We were ready to get the hell out of Siam Paragon, as usual.

The cramped ground floor food hall was heaving with tourists and locals and young students and office workers on break. The roar of Thai-language conversation, and children screaming, and tourists blathering, and lunch trays clinking was fast reaching a suffocating pitch. There was nowhere to sit in the sprawling dining area, and navigating through these cattle-like herds at anything more than a sluggish shuffle was like playing a game of Twister while walking.

Patiently dealing with crowds like the ones typically found at Bangkok’s busiest megamall, particularly on weekend afternoons, is a skill one naturally develops over time while living here, but everybody has their limits. Having sufficiently accomplished what we came to Paragon to achieve–buy a new book, look for cheese bread, eat lunch–it was time to escape the feverish madness indoors and plunge back into the buzzsaw of whistles, buses, motorbikes, and candy-colored taxis that pump up the volume of the city’s orchestra of traffic rumble. That’s just how it is in Bangkok’s central commercial districts of Siam Square and Pratunam; I wouldn’t have it any other way (most of the time).

Something in the lower level just outside the entrance of Siam Ocean World drew our attention, though, as we rode the escalator up from the first to second floor. Something… odd. Something… not quite right. Something… inappropriate. Something… hilarious. We got to the second floor and turned right around to go back downstairs and further investigate.

Oh my.

My wife and I snapped photos through incredulous tears of juvenile laughter. We took turns posing with the bear, and snickered to ourselves when others posed with the bear. It was so revolting and egregious and amazing and, in a certain way, so perfectly Bangkok.

That poor, poor bear. She must have been so embarassed with nobody there to cover her up. I mean, really: no respectable bear would be caught dead in public wearing a red hankerchief around its neck.

The group had good intentions, but the brightly colored $10 cocktails just weren’t big enough.

They were gathered shoulder to shoulder around a few small wooden tables that, shoved together, formed one long place setting of awkward silences sandwiched between awkward getting-to-know-you-but-I-need-to-have-a-few-more-drinks-before-I’m-ready-to-really-get-to-know-you pleasantries. There were about 12 or 13 twenty/thirtysomethings in all, the girls sharply dressed and the guys wearing sharp attention for the girls. I think they’d gathered here at bāśik as part of some sort of cocktail or bar-hopping tour. My brother-in-law and I watched from a cushioned bench near the entrance, sharing $6 pints of Captain Lawrence Pale Ale and a mutual appreciation of being onlookers, not participants.

bāśik is another newish Williamsburg bar with that specific type of clean, minimalist, industrialized vintage character that area hipster and hipsterettes fawn over. The walls like white-washed jeans, the floors cold cement, the tables candlelit, the beer menu simple, the cocktails obtusely named And How, Love Makes You Feel Ten Feet Tall, longitude / latitude. There’s a wood-paneled patio in the back, like a giant sauna with tables and chairs, and the bar itself is, according to their website, “perhaps the most impressive element… [a] long 19th century butcher block bar, salvaged from an abandoned packaging plant.” Wood and cement. Wood and cement.

More impressive, I think, are the two stark closet-like doors, painted metallic-grey, facing that old butcher block bar. One has “Restroom” neatly painted in black across the top; the other, nothing. Where oh where could it lead? Perhaps it’s the entrance to Pandora’s box, a portal to a mind-bending imaginarium of fantastical wonders and shadowy horrors. It may also lead into the mind of John Malkovich, the actor best known for his captivating performances as Bruce Brazos in Transformers: Dark of the Moon and Quentin Turnbull in Jonah Hex. Open at your own risk.

There are, of course, no happy hour specials, but there are, of course, $3 cans of Budweiser.

Once upon a time this space was home to Phoebe’s Cafe, which was favored by area scenesters when I first moved to Williamsburg some 9 years ago. I tried it once on the recommendation of a flaky-cool editor who worked at a hip downtown magazine I was interning for at the time. I also tried the fish sandwich at the nearby White Castle on the corner of Humboldt and Metropolitan once–it was delicious. bāśik tips its hat to its predecessors with the phoebe’s sandwich (oven-roasted squash, eggplant and portobello, naan, sriracha mayo, $8), as part of a modest 13-item menu that also includes mac and cheese ($8), deviled duck egg ($4), and two types of hot dogs ($4 each).

Through the tall looking glass windows on bāśik’s Graham Avenue-facing facade, a view of C-Town, the neighborhood grocery, the “SuperMarkets for Savings”. Here the teenage cashiers, all girls, snack on potato chips and mini-donuts kept in drawers underneath their registers, carrying on fascinating conversations amongst themselves that tend to start with an impassioned “No, that stupid muthafuckah…” and end with a “… so fuck that bitch” finality. Once in awhile they say “you’re welcome” after thanking them for the attentive services they have kindly provided. C-Town’s piss-yellow lighting illuminates bright futures.

My brother-in-law’s paperback copy of The Way We Die Now, by Charles Willeford, lay on our low wooden table near the cushioned bench at the entrance, in front of the tall glass windows, across from the 19th-century butcher block bar, near the two closet-like doors painted metallic grey on the walls like white-washed jeans. We each choked down a small oatmeal cookie and washed away the blandness with the last of our pints of Captain Lawrence Pale Ale. One of bāśik’s proprietors was introduced to the cocktail group, which was still mired in fits and spurts of awkward silence.

Everybody at those tables had good intentions; I can appreciate that. bāśik itself has good intentions, and I can appreciate that too.

bāśik is located at 323 Graham Avenue, just off the Graham Avenue stop on the L train, between Metropolitan Avenue and Devoe Street. M-W 4p-2a; Thu-Fri 4p-4a; Sat-Sun 12p-4a. 347-889-7597.

“Do you want some drink? Perhaps a bottle of French wine? We have red wine and white wine. Maybe you’d like a cheap wine?”

Dinner at Chandrika Hotel, an aspiring “boutique hotel” in Tissamaharama, Sri Lanka. Like so many service establishments in this developing South Asian country, they try so hard to give you what you want. After all, you’re a part of the relative trickle of Western tourists that visit the country, particularly compared with its neighbors just north in India and across the Indian Ocean in Southeast Asia.

Hotel managers here are well aware of the impact a positive TripAdvisor review can have on business. They often don’t really know what exactly you want, however, because regular Western tourism is only just now picking up–and let’s face it, we’re a fickle lot with inconsistent demands, complaints, and compliments.

I think that explains Chandrika’s bizarrely faux-formal inclusive dinner.

Our short two-night stay was sandwiched around a morning safari in Yala National Park, and expectations were modest: clean, air-conditioned rooms; clean pool; quiet; convenient access to Yala. Check, check, check. Perfectly fine little place with a friendly manager that helped arrange our safari and, after checkout, assigned somebody to stand with us at the “bus stop” out front to ensure we flagged the correct one down.

We weren’t sure what to expect at dinner. We definitely didn’t expect a sitdown affair that felt like a small wedding banquet with strangers. The dining room was spartan and nondescript: white panel floor, black tables, ceiling fans. Teenaged servers dressed in white button-up shirts and black slacks looked on anxiously as guests filed in, about five or six tables in all. Our server asked if we wanted wine, but despite his hopeful earnesty (and management-prompted upsell) we had to decline; something about the humidity and overly optimistic pricing.

Our first course was appropriately, perfectly absurd and out of context here in southern Sri Lanka: a hot, watery, tasteless bowl of spinach soup served with a basket of dinner rolls and tray of butter cubes on ice. Soup slurps, the clinking of silverware, and Muzak renditions of popular Christmas songs like “Walkin’ in a Winter Wonderland” wafted through the open-air dining room on this steamy night in May.

I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if the main course was pepperoni pizza with a side of iceberg lettuce salad; instead, an authentic, well-prepared Sri Lankan spread arrived in waves. Papadum, rice topped with shaved coconut, curried vegetables, spiced cabbage, ash plantains, green beans, daal, eggplant–refills on everything if you wanted it. Dessert was a scoop of malty chocolate ice cream.

After the table was cleared, to the kid’s delight I gave in to one final upsell stab and ordered a glass of Chivas. They were out; I instead got a bottle of beer and asked to have it delivered to our room. Ten minutes later we heard a knock on our door, then glass shatter on the pavement: the kid must have slipped and dropped the bottle. He was initially nowhere to be seen, but when we stepped outside he darted back from around the side of the building and quietly, anxiously, casting furtive glances over his shoulder in the direction of the restaurant, said “Madame, madame, I’m sorry, your beer.”

We told him not to worry about it; he bent over and quickly picked up the shards of glass with his bare hands, squeegied the beer into the grass, then skipped back to the restaurant. If we asked for another beer he’d clearly have to pay for it out of pocket, and probably incur the wrath of his boss too.

I hope Sri Lanka’s endearing lack of total understanding, despite best efforts, for many Western tourism wants and needs never changes (though of course that’s probably impossible). I want to slurp hot, watery bowls of spinach soup in the company of awkward Western families on a humid night in May while listening to Christmas music. I do also hope, however, that a day soon comes when the wants and needs of the ones struggling to serve us are given just as much thought and attention as ours.

“Hey, have you tried the Farmstead Motueka? Take a sip if you want to dude.”

The guy next to me, bearded and buzzed and I think a little stoned, had the sort of twinkle in his eye unique to beer enthusiasts caught up in the ecstasy of a particularly special pour. He pushed his glass in my direction with a big, dopey, friendly smile. My first impulse, bottle of hand sanitizer burning in my pocket like a scarlet letter, was to decline the tasting and the fine ring of spittle that likely coated his glass rim.

But here, at Brouwerij Lane, you just don’t do that. You buck your anal-compulsive aversion to winter germs and embrace the comraderie fostered in this special place. I smiled, thanked him, took a sip from the spot I quickly determined he’d most likely not sipped from (nothing personal, bro). In their weekly newsletter Brouwerij described the Hill Farmstead Moteuka Single Hop as an ale “utilizing a rare New Zealand hop variety”, with tasting notes of “bitterness, mango, tropical, fruity, and hop resin.” That tiny sip was flowery, perfumey, refreshing, a revelation; I’m sold, and order a pint after polishing off a half pint of Hill Farmstead George, one of the nuttier, smokier, more satisfying brown ales I’ve tasted in some time. I forget all about the shared spittle.

Located on Greenpoint Avenue, just off Franklin Street, in the heart of the second-largest Polish neighborhood (to Chicago) in the country, Brouwerij Lane is a leading member of the growing beer bar / beer tasting room movement sweeping through the prime Brooklyn neighborhoods of Williamsburg and Greenpoint neighborhoods, my home for the past 9 years. Even one of the local Duane Reade drug stores is getting in on the action.

At any given time, 19 growler taps and 150+ (pricey) bottled microbrews from around the world can be had. Brick walls; dim, low-hanging lights; a massive shelving unit filled with empty beer bottles presumably chosen for their colorful labels; light-up beer signs for Southern Tier, Harpoon, Palm, and others; a wood-burning stove/fireplace near the back door that leads to an outdoor space.

Seating is sparse: two skinny tables big enough to snugly accommodate six each, a few tall, round tables, and standing room. Stools. The music, a mellow mishmash of funk, discordant rock, Brit punk, and dub reggae. And, of course, a mounted deer head with an eight-point rack looking on in silent watch. I assume the deer has a name because Brouwerij is that kind of place.

The centerpiece is a massive six-doored refrigerator, each section filled with six shelves lined with microbrews with names like Dream Weaver Wheat and River Horse Tripel. Empty four- and six-pack boxes line the floor in front of it for mixing and matching. As the room’s main source of lighting, the fridge shines golden, like the Ark of the Covenant in Raiders of the Lost Ark, without the flesh-eating consequences when opened.

It’s intimate. It’s perfect. It has bathroom walls plastered with vintage Star Wars wallpaper found in a roll on the street on trash day.

Bare descriptions of Brouwerij Lane seem hollow as I type them, however: in the end, it’s just a cozy bar.

No, there’s something else here, something less quantifiable and more difficult to illuminate. When I walk in, I feel welcome; I think everybody does. There’s not a hint of pretentiousness, beer snobbery or otherwise, from the staff to the patrons. There’s a certain… a certain dignity here. A shared dignity. A mutual respect for one another and an unspoken common ground. It’s a local neighborhood watering hole in every idyllic sense, full of sincere laughter, hushed conversation, and drinkers of all ages comfortably mingling, the latter an unfortunate rarity in the hyper age-segregated bar scene that is Williamsburg and, to a somewhat lesser extent, Greenpoint.

Chalk it up to the strong (and relatively cheap) beers, but at Brouwerij I find myself ruminating about the faces that paint the backdrop of everyday life. The familiar faces of the restaurants we eat at, the stores we shop at, the bars we drink at. These people may never be friends, and conversation may never advance beyond simple pleasantries, but they’re people that in some ways we share more kinship with, even it’s just a one-way street, than we do with distant family members. You’re as likely to recognize them on the streets of Berlin as you would be a long-lost friend. They may never know it, but the heavily tattooed bartender with the thick black-rimmed glasses at Brouwerij, the Latin-American woman at the drop-off laundromat (“The Plug”), the Vietnamese family who run the corner deli, the marble-mouthed Italian at the local pizzeria–they’re all so significant even if they don’t know it. They are part of the fabric of my life at 33 going on 34. They’re a part of all of our lives. Christ, I’m supposed to be writing about a bar here.

I’m taking the last few gulps of a Sierra Nevada Ruthless Rye. A few staffers are milling around by the taps and shooting the shit about beer. Eight or nine other people are here, dreamily zoned out over a beer and a book or a beer and a conversation. Or they’re just staring, mesmerized, deep in thought, into Brouwerij’s Golden Ark of Beer.

Brouwerij Lane is located at 78 Greenpoint Avenue, just off Franklin Street in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Open Mon – Thu 2pm – 10pm, and Fri – Sun 12pm – 10pm. 347-529-6133.

_{Meh photos taken with an iPhone 3GS by author. I guess they’re copyrighted, but have at it.}

“Go alone” is the second entry in Paul Theroux’s “Essential Tao of Travel” list found on the last page of his recent book, The Tao of Travel: Enlightenments from Lives on the Road.

(I thoroughly enjoyed it, by the way. Theroux’s well-researched love letter to travel and the many travel writers who’ve influenced him is, if anything else, a portal into a world of timeless travel literature curated by one of the greatest travel writers of our day. My to-read list swelled considerably thanks to Theroux, though I do think he did his work a disservice by quoting himself so often in the early going.)

Before examining authors who never traveled without companions later in Chapter 9, Theroux first briefly elucidates his thoughts on traveling alone, with supporting sentiments from Jonathan Raban, Rudyard Kipling, and Henry David Thoreau:

I have always traveled alone. With the exception of large-scale expeditions involving a crew or a team, every other kind of travel is diminished by the presence of others. The experience is shared–someone to help, buy tickets, make love to, pour out your heart to, help set up the tent, do the driving, whatever. Such a person is a consolation, and inevitably a distraction.

These are hardly the only travel writers who champion the idea of embarking on travels alone without the “distraction” of companions; the great Pico Iyer is another. The challenges that solitary travel to destinations both foreign and familiar inevitably foster, and the uniqueness of a compartmentalized experience shared through the lens of just one set of eyes and ears, are certainly the bread and butter of many a beloved travel novel.

I do not refute the learned opinion of these prolific adventurers and writers, nor do I deny the heightened potential for personal growth and self discovery that disconnection on the road can create. I travel alone often, most recently living alone in and further exploring Bangkok for about a month, and enjoy the quiet stillness of personal experience and uninterrupted reflection. I know where Theroux and Iyer and countless others are coming from; I just don’t agree with the absoluteness of Theroux’s assertion, nor do I have much of a stomach for the somewhat haughty “badge of traveler’s honor” it implies.

Maybe I’m just fortunate to have a travel partner who greatly enhances the sense of place, and helps illuminate the adventure of experience, without distracting from it. Solo travel, in my case, is often best taken in short, sweet doses. It’s not the fear of solitude that drives my general preference for companionship on the road, nor an unwillingness to embrace that certain type of introspection afforded by isolation: it’s love, and yes, I do realize that sounds a bit trite. Oh well.

I’ve circled the globe a few times over during the past 5 odd years, traveling from Berlin to Buenos Aires to Bangkok and many parts between. To say my adventures were enhanced by my lifelong travel partner would be a gross understatement: they were in large part defined by her, and to me, that’s very much a good thing, not a detracting thing.

This fact has not encumbered my travels, nor do I feel it’s watered down my personal experience or the lens through which I processed the back alleys of Bangkok, the underground punk clubs of Berlin, or the food and wine of Buenos Aires. I don’t feel her presence has let me off the hook, so to speak, or made me any less of a curious or accomplished traveler than if I’d visited these places alone. The experiences, of course, would be vastly different. But better, more informed, less distracted? Nah, not really. Not at all.

Mutual experience is, in fact, one of the joys of travel.

Talking about the day’s adventures with an equally (or even more) open-minded and perceptive travel partner helps cement fleeting moments that might otherwise, sometimes, be forgotten. Shared travels are the building blocks of memory.

I find this is particularly true in destinations well-trodden. At some point experiencing the familiar, and tasting the already tasted, can become a perfunctory task carried out in meaningless anonymity rather than joyous remembrance. To have the opportunity, the luxury, of shared travels and shared experience with someone who knows and appreciates the same things is to truly celebrate and relish them.

In Bangkok, sweaty bottles of Chang are more refreshing and intoxicating; som tams are spicier; the wonderful, addicting absurdity of everyday life is magnified when she’s there. I’m not ashamed of this. I’m not a lesser traveler because of this; in many ways I’m a more enlightened traveler because of this.

Sometimes, shared experience opens doors in travel that might not otherwise be opened when we’re alone (the inverse, of course, is also true). I do not feel that physical solitude is an absolute tao of travel, or of great travel writing; it is one aspect of it and one approach towards it. In the end, we live a life of solitude. We are always ultimately alone, even when we are physically not.