The Mysterious Mannequin was the first Nancy Drew story my mother had given me. It had a bright yellow spine, a cover intriguing enough for the exotic tale of Istanbul it spun, a disappearance in the Grand Bazaar and a confrontation in the Basilica Cistern, messages concealed in a carpet, and throwaway descriptions of baklava and moussaka within.
Within an hour of landing in Laos, I find myself sitting in a tuktuk bumping up the red roads to the waterfalls, and doubting the wisdom of my spontaneity.
I have plans, big plans today. I mean to visit Ryoan-ji, the Zen temple with its famous rock garden, and possibly attain enlightenment while I meditate over its enigmatic boulders.
