This afternoon I sat by myself in a cafe on a river. I read Hemingway and thought that, given the circumstances, I should get drunk.

What stopped me wasn't a cultural sensitivity or a carpe diem "you're only in Laos once" attitude. It was a handful of uncooked greens that led to a 36-hour gnawing stomach cramp that was only then subsiding. If I was going to enjoy Laos - or Hemingway for that matter - it seemed prudent to abstain.

Reading Hemingway makes me want to write. I think it is because he lets so much go by unsaid. I find myself wanting to fill in the blanks. So here I am in Luang Prabang, in front of a computer with a crappy keyboard, with no real story to tell.

Sam left this afternoon, after we shared a dizzying and incredible 10 days together. We filled up my passport by visiting too many places in too little time. In Krabi, I got to the top of a climb and declared that it was the most beautiful place I had ever been. In Hanoi, Asia felt new all over again as I marveled at all of the activity on the streets. And in Luang Prabang...

I'm still not really sure. Something is preventing me from loving this place. Could be the raw veggies.

In retrospect, one of the funniest differences between Sam and me during the trip was that Sam would, by default, assume the food was dangerous, and I, after nine perfectly healthy months in Thailand, would assume it safe. By the end of our time together, I was basically cutting his questions ("Do you think this water is safe?") short.

At dinner, again reading Hemingway, I thought about what a Thai person would ask, when confronted with American food. I then considered the irony of a Thai man getting badly sick by eating a peanut butter sandwich, against all odds.

I go back to Chiang Mai on Saturday, and have nobody but Hemingway and Augusten Burroughs to keep me company, so odds are I'll make it back here before then. Sam has promised to blog about our trip, so with any luck I can keep things anecdotal and philosophic.