In Luang Prabang

I am sitting in Luang Prabang. It is Friday, December 4, early—6:29 am. We arrived last night after a long, beautiful, and meditative bus ride from Vientiane, winding north.

We were scheduled to get the 8 o'clock VIP (air-conditioned) bus from Vientiane, but the bus company's pickup tuk tuk didn't arrive until 7:45 and we were picking up others along the way, so we arrived late, but in time for the 9 o'clock bus. No one was sure there was an 8 o'clock bus. The 9 o'clock bus we were put on was a beautiful electric pink double decker, it's upper story windows dressed with scalloped pink tasseled curtains. We had our choice of seats, which were comfortable-looking, reclining, and velour-covered. Each seat pair had different amounts of legroom and we pick the ones opposite the steps to the mid-cabin exit door, which also, we discover, are the steps to the bathroom. We left slightly before 9. We were on this road before, and I recognized many things along the way—the rock formations, the road-side villages, the danger around every curve. Our driver is young, careful, but tough and always a bit out of control. He drove in a compartment on the first floor of the bus with his wife/girlfriend at his side. There are two other guys who were engineers/assistants who occasionally did helpful things. We stopped often for unknown reasons. Sometimes people got off or on. Once for our driver to pee by the side of the road overlooking the most amazing view of mountain and valley, green with palm and thatching and not a person to be seen or to be seen by. We stopped for lunch. We had a bowl of fe (soup) provided by the bus company at a roadside guest house—noodles, soup, a few small pieces of chicken, greens. About five hours into the journey we began heading downhill. Brakes screaching, the smell of asbestos, rubber, metal burning, the driver or friends turned on Lao music, and we were suddenly in a movie: music up, pink curtains dancing, sun setting, hurtling down the mountain to the holy old city of Luang Prabang. The nine hours disappeared with the light. We moved through time and space. I know we had been here, before; I know we will be here, again. It was comforting in its familiarity and safety, It was comforting in its strangeness and danger.

We found the guesthouse that Andy picked out for us when we arrived three years ago. I remember Disty and I meeting Andy and Chip, who had been traveling together. How we strained our necks in customs at Luang Prabang to get a glimpse of Andy, whom we hadn't seen in over six month. When we did, I was taken aback at how handsome and healthy he looked. He brought us by tuk tuk to this lovely simple guesthouse that he had picked for our comfort. Of course, last night, we wanted to stay here again, and in a city of change, this guesthouse is as I remember.

Luang Prabang does not smell the same. The thick smokey air is gone, replaced by the neutral smell of cleanliness. I am sitting in an open sitting area on the porch of the Sayo River Guesthouse, in one of a pair of wooden, padded love seats made from the trunk of a tree, across from the Mekong, waiting for the monks to arrive for alms. The two men at the desk have just awakened, removed the mosquito netting from around them, folded up the cot, and have wandered across the street to the river. There is no sign of the monks—no women lined up on their beautiful Lao-woven mats ready to give sticky rice, snacks, or money.

Money is everywhere here. There is opulence and good taste is every new building. It is not possible we discovered, in the center of the city to get a simple Lao meal. This is progress, but I am very disappointed that the smokey air has been cleared and that the simple sound of bare feet has been replaced by an empty silence.

The women are all off to work now, setting up their stalls on the river. The two men from the guesthouse are now playing badminton in the monkless street and a dog is barking. This city is a sign of progress and how gentrification can beautify, lift a place out of poverty, and suck the life-blood out. But I am confused, wouldn't Walt Disney have kept the monks, the incense and the alms-giving in the picture?

Disty has just come back for her run and reports that they changed the route of the alms giving and that hundreds of tourists are taking pictures of them in the center of town. The two men are finished playing badminton. I get a cup of coffee from the desk.

I miss the Luang Prabang we were in with Andy—the first and most lasting impression of Lao—looking at his beautiful face as I had my first taste of Laap and Beer Lao at the simple restaurant on the river's edge. Thank goodness the Sayo River Guest House is still here. We are blessed, and I will gladly give up something for that.