen, and perhaps a fan. No TV, no A/C, no waste...just faith.

I suppose that in writing this, I've skipped much of the narrative of the family themselves. I adore them. Always have. In fact, one of the most memorable moments of my entire time in Madras was the moment when, standing in the reception line, Anirudh very sincerely expressed his happiness that I came to celebrate his wedding. It calmed many fears I'd had about attending, and made me feel that my presence was valued as much as I value him (if you're reading this, thank you). His family is a gracious as he is, and I became aware of this earlier in my visit by way of Chitthi Paati, which translates to younger sister of Paati. She had invited Aparna, Kieran, and myself to come for lunch early in my visit and within minutes invited me to stay with her while in Chennai, as Paati had many houseguests and Chitthi Paati none. Though I did not have the pleasure of doing so, I find a great comfort in her. Her husband recently passed, less than a year after Paati's husband, and the sisters felt a bond in their grief (Chitthi Paati didn't attend any wedding events, as you are meant to grieve for one year following your lover's passing as well as wear exclusively white). I am also continually fascinated by the naming systems in Indian (and SE Asian) cultures, as many customs overlap. For instance, Kieran has 8 uncles who are all referred to by their first names and then "mama"; he also has 5 aunts and uncles who are all referred to by their first names and then "paati" or "thaatha", respectively. The maternal grandmother has separate terms for older and younger siblings (such as Chitthi) but the paternal grandmother has only one term. Such are the things you learn in Tamil Nadu and for which I am forever grateful.

40 hours.

Two novels and forty hours later, I finally made it to Madras. Every person to whom I've told my travel time cringes, since it took nearly twice as long as it should, but I'm convinced that having taken a series of naps between three plane seats and countless metal chairs during layovers (7 hours in Manila, 9 hours in Bangkok) prevented jet lag from setting in. That and an overwhelming number of things to stimulate the senses.

The first hilarious anecdote of the trip happened in the Bangkok airport. Flights arrive on the second floor and depart on the third floor, but the fourth floor is this strange shopping center with a series of West - East fusion restaurants...by which I mean Thai food served at coffee bars. To cross floors, you must pass through a small security checkpoint and, in so doing, I was pulled aside for my second search of the day. The guard, who spoke no English, was perplexed by a pack of tampons and demanded that I open one for her to see. Still confused as to their purpose, she asked me to explain but our language barrier necessitated a great deal of gesturing, much to my embarrassment and the amusement of the other travelers passing by.

On the flight between Bangkok and Chennai, I was one of only four white people on the 737, and the only one both without a mustache and traveling for a purpose other than business. I stood out. It wasn't until I disembarked the plane and passed through customs that I received my first introduction to the "staring" I'd been forewarned about. Piles and piles of people waiting at the arrivals gate, most wearing white uniforms from their hotel driving jobs, all enduring the high humidity and looking at me. I cannot express the comfort I felt when spotting Aparna, Usha, and Charu's friendly faces in a sea of intimidating ones. The late night drive home was a rush of "new" for me: rubble lining the sidewalks (if they can be called as much), store fronts with dilapidated signs and entries, a lone wondering cow, streets that look as if they weren't planned so much as hurriedly laid. Once home, sleep was welcome...especially because I knew that I would see Sudhi (Aparna's brother) and Kieran (Aparna's son) in the morning when they awoke just a few feet from me. I am staying in one of the family's three homes, each of which has its own nickname: M.S.R., Tivoli, and C.I.T. (this refers to the district of Chennai and also houses the Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu and more importantly Paati, which means grandmother in Tamil). She is remarkably kind and finds comfort in tradition. Each morning, she marks her doorstep with a design dedicated to the god Vishnu, one of the three main gods of Hinduism: Vishnu is the "protector", Brahma is the "creator", and Shiva is the "destroyer". Those who worship Vishnu mark their foreheads with a vertical line, Shiva with a horizontal one...and Brahma, I understand, does not have many followers and I am eager to learn why. A great many Hindu traditions take place in the kitchen, such as separating eating dishes from cooking dishes and never the two shall meet (not even by way of a spoon); a meal is prepared for Paati separately from the rest of the family, which she eats alone once everyone else has finished; hands and dishes are washed in the "wet kitchen" to the side of the house and you are only allowed to enter the cooking area if clean.

Mornings are my favorite. The first day (and every day since), I woke to the sound of a woman riding a bicycle while balancing a tray of fruits and yelling something I can only assume to be "mangoes, papayas, coconuts for sale"...in fact I can hear her now. Down the street is a corner that looks very much like 1950's Havana (or so I project) and just a bit further is a man who works late into the evening sewing on an industrial machine. And all of this I enjoy after my first cup of coffee. It only took a day for Paati to learn of my coffee addiction and, as a caffeine snob, I was amazed to find that Indian coffee puts Western coffee to shame! Surely the boiled whole milk has something to do with it, as does the metal tumbler and bowl used to expedite cooling by pouring between the two in long steady streams. Once out for the day, I try to acclimate to the stares and, on occasion, revert to my sunglasses as a very effective invisibility shield.

mehndi.

Though the wedding festivities began on the 28th (poker and karaoke nights), they were informal compared to the Mehndi (pronounced Ma-hen-di) which took place on the third night at Mayura's home. Known more commonly as henna, it is the evening in which ladies (only) gather to decorate their hands, feet, and (previously unknown to me) any other area of their choosing such as the upper back. It is made of rather potent dyes derived from crushed plants that are applied much like cake icing. When allowed to set, they begin flaking off and exposing a reddish ink on your hands that darkens over time. It has a remarkably earthy, sweet, yeasty smell which has actually woken me up multiple times overnight...and still remain noticeable days later. The women who do the artwork are incredible, both in speed and detail, and clearly take great pleasure in their craft. In fact, a neighboring Mehndi artist brushed across my fingertips, blurring a meticulous design, and the looks exchanged between these two women could kill. I stayed quiet.

The trick to Mehndi night is either advanced planning, good timing, or a partner in crime, because I learned very quickly that attempting to eat Indian food is a challenge of great proportions when both hands are occupied. There is nothing graceful about what occured last night. And nothing more desperate looking than a woman attempting to hold a gin and tonic with two fingers and the back of one hand while attempting to sip. Not one of my finer moments, though I was not alone. The boys en route to men's night next door commented that we looked like a zombie party, hands held up in the air to avoid smearing. But distractions were many, as the bride's family had prepared a series of traditional dances to perform throughout the evening beginning with the young and adorably awkward children and ending with the graceful elders.

Having had a taste for the fanciness of the wedding events to come, Aparna and I went saree shopping, intending only to purchase a blouse to match one of her mother's sarees but instead buying the whole shabang....for a lot of rupees. I thought of mom often and her love of textiles because once I chose the blouse, the salesman brought box after box of saree silks to show, never a repetative color or pattern. And the woman who helped me tie the saree, which is no easy feat and involves a fan-like folding technique, was able to tailor the blouse to fit perfectly in three hours without so much as a measurement. I've found that they are the most comfortable things to wear, especially the breathable cotton ones, and I am devouring Aparna's family's compliments saying "they look so natural on you".

The Sangeet was the pinacle of fancy, and I can say this with certainly since the wedding has since come to a close and our Anirudh is married! Traditionally a North Indian event much like a dance-off, this is when the bride and bridegroom separately prepare dances for the entertainment of the guests. It was held in a grand room at the Taj Hotel in Chennai and the entrance was marked with long strands of jasmine which are a Hindu wedding decoration and a symbol of piousness to the gods (they are sold everywhere in Madras, always hanging from small, fruit and vegetable stands). Anirudh and our clan had been practicing a routine for the entire day with such intensity that many of the dancers developed blood blisters on their feet, but as a spectator...with in tact feet...I thought it went swimmingly. The Sangeet was by far the most debaucherous of evenings spent in India thus far, due largely to the black label whiskey room located next to the buffet line, as well as the fact the under 40's stayed until the wee hours of the morning and attempted (but failed) to act refreshed for the following days events.