Similar to my research in Nepal last summer, my last day of field work would be jam-packed and not without the requisite amount of drama. In the morning I had to venture the furthest distance I would be required to travel for an interview while in Sri Lanka. I woke up at 7:30am, skipped breakfast, and went straight to the taxi line outside my hotel to make the trip out east to Battaramulla, where the main office of the Central Environmental Authority (Sri Lanka's equivalent of the United States' EPA) was located. Traffic caused us some delay, but even so I arrived at CEA HQ at 8:55am for a 9:15am meeting with Ms. Manuja Wimalasena, Director of the Legal Office. I was surprised at how easy it was to gain access to an official government building, especially in a country that has only recently emerged from a major conflict. My cab driver accidentally entered through the gated exit area, but the guards on duty were not perturbed. I was dropped off in front of the building, the cab facing the wrong direction, and headed inside.

I informed the desk attendant at the right side of the lobby that I had a meeting with Ms. Wimalasena, and, without any verification of my credentials or contacting my alleged interviewee, I was provided instructions on how to find the appropriate office. Strategically located fans hummed comically as their efforts failed to produce even the slightest respite from the oppressive heat resting defiantly inside the building. I navigated the stairs to the second floor to find a veritable maze of nearly identical glass-walled offices. Only single metal signs denoting the name of the exact office contained within the continuous-yet-partitioned offices offered any clue as to whether I was headed in the right direction. Eventually I asked someone roaming the halls, and they motioned that the Legal Office was down a long corridor and to the left. Finally I came upon the steel engraved placard displaying the magical words, "LEGAL OFFICE," and I pushed the door to enter the cordoned-off area. As usual I felt slightly embarrassed as I explained the reason for my sudden appearance. A woman led me to the Director's office, a cubicle within a cubicle, and I introduced myself, apologizing for arriving earlier than planned (the result of a residual insecurity from a time in college when I was thoroughly chastised for turning in a term paper early, causing the professor to misplace it and award me an undeserving "F"). From then on I conducted the interview, which was more like an information session a hopeful intern might attend and less like a focused discussion of environmental rights. Our meeting was interrupted a couple times for urgent work-related reasons, but this was to be expected in any major bureaucratic body. Nevertheless, it was useful to understand more about the existing legal framework pertinent to environmental issues and what kinds of legal problems the office has had to contend with. I showed myself out and left the building correctly through the exit this time, stepping in front of an SUV that was attempting to squeeze out of the narrow passage.

At this point in the morning I was positively starving. I walked along the road until I encountered a small village of food vendors serving various baked goods and beverages. It looked like an ad hoc settlement where construction workers might stop for fuel after putting in a couple hours of work. Eating virtually anything from a small roadside vendor was extremely risky for me given the quality of food preparation, the ripeness (read: rottenness) of the food, and the fact that I have food allergies. However, feeling famished and uncommonly adventurous, I surveyed the array of pastries that sat stacked behind a glass case and chose what I assumed to be the most innocuous delicacy- a bun with a pool of crystallized sugar gathered in the center, a kind of half-hearted donut. I pointed to the treat and asked for the price. "Twenty rupees," replied the middle-aged woman behind the counter. This amounts to roughly fifteen cents in US currency. I was quick to oblige. I handed the woman a 50 rupee note, which won me a gracious grin, and I flew away, voraciously consuming my newly purchased glistening gem of doughy goodness not even twenty feet later.

Eventually I found myself at the corner of an unfamiliar intersection, and it was unclear as to which way I should go. Suddenly, I remembered that I had forgotten to collect my questionnaire and media release forms from Ms. Wimalasena. Discouraged only because it meant that I would have to walk in the treacherous heat back the way I had just come, I begrudgingly retraced my steps and opened the gate to the entrance of the environmental compound where I explained my situation to the guards laying back in the security booth. Without much discussion they signaled that I could pass through. I crossed the threshold to the entrance, explained what had happened to the pleasant desk attendant, and started up the wooden staircase, where warm air hung like disappointment after losing the big game. Fortunately Ms. Wimalasena was still in her office, and she recognized right away why I had returned so soon after our interview. She told me that she didn't have my cell number or else she would have called. Happily I collected my lost items and left the building yet again. This time I let myself out of the gate. No one objected.

I made my way down the street until I stood in the midst of a pack of trishaws. I figured these tuk tuks would be more dependable than the ones by my hotel, as they lingered near the foreign employment office. They were not catering to a wealthy clientele. I located a driver willing to bring me to the National Museum and we sped west, the promise of an officially sanctioned cultural experience providing me with energy as my sugar rush began to fade.

Satisfied that I finally took a trishaw without being taken for a ride, I alighted at the museum, a palatial estate that reminded me of the White House. Although part of the exhibit was closed for renovations, I was more than happy to see what I could. I paid 250 LKR for my ticket and 250 LKR for a photography permit, and proceeded into the surprisingly dark and humid interior of the monument to Sri Lankan history.

The National Museum displayed artifacts dating from antiquity through the birth of the modern state system. Fantastic relics of stone, metal, and ivory illustrated the various cultural and religious influences which found their way into Sri Lanka's works of artistic expression. Portuguese, Dutch, Indian, and Chinese elements fused with Hindu and Buddhist religious inspiration. Busts of ornate Hindu gods stood alongside geometrically consistent depictions of Buddha. Aside from the sheer impressiveness of the exquisite detail featured in the cultural artifacts (the royal throne cast in gold and covered in red velvet is a clear stand out), I think the most unexpected attribute of the artwork was its deliberate attention to proper human proportions. I always found European art from the Medieval period bland and unrealistic, as infants appearing in frescoes (I found out that the very term "fresco" is actually a misnomer) were painted in proportions that had them look like miniature adults, for example. In Sri Lankan murals dating back to the 5th and 6th centuries, however, the human form was presented usually in 3/4ths view using physical representations that approached true-to-form anatomical correctness. While some artifacts seemed like classic manifestations of ancient deities (occasionally reminding me of Mayan statues), others, particularly a few of the paintings, seemed almost cartoonish given the liberal use of vibrant colors throughout. In short, the exhibit was exceptional not only for the incredible artisanship on display, but also for the variety of artistic media available for appreciation.

On my way back to my hotel I got seriously lost. I was walking around Beira Lake, past the cricket field, when I made a turn down Hudson, which, as it turned out, was the wrong street. From that point onward I meandered through ever-narrowing unpaved roads lined by conjoined ramshackle domiciles. Towels served as doors. Sacks of rice formed solid, if lumpy, furniture. Buckets functioned as sinks. It was my first time in the presence of housing that looked like it could have been featured in National Geographic Magazine, where Westerners could view dilapidated slums from the comfort of their heated toilet seats. As the roads constricted so too did my throat, the unfamiliar territory closing in on my confidence, marking my defeat at last. To my surprise, despite the alarming condition of these familial prison cells, everyone I came across was amiable and chipper. Although I was a White alien in a gray polo shirt, I instantly felt that my presence was received not with suspicion but celebration. Sparkling white smiles flashed as readily as sanguine salutations. Children unencumbered by clothing darted in and out of terraces like scrawny hummingbirds fluttering from one nectar-laden flower to the next (Note: I deliberately did not take any photographs of the people of these humble quarters because I have grown increasingly self-conscious about objectifying others and placing some kind of artificial distance between myself and them, especially when I'm the guest in a foreign land. As Julie Delpy remarked in the film "2 Days in Paris," at some point when observing the world through the lens of a camera, one inevitably becomes divorced from the reality they are seeking to capture. I very much wanted to maintain my ontological position as a constituent element of my current surroundings).

Eventually I came to an impasse. To make matters worse, my sugar bun was now a distant memory, and the beast of hunger began to growl antagonistically. Realizing that I must have mistakenly made my way into this backroad neighborhood, a woman politely directed me to walk through a narrow shaded corridor marked by a makeshift moat of stagnant wastewater. It seemed too closed in to be the right path and yet, sure enough, after sidling through a 100-yard stretch of slender pavement I emerged out onto a wider road. The blinding field of nearby hanging laundry seemed like comforting flags of my home country. I knew where I was. I walked toward Beira Lake and was back on the main road in no time.

What was remarkable about these squalid abodes was the amount of life that was carried out and contained within their limiting concrete walls. Whole families, including pets, shared these minute spaces, able to carry out every day tasks and chores that people pay others to do in houses 10 times their size. Their minimalist lifestyles elicited an acute sense of capitalist guilt, the psychological consequence resulting from a maldetermination of need manifested in an excess of consumption. These living situations highlight the importance of perspective when differentiating one's physical needs from one's culturally derived wants. In fact, just the other day I became engaged in a debate on Instagram with someone who posted a photo of a collection of basketball shoes juxtaposed with a photo of a large house. The message of the overall picture was that some dreams are legitimate because of the seriousness conferred by their prestige, whereas others are inferior because they focus on less objectively desirable goals. I argued that this photo missed the point entirely; that is, whether it is aiming to own lots of shoes or a McMansion, both are completely unnecessary and neither are laudable pursuits because they are driven by an emptiness borne of insecurity. The point is that the crowded shacks that I walked past during my high noon hunger daze suggested that perhaps happiness is not a human emotion best measured in square footage.

Minutes later I stood drenched in sweat at the entrance to Crescat Boulevard. I had arrived at Sugar Bistro and Wine Bar, and just as destiny and the kind hearts of slum dwellers enabled my triumphant return to my place of origin, I felt destiny compelled me to replenish my exhausted energy supply with another filling English breakfast. Little did I know at the time, I would need every bit of strength at my disposal for the final interview of my field work in Sri Lanka.

My seventh and final interview was scheduled for 5:30pm with Dr. Sumith Pilapitiya at the World Bank. I left the hotel at 5:00pm, confident that I could walk to my site in rush hour traffic faster than any trishaw, however honorable or nimble, could motor. Although the sun began to set, the temperature had not received the memo. Nevertheless, I forged ahead on the concrete, wasting no time and stopping for no one. At 5:15pm I came up to the location where my trusty Google maps had informed me I could find the World Bank office. The only problem was that the addresses on the nearby buildings were all wrong- they were in the hundreds and I was looking for 73-upon-5. To complicate matters, I asked several people nearby in a frantic attempt to find this building, but they either gave me the wrong directions or had no idea whatsoever where this supposed building could be found. I walked up and down 5th Lane three times, ignoring the security guard whom I had asked for directions when he saw me curiously speed pass his booth back and forth along the road. It was now 5:30pm. I did not want to be late for my interview and there was no way in hell I was going to miss it. Still, I could not find the DFCC building to save my life and I was officially late.

In a moment of resignation I called my interviewee's office and left an apologetic message, explaining that I simply could not find his office and I did not want to waste his time if he was not able to meet. However, I planned on heading up the road in the hopes that I might eventually find the correct building. Just as in the case of Nepal, I flirted with disappointment on my last day and the ugly feeling of failure crept over my forehead, displacing the feeling of sweat and curled hair with a warm and gut-wrenching sensation. I tried using Google maps again, and, to my surprise, the output of my search matched that of an initial query I had processed the day before but had dismissed in light of the most recent effort. The results made my blood boil. The World Bank office which I so desperately intended to find was about 1/4 mile from my hotel on the very same side of the street. I could have leisurely strolled out of my hotel at 5:20pm and turned up Galle Road to make my interview with time to spare. That image only served to vex me further and strengthen my resolve to get to the office. Maybe, just maybe, I could catch my interviewee as he was exiting the building for the day. It was worth a shot.

From then on, I bolted up the street, a man possessed by determination and unphased by his deteriorating physical appearance. Once I reached the American Embassy I started sprinting, holding my shoulder bag which contained my camera and digital recorder close so as to not lose the very equipment I would need for the interview. In bandaged heel and boat-shoed feet I ran like I could see the finish line at the Surf City Half Marathon. Finally I turned right down a recently paved but nondescript road, reaching what looked like a sleazy Italian restaurant or banquet hall in New Jersey. Panting and painted in the sweat of my dedication, I explained to the guards stationed outside who I was and why I was at the DFCC building. They granted me entrance and I filed into the elevator to reach the second floor. Once the elevator brought me up one level I exited enthusiastically and scanned the offices for signs of life, or, more importantly, Dr. Sumith Pilapitiya. I worked my way around a corner and became startled by what I found- Dr. Pilapitiya's office, door ajar, lights on, with a bag on the ground and glasses resting beside his computer. The air conditioning was blaring an unmerciful tune. It rang like music in my ears. Clearly, he was still here. I searched the other offices for someone who could shed light on this mystery and confirm my suspicions. I found one such gentleman, who informed me that Dr. Pilapitiya was in a meeting down the hall. We walked down the hall and opened the door to the meeting in progress. Not having any idea what my interviewee looked like, I cast a wave into the general vicinity of the conference room. One gray-haired man stood up and made his way to the door. He told me that if I was willing to wait, he could see me after his meeting. In the meantime, I could sit in his office.

Overjoyed, I retreated to Dr. Pilapitiya's office to cool down and calm my nerves. I waited an hour, but it was worth it. I didn't give up. I didn't fail. Persistence reigned supreme. Sometimes, the wheel that squeaks the loudest does get the grease.

It was Sunday and a national religious holiday. While national museums and government offices were closed, souvenir shops largely remained open for business, which afforded me the opportunity to pick up some traditional Sri Lankan goods before I left the country on Tuesday. My first stop was The Cricket Shop, a one-stop sporting goods store for all things cricket. Having failed in my previous attempt to secure both white and red cricket balls, this was truly my last chance for redemption. Determined to right the ship for the sake of my friend Robert, who had requested the purchase, I zoomed down Galle Road and made a left turn at St. Anthony's Mawartha. Half expecting the place to be closed for the holiday, The Cricket Shop was brimming with excitement as a team of young cricketers from the UK tried on pads and swung cricket bats of varying sizes and weights. A teenaged blonde girl, likely the girlfriend of one of the enthused patrons, sat on a bench in the middle of the store looking dejected, unamused. I searched for the section where I could find cricket balls and, wouldn't you know it, there was a beautiful display shelf where both white and red cricket balls all sat ensconced in perfect concave dimples like sporty Fabergé eggs. I purchased the elusive white ball (the cost was 1050 LKR but they only charged me 1000 LKR, probably because I was so well behaved in comparison to the rambunctious team running amok in the tiny space) and left the scene, which was gradually devolving into a madhouse as older cricket players began to pour in. I was clearly out of my element.

En route to my next destination, I stopped off at The Commons, another facially unassuming coffee shop identified by Western signage. It was right across the street from the Ladies' College, where men stared like wild dogs into the gate opening up to the campus, anxiously awaiting the exit of their daughters, sisters, and girlfriends. I ordered an iced coffee, as if that would have any lasting effect on my internal temperature, and checked over the impressively eclectic menu. With 20 different types of specialty burgers alone, I knew I would be back.

I continued down Sir Marcus Fernando Mawatha, also known as Alfred Crescent, a road that bowed underneath the expanse of government property that housed the National Museum, University of the Visual and Performing Arts, and Nelum Pokuna Mahinda Rajapaksa Theatre. Upon reaching the penultimate perpendicular intersection of the smiling road, I turned right onto Independence Avenue. After bearing right on Philip Gunewardena Mawatha, about 1/4 mile later I arrived at a place that was rated by Lonely Planet as the #1 shopping attraction and #1 thing to do in Sri Lanka- Lakpahana. If you are looking for local artwork and handicrafts, your trip to Sri Lanka would not be complete without a visit to Lakpahana. Located in two main buildings, this small campus of local artistry offers seemingly everything under the blazing sun. Here you can purchase or simply admire carefully detailed and vibrantly colored works such as masks, batik clothing and wall hangings, wood carved elephants, jewelry, drums, clay pottery, and woven goods of all sizes. Because of the holiday, I practically had the place to myself. Needless to say, I try to support local art when possible, so I did not walk away empty handed.

I started back up Philip Gunewardena Mawatha, and then north on Independence Avenue. My stomach was calling for my attention, and I promised to heed its constant nagging by returning to The Commons for some midday sustenance. The restaurant was considerably busier than before, likely because school had let out and students filed in for lunch. When I came up to the cash register I ordered the Sesame Chicken Burger and a mango juice. The cashier urged me to reconsider, as apparently the stock of mango juice was "kind of rotten." I appreciated his candor, and opted for the chocolate milkshake instead (I can't explain my recent inclination to order milkshakes other than to say that it's so hot all the time I simply want a cold beverage whatever time of day or night it may be, and fruit juices are not always available for the reason stated above). I waited about 40 minutes to receive my meal. Diabetics must have it rough in Sri Lanka if my experiences with customer service are any indication. Had I been drowning, I would have died three times over while I waited for someone to pay attention to my frantic flailing. Fortunately, this was less of a life-or-death situation and more of a hunger game. Politely I inquired about the status of my meal. My chocolate shake, which had been delivered to me only a few minutes after placing my order, stood empty at the edge of my table, an ancient relic of a time when I was in lactose love and the burger of my dreams seemed only moments away from resting in my swollen, trembling hands. Fairly soon after my inquiry the waiter arrived at my small square of solitude with the burger king and its sad regiment of scattered fries. The taste of the burger was remarkable. The description on the placard accurately told of the burger's inner secrets- ginger, soy, and onions were all present and accounted for in generous capacity. The Asian slaw resting orderly atop the patty added a fresh and crispy countervailing force to the surprisingly savory sensation conveyed by the chicken burger. Overall the symphony sounded superb even if the musicians had arrived late to the orchestra. No longer a prisoner to my hunger, I opened the door to the outside world, which spared no time in reminding me it had not similarly cooled off, and returned to my hotel.

On my way back to the Cinnamon Grand I decided to keep an eye out for members of Sri Lanka's Environmental Protection Unit, a division of the police charged with the enforcement of environmental laws (although one interviewee referred to the EPU as a glorified neighborhood watch for illegal dumping activities). I had seen one such green vested officer earlier in the day, and I hoped that my luck might continue. At one point on my walk, I turned into an alley where I could see the ocean and its twinkling white caps seemingly a stone's throw away. No sooner had I hypnotically migrated toward the sea than I was confronted, to my delight, by two officers clad in moss green EPU vests. Excited and in full social science researcher mode, I asked if I could take a photo of the two gentlemen. I handed them my UC Irvine business card and attempted to explain the nature of my research without appearing like an awestruck tourist. If anything, I seemed to have confused them more. Eventually, and with some pleading, I convinced the men to let me take one photo. Pleased that serendipity or perhaps karma had dealt me a good hand, I continued up Galle Road in a state of geeky elation.

That night, César had extended an invitation for me to join him for Easter dinner at the home of Dr. Jayadeva Uyangoda, a constitutional scholar and Professor of Political Science at the University of Colombo. I happily agreed. I left my hotel by cab and arrived at Dr. Uyangoda's house around 7:30pm. There I reunited with César, and met Dr. Uyangoda, his wife, two young professional couples, and a little boy. One of the guests, Mrs. Dinesha Samararatne, had been a lawyer and Fulbright Scholar at Harvard Law, where she earned her LL.M. She is currently a lecturer in the Faculty of Law at the University of Colombo and a doctoral student working on her dissertation. Together our party chatted about primary schooling in Sri Lanka, eating habits in Spain, weather in Florida, and social contract theory. One couple told an interesting story illustrative of the inadequacy of the Sri Lankan legal system. Basically, their neighbors became embroiled in a legal battle over a parcel of land. The issue remained unresolved in the court system for 15 years. Then, one day a judgment was rendered that was favorable to their neighbors. Dissatisfied with outcome, the opposing side murdered the entire family of victors the very next day. Justice here in Sri Lanka has a flavor unlike any other place I have visited thus far.

Thousands of miles away from my place of birth, I found myself strangely at home in the company of otherwise complete strangers and their mild mannered dogs. The food itself was also wonderful, a spread of regional dishes fit for an Easter Sunday meal ("My mom will be happy to know I had at least one home cooked meal while I was out here," I quipped.). Upon having the various items explained to me, I assured the hostess that the pork chops would be no problem for this non-observant Jew, as I believe that the kosher laws essentially functioned as the first food safety laws, now rendered obsolete by the advent of curing and refrigeration. Outside the house on a post just beyond the doorway hung a tile that read "Shalom" in both English and Hebrew. Surely the Angel of Death would have seen fit to pass over this house back in Biblical times. For dessert we raced to finish bowls of green mint ice cream before the glacial chunks turned to emerald soup. Dinesha, her husband, and her adorable son bade us all good evening, and soon César and I decided it was our turn to depart. Our hostess's first couple attempts to call a taxi failed to produce, so I suggested Kangaroo Cabs, which I had used when leaving Dr. Dhanapala's home in the thunder and rain several days ago. Sure enough, we were able to reserve a taxi. After a week in Sri Lanka I was now suggesting which cabs to take. The taxi, a Toyota Prius which César and I shared, dropped my new friend off at his apartment and then continued on into the agonizing abyss of the spring Sri Lankan night.

Today the only interview I had lined up was a Skype chat with Dr. Jayampathy Wickramaratne, Director of the Institute of Constitutional Studies in Colombo. However, Dr. Wickramaratne was currently in Switzerland for work, thus necessitating the virtual interview, which I conducted using my iPad (as a side note, I have found that my iPad has been an excellent surrogate for a laptop during my field research. It is much less cumbersome, faster, and more portable. So far I haven't run into any problems when trying to execute a task for which my laptop would have been my first choice). Doing research in an era of unprecedented globalization is like that- I came all the way from the US to interview people from Sri Lanka and once I get here one of them is now over in Europe. It's a global game of chase. Our original interview time was delayed due to family issues to which Dr. Wickramaratne needed to attend, resulting in a situation which highlighted the importance of being flexible during field work. I purposely never scheduled more than two interviews during a given day because it would be (1) costly, (2) exhausting, (3) potentially troublesome if one of the interviews ran significantly over time or there were transportation problems. As I had only scheduled that one interview for the day, I assured Dr. Wickramaratne that it was no problem to push back our digital meeting. Although the interview lasted just over 15 minutes (interrupted by a couple of electronic hiccups on my part as I tried to set the voice recorder app on the iPad while I was using Skype), it was well worth my time as I found out that indeed there was an attempt to develop a solidarity environmental right in a new version of the constitution, but it never made it beyond the pages of a draft document (which Dr. Wickramaratne emailed me immediately following the conclusion of our Skype session). This was an important side story to the larger narrative surrounding environmental rights in Sri Lanka which I had not previously heard about from any of the other interviewees.

For the rest of the day I decided to go sightseeing in the immediate area and then cap the day off with a drink at the Galle Face Hotel at the suggestion of my friends Heather and Sanjee Wickramarachi back in California. I braved the stifling heat yet again as I circumnavigated Beira Lake, just slightly east of where I was staying. Once I arrived at the opposite bank of the lake I came to a Buddhist temple, the Sima Malaka Meditation Centre. I removed my shoes, paid a small entrance fee (125 LKR = ~$1 USD), and quietly shuffled around the floating holy site. Young children flocked to stoic statues of Buddha to offer prayers and flowers. They pranced around freely and joyfully except for those few moments when they switched schemas to engage in personal introspection and unexamined ritual devotion. I took several photos, as respectfully as one could given the location and circumstances, gingerly popped my shoes back on, and continued up the plank that had led me to the multiple visions of Buddha sitting pensively all around the perimeter of the temple.

I made my way around the previously unexplored side of the lake and witnessed people peddling across the waters inside large white boats meant to look like giant majestic swans and young couples snuggling beneath the cool shade trees lining the cobblestone path overlooking the lake- a post-apocalyptic vision of maritime New England. After leaving the scene behind and nodding to the armed guard standing his post at the edge of the lake, I followed the empty street behind my hotel to areas unknown. Along the way I crossed railroad tracks that ran immediately behind residential housing and another military officer who wished me a good day (the only such time any member of the armed forces engaged me in conversation). Finally, I came upon one of those psychedelic Buddha statues I mentioned in a previous post. Of course I had to commemorate the finding with several photographs. The installation was at once visually mesmerizing and seemingly contradictory, since based on what little I know of Buddha's teachings I'm not sure he would have sanctioned busts in his likeness randomly erected throughout the city and adorned with an electric neon halo that looked like a cheap fireworks display. Unsure where the end of the road would lead, I reversed course and returned to the back of my hotel where an attendant opened the large iron gate to let me in once I flashed my room card.

Gratefully I passed through the intensely air-conditioned interior of the hotel until I left through the front door, opened in advance by a white-gloved gentleman. This time I headed north on Galle Road. After rejecting the solicitations of what seemed like a dozen enterprising trishaw drivers, I found myself at the Galle Face Hotel, only a few yards from where my swindling guide flew out of our cab with my 1000 LKR note in the clutches of his dishonest grip. This time would be different, I told myself. Walking up to the Galle Face Hotel can make one feel poor and insignificant, like standing outside the ropes of the red carpet during the Oscars wearing overalls. What began as a Dutch villa in 1864 has since developed into a kind of monumental colonial compound that is as architecturally stunning as it is physically imposing. A secular temple where deep-pocketed adherents worship the decadence of Sri Lanka's imperial past, it has accommodated the likes of Richard Nixon, John D. Rockefeller, and Princess Alexandra of Denmark. Approaching the building in a plaid buttoned down shirt and shorts, I felt it would be any second before I was handed a shovel to dig garden trenches or towel to drape over my arm and begin taking orders from paying guests. To my surprise, I was welcomed inside without any interrogation. Once in the lobby I asked a gentleman if he could direct me to the bar, and he led me down a stately corridor to a breezy indoor-outdoor patio- the Verandah. I walked down to the gravel track separating the manicured lawn from the ferocity of Sri Lankan sunset waves. A lone national flag positioned at the edge of the track whipped violently in the ocean air. I turned back to have a seat on the terrace, a checkerboard island floating in a sea of low-cut grass, which looked out onto the crescendoing seas and fading sun. After mulling over the drink list, I selected a most appropriate beverage, a variation on the British Pimm's Cup called "Old World Charm," which substituted lime and native cinnamon sticks for the requisite cucumber slice. Surrounded mainly by attractive, swimsuit-clad European couples who had similarly emerged to celebrate the romance of life by imbibing a tropical drink at dusk in the presence of godly water and heavenly sun, I toasted to the end of the day and to the privilege of birth and experience afforded by merit which enabled me to enjoy that golden moment in my existence. I may have been by myself, but I was not alone.

Today I had only one interview scheduled mainly because it was Good Friday, a national holiday in Sri Lanka. I had arranged to meet with Ravi Algama, an environmental lawyer, at his home right around the corner from my hotel for an interview at 8:30am. Foolishly I thought that at that time of the morning it might be cooler outside, but my baseless forecast did not come to fruition and so I sloshed through the side street saunas on my short walk to Mr. Algama's abode. Once I arrived, I was received with great enthusiasm and hospitality. Mr. Algama brought me tea with milk dressed in matching white cup and saucer. Then he presented me with a gift- a gold-plated betel leaf, which was intended to be used as an ashtray (the real betel leaf itself is often used in conjunction with tobacco), but of course it could be utilized for other purposes as well. I suggested it would be a fine place to drop my house keys when I enter my apartment. Mr. Algama informed me that we would have until 10:30am to complete the interview because an issue came up with the choir at his church, and he was being called into active duty for Good Friday musical leadership. I let him know that, based on my recent experiences, the interview would not take anywhere near that long, so he should be fine. Before the interview formally began with the official pressing of the universal red recording button on my digital audio recorder, we talked for a few minutes about where I was from and my religious background (once you tell someone you're Jewish, unless they are a missionary, they are likely to accept that as a valid excuse for not attending church). Eventually this introductory chat came to a close, and the interview began. Again the interview was quite succinct, but the information I obtained was useful, and I felt that I was trending ever closer to reaching the point of theoretical saturation; that is, different people at different times were continuing to provide me with the same kind of answers for the questions I was asking. For a social science researcher this is a positive development, for it suggests that a potential explanation for a phenomenon being studied holds some intersubjectivity- a collective, if tacit, understanding about an issue. I thanked Mr. Algama for the gift and we made tentative plans to talk again on a more informal basis before I left to return to the US.

I exited the premises and landed back on the residential street from whence I came in order to retrace my steps. I stopped to take a couple photographs of Beira Lake and noticed some people playing cricket, the most popular sport in Sri Lanka (apparently the national sport is volleyball, but I haven't seen anyone playing volleyball in empty industrial lots like I have with cricket). I noticed that while a recreational match was underway in a nearby field, the real entertainment was supplied by a little boy, an aspiring batsman, who was taking serious swings at lobbed pitches. When one bowler would tire, he would demand that someone else take his place and resume throwing to him. The dedication possessed by the little cricketer was sweet and inspiring, especially because it appeared to come from within. He pursued his craft with tremendous persistence without any prodding from his mother, who sat nearby manning the snack station. I managed to take a few photos of the little boy in action and then I resumed my journey back to my hotel.

Because it was still early and all I had been eating in the mornings were meat pastries and bagels, I felt that I owed it to myself to have at least one real, substantial breakfast while I was out here. I recalled having passed a sign at the entryway to the Crescat Boulevard shopping mall advertising a "traditional English breakfast" for 900 LKR (~$7 USD) at a place called Sugar Bistro and Wine Bar. Having traveled to the UK I had some idea of what this breakfast might entail, so with thoughts of meat, jam, and beans floating through my mind like so many little heart bubbles I entered Sugar and took a seat by the window. After I ordered my English breakfast (as if there were any doubt as to what I would get), an old British couple sat down at the table adjacent to mine. It was about 10am, and the woman at the table was gushing over the prospect of ordering cinnamon and honey ice cream. But first, she made some important observations and articulated them with a certain seriousness to her husband. "This table is rather wobbly, don't you think? It seems like every table we sit at is wobbly. I think they must be made wobbly on purpose!" Immediately I hoped that my twilight years would not devolve into a running commentary on the mundane. The presence of British vacationers here is unmistakeable- the accent, the sense of humor, the pallid skin palette. Sri Lanka is a former British colony, and seeing the English here makes me wonder if they ever give pause to consider that their continued presence in the country is tantamount to a kind of de facto form of neocolonialism. At one time, the Brits set up plantations in Sri Lanka and staffed them with Tamil slaves from India. Now they come here on holiday expecting a certain level of treatment by the heirs of that misfortune. This made me wonder whether Americans will visit Iraq 50 years from now and similary act as if nothing illegitimate and devastating was ever perpetrated by them. While I was busy pondering the subterranean subtext of post-colonial leisure travel, the first portion of my breakfast arrived- an exquisitely plated assortment of fruit. Back in 2007 I found out I was allergic to pomegranates (or at least pomegranate juice), and so I'm particularly vigilant about consuming unknown fruits. On the plate before me rested three colorful treats- a disc of pineapple, a wedge of watermelon, and a slice of some kind of neon orange fruit I did not recognize. Boldly going where I believed I had never gone before, I ate the pineapple, then the watermelon, and finally started to chip away at the new world of sweet radiance staking a claim as the last fruit standing. After taking a bite, I was certain that I had never eaten this fruit before. It tasted like 85% fruit, 15% rottenness. It had skin like a melon, but it was thin enough to consume. With each subsequent bite I wondered why anyone would ever eat this particular fruit when so many superior alternatives existed. I just hoped I didn't break into hives as the fruit sought to exact revenge on me for my caustic review (later I discovered that this "mysterious" fruit was, in fact, papaya. With this quandary resolved, I can honestly say that the only kind of papaya I desire is Gray's). The rest of my breakfast was as characteristically British as my painfully boring table neighbors, but infinitely more satisfying. I finished it in a period of time that some might think impolite, but I had lots of blog writing to do. I settled my bill and returned to my hotel only a few yards away, full of eggs, beans, potatoes, toast, jam, bacon, juice, and coffee, and thoughts that needed to be penned (or, in my case, pushed).

The rest of the day I spent blogging poolside until my battery begged me to be rejuvenated and I retired to my room to charge my iPad and recharge myself. Several hours and two posts later, I continued my English culinary streak with a dinner downstairs at Cheers, a British pub. I will say this: the ethical complexities of colonialism notwithstanding, Sri Lankans sure know how to bake a mean shepherd's pie.

My fifth day was intended to be simple enough- visit a research institute in the morning and conduct an interview in the afternoon. However, thanks to a rather serendipitous arrangement, my day would be far more productive than I had anticipated.

I began by heading downstairs to the Coffee Spot where I picked up my delightfully strange bagel with lox and cream cheese imbued with a certain European flare for having been toasted in a panini press (it looked like a circular crinkle cut fry). Then I set out for the American Institute for Sri Lankan Studies (AISLS), a research organization with whom I had been in contact prior to arriving in Colombo. There I finally met face-to-face with Mrs. Ira Unamboowe, Executive Director of AISLS and warm and dedicated guide, who helped me navigate the unfamiliar territory that is Sri Lanka by providing me with contacts and setting up meetings. We talked and strategized for about an hour, during which time she made phone calls which enabled me to secure additional interviews. Given my time constraints and the fact that there are not one but two national holidays this week, I would not have been able to schedule as many interviews as I have without the assistance of virtual strangers and I am fortunate that so many people, such as Mrs. Unamboowe, have been willing to help me, a graduate student from a university somewhere in California not called Los Angeles or Berkeley. Mutually we agreed that my best course of action for the day would be to visit Environmental Foundation Limited (EFL), an environmentally-focused public interest law organization, gather what literature and contacts I could from there, and make my way to my interview later. Luckily for yours truly, EFL was located within walking distance from AISLS, which pleased, to no small extent, both my feet and my desire to remain dry, or at least drier than I had been during my epic walk from Colombo 08 back to my hotel the previous day.

The tinkering I had done with Google maps while at AISLS indicated that EFL was only a few short blocks away. Early on in my walk I crossed paths with a notable coffee shop, and, given that the heat was already at full tilt, I opted to pick up a cool beverage before formally attacking the uneven pavement to find EFL. After managing to cross the street unscathed, I entered a coffee shop that stood as a symbol of the level of development and cosmopolitanism Colombo aspires to achieve. Though named Java Lounge, this establishment proudly served Starbucks coffee and was decorated more like Central Perk of Friends fame than anything remotely cognizable as Sri Lankan. I ordered an iced coffee. To my chagrin, somehow during the ordering process our communication was severed, leaving me with not a soothing, icy glass of joe, but a piping hot cup of coffee in a ceramic mug. Not wanting to press the matter further, I simply imbibed my hot drink on a hot day, which was easier than it sounds as JL was air-conditioned to abusive Western standards. Fully caffeinated, I ventured back out into the unforgivably hot tropical world and followed the simple directions I had written down in my notepad.

After following my directions precisely, I stood at the corner of Thimbirigasyaya and Spathodea Avenue, perplexed. Where was Havelock Road? I asked a couple guards for help, and they pointed me in the opposite direction from where Google maps had commanded me to go. Street numbers were curiously absent from most building facades, but one building which did feature a number led me to a kind of dirt road where, presumably, I would find the EFL office. Again I inquired with a guard who lackadaisically controlled the traffic going in and out of the residential side street. He informed me that the location I sought was indeed directly down the road he manned. I walked about 50 feet until I saw the sign, in English and Sinhala, for "Environmental Foundation Ltd." I passed through the threshold into a dim and open sauna of an office, staffed almost exclusively by women. Immediately I was faced with the awkward situation of having to deliver an entirely unrehearsed solicitation for assistance. What, do graduate students not just randomly pop in off the street into NGOs in the developed world? In this line of work, one needs to be humble and realize that when asking for help you are totally at the mercy of what is likely to be a complete stranger, so manners function as an important form of currency. In my case, a young lawyer, Ms. Lakmini Amarasinghe, offered to speak with me about my research. Although we experienced a bit of difficulty communicating, the essence of my project and request for contacts and/or resources was conveyed clearly. In fact, I landed a major document- "Your Environmental Rights and Responsibilities: A Handbook for Sri Lanka." At first Ms. Amarasinghe agreed to let me photocopy page 11, "Sri Lankans constitutional right to a healthy environment," (Note: To properly analogize the importance of this section to my research, this single page is nearly equivalent to having someone you asked out on a date but who rejected your advance explain to you that he/she was currently seeing someone at the time you asked, satisfying your thirst for an explanation and weakening any residual stinging sensation) but upon further consultation with another staff member she agreed to let me keep the whole coffee table-sized bilingual reference tool. I expressed my extreme gratitude for her organization's charitable contribution to my dissertation (unfortunately not tax-deductible due to incommensurable tax codes) and left to find lunch.

As I proceeded down the block, however, I came across a sign, partially obstructed by a much larger sign for a bank, that read, "Institute of Human Rights." Although no one I had been in contact with mentioned this particular organization, I thought I might as well check it out and see if they, too, can offer any assistance. I cut off a car that was slowly turning into a car port, and started up the stairs to the second floor, where IHR was located (I seem to recall it actually being on the third floor, but I digress). I advanced down a kind of breezeway and approached the office. Fear flowed into my brain like a a cloud of poison. Just outside the office, hundreds of documents and binders were strewn about haphazardly. From what I could see of the office itself there was no office furniture, just several people in plain clothes milling about. I was hoping to learn that the place had been robbed, and that all of their expensive office equipment had disappeared along with their Herman Miller chairs (there was a Herman Miller store not too far away from the place). At least that might explain the condition of this official-sounding organization. Again I entered the room unannounced and explained who I was and what the hell I was doing standing in an otherwise vacant room with a bag slung over my shoulder and the reddish, sun-impacted skin pigmentation of a non-native. The director of the office had a staff member pull over a plastic lawn chair next to hers. It was devastating to see a human rights organization in such a state of utter disarray. It seemed like to operate under such conditions would certainly qualify as a violation of a second generation human right. The woman heading the institute apologized for the appearance of the office. They were currently in the process of moving to another location, and everyone came in that day to help transport things. A wave of relief crashed over me. We chatted for a few minutes, and the woman provided me with the names of a few people she thought I should contact given my interests. Realizing I was in the middle of an ongoing process, I thanked everyone for their time and descended the stairs leading back out to the street-level carport.

Success and caffeine powering my step, I decided to have lunch at an eatery frequented by locals, so I turned into Sen Sal, a popular café. The entryway was quite cramped; multiple queues formed in front of three different counters (hot food, bakery, and salads/coffee). I shifted about constantly as I stared into the glass case at the bakery counter. Ultimately I settled upon two curried chicken pastries and a 7-Up, which set this traveler back all of about $2. With just enough food to keep me placated until dinner, I returned to the roads.

The time at which my next interview was scheduled to commence drew near, so I hailed a trishaw to take me to Citizens' Trust in Rajagiriya, where I would meet with Ms. Ruana Rajepakse, a well-known environmental lawyer. Due to a clerical error on my part, my cab driver went up and down Nawala Road in search of a mysterious address. We must have stopped to ask for directions from random off duty cab drivers and roadside vendor attendants 5 or 6 times. Meanwhile, my fare kept going up, the final grains of sand emptied from the top of the hourglass, and yet we were still lost. Finally we arrived at what appeared to be a house with a number very close to the one I needed to find. My cabbie asked another driver outside the place where we might find the address I had listed in my notebook. Eventually the second driver called out to someone standing on the porch on the second floor of the house. Then I heard the sound of gentle footsteps respectfully meeting ceramic tiles until the white metal door at the front of the house opened carefully and a woman emerged. It was Ms. Rajepakse. She apologized and informed me that she was currently busy. But, if I was willing to wait, she could see me when she was done. Having nowhere else to go at that point, I agreed. I went upstairs to sit outside her office while she conducted a consultation with a client. In the meantime, she handed me a copy of her book, "A Guide to Current Constitutional Issues in Sri Lanka." It would be an early Sri Lankan Hanukkah for me. Patiently I sat out on the porch where I became acquainted with the history of constitutional law in Sri Lanka and Ms. Rajepakse's dog. About 45 minutes later, everyone had cleared out, including Ms. Amarasinghe, whom I had met earlier that day at EFL. I waved hello and she smiled in return. Finally Ms. Rajepakse invited me in, and offered me a glass of grape juice. Given the temperature and having been outdoors for a while at that point, I gladly accepted. Slender and soft- but very well-spoken, Ms. Rajepakse discussed the constitution and the issue of environmental rights in Sri Lanka with me while her docile dog hugged the cool ground to the right of my chair. The interview ended and I walked down the stairs and followed the snaking path of the residential street to a trishaw stand where I quickly secured a ride back to my hotel.

That night I made plans to eat dinner with César Hernández, a friend of a colleague's at UC Irvine, and currently a lecturer in the School of International Relations at the University of Colombo. We agreed to meet at Sri Manika Vinayagar Kovil, a Hindu temple. Having had fun riding in the trishaws earlier that day, I decided to take another one to our meeting spot. I hopped in one of the little red tricycle golf carts right around the corner from my hotel and instructed the driver where I wanted to go. I don't know what it is about me and getting ripped off on the way to religious sites, but it seems to be a recurring theme during my time in Sri Lanka. I realized almost instantly that the meter for the cab fare was not on. Yet, I rationalized that it probably wasn't necessary because it was at night and they must charge a flat fee or something like that (I can't believe I basically came to a rationalization of why I would be taken for a ride, literally and figuratively, instead of being more suspicious, but I guess that's my Western optimism (read: naïveté) shining through). When we came to the temple, my driver wanted somewhere between 100 LKR and 1000 LKR, but he didn't specify. I told him I would have to break my 2000 LKR bill, so we drove away from the temple and to a convenience store down the road, where he told me to get the bill changed. I asked the cashier to change my bill and, after discussing it with what I presumed to be his superior, he told me he could only break it down into two 1000 LKR bills. I came back to the trishaw with two smaller bills this time and was met by the displeasure of my cab driver who proceeded to drive me to another store where I could get my bills broken down even further. But, bless his heart, my driver finally relented, and he offered to let me pay with one of the 1000 LKR bills in exchange for the 3 miles traveled (to put this in perspective, I paid 880 LKR once during this trip from Colombo 08 in the far eastern reaches of the city all the way back to my hotel in Colombo 03). Personally disappointed and 1000 LKR poorer, I walked to the Hindu temple to meet César. Standing outside, César greeted me right away. We talked about what had just happened as I removed my shoes and we washed our feet to enter the temple. It became apparent to me through our discussion that staying in a nice hotel actually introduced new problems into my field research experience that I had not anticipated at all. Who knew that my staying at a higher end hotel I would be trading safety from contracting dengue fever for being ripped off habitually by trishaw vultures? As we talked, we game planned for how I could avoid getting had in the future. Mainly, I learned that I should never take a trishaw from anywhere in the immediate vicinity around my hotel. When someone sees you walking out of a fancy hotel, you are instantly an easy mark. It's a kind of unfortunate stigma that follows you, as if you are hemorrhaging money into the ocean waters where trishaw sharks lay and wait to tear into your wallet. In addition, this means getting dropped off at places outside the hotel and just walking to the hotel once you have paid your fare and left the vehicle. This whole experience is really depressing because it is indicative of what's going on in the country (and even the region) as a whole. Corruption, not democracy, is the true form of governance in places like this. Political leaders drunk with power are enabled by a populace that is unaware of the level of abuse present or unable to force a change in the ruling faction in place or both. With little oversight and substantial pensions, government workers simply bide their time until the grand payday is upon them. At the lower levels of society, people like my cab driver care not about national pride or trying to improve their country. Instead, they would rather rip off a foreigner who is providing the country with money through tourism. I truly want to believe that people will do good if left to their own devices, but my experiences and conversations so far dictate otherwise. At any rate, my confidant and I sat and talked until we were ushered out of the temple, at which point we went across the street to dine at Amirthaa, a vegetarian restaurant. At the street level of the restaurant a large menu lay plastered against the wall. César explained the menu to me and we went up the stairs to the dining room. Once there, both of us washed our hands in a kind of communal sink basin and they were left to dry in the muggy upstairs jungle night air. We ordered an assortment of dishes, all to be set upon wax paper wrapped around a metal plate and eaten by hand with the aid of a kind of pancake called dosai, which came in an assortment of flavors. The dosai had an appearance and texture that inspired mental comparisons to a Dutch pancake and Ethiopian injera, although less spongy than the latter. The dishes ranged in terms of their spiciness, some so spicy that I feared I would consume my entire skinny bottle of Coke Classic before finishing a portion of my meal. César and I exchanged war stories from the front lines of academia and had our worries overpowered by the raw heat of curries and chillies. We settled the bill and said our goodbyes downstairs. I felt happy to have had dinner with someone, as so far on my trip I have been alone at every meal.

Thunder rang sharply and the skies began to open up again. I walked back to my hotel 3 miles north in drizzling rain, throwing a wave to the colossal fortress that is the United States Embassy as I scuttled past. Once I got to my hotel I sauntered over to Coffee Spot where my day had begun. I ordered a vanilla milkshake. I felt I had earned it.

Today marked the beginning of the interview phase of my field work in Sri Lanka. First, I met with Mario Gomez, Executive Director of the International Centre for Ethnic Studies, at the ICES office in Colombo 08. Due to unforeseen circumstances, our interview was cut short. However, in the brief time in which we met, I felt that I obtained some very important insight about environmental rights in Sri Lanka, which is the focus of my research here. Mainly, I learned that Sri Lanka has already had extensive environmental regulations on the books since the early 20th century, especially where wildlife and land conservation are concerned. Although admittedly enforcement of said regulations is far from adequate, a substantial framework is in place to maintain and safeguard environmental quality, which is ultimately the modus operandi for adopting solidarity environmental rights (i.e. "Everyone has the right to a healthy environment," as stipulated in Nepal's 2006 Interim Constitution). In addition, Mr. Gomez extended me the courtesy of agreeing to meet again or follow up by phone should I need additional information. I left ICES and decided to walk back to my hotel (about 2 miles away) in 90F (felt like 98F, according to the Weather Channel) heat and 74% humidity. This decision, though perhaps idiotic from the standpoint of comfort, also yielded a wonderfully unusual (in Western standards) bonus.

I headed west toward the coast. Along the way, I came across Viharamahadevi Park, one of Sri Lanka's many municipal parks. It was a vast expanse of shady trees punctuated by a central lake bifurcated by a crumbling bridge. Given the unrelenting heat, I decided to seek temporary refuge among the park's promising verdant environs (at least this much I have learned as a result of studying the urban heat island portion of the LEED Green Associate exam). Unsurprisingly, I was approached by a man in a baseball cap alleging to be the park's gardener. "Have you seen the elephant?" the man inquired with feigned innocence. "Here, I can show you. I'm the gardener," I was assured. But before our interaction devolved into a redux of my first encounter with a Sri Lankan snake oil salesman I trotted away, firmly implying my resolve to avoid interaction. As casually as he had arrived, the man slowly retreated back into the urban forest. Perhaps he had spied a more unwitting prey. Yet, having only seen an elephant once so far on my trip, for a couple moments at a Buddhist temple, I was intrigued by the prospect of seeing a pachyderm again. Thus, I crept along the outer rung of the park following a semi-circular course until the constant gardener was far afield. Then, I turned about face and dove back into the park until I hit a concrete path which roughly traced the natural contours of the lake. After permitting the walkway to serve as my unofficial (and certainly more trustworthy) guide, I stepped out onto the cool grass in search of wildlife of the mega herbivore variety. Although I enjoyed the visual assistance of my prescription sunglasses, the interior of the park was rather dark, as the shade of long trees cast shadows that overlapped, obscuring the unfamiliar landscape. Yet, among the broad brown limbs scattered about the habitat I could perceive some kind of repetitive undulation occurring several feet above the ground about 200 feet away. To be sure, this was no national flag playing a patriotic song to the gentle park wind; the quietly rippling fabric was circular and gray. As I drew closer, I could make out that this steel-colored sail was affixed not to a metal pole, but a large mass which appeared to be moving, albeit with great deliberation. To my shock, I had found the elephant of which the gardener spoke. Given my childhood experiences visiting zoos, combined with the fact that I passed by a self-contained aquarium near the entrance to the park, I had imagined that any elephant I might see would be encased behind glass, or fenced off from onlookers at least. However, here stood a mighty elephant, poised as gracefully among trees as a humpback whale swims beneath rough seas, standing prominently, if slightly hidden, in the open space of a public park, with no discernible fence or glass barrier in place. Instead, this battleship gray behemoth was tethered by puny chains, objectionably reminiscent of slave bindings, to two nearby trees. My childlike curiosity and fondness for animals of overwhelming stature took hold, and I proceeded to get as close as I could to the elephant in order to take a photograph of uncommon proximity. No matter how close I came, the elephant stirred little. Sleepily the elephant chewed on what appeared to be palm fronds, its only remarkable movement the occasional lifting of its front right foot. Either this animal was no stranger to the presence of humans (even increasingly encroaching ones, such as myself), or else the fronds had a soporific effect on the elephant, lulling it into a state of relaxed serenity. After capturing the moment to the best of my ability while still being cautious enough not to rile the creature in case its more instinctual inclinations suddenly took hold, I exited the same way I came in, only this time I walked through the park with a cherished memory in tow. (As a brief side note, it was really charming to see the park populated by so many young, loving couples. Midday in Viharamahadevi Park seemed to be Sri Lanka's answer to the lookout point of American romantic lore. This contrasts greatly with Nepal, where public displays of affection are culturally shunned.)

My appetite for elephant viewing sated, I walked onto the suffocating streets of steam and sun. By the time I had returned to the hotel, I must have been at least a couple pounds lighter. I felt that the best course of action would be to hydrate, eat, and cool off before my next interview at 4pm. Internally I surmised that while two interviews per day would be technically feasible, it would be incredibly exhausting to attempt any more and expect to be fully functional.

I left the hotel at 3pm to meet with Dr. Jayantha Dhanapala, a seasoned diplomat and former UN Under Secretary General who had been suggested by Prof. Lakshman Guruswamy at the University of Colorado-Boulder, at his residence in Nugegoda, which is just outside of Colombo. As my taxi came upon the entrance to the home, thunder sounded convincingly in the near distance. As a native son of Florida, lightning capital of the world, I spent my formative years in an area where thunder and lightning were as commonplace as sunburns and Spanish. Yet, living in California for the past five years, I have been robbed of these elemental features which I came to associate with rain (i.e. water droplets which fall from the sky, for those of you in Southern California who are unfamiliar with this form of weather). Slightly pleased that I might encounter thunder, lightning, and rain reunited in beautiful concert once again, I greeted Dr. Dhanapala and we settled into his den, a wall-to-wall celebration of an impressive career in diplomacy, to commence with the interview. I was graciously welcomed into the statesman's home and fixed a spot of tea, as is customary in this part of the world. While we covered the issue of environmental rights to the extent it was possible given my respondent's background in diplomacy and not environmental policy, I was interested to learn that Prof. Guruswamy had been Dr. Dhanapala's best man at his wedding years ago. After the interview was complete, Dr. Dhanapala introduced his daughter, Dr. Kiran Dhanapala, a trained economist who works on environmental issues, specifically energy, throughout South Asia. In the middle of our conversation the lights shut off unexpectedly thanks to the lightning and troubled electrical system, and we relocated our ad hoc seminar to the porch. Our discussion touched upon a panoply of topics, from green buildings to American politics to student debt, and as a result of the storm, which was beginning to produce precipitation with monsoon alacrity, we retreated indoors to the living room. Our roundtable concluded around 30 minutes later, and a cab was ordered for me so that I could venture back to my HQ.

My day ended with a hearty Italian meal at Echo, a restaurant adjoining the Cinnamon Grand Colombo, and I made my way back to my hotel room to catch up on emails and prepare for the next day.

Today was supposed to be uneventful. I would grab breakfast, check out the immediate surroundings, and return to my hotel to read up on Sri Lankan environmental law. All that changed when I left the comforts of the Cinnamon Grand Colombo and began to wander along Galle Road.

About 5 minutes into my walk, I was approached by a young Sri Lankan man who asked me, "My friend, where are you from?" I explained that I was from the US, and I had come to Sri Lanka to conduct research on environmental laws and the constitution (throughout our time together I attempted to paint myself as a lonely poor student, but this approach failed to garner sympathy thanks to the fact that I was staying in a nice hotel). The man said he worked for the Cinnamon Grand and wanted to thank me for my patronage and for the important work I was undertaking which would surely help the Sri Lankan people. As a courtesy, he would show me around Colombo, especially the religious sites, which were buzzing with excitement given that today is a major holiday celebrating the new moon. I already assumed that this was some kind of gimmick, but I figured it might be a good opportunity to see some areas of the city I might not get to see otherwise, and I would be glad to pay the man a reasonable fee for his services. This notion was at least partially misguided, as I would later find out.

The man flagged a random trishaw (a tiny motorized vehicle that looked like a tuk tuk mixed with a rickshaw) and we sped down broad dusty roads until arriving at a large Buddhist temple. Together we exited the red golf cart and removed our shoes at the entrance. In the center of the entryway stood a large ceramic pot of sorts with signs soliciting funds for "the children." My "guide" instructed me to leave donations for both of us. In the pit of my stomach I could feel my anxiety building as I was sure this was a test to gauge how much money I was carrying. Nevertheless, we walked into the temple and I was given a whirlwind tour of the place, which included clearly rehearsed commentary. The man led me swiftly through the temple on a tortuous path, stopping occasionally for less than 30 seconds to point out a relic, gem, or statue, implore me to take a photo (taking photos under duress is infinitely less enjoyable than snapping photos at one's leisure), and urge me on my less-than-merry way. With the speed at which we navigated the holy site, I was quite certain that my pal did not make regular visits here simply to pay his respects. At least he was kind enough to indulge my characteristically touristy inclinations by allowing me to return to the elephant we saw early on during my tour and photographing me several times in front of it. I should have interpreted the elephant's nervous swaying, as if entranced by some indigenous narcotic, as a bad omen. We retrieved our soles and returned to the little crimson tin can on wheels.

My involuntary friend informed the driver that we needed to go to the Lanka Gem Bureau, where surely exceptional deals on precious and semi-precious stones awaited us. This part of our tour seemed eerily reminiscent of the time I let my cab driver in Nepal take me to his friend's mandala workshop to "learn" about the ancient craft (as one might expect, I was offered "excellent" prices on unreasonably large paintings, with a portion of the sale likely going to my "friend" as a sort of finder's fee). Once we alighted at the gem shop it was all business. My guide informed me he had to go outside to have a smoke, and I was left to interact with a gem salesman who went to painstaking efforts to provide me with all kinds of discounts (did you know that students get discounts on gems in Sri Lanka? Now you do!) and assure me that I was getting one-time, wholesale-and-holiday-only prices. At first he tried to sell me small planets that would have set me back over a hundred dollars (US). Then, as I began to explain my financial situation, he relented a bit, offering me deeply discounted semi-precious gems which surely I could not live without. I carried on under the premise that the gift would be for my mother, but perhaps this was foolhardy because (1) it imbued the purchase with heightened significance since, when buying a gift for your mother, "you spend $1,000, but it's worth $100,000" in motherly love returns (as the man told me), and (2) the gem I was looking at was yellow, and, as anyone who knows my mother well will tell you, anything yellow is a non-starter. So there I sat, being cajoled into buying a small yellow gem stone for a mother who hates yellow with unwavering passion. I signed half the day's financial life away, and my guide suggested that we go to the beach. This sounded like a good idea because it was a public place and the opportunity for trouble seemed minimal.

Again we plopped into the little ruddy buggy and buzzed down Galle Road toward the beach. Without warning, my buddy told the driver to stop immediately, and he began to exit the car(t). He then requested that I pay the driver. I dug into my wallet and offered 1400 LKR, but the driver, a sullen man who held unspoken cab fare expectations, demanded at least 3000 LKR. This proved problematic because I had only 1400 LKR and a 5000 LKR bill (~$43 USD), which I desperately tried to conceal. I thumbed through the differentially-sized bills in my wallet and attempted to explain that I didn't have any more money. This did not sit will with either my guide or the driver. My new pal, being as keen as he was ruthless, spotted the 5000 LKR bill that was not well hidden in the back of my billfold. Proudly he assured the driver that, indeed, I had more money than I had let on (on a personal note, while I have never felt truly uncomfortable with the level of personal information of mine made available to either private companies [i.e. Facebook] or the federal government [thanks, Patriot Act!], this visual intrusion felt like the most unnerving violation of privacy I had ever endured in my adult life. If eyes are windows into the soul, my wallet was not too far removed, however metaphysically speaking). Caught between a rock and a harder rock, I struggled to determine the best course of action. Of course, my selfless friend made my decision for me. He told the driver that he would take the 1000 LKR so he could get a beer, and the driver would confiscate my 5000 LKR and drive us both to a bank where it could be broken into the smaller bills needed to settle the score. As mysteriously as my guide had entered my life he was now gone, 1000 LKR richer and cloaked in the warm fuzzy feeling one gets from swindling a foreigner out of his money. The driver, not one to delay the inevitable receipt of his payment, turned a hard right and we careened down the street into new and uncertain territory. It was at this point I decided to cut my losses and end this slide into a downward spiral by jumping the puny red ship. As we slowed down while turning around a bend I leapt out of the vehicle and sternly told the driver that he could have the whole sum.

Seeking to rectify what had thus far been quite a mixed day, I ventured to the beach where my guide had run off to chase girls with beer. I took several photos of the sparkling coastline and food huts which lined the cement boardwalk. I pondered the inconsistent messages that the developing world delivered me, being granted interviews and enthusiastic support from members of the scholarly community on the one hand, to being played for a fool during a national holiday at a Buddhist temple on the other. I paused to observe the beauty of the azure sea and its ironic gem stone clarity. It was a welcome contrast to the tall lanky man who kept glaring at me from several yards away. Perhaps I gave off the odor of a freshly wounded fish, and nearby sharks with killer instincts and an indefatigable olfactory sense hovered excitedly nearby, desperate to pounce at the first drop of blood. The serenity of the gentle salty waves began to lose ground to my burgeoning paranoia, so I turned my back to the wind and started up the wide lawn abutting the concrete walkway, hopping down the stone embankment onto a side street running perpendicular to Galle Road.

As I traveled purposively on the sidewalk, a middle-aged Sri Lankan man approached me. He asked, "My friend, where are you from?"

After a brief flight delay and 3.5 hours traversing the skies over Asia, I found myself at Bandaranaike International Airport in Sri Lanka at 1am local time. My next step was to make it through customs, although this would not happen effortlessly due to a financial hiccup that originated in Singapore. You see, I withdrew funds in Singapore, but neglected to inform my bank that I was traveling abroad (I had managed to inform virtually everyone else I know, including my credit card company). Therefore, when I attempted to withdraw additional funds prior to my arrival in Sri Lanka, I was denied, my bank account frozen until further action. So when I finally made it to my next destination, I was unable to take out money I needed for cab fare until I passed through customs unscathed. In addition, I wasn't allowed to change my Singapore dollars into Sri Lankan rupees until I had made it through the customs stage. Fortunately, I was permitted to pay the requisite entrance fee ($35) by credit card. One hurdle had been overcome.

Once my passport has been stamped and tattooed, I walked into a region of the airport that looked like a Brandsmart USA. Instead of the usual duty free shops consisting mainly of high end perfumes and alcohols, this area laid claim to aisles of durable goods like refrigerators and stoves. Business was booming. I collected my suitcase from baggage claim and headed through an automated doorway intended for foreign entrants to the country. My heart raced as I prayed that I would find a currency exchange booth and a cellphone vendor, both of which were absolutely essential to my ability to perform my research tasks and for the sake of my overall mental health. To my delight, as I crossed over into the land of accepted visitors I found multiple kiosks that could address my pressing needs. First I wheeled over to one of three currency exchange posts. I willingly submitted all of my Singapore dollars (save for the few coins I had remaining in my possession) and even tried to convert my lingering Nepalese rupees, but, as I have now come to understand, one cannot exchange Nepalese rupees anywhere in the world except for Nepal. At least now I had some working capital with which I could execute some important tasks. My next stop was one of three cellphone vendors. I opted for Mobitel, which featured signage boasting that it was Sri Lanka's official mobile carrier. I decided to purchase a SIM card stocked with 100 minutes of talk time and 1024 MB of data (600 LKR = $4.73 USD). Once the attendant got my phone up and running I walked over to the booth for my hotel, the Cinnamon Grand Colombo. On the way there I checked my Gmail and saw that my bank had contacted me regarding the potentially fraudulent activity on my account in Singapore. With the clicking of a button, I reassured my bank that I was indeed the culprit of said transaction and access to my money was restored. Tired though I may have been, what little excitement I could muster at that late hour was soaked up by the sheer jubilation I felt knowing I wasn't going to be living on $220 USD for the next 9 days. At the booth I was given a bottle of water (note: water quality is poor, so bottled water is literally a way of life), provided with free Internet access at the desk computer, and had a taxi ordered on my behalf. In only about 20 minutes, I would finally be on my way to my hotel, where the promise of sleep enticed me.

The drive from the airport to coastal Colombo took about 30 minutes with virtually no traffic to speak of. While the streets seemed reminiscent of those of Kathmandu where I conducted field work last year, I could not help but marvel at the religious installations occasionally dotting the sides of the road. Every so often we would pass what looked like a small Buddhist temple, only instead of a solemn, tranquil homage to Buddha, carnivalesque light shows assaulted one's visual field. It was as if the architects of these worship stations drew influence from Hunter S. Thompson's hallucinogenic sojourn into the neon belly of Las Vegas. Eventually the religious icons bathed in garish halos of hypnotic luminescence gave way to the pure and steady blackness of the sea as we approached Colombo.

As the taxi pulled into the Cinnamon Grand Colombo, I was immediately struck by the opulence of the hotel. As I began to exit the vehicle, a gentleman donning white gloves proceeded to open my car door and another gentleman swiftly attended to my luggage before I even had a chance to get to the trunk. Upon entering this magnificent white palace I strode up to the concierge and informed the attendants that I had indeed arrived (as if my entrance was not already ceremonial and indicative of this fact). While checking in, a man in full butler regalia appeared at my side and offered me a choice of fresh juices- black currant or guava. Drawn to its creamy pink coloring, I chose the latter. It became readily apparent that this experience would be very different from my time in Nepal.

A different gentleman led me personally up to my room while another man brought my luggage up separately (talk about a division of labor!). After I was acquainted with my room I settled down for the evening (morning?) and fell asleep without any difficulty.

The next day I awoke to the sound of birds chirping and the welcome slit of sunshine that shone through the area in between my curtains that did not overlap. After checking email and showering (not at the same time, mind you) I headed downstairs to Coffee Stop for a late breakfast. Knowing full well that I would be consuming plenty of spicy fare over the next few days, I opted for ethnic comfort food- a bagel with lox and cream cheese. My bagel arrived toasted, just as I had asked, although instead of a traditional bread heating treatment my bagel had been thoroughly warmed in a panini press, causing it to look like an oversized, circular crinkle cut French fry. It was excellent. Why had I never seen this before in all my years of professional bagel eating? The rest of the day I focused on securing interviews and writing my first blog post. Unlike in Nepal, where most of my meetings were arranged via email, here in Sri Lanka most of my contacts urged me to call them upon arriving to schedule my interview (this is why having a local cellphone number was so crucial). After making several phone calls and sending a few emails, within an hour I went from having one scheduled interview to four. Satisfied by my progress, I spent the remainder of my day putting together my blog post, which involved having to rewrite the entire thing from scratch on the app I'm using (which is actually intended for an iPhone but I'm using it on an iPad), and needing to use the business center to fix two of the pictures that had failed to upload the first time around. I also decided to stay close to HQ for dinner, so I found myself at a popular Indian restaurant in my hotel called Chutneys. However, as I was unaware of the evening dress code, upon entering I was provided with a black and white striped sarong, which covered my utilitarian khaki shorts and instantly upgraded my outfit to meet cultural standards (sadly, I do not have a photograph of this. Please just imagine me wearing a navy polo shirt, glasses, and a black and white striped sarong). The food, not your traditional Americanized Indian food of tikka masala this and saag that, and the menu was arranged by both geographic region and dietary preference. I ordered a Lion Lager, steamed white rice, a mutton dish, and a chicken dish (I won't even bother committing the injustice of trying to recall the names of these entrees). In general, the food was quite spicy, and although Chutneys is a high end restaurant, the quality of the meat was akin to that which I ate daily for lunch in Nepal (smaller, bony morsels). For dessert I had a small, yet saccharine treat- two deep fried milk balls floating in cardamom syrup. Aside from a maple sugar cookie I once ate in elementary school, I'm not sure I've ever eaten anything sweeter. I settled the check and headed to my room where I watched one of my favorite movies (Closer) on HBO, although it had been severely edited for content. Full of regional cuisine, again I fell easily into a deep slumber.

Next up: A Brave New World

I arrived in Singapore at the ripe hour of 3am, early enough that the alleged "24-hour" restaurants at Changi International Airport were not yet open. Although I had managed to eek out 4 hours of sleep along my journey from Los Angeles to Tokyo to Singapore, I found myself exhausted and in need of at least 40 winks more. Zombie-like I trudged through the empty airport in search of slumber. Luckily, I stumbled upon one of Changi's famed "snooze zones." Yet, as I walked past the semi-barricaded zoo of sleeping humans, I came to realize that all cots were occupied. It was then that I elected to pursue the next best (though costlier) option- short-term room rentals at one of the airport's Transit Hotels. Glassy-eyed and verbally incomprehensible, I inquired with the concierge about the possibility of securing a room for 6 hours (the standard length of a reservation at such an establishment). No vacancies were to be had. Still, I knew I would need at least some supplemental shut-eye were I to function effectively as a Western wanderer later that same day. With the arrow of my fuel gauge teetering around "E," I dragged my body along the vast expanses of immaculate carpeting and closed vendors in the hopes of finding some venue for rest more appropriate than the ground I fought to overcome while buzzards of delirium spied me from overhead, clamoring for the inevitable demise of my sanity.

After turning a corner, I encountered a sign advertising for a spa called the "Rainforest Lounge," which immediately conjured pleasant childhood memories of meals at the theme park restaurant Rainforest Cafe, which was housed curiously in the Sawgrass Mills Mall back in the South Florida of my youth. This particular spa offered temporary sleeping quarters, and, more importantly, appeared to open at this unsavory airport hour. Robotically I ascended the winding staircase bedecked in faux jungle foliage until I arrived at a lobby where several fellow journeymen and women sat contently in plush couches, imbibing late-night cocktails and rekindling their romance with humanity by checking emails. I approached the desk attendant with extreme malaise, too dead to care the result of my imminent inquiry, but still clinging pathetically to the unjustified arrogance of hope. To my tempered delight, I was informed that there was a bed available for me to drop my weary bones. Wanderlustus, the patron saint of travelers, had finally heeded my call for mercy with a mattress and sheets that I could call my own for all of 3 hours (S$35). Graciously I gathered my belongings and slowly slithered to a dimly lit cavernous room, flanked by twin vertebra of micro-accommodations on either side. The layout of the space reminded me of the scene in the movie Taken when Liam Neeson found himself furiously rummaging through a concubine warehouse in an effort to locate his kidnapped daughter. Had I been any more alert I would have been alarmed at the lack of privacy evident, as a mere two curtains, slotted wood partition, and no doors separated me from my involuntary "roommates," or anyone else for that matter. Idiotically I sought the cheap comfort of curtain-blessed intimacy in the way a small child might draw the covers over his head in an attempt to psychologically evade the frightening advances of the boogie man. Security be damned, I set the alarm on my iPad for 7:10am (so as to not violate the stipulations of my contractual agreement) and drifted off as quickly as I had purposively set my things down for the night.

I awoke at 7:18am to the ire of my iPad, which flashed several push notifications indicating that my alarm had sounded (however silently given that I forgot to adjust the volume prior to falling asleep) and that I had not been a considerate owner who responded with alacrity to the demands of my electronic companion. Fearing I might be charged some kind of financial penalty for illegally occupying my bed a paltry 3 minutes beyond my allotted reservation, I bolted out of the partially enshrouded cot-room to use the shower. After enjoying an unnecessarily hot shower I cleared my bill with the concierge and learning that no additional charges had been levied, I grabbed a small breakfast consisting of toast with kaya butter, soft(?) boiled eggs in a paper cup, and a cup of coffee from a nearby kiosk (S$4.50) and headed on my merry way into Singapore in the hopes of getting a jump on my sightseeing in order to avoid getting caught in sweltering midday heat.

Prior to my arrival in Singapore I decided that I would embark upon not the free tour organized by the city (which does not allow for alighting the tour bus to see sights up close), but rather the City Sightseeing Singapore tour aboard a double-decker bus (which does allow and indeed encourages hopping on and off the bus to see the sights at one's own pace). When I informed a woman working at the visitor centre of this decision, she happily agreed it was for the best. Following a 30-minute ride on the cleverly-acronymed "SMRT" (Simpsons fans should pick up on that reference), Singapore's public rail system (S$2.10), I came to a couple of early conclusions: (1) Asia clearly understands how to properly execute a major public transportation endeavor (corroborated by my experiences in Hong Kong); and (2) America, with its crumbling network of asphalt arteries evoking a strange sense of pride and an environmentally criminal obsession with misguided notions of "individuality," probably won't "get" public transport for a long time to come. That we as Americans feel a bizarre entitlement to inefficient road mongering and pollution mitigated by mechanical regulations not behavioral change is beyond the comprehension of this environmental researcher.

Once I navigated the labyrinthine underground CityLink Mall and made my way to the Suntec Hub, I purchased my tour ticket good for 24 hours (a reasonable S$33), and set out to explore 4 areas in Singapore. A brief synopsis of each location is provided below.

Little India: On my first stop, I came to this cultural enclave. I walked along Serangoon Road and entered Sri Veeramakaliamman Temple. Once I had walked around the temple and paid my respects (as much as a foreigner with a camera could, anyway), I strolled along the streets, ducking in and out of various shops. I was surprised at how inexpensive the clothing items were (save for Levi's jeans, which command something of a supernatural status throughout Asia), given how the rest of Singapore I had seen read like a who's who of high end fashion (I saw no less than three Prada stores while I was there. Isn't one enough for a tiny country?). After purchasing a couple items (and being given a bottle of water for free by the merchant), I walked back to the bus stop to venture to my next destination.

Chinatown: Unlike the American incarnations of this major city mainstay (from the glorious version in San Francisco to the seemingly apocalyptic attempt in Portland), the Chinatown in Singapore was surprisingly dense and heavily trafficked even on a Sunday. Brits, Aussies, and occasional Americans crowded the narrow streets in search of trite novelties they will proudly boast upon returning home (think T-shirts that read: I ❤ Singapore). Famished and flushed, I traversed the side streets to find a spot for lunch. After perusing several menus placed outside candidate restaurants, I decided to enter Feng Bo Zhuang, a place that, until I became a sworn patron, did not feature the presence of any Westerners (i.e. the sign of a reputable local establishment). I ordered hot tea (against my better judgment given the temperature hovered at a suffocating 90F with 74% humidity), spicy beef with glass noodles (more like a powderkeg of pepper flakes drowning in seasoned broth guest starring 10 pieces of mediocre meat), and steamed pork dumplings. Hungry as I was, I ate without abandon, testing the limits of my gastrointestinal fortitude by lapping up nearly every bit of the cilia-searing soup and chasing it with bouts of tastebud-dissolving tea. This meal would prove sufficiently satisfying for hours on end (and those of you who know me understand what a challenge that can be!). My strength restored, again I found my way to the bus in order to embark upon the architectural portion of my jaunt.

Marina Bay Sands/Gardens by the Bay: In a country where East meets West in myriad ways, perhaps there is no greater example of this sensibility than in the creative amalgamation present in Singapore's built and natural environments. While evidence of a pan-Asian tradition is unmistakeable, it is the modern feats of architectural achievement that truly and literally stand tall. In Singapore, the buildings walk a fine line somewhere between grandeur and audacity. The Marina Bay Sands, ostensibly a hotel, looks as though a mighty typhoon picked up Noah's Ark and placed it carefully atop three existing colossal pillars. The resulting marriage is strange, but not overwrought. To observe it from afar is to stare into the capacity of human imagination. All of a sudden curing cancer doesn't seem that far off. Once I passed through (as if into a new dimension) the hotel, I followed a bridge over to an installation of gargantuan proportions, the Gardens by the Bay. Aside from the numerous adjoined gardens paying homage to various ethnicities and hedgehog-like biospheres (the Flower Dome and Cloud Forest), the most notable visual structures are the grove of Supertrees. These wire-frame saucers poised atop trunk-like obelisks seem like props developed for an upcoming cross-over film based on Avatar and Independence Day (Will Smith has already signed onto the project). These Supertrees are nothing if not inspiring and breathtaking. They should be considered part of the pantheon that is the 7 Wonders of the World. After gawking at unfathomable exemplars of human ingenuity, I headed back to the bus stop, where I rode the red city route to its conclusion and hopped aboard the yellow city route to my final point of interest.

Botanic Gardens: By the time I arrived at the Botanic Gardens, it had begun to thunder and the evening was falling upon me. Little did I realize (though given Singapore's unabashed embrace of magnificence and nearly peerless conquering of scale perhaps I should have been more keen) that these gardens were so massive there was simply no way I could see everything the park had to offer in one day. Dauntless and yet cognizant of the possibility that it might literally rain on the tail end of my parade, I zoomed along the paved paths, ignoring the protestations of my Toms-protected feet. At the behest of my mother, I decided to visit the National Orchid Garden. The normal charge for a student is S$1, but seeing as how I was by myself and it was the early evening on a Sunday, I was granted entrance pro bono. Once there I found species of orchids I had never seen before in hues of bright pink, leopard print purple, and pollution dusk yellow, and coming in an array of shapes that resembled everything from starfish to peeps aligned consecutively on a branch as if reporting for military duty. The exhibit also featured rare orchids in the Tan Hoon Siang Mist House and eerie Cool House (both of which could have easily ruined my iPad or camera due to moisture intrusion). Fearing that the thunder might produce something even more sinister, I galloped post haste through a large field where the public had gathered to hear a youth jazz orchestra play in the bandshell and sprinted toward the bus as it began to pull away slowly.

I feel like I covered significant ground in a single day thanks to the well-oiled City Sightseeing Singapore tour. I was certainly glad to make it back to the airport, however, where I retrieved my stored luggage (S$3 for 24 hours) and sprung for a much needed shower (S$8 including toiletries and towel). I would say I "treated" myself to dinner, but that would not accurately describe a situation in which I ordered a bowl of "lunch meat" (read: Spam-like substance) with ramen and a scrambled egg, two BBQ pork buns, and a 7-Up from an airport restaurant, but suffice it to say that I left Singapore showered, shaven, and sated.

Next time: Fear and Phoning in Sri Lanka

On Friday, March 22nd, I'll be leaving for Singapore and Sri Lanka to conduct field research for my dissertation. Stay tuned for blog posts chronicling my adventures in Asia!