13 Life Lessons for 2013: Things I Learned in the Past 12 Months

1. Sex with an ex rocks (for one night only), but going full steam behind with one is risky business. As time goes by, we tend to remember old relationships the way they weren't -- happier, calmer, sexier -- only to pull out the ex files and get smacked by cold, harsh reality: People don't change. They just get older.

2. Friends (and strangers) are more likely to cheerfully offer their help to you if you don't ask for it. During Days of Our Lives' Will Horton vs. Nick Fallon storyline earlier this year when EJ DiMera suggested that his father, Stefano DiMera, was more likely to join Team Will if they made him think it was his idea, I thought, How Stefano. But really, as I found out late in the game, how everyone.

3. Oh, so that's what Bluetooth is for! Seriously, I only figured it out in August when I had to find a way to transfer music from my computer to my smart phone so that I could have both my tunes and a camera with me when I went on my scenic runs around Rome.

4. Speaking of cameras, never leave home without one. (It's even more important than owning an umbrella, which I haven't done in nearly three years.) You never know what or whom you'll run into while walking down the streets of any great city. And pouring rain often makes for quite lovely images, which are harder to capture when you're lugging around an umbrella.

5. Italy must be the most compact, easy-to-get-through country on the planet. Either train travel has improved immensely in the last nine years, or I've gotten a lot more patient than I once was because train trips between Italian cities used to feel interminable to me. But in all of the cities I visited during my recent stint in Italy (Milan to Venice to Bologna to Rome to Florence to Rome to Pompei to Rome to Sienna), I was never more than two hours by train away from the next major one. And extra props to the Trenitalia trains with Wi-Fi!

6. I can actually live without AC! Unlike my sticky month in Berlin this past July/August, I've spent five weeks and counting without it during the summer in Cape Town, and I haven't really missed it at all. Of course, it helps when you spend the first month living on a hill in the middle of the woods in what must be the windiest city in the world before moving into a high-rise apartment with 16th-floor windows overlooking Table Bay to the north (no direct morning or afternoon sunlight!), and there's a fan in both pads to keep things cool. (I wonder if, like microwaves, fans are considered environmentally unsound in Berlin.) When I return to the land of the air-conditioned on 20 January (the date I move into my first Cape Town pad with AC), will I even bother to turn it on? Of course, I will.

7. The best place to be on any given weekend night is in whatever accommodation I happen to be calling home that weekend. This might be the first year of my adult life during which I spent more weekend nights in than I did out on the town, regardless of the town. In Tel Aviv, the so-called gay capital of the Middle East, I had minimal motivation to find out why/how it earned that label, and I'm still not completely sure what that MCQP (Mother City Queer Project) "Space Cowboy" party this past Saturday night at Cape Town Stadium was all about. (No, I didn't go.) On one of my favorite nights out in 2013 -- a Monday in Jerusalem -- I was in bed by midnight! Clearly I'm officially immune to Saturday night fever, which makes Sundays so much more enjoyable.

8. The mark of true friendship isn't how often you see each other when you're living in the same city, or whether you stay in touch when you aren't. It's how you reconnect after months, or years, apart. I don't believe I've ever enjoyed so many reunions during one calendar year (in Melbourne, in Buenos Aires, in Berlin, in Italy, in Tel Aviv, in South Africa), and in almost every case, the chemistry was just as we'd left it. Now that I'm probably closer to the end than I am to the beginning (and thanks to Facebook, which, despite its flaws, does more than anything I can think of to keep people in touch with each other so they can know when and where to reunite), "friends forever" is so much more than something naive teenagers write in their high-school yearbooks.

9. It'll never feel like the holidays when its blistering hot outside (thank God). This is my eighth Christmas season living outside of the United States, and my sixth in the Southern Hemisphere, where it literally feels like Christmas in July back home. I haven't heard anyone sing "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" in ages because, well, it never is. I thought that after a few years, I would get used to it, but nearly a decade later, Christmas without all of the winter trappings that I've always associated with it still doesn't feel like Christmas at all, and considering how I feel about that holiday season in general, that works just fine for me.

10. Walking down that hill can be just as challenging as running up it. That's something I've learned maneuvering the steep inclines of Jerusalem, Amman and Cape Town. Despite the constant threat of making one small misstep during the descent and tumbling from top to bottom, I don't know that I could ever again live on flat earth.

11. Fifteen minutes is all you need to close the deal. Who knows where I'd be living after January if I hadn't asked the rental agent to show me the apartment at 9.45 in the morning, 15 minutes before the open house was scheduled to begin. By 9.55, he was on the phone telling everyone who had scheduled a viewing not to bother coming, and I was already making myself at home.

12. I still have it in me to make a commitment. Signing a one-year lease might not seem like such a big deal to most people, and considering that I've bought two apartments this century, you'd think it would be next to nothing to me, too. But when you've spent nearly three years living in month-to-month rentals, avoiding long-term rentals with as much dedication as you direct toward avoiding long-term relationships and winter, signing an agreement that will tie you to one city, Cape Town, until January 31, 2015, can feel a little bit like signing your life away.

13. But who knows what the future holds? Although I know where I'll be spending 2014 (or at least where I'll be based, as I do plan on exploring Africa a bit), I'm more at a loss than ever to predict what it has in store for me or to even describe what I want it to bring. And I'm actually kind of good with that. As ready as I am for life with a little bit of stability, may it never be at the expense of possibility and unpredictability.

What Do You Get the Guy Who Doesn't Want Anything?

As consumers and retailers worldwide prepare for what is billed as the busiest shopping day of the year, the 24 hours that follow what was always my favorite holiday of the year (and one that I haven't celebrated in the United States since 2005), I know what I won't be doing tomorrow.

For me, it will be just another day in paradise (aka Cape Town). Frankly, I haven't experienced holiday spirit in decades, which probably makes it a good thing that I'm still not a dad (though parenthood might very well change my holiday outlook). It's not that I'm a scrooge begrudging anyone peace on earth, goodwill to men and lots of presents, but how many people actually bother themselves with abstract gifts like peace and goodwill when tis the season to flock to the mall to pad retailers' coffins while stuffing stockings?

My distaste for the holiday season isn't just that everything starts shutting down, or that it's nearly impossible to find a short-term rental in Cape Town because December is super-high season. It has more to do with what the holidays represent to me: extreme consumerism, materialism and, in an ironic Christmas Day twist, everything being closed for business on December 25. No consumerism for me, if I run out of eye drops or dental floss on Christmas Eve!

I used to embrace consumerism as enthusiastically as the next slave to stuff, even though I've always been a fan of non-traditional gifts. (My all-time favorite: the Billboard magazine I received for Christmas in 1983, the first issue of a one-year subscription.) But having to spend $500 to have the folks at 1-800-GOT-JUNK come to my storage space in Brooklyn in February of 2010 to haul off the belongings I'd spent nearly four years paying $130 dollars a month to hold on to didn't only clean out my proverbial closet. It cured me of my need to possess.

I now see physical gifts as just more kilos to add to my baggage allowance when I travel. (If you must spend money on me, put it toward a fabulous holiday, for which I can pack lightly.) My friend Nancy doesn't share my non-attachment to personal belongings, as she pointed out in an email this morning.

"You and I have very different views on stuff. I cannot live without stuff. This weekend, I lost a very expensive bracelet which I loved and wore several times a week. Losing it make me miserable and wishing the earth would open and swallow me up. I wish my happiness was less dependent on stuff."

I respect her desire to possess (though if it weren't for that, she wouldn't have had the expensive bracelet to lose), but at least she realizes that love need not cost a thing, to borrow from J. Lo's 2001 hit.

"Flowers and gifts are nice. They show that someone either cares about you, or is trying. Both of those are nice traits. But in truth, they don't mean anything. The only guy who ever gave me gifts and flowers regularly was the only one who ever cheated on me."

It's been years since a guy has given me anything, and I don't think any less highly of any of the guys I've dated since then than I would had they handed me the world on a silver platter. Love doesn't mean never having to say you're sorry, nor does it mean showing up on my front doorstep bearing gifts. If you want to show me love, do it with deeds, not stuff. Words work, too, but please, no cards. They're just clutter, which I hate. Oh, and don't call, just text.

Five love actions that won't cost a thing (other than the price of groceries and gas):

Cook for me. Taking me out to dinner is always appreciated, too, but if you prepare the meal, you're giving me something that I can't give myself: a delicious home-cooked meal. (BTW, Nancy hates it when guys cook for her: "People use so many herbs, and I hate having to pretend to like the food." That's my Nancy!)

Think about me. I've never been the needy boyfriend who has got to be joined at the hip with my significant other. Three or four (preferably three) dates a week works for me. A few nice text messages or emails a day to let me know I'm on your mind will pick up the slack and convince me that you care more than expensive flowers and chocolate, neither of which I particularly care for. I prefer personal, less generic food gifts anyway, like the $1.50 lemon poppy seed muffins that one early boyfriend in New York City used to bring over every night because he knew how much I loved them. That wasn't just a romantic gesture. It was a personalized -- and seriously yummy -- token of affection.

Pick me up at the airport. From the moment I saw Paolo waiting for me outside of the baggage-claim area when I went to visit him in Milan in 2000, I knew that it was one of the sexiest things a guy could do. He cooked for me every day I was there, too, but unfortunately, he wasn't so good with the emails when I returned to New York City.

Read my stuff. If you're not interested in what I'm thinking, even when it has nothing to do with you, how can you say you're interested in me?

Love me for me. Without acceptance, there is no love. If you love me for who you want me to be, you aren't loving me at all. Changing my wicked ways (and yes, I have a few), like checking into rehab, has to be my choice, not a means to acquiring anyone's unconditional love. That wouldn't actually be unconditional at all. Nothing says you love me like loving me in spite of my flaws, which, as gifts go, would be the greatest one of all.

Haifa, Israel: A Place I've Never Been

I've been around the world, and I-I-I-I have seen many cities situated on and around mountains and hills, two of my favorite things.

Istanbul, Rio, Penang in Malaysia, Cusco and Machu Picchu in Peru, Tiberias overlooking the Sea of Galilee, my birthplace of St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, and pretty much every major city and region I've been to in Italy (Rome, Florence, Siena, Bologna, Pompei, Genoa and the Chianti region in Tuscany), with the exceptions of Milan, Venice and Pisa, come immediately to mind. Those cities and towns either offer breathtaking views of undulating terrain, or their buildings are judiciously peppered around and/or on the inclines so as not to completely obscure the natural element.

But Haifa, an underrated city in the north of Israel, appears to be something else entirely. The closest I've probably come to seeing anything quite like how I imagine it must be inside the city limits might be San Francisco and Lisbon. Both are hilly metropolises overlooking major bodies of water, but their upswings are not nearly as dramatic as Mount Carmel, a centerpiece of northwestern Israel that peaks -- figuratively, not literally -- in Haifa, the country's third-largest city.

From a distance, the architecture in continuous chunks of the mountainous Carmel city looks like it covers the slopes entirely, while in others, the mountainside appears to be building-free, with the town instead sprouting from the top. Capping off Haifa's Mount Carmel scene from way below is the edge of the deep blue Mediterranean Sea. I'm pretty certain I'll be seeing it all in my dreams tonight.

Riding by the natural and architectural spectacle in a train from Tel Aviv to Akko (aka, Acre, billed as one of the oldest continuously populated cities on the planet), I didn't know where to look: The mountain or the sea? No matter which way I turned my head, I was going to miss an amazing view from the surprisingly high-tech locomotive (which was equipped with complimentary Wi-Fi and outlets, nearly all of which were being used by passengers to charge their smart phones).

When the train pulled into Akko just before noon, 90 minutes after leaving Tel Aviv, I was certain I'd gotten off at the wrong stop. My 70 NIS ($20) round-trip ticket was from Tel Aviv to Akko, but during the entire three hours I spent in Akko, I couldn't stop thinking about what I was missing 30 minutes away, back in Haifa, which I had neither the time nor the energy or wheels to explore after leaving Akko. I've been told it's impossible to get around there without a car, a warning that makes complete sense after what I saw off in the distance to and from Akko/Tel Aviv.

So today it was Akko on foot, which was hardly a letdown, considering the seaside views and antique architecture of the old city. It also has the best hummus in the world, a boast I'd heard several times (most recently from my favorite bartender at the 6th of May in Tel Aviv) that The Pisan Harbour, a restaurant overlooking the sea, confirmed. But if I make it back up north again before I leave Tel Aviv on Sunday, I know exactly where I'm headed: to Haifa, to give both sides (the mountain and the sea) their due.

Extra! The windows of the hi-tech train were too dirty for me to take photos of Haifa en route to Akko, but I did get a few decent shots of my afternoon in Akko's old city.

When Did I Become the Type of Guy I Hate?

"Sorry seems to be the hardest word," the great Elton John once sang. What a touching sentiment -- and song. I recently saw the video on Radio Capital TV in Rome, and John's 1976 No. 6 hit sounds just as lovely today as it did when I was 7 years old and could feel every word he sang even if I didn't completely understand what he was singing about.

Now that I do, though. I have to say I can't quite relate, which might surprise a certain good friend of mine. Several years ago, when she was visiting me in Buenos Aires from L.A., she asked me a strange, fascinating question: "When was the last time you cried?" She insisted that she couldn't imagine me ever crying over anything. Later, she added apologizing, too -- not because she thought someone with my unimpeachable character would never need to, but because, as I later found out, she thought she had one coming from me.

Had I known I'd done anything to offend her (and agreed that I had indeed been offensive), she wouldn't have had to ask. In her assessment of me, she was right on the first count: My tears don't fall freely or regularly. I have a recurring dream in which I receive devastating news and struggle to cry just a little bit, as if my life depends on it. But on the other count, she was dead wrong: "I'm sorry" comes incredibly easy for me.

That's a good thing because lately I've had to say it a lot, mostly because I have a considerably harder time saying, "No." My former therapist might blame my people-pleasing tendencies, which at the time, he concluded, was damaging some of my relationships. I may have shed some of my people-pleasing ways in the ensuing nine years (along with a few of those relationships), but "No" still seems to be the hardest word," especially when an unwanted suitor should be on the receiving end of it.

In the past, I've been labeled everything from a tease to a "nigger" when I wasn't upfront with guys I didn't want from the start. That character flaw may have reached a critical point during my most recent stint in Rome, as the guys there brought out the worst in me. Previously, I wouldn't have expected it from Italy, considering that it's the site of two of my most fondly remembered romances of my late 20s and early 30s -- the ones I had with Massimiliano and with Paolo.

Thanks to them, for years, Italian men enjoyed a position of high estimation in my mind, despite all of the horror stories I heard to the contrary, the ones about how they're after only one thing, and how they'd say practically anything to get it. That's really not much different from most of the guys I met in Buenos Aires, and for years, I'd been unwilling to chalk up the worst of their romantic shortcomings to the Italian heritage that so many of them share, because, well, in my mind, Italian men were just so incredibly charming and sexy.

Then I returned to Rome for the third time, which, as far as the guys there went, was so not the charm. When Paul, a UK expat who is a university professor in Rome, dismissed them as unbelievably shallow on my first night in the capital, I didn't want to believe he might be right. I still wouldn't dream of filing them all under that particular heading, but after experiencing them firsthand on their turf for the first time in nine years, I see he had a point.

It only took me all of 24 hours to get it. I'm still not completely sure if it was because I've changed or because the men there have, but everything seemed so different between us. It could be that I'm just scarred for life from love's battlefield, but by the time I left, I regarded every guy I met as the enemy, and I'd more or less lost my will to fight.

Perhaps the shift had something to do with the past month having been the first time I'd experienced Italy's gay culture in the age of Grindr. With the introduction of online hook-up tools like Grindr and PlanetRomeo into Roman gay life, guys no longer have to talk to you when they single you out in a crowd because they'll probably find you later online. And when they do, they now can jump right over language barriers and land in the middle of a king-size water bed with their pants hanging down below their knees.

"Sex?" is not something most guys would have said upon meeting someone in a club in Rome, or in Milan, or pretty much in any place that didn't have dark rooms, in 2004. But on Grindr and on PlanetRomeo, it's perfectly acceptable -- at least in Rome, which was the first place I'd ever been routinely approached online in such a crass, brutal, blunt and monosyllabic manner. (The guys outside of Rome had a bit more finesse when offering their opening lines, but their restraint never lasted long.)

After several weeks of openings like "MI SCOPI OGGI POMERIGGIO" (or "FUCK ME THIS AFTERNOON") and "ciao ti va di fare una bella scopata?" (or "hello you want to do a good fuck?") and being asked out by Romans (the ones with better opening lines than "Sex?" or "Looking for?" or "Hung?") and then ultimately being blown off by them after agreeing to meet them, I lost my appetite. In the end, with the exception of a few hours on my first Sunday evening in Rome, I spent my entire five weeks in Italy pretty much celibate, hoping for but not expecting just one guy to restore my faith -- and interest -- in Italian men.

I encountered a few decent ones online and off, but perhaps scarred by all the "Sex?" talk (not to mention, years of bullshitters in Buenos Aires and Bangkok), I declined without with actually declining. I found myself intentionally leading them on, giving the impression that I might be interested when I knew I wasn't, because it was a lot easier than just saying, "No." Eventually, after I played noncommittal long enough, they'd catch my drift, and disappear before I ever had to be the bad guy, though in a way, that's exactly who I was being.

Sergio got farther than most. He'd spotted me at Coming Out, a bar across from the Colosseo, on my first night in Rome and contacted me on PlanetRomeo the next day (so typical of the new Rome-antic gay guy). I told him when I agreed to meet up with him that I wasn't interested in anything physical and spent our entire dinner date trying to think of ways to end it early.

Eventually, though, he reeled me in with decent conversation and the unexpected revelation that we'd actually met several years ago at Glam in Buenos Aires. I probably shouldn't have sent him mixed signals by inviting him up to my place afterwards, but the people pleaser in me knew that he would have been disappointed had I just called it a night after we split the bill, and I couldn't have that on my conscious.

We'd spent the previous 90 minutes or so communicating on a purely platonic level, and I'd actually started to warm up to him. I wasn't sure if I was attracted to him, but I was pretty certain that he wouldn't give me time to figure it out or settle for mere friendship. I was relieved when, after we'd spent a half hour watching videos on Radio Capital TV, with him suggestively trying to decrease the space between us on the two-person sofa while I awkwardly attempted to widen it, he announced he should go home because he had to work at 5am. But instead of leaving, he started putting his hands all over me. One for the road? I cringed on the inside as the 190-meter-tall octopus pawed me, while on the outside, I just sat there like a lifeless blow-up doll.

Eventually, Sergio got the message without my having to say a word (like "No"), because I hadn't said a word. "Well, at least I know it's you and not me," he announced, pressing his body up against the supposed evidence. Then he quietly left. I felt a mix of emotions: first relief, then guilt, then relief again because at least he only lived a few blocks away and hadn't traveled far for nothing. When I closed the door on Sergio, in my head, I was closing it on the prospect of making any kind of meaningful romantic connection in Rome. Even if I met a guy I liked, would he give it more than one date to develop?

Then two and half weeks later, I met Gianluca. When our eyes locked at Circolo degli Artisti the Friday night before last, and he came over and introduced himself, I thought he might have potential. By the time he bought me a beer and ignored his friends to struggle speaking in English with me, I was certain he did. He moved pretty quickly, as apparently, is customary in Italy. Within moments of getting my number (and calling me while I was still standing there), he added me on Facebook.

The next morning, when I woke up and saw several messages from Gianluca along with his Facebook friend request, I felt a twinge of foreboding as I accepted. I knew where this story was headed, and it would probably have as much to do with my actions as his. Neither one of us disappointed.

During our several conversations on Whatsapp, he kept bringing up the things he wanted to do with me (Sample: "And I want stay whit you and want you inside of me sex"), asking if I wanted the same thing. How was I supposed to tell him no? Instead I took the coward's/tease's way out, not saying, "Yes," but definitely not saying, "No," either. (When he asked, "You want sex whit me and aleep tigheter?", I replied, "I'd like to meet up.")

No offense to Gianluca. He's a sweet, good-looking guy and, at age 39, refreshingly age appropriate. But I think a confluence of factors ruined any chance we might have had getting more than halfway to first base. Had we both spoken the same language, our conversations might not have been so one-note and one-track. Had my impression of Italian guys not been so poisoned by the ones I'd been coming across, I might not have been so wary and weary. Had I just told him "No" when he asked if I wanted what he wanted, I wouldn't have had to keep promising to let him know when I was free. Had I not turned into the type of guy I hate, I wouldn't have kept failing to be true to my word.

Last Friday afternoon, a day and a half after I arrived back in Rome from Tuscany (naturally, neglecting to contact Gianluca as promised), he gave me one final chance.

Gianluca: "I want you when you free?"
Me: "Hey, are you going to Circolo later?" [I thought it would be the perfect way to meet him in a crowd and, hopefully, avoid all the premature pillow talk.]
Gianluca: "I don't kniw, but I think no
Eanna meet me at 18:30 near my home?
Or after dinner, I want you"
Me: "Where do you live? Not at 18.30 but maybe later.... I will message you later."
Gianluca: "Ok sexy don't forget me ok? I want you this night"

I didn't forget him, but I didn't write either. The discomforting thing is that I didn't feel guiltier than I did. They (Italian men) had driven me to it.

On Saturday morning, he sent me two final messages:

":-(
No serios man. Delete my contant. Bye"

Then he deleted me from Facebook.

I was relieved, and in one brief remorseful moment, I considered writing him to explain why I'd been such a jerk. In the end, though, I merely offered the one word that comes so easily to me.

"Sorry."

At least I never had to tell him "No."

La "Movida" Milanese, Starring Constantinus Augustus

On my first day in Milan, as I approached my hotel on foot after lugging two suitcases and a stuffed backpack for several kilometers, a shudder ran down my spine that had nothing to do with back strain.

Basilicas Park, as the area around my hotel is officially known (and which encompasses the Basilica of San Lorenzo, the Basilica of Sant'Eustorgio and the Colonne di San Lorenzo), was a virtual no-man's land -- as in, there were literally no men (or women) around. There were few signs of life, human or otherwise. Nearly all of the stores were closed (not even an open tabacchi in which to buy bottled water for 2 euros), and the only noises I heard were the sounds of the occasional tram lumbering by, none of which were the No. 3 that I needed to carry me to my home for the next three days.

I wondered, This is Milan? What happened to my hot, vibrant city? If I wanted to be in the middle of nowhere, I'd have booked three days in the Italian countryside. I suspected that it might be a holiday -- a suspicion that was later confirmed -- but Ferragosto apparently didn't have anything to do with the lack of daytime activity in my part of town. It would pick up only slightly over the next few days. (I was told that during the month of August, much of Milan goes to sleep as locals head "to the sea" on holiday.)

But when night falls, Basilicas Park, particularly the area around Colonne di San Lorenzo, is transformed into an entirely different thing. Well before the clock strikes midnight, it starts to become a bustling entertainment complex. (It's also the site of Old Wild West, a steakhouse where I had dinner on my third night in Milan, seated at a booth next to a map of Florida while staring at a photo of Civil War Union General and 18th U.S. President Ulysses S. Grant on one wall and listening to a strange assortment of music that included R.E.M.'s "Leaving New York," Alabama's "Mountain Music" and LeRoy Van Dyke's "Walk on By.")

Far more than the Duomo, Basilicas Park appears to be the centerpiece of al fresco Milanese nightlife. Although clearly in August-lull mode, it nonetheless seems to be the most populated spot in the city center. Nearly everyone in town who is still awake at 11pm (yes, I'm old) must be here (or en route), not exactly twisting the night away but engaging in calmer evening pursuits like drinking beer while chatting with friends, walking around aimlessly, or just standing there, waiting for something to happen.

And holding court in the midst of it all like a proud pop star determined to thrill the masses: Constantinus Augustus, or rather, a towering, statuesque approximation of the Roman emperor. I'm too weary after a day of sightseeing on foot to get caught up in Milan's Saturday night fever, but I'm glad I stayed up past my bedtime for a brief walk-by. La movida Milanese -- the beat of the heart of the city -- will no doubt be the most indelible Milanese visual that I take with me when I depart for Venice.

Viva la movida!

Milan's Unforgettable Visual Impressions

Milan, possibly of international interest mostly as a European fashion capital, deserves more love -- and better descriptions. Yesterday, someone who has never been here told me he's heard that it's "an industrial town." This is hardly a surprising characterization (If I'd had to describe it from memory before my latest trip here, I probably would have gone that route, or thereabouts), but it's somewhat misleading, considering the antique-looking architecture that dominates the part of the city that's generally of most interest to visitors (which would be a significant chunk of inner Milan), and the limited automobile traffic coursing through the streets and lanes there.

I suspect that part of Milan's negative image stems from the fact that it's not as quintessentially Italian as the country's other major cities. Consider the locals, who, though warmer than the ones I encountered in Berlin, still keep a somewhat cool distance: Last night's invitation to Lake Como aside, nobody in Milan has ever taken more than a casual interest in me -- including the policeman from my last trip who fined me 16 euros for riding the tram without a ticket and then proceeded to grill me about life in the Big Apple -- while on each of my two previous Roman holidays, I was taken on a day-long private tour of the city by a local whom I met less than 24 hours after my arrival. I wonder how the Romans will receive me next week.

The Colonne di San Lorenzo and the Chiesa di San Lorenzo Maggiore  -- quiet and mostly deserted by day, bustling after dark, and just about 100 meters from my hotel -- is one of my favorite spots in Milan, mostly because of the statue of Constantinus Augustus that stands between them. The sculptor appears to have caught him mid-call to arms, which, at night, when the monument glows in the dark (thanks to strategic lighting) and the crowds close in on the area, leaves passersby on the trams that go up and down Corso di Porta Ticinese with the visual impression that Augustus has drawn a swarm of onlookers with his rousing oratory.

It's just one of many examples of what I love most about Europe, from a visual standpoint: its often-breathtaking sculpture. Walking through parts of some of the continental cities is almost like being in a giant outdoor sculpture museum, with another must-see statue on virtually every block. In Berlin, they're frequently placed strategically on rooftops, so they hover over the city, striking elegant poses like the world's first supermodels.

Possibly my favorite spot in Milan: The Piazza della Scala, site of the world-renown opera house and a statue of Leonardo da Vinci that I could easily spend hours staring at. A street performer offered Saturday-afternoon entertainment today, playing guitar and covering such English-language European pop hits as Randy Crawford's "You Might Need Somebody" and Jamiroquai's "Too Young to Die," which made it even harder to drag myself away.

Although it is to Milan what the Colosseo is to Rome (the best-known visual representation of the city), I hadn't thought about the Duomo in nearly nine years until I was standing in front of it on Thursday evening, for the first time since my last time in Milan. I'm not so sure why it didn't stand out in my previous memories of Milan. One theory: It has to compete with Corso Vittorio Emanuelle II, the luxury-shopping drag adjacent to it. It's been only in the years since 2004 that I've become more interested in churches than shopping when I'm on the road.

Though I appreciate the Duomo more this time than I did in the past, it's somewhat spoiled by the gross commercialization that surrounds it, particularly the video screen attached to it on the Vittorio Emanuelle side. Imagine if Rome's city planners built a supermall across from the Colosseo -- as if the metro stop isn't bad enough -- and then slapped a video screen onto the ancient amphitheatre. The outdoor and indoor scaffolding only further diminishes the mystique of Il Duomo.

Would this logo fly in the U.S.A.? In a country where you can't create a soap opera featuring four Latina maids without inciting controversy over "racist" images, and one in which you look at a black person the wrong way at the risk of being deemed racist, I wonder what the politically correct crowd would think of a restaurant using as stereotypical an emblem as Mama Burger on Via Vittor Pisani in Milan. I mean, would Aunt Jemima be acceptable if someone were just coming up with her now? That's something to think about the next time I order pancakes in the U.S.A.

Parco Sempione can't touch the green land in Hamburg or Berlin's Tiergarten, but it's still the source of my one regret in Milan: I've yet to go running here. I'll blame proximity -- or rather, the lack of it. If I were staying in Castello Sforzesco across from Sempione instead of in Piazza San Eustorgio several kilometers away, I'd probably be giving Sempione the runaround right now.

The song playing on the radio of the food vendor as I'm leaving Sempione on my third day in Milan -- "You Make Me Wanna..." by Usher -- makes me wanna go jogging even more. Interestingly, I recently heard the 1997 No. 2 single, Usher's first big hit, for the first time in years when my iPod landed on it during the bus ride from Milano Malpensa Airport to Stazione Centrale, and it reminded me how quickly the last 16 years have flown by. As I'm leaving Sempione, it reminds me how quickly the last three days have flown by, too.

Even if it weren't for its often-overlooked visual appeal, I'd say this much for Milan: It has an excellent soundtrack.

10 Random Thoughts I Had During My First 12 Hours Back in Milan

1. Although I'm now on my fourth arrival in Milan (twice by plane, twice by train), every visit feels like the first time. The city always appears more modern in my memories than it does in reality. Walking up Corsa di Porta Ticinese en route to Piazza del Duomo feels like browsing through the racks in super-sized vintage store. You can practically smell the history emanating from the buildings. Sometimes I feel it, too. The history, that is, mine and Milan's. It comes to me in special deja vu moments, like when I'm standing in Cairoli Castello, trying to decide in which direction I should proceed. I'm reminded that Milan and I have a rich past filled with the sort of magic moments that I've been missing for the last month.

2. I can sort of understand why some people hate Milan. It lacks the quaint provincial flair of other cities in Italy. It's not as distinctive and brimming with living history as Rome. It's not as cool as Florence. It's not as beautiful as I hope Venice will be when I experience it for the first time in a couple of days. Milan is like a musty antique store in need of a duster and some lemon oil, but that's precisely its charm. Shabby chic might not work for me as an interior-design scheme of hotels like Chateau Marmont in L.A., but in a major metropolis (where I don't have to breathe in the mildew while I sleep or put my toothbrush on the counter of its only bathroom, one that is neither sleek nor modern, per my bathroom requirements), it epitomizes that ugly-beautiful thing that I can't get enough of and that was the primary source of Berlin's (and Buenos Aires's) visual appeal.

3. Once again (following my Ramadan adventure in United Arab Emirates), my timing is off. I've arrived in Milan on a national holiday called Ferragosto. Going by Italian's similarities to Spanish, I think it means something like "August holiday." The significance of the day, though, escapes me. All I know is that it meant when I arrived in the Navigli district around 9.30am, it appeared to be a ghost town, with nearly all of the stores closed and most of the people in hiding. Like Christmas Day in Buenos Aires, by the end of the afternoon, the streets were bustling, and restaurants and bars, if not many stores, were open for business. Be careful what you wish for. I probably won't have another peaceful moment exploring these streets.

4. This is the first time since I moved to Buenos Aires in 2006 that I've been to Italy (my last trip was in late September, 2004), and I can't believe how handy my Spanish is here. I can understand most of the street signs and a lot of the written word, too. I've already had a few words in Spanish with an Italian local. I wonder if I'll hear my second-favorite language (after English, natch) as much here as I did in Berlin, which had a surprisingly large number of Spanish and South American visitors and expats (the public relations coordinator of Hotel Adlon Kempinski characterized the latter as an emerging trend while giving me a tour of the five-star hotel), as did London the last time I was there, three and a half years ago, and as does Bangkok today.

5. While walking to Piazza del Duomo I passed by Hotel Ariston, the three-star hotel that I stayed in during my first trip to Milan in June of 1999. I don't remember so much about the accommodations other than walking up and down a staircase and once having a glass of white wine in the bar, but the name has stayed with me because it's one letter short of Aniston (making me think of Jennifer), and it's also the name of the friend who first put it in my head last December to give Berlin a second chance (she was visiting Bangkok and living in Berlin at the time). We reconnected for karaoke at Monster Ronson's my first Thursday night in Berlin, and I'll be seeing her again soon in Rome.

7. Never judge a 3-star hotel by the worn exterior or the cranky receptionist (whom I later killed with kindness until he was reborn a somewhat chatty, cheerful guy). Hotel Milano Navigli might not look like much from the outside (and after dragging my luggage several kilometers from Piazza Missori, due to the spectacularly bad directions given to me by the lady at the Stazione Centrale information center, I was dreading what I'd see on the inside). But surprise!: It's turning out to be one of my favorite hotels ever. I love the brown and silver metallic floor, the balcony (a rarity in a three-star property), the spotless bathroom packed with toiletries, and the brown toilet paper (a color I've never seen in that form before). Alas, with a bidet also included (yes!) in the layout, the brown toilet paper will be mostly decorative.

7. Someone asked me if I'm Italian, which I found strange until I remembered that Italy has a black cabinet minister (the country's first, who's a woman, too), and she's assigned to integration. I wonder why our conversation in English didn't give away my nationality. Oh well, maybe I'm blending in for the first time in -- well, ever. Maybe despite that offensive orangutan crack, Cécile Kyenge's integration plan is actually working.

8. It's not every day that you get to dine in front of a castle (Castello Sforzesco) while sitting next to an elderly couple who appear to be still madly in love. "Bon appetit," the woman offered when my pizza bianca arrived, just as her husband bought her a single red rose from a guy who was selling them. This is exactly what I've been wanting, I thought to myself, as I later watched them walk away, hand in hand.

9. I can't stop thinking about one of my most embarrassing moments ever, which happened the last time I was in Milan. I went out to a club one Saturday night with some people I had met, and at one point, I got so lifted by the music that I fell off of the platform on which I was dancing and landed on my face. Then I got up and went on dancing. It wasn't until the next morning that I realized I'd procured a fat lip, which didn't go down in time for me to begin my new job the following Wednesday as a senior editor at Entertainment Weekly. I must have been quite the sight for judgmental eyes at work, though no one in Milan even seemed to notice.

10. Also on my mind in Milan: Paolo, who was a beautiful 24-year-old budding fashion designer visiting New York City from Milan when we met in the summer of 2000 on another holiday -- his. It was Tuesday night at Beige (a weekly party that I hear is still going strong at B Bar), the evening before a big Teen People photo shoot with Nelly and Mystikal, and my friend, colleague and occasional wingwoman Cara had something to do with getting us together. Paolo and I went out two nights later, and we ended up being nearly inseparable for the rest of his time in New York City. He spoke very limited English, and he didn't understand what was going on in Committed, the Heather Graham movie we watched in my apartment after dinner that Thursday night, but neither one of us cared.

Then I went and broke the cardinal rule of holiday romance -- which is file it under foreign affair and go on with your regularly scheduled life -- and went to visit him in Milan, leaving on the day after the hotly contested Presidential Election of 2000, which still wasn't resolved when I returned to NYC 10 days later. We laughed, we drank, we ate, we visited his hometown of Genoa (which went on to become my second-favorite Italian city, after Rome), we got lost in emotion. But all good things must come to an end. Our week in Milan ended in tears -- mine. If the good ones aren't taken, why do they always have to live on another continent?

Paolo and I were in and out of touch in the years that followed, but we saw each other two more times: Once was when I ran into him in a bar in the East Village and woke up the next morning not sure if I'd dreamed our reunion until a text message arrived from him saying what a nice night he'd had. The second time was when he came to Buenos Aires in 2008, a vacation I wouldn't have known about had I not found him on Facebook, which I'd only recently joined.

In my usual hyperbolic way, I used to consider Paolo the love of my life and/or the one who got away, depending on whatever mood I was in, but I'm not so sure what I think of him now, so many holiday flings later. A few days ago, I sent him a message letting him know that I was coming to Milan, but I never heard back from him. Maybe he's finally learned his lesson about love and holidays. That would make one of us!

On the Road Again... Like a Rolling Stone

I love when people get it. Recently, I was surprised by the positive I-know-exactly-what-you-mean response to a blog post I wrote about how more stationary souls sometimes view my peripatetic life, glamorizing it, occasionally even expressing a burning desire to be walking in my traveling shoes. To save space in my suitcase, I do most of my traveling in my John Varvatos boots (which are murder on the bunion on my left foot), not my Havaianas, so it's not the most comfortable experience. I don't know why they wouldn't opt to get around wearing someone else's footwear.

My brother and my best friend Lori both recently described me as "rolling stone" -- an apt description if I've ever heard one. (Lori also recently used the phrase "restless romantic," and although she wasn't talking about me, I haven't been able to get it out of my head because it applies to me even more perfectly than "rolling stone.")

What struck me about both "rolling stone" comments, aside from their accuracy, was that they were made without a hint of judgment or jealousy, from a purely objective, journalistic point of view. I wish more people would see me and my life that way.

As excited as I am by my upcoming travel itinerary that will take me from Bangkok to Abu Dhabi and Dubai today (until early Monday morning), then to Berlin for one month, then tentatively to Italy (Venice, Milan and Rome), Tel Aviv and Egypt (if I'm going to be in the Middle Eastern neighborhood, I can't miss the pyramids and the Sphinx in Giza), and then to Cape Town, just in time for spring to make me fall in love at first sight, I'm a little bit scared, too. I'm about to fly into a great big question mark, several times over. Who knows what will be waiting for me on the other side of the next runway?

Sometimes when I wake up with nagging doubts and fear in the pit of my stomach, having slept single in a strange double bed yet again, I look over at the empty space to the left, to the left, and wish there were someone there. I wish I were waking up in a house that was also a home, with two healthy, beautiful children still asleep in their rooms down the hall. My Facebook friends who are tied to one place because of family and economic responsibilities have it a lot better than some of them think.

I guess birds of a feather do eventually end up flocking together because in the last two and a half years, since I've been, as Argentina's AFIP tax collectors in Buenos Aires recently pronounced me, "a man without a country," due to my lack of a full-time address where I actually live, I've met a number of the people in the same boat -- or train or plane. They spend most of their lives on the road (again), whether it be for business or pleasure or both. Although many might view their peripatetic existence, too, through a gauzy dream-like lens, for the most part, these frequent travelers don't seem to be any happier than the folks back home with husbands and wives, kids, mortgages and full-time jobs that tie them down to one place.

The other day I was expressing some of my frustration to a friend in an email: "People talk about how lucky I am, and what a great life I must lead. They don't even know all of the disappointment and rejection I've had to face the last two and a half years (professionally and personally). It's been a beautiful and brutal experience."

I knew she'd get it -- one of the things I've admired most about her during our 20-plus years of friendship is that she never candy coats her life or anyone else's -- but I didn't expect her to nail it so precisely:

"People get on my nerves. They are so judgmental, when they have no idea what it takes to walk in someone else's shoes. While I admire your ability to live abroad, I certainly doubt it is an easy life. And it has nothing to do with luck. You made a lot of sacrifices to do what you do. No one is paying your bills."

Exactly. There's no wealthy benefactor shouldering my financial burden, no rich, generous parents, no well-employed boyfriend. (I've been on my own since I was 18 years old, and since then, I've never received a penny from anyone that I didn't work hard for, and as I've lived without roommates, not even a single live-in lover, since October of 1992, there's been no one footing part of my bill.) Sometimes I wish I had one of the above, or a loving partner and kids down the hall, but then I'd be living someone else's story, not mine.

Though I wouldn't say it's a sad story (most of the chapters are filled with neither joy nor pain but something in the middle that feels more neutral, merely ordinary routine in different settings), it's not without some blood, sweat and tears on its pages. Speaking of music, have you ever noticed how songs about drifters (aside from the 1980 Willie Nelson hit that gives this post its title) often sound kind of sad?

"Drifter," Sylvia

"Like a Rolling Stone," Bob Dylan

"Wayfaring Stranger," Emmylou Harris

"Travelin' Prayer" (Billy Joel cover), Dolly Parton

"Trains and Boats and Planes," Dionne Warwick

"Travelin' Man," Ricky Nelson

"Another Suitcase in Another Hall" (from Evita), Madonna

Great Meals, Bad Company: Is It Rude to Send and Receive Text Messages at the Dinner Table?

Last night I had possibly the most delicious non-Thai-food meal I've had in Bangkok (cream of corn and crab meat soup, and penne with Italian sausage, basil and juicy cherry tomatoes!). To borrow from 13th U.S. President Millard Filmore's final words, the nourishment was more than palatable.

The company? Not so much.

It's not that he wasn't chatty. Au contraire, we touched on a variety of topics, from diabolical exes to cartoon characters we're sure are gay (my picks: Yogi and Boo-Boo, Tweety, Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck; his: Tom and Jerry). And he picked up his half of the tab: 500 baht, or about $17, making it the most expensive meal I've had since I arrived in Southeast Asia.

So what made me wish I'd been able to enjoy this fantastic Italian meal in the company of no one? My dinner companion's buzzing cell phone. For the first 30 minutes after we sat down, he kept picking it up, reading and typing. I excused myself to use the restroom, and when I returned, there he was, typing away. I made a mental note to myself -- How obnoxious! -- but I held my tongue. Then a beautiful couple sat down at the table next to us. The woman didn't look at the menu, or her date. She was too busy staring at her cell phone.

I couldn't keep quiet any longer. "That's so rude," I said. "She's having dinner with her gorgeous boyfriend, and she can't stop looking at her stupid phone." It was a passive-aggressive move on my part, but I'd made my point. My dinner companion knew I was talking about him, too.

"Well, how do you know they are boyfriend and girlfriend," he said, obviously trying to change the subject.

"Well, they're clearly not just platonic friends."

"Maybe they're married."

I decided I wasn't going to let him off the hook anymore. "Regardless, it's extremely rude to fiddle with your cell phone, or iPhone, or whatever, at the dinner table. If someone you love isn't being rushed to the hospital, there's no emergency that can't wait until 9 o'clock." (It was 8.11pm.)

There, I said it. He explained that the reason he had been on his earlier was because his friend had sent him a text asking if he was going to join him and some other people for dinner, and he didn't want to leave him/them hanging. He had already blown them off in order to accept my last-minute invitation.

I was flattered, but it was a flimsy excuse -- and it didn't explain 30 minutes of back and forth. Why hadn't he sent his friend a text message before dinner telling him that he'd made other plans? In order to avoid being rude to his friend, to whom he had already been extremely rude, he was being rude to me. None of it made any sense, but by then I'd lost interest in him and his excuses. I was more interested in the question of general cell-phone etiquette, at the dinner table and elsewhere.

Have we become so plugged in that we're constantly distracted, never truly living in the moment, enjoying -- and respecting -- the people who are right in front of us? I go out to bars, and I see guys standing around texting -- maybe sexting -- or trying to score on Grindr, and I go out to dinner and see whomever is sitting across from me doing the same.

Sometimes I miss the good old days when we focused our attention on our present company, unless someone hotter happened to pass by. We'd scold a dinner date for paying more attention to someone at another table than to us, or someone hitting on us in a bar while constantly looking over our shoulder, so what makes lavishing so much attention on a cell phone any different? There's nothing wrong with turning it off for an hour when you're having dinner with someone, or putting it away when you're ordering at the bar, or dancing shirtless on the stage.

Answering your cell phone during dinner, particularly in the middle of an intense conversation, may not be as bad as excusing yourself to go outside and have a smoke, leaving your dinner companion alone at the table (yes, I've been there, too), but it comes pretty close. Years ago, I went on a first date with a guy who interrupted our discussion to answer his cell phone during dinner and proceeded to talk to whomever was on the other line for a good five minutes. It was July 4th, and as we watched the fireworks later on, I decided that I wouldn't be seeing him again.

And then there was Paolo, an Italian I met in New York City in 1999. It was love at first sight. A few months later, I went to visit him in Milan. We had a lovely time together, in-between his cell-phone conversations. I appreciated that he usually kept them short and sweet (and I was charmed by how he answered it: "Pronto!"), but we could barely make it through a sentence without the damn thing ringing, and he always had to answer it. I saw him a few years ago in Buenos Aires, and I was shocked -- and thrilled -- that not once during dinner were we interrupted by his cell phone. Maybe over the course of 10 years, he'd learned that there's a time and place for everything.

My dinner date last night apparently doesn't believe in such boundaries. He accused me of not living in the 21st century. If he has the means to be in constant contact with his friends, why not take advantage of it? It's not that I'm old-fashioned, but technology doesn't absolve us of the responsibility to exercise good table manners. Just as you shouldn't take a week, or more, to respond to text messages and emails, there's no need to read and respond to every single one as it comes in. Has the Facebook/iPhone age created a civilization of uncivilized people who have such sophisticated means of communicating but no longer know how to communicate?

A few weeks ago I lost my Thai cell phone, and one of the reasons why I haven't replaced it is because I wanted to see if I could get through a few hours -- or a workout -- without being reachable. (Surprise! I can.) I remember once, about a year before I left New York City, I texted a guy on whom I had an unrequited crush while I was working out. It was 8am on a Saturday morning.

"Where are you at this early hour?" he responded a few minutes later.

"I'm at the gym."

"Good for you. But shouldn't you be paying attention to the weights and not sending texts?"

He had a point. I put the phone away and returned to my workout. My dinner date last night wasn't going to go down without a fight, though. He made some truly ridiculous arguments, like this one: Since he's known his friend longer than he's known me, politeness to his friend takes precedence. So how would he explain blowing off his friend, to whom he owes a greater degree of courtesy, to dine with me?

Dinner was over, and so was the conversation.

"Check, please."

As I went off into the night -- alone -- I made a mental note that I'd definitely be returning to that restaurant -- alone.

ROVER'S RETURN 2: KUALA LUMPUR, THE SECOND TIME AROUND

My life's motto, as stated on this blog's home page is that I'll do anything twice -- and seriously, I will, unless you're talking eating grilled cockroaches, a Thai delicacy that has "no way in hell!" written all over it.

Yuck!

But when it comes to great cities, I don't always get the chance to do them again. Ooh, baby, baby, it's a wide world, and I want to see so much of it. Unfortunately, there's not enough time or money for regular backtracking. Sometimes once has to be enough.

So I choose wisely. Aside from the international cities I've visited, fallen in love with and moved to (Buenos Aires, Melbourne), there are only a handful that I've returned to on completely separate trips: London (which I frequented at least twice a year beginning in 1995, until I discovered South America in the early '00s), Montreal, Paris, Rome, Milan, Amsterdam, Rio, Sydney, Toronto (which I might have re-visited even if my brother didn't live there).

Sure I never grew to love Paris or Rio or Montreal, but the others were even better the second, third and, in the case of London, the umpteenth time around. A rule of thumb: If I like a great city the first time, I'll probably love it the second time. It's an ongoing theme with me (like it now, adore it later) -- my love theme for great cities!

So will Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, continue my love-'em-and-leave-'em-return-and-love-'em-even-more streak? In a previous post, I promised I'd return some day, but between you and me, dear readers, I secretly didn't think I actually would. In the end, it was a matter of necessity and practicality. My latest allotted 30 visitor days in Thailand expired today (29 September), and since I'm sticking around until January, I must switch to a tourist visa, which would give me 60 days in the country at a time with the option of extending, if need be.

I'd read that the Thai embassies in Laos, Cambodia and Malaysia make it pretty easy on Westerners desperately seeking tourist visas, so I narrowed it down to those three, although I was sort of craving adventure in Seoul. I've heard mixed opinions of Laos, and frankly, it doesn't interest me in the least. (Sorry, Devarni, hope you have a blast cruising down the Mekong.) I adored Cambodia, but I don't feel like I have to go back there so soon. With KL, though, after I left the first time, I always had this inkling that I'd missed something big.

It helps that I met some cool people here whom I'm looking forward to seeing again (I also met a Malay at DJ Station last weekend, and he's promised to show me around town), and several Malaysia-based magazine editors are interesting in meeting me. So it's part business, part pleasure, part visa run.

Last time I arrived by train from Singapore and departed by air to Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, so the bumpy two-hour Air Asia flight from Bangkok gave me a brand-new first impression of Malaysia. Though I missed seeing the mountains from the right side of the aircraft upon descent (they looked so cool off in the distance to the right as the train from Singapore approached Kuala Lumpur last time), and the airport seemed a lot more '70s than I remember, could it be possible that KL has gotten even more enchanting?

There were a lot of western tourists in customs (cute and dirty blond was a running theme), where last time I remember seeing relatively few of them on the streets, so I'm already prepared to hear lots of Australian accents, mate. And those Malays still have strange taste in music: When I got into the taxi, easy-listening oldies by Peter Cetera and Amy Grant, Bee Gees and Anne Murray reminded me that here in Malaysia people are as obsessed with silly love songs in English from bygone eras as they are in the rest of Southeast Asia.

But the ride was worth sitting though the schlock. As the hilly terrain around the airport gave way to KL's skyline, dominated by the KL Tower and the Petronas Twin Towers, and those mountains in the distance, I felt secure in the choice I'd made to have a return engagement here.

Sade once sang that it's never as good as the first time. It usually isn't. But cities have proven her wrong before, and I'm hoping that KL is about to be another one of them.

THE MYSTERY OF MANILA'S APPEAL: WHY I'M DIGGING THE CAPITAL OF THE PHILIPPINES

It's confession time again. Until recently, the only things I knew about Manila was that it's the capital of the Philippines, a country that used to be a United States commonwealth, and that Claire Danes, who filmed her 1999 film Brokedown Palace there, once called it a ghastly and weird city that smelled of cockroaches, with rats all over, no sewage system, and people who do not have anything -- no arms, no legs, no eyes.

Why anyone would take travel cues from Danes is beyond me. I trust the opinions of my Australian friends Marcus and Craig a lot more, and since both of them gave Manila rave reviews, suggesting that I check it out during my summer tour of Southeast Asia, I decided to give it a go. I'm glad I did, though I must admit, Manila might not be for everyone.

It has nothing to do with cockroaches, rats or armless, legless, eyeless people, none of which I've seen since my arrival. It rained for most of my first three days in Manila, which made sightseeing difficult. But in truth, in the Makati City area where my hotel is located and where I'd been advised to stay, there weren't so many sights to see. There were lots of five-star hotels, restaurants and malls, but for the most part, I could have been anywhere. The architecture was pretty nondescript, and some of the buildings were bordering on dreary and drab; others could use a good scrubbing and a fresh coat of paint.

Still, as I looked out at the view from my 14th-floor room at Antel Spa Suites by Best Western, I couldn't help but wish I had more than four days here. It certainly had nothing to do with my four-star living quarters. I've learned that four-star hotels in Asia are hit and miss -- usually rising or falling on the quality of the ablution chambers, for which my expectations can be unreasonably high -- and Antel was more miss than hit. The two-and-a-half-star bathroom gave the accommodations the distinct smell of mildew (Note to hotel owners: Shower curtains are done. It's time to replace them with glass doors that actually keep the water inside the tub), and the complimentary breakfast was neither as varied nor as tasty as it had been at my other hotels in Southeast Asia. Memo No. 2: Scrambled eggs should never be served at room temperature!

But why complain? I was too happy to be there -- in Manila, if not exactly Antel Spa Suites. Though my first impression of the city had not been so great since I arrived during peak rush-hour traffic (weekdays from 5 to 9pm), over the course of the next few days, I noticed a lot more positives than negatives. The essence of Manila's appeal, though, remains elusive, a true mystery.

Buenos Aires has romantic faded glamour. London has culture. Rome has history. Milan has style. Melbourne has the intersection of urbane and bohemian. Bangkok has energy. New York City has variety. That's why I love them. But what, in a nutshell, does Manila have? It's hard for me to say, but that doesn't mean its good qualities aren't somewhat quantifiable. The refreshing dearth of European and Australian tourists makes it sort of the Bogotá, Colombia, of Southeast Asia. And despite the traffic jams and incessant horn honking that I convinced myself was more safety precaution than cranky impatience in action, there is less noise and pollution than in Bangkok and Kuala Lumpur due to fewer motorcycles and the absence of lumbering city buses. Instead, multiple-passenger jeeps carry people from point A to point B. Hop on and off for only 8 pesos a trip (or roughly $.20).

And then there are the people. Over the last two months, I've become accustomed to encountering kind and helpful locals all over Southeast Asia, but in Manila, they've turned hospitality into a near-art form. Once I got over my initial suspicion that perhaps they were mocking me, I started to look forward to every encounter with a local and even felt slightly disappointed when they weren't inappropriately over-the-top.

Is it necessary to shout your greeting to incoming customers -- "HOW ARE YOU TODAY?!!!" -- so that everyone in 7-11 can hear you? Probably not. I felt like I was in one of those sitcoms where everyone talks louder to people who are hard of hearing or can't understand English. Eventually, though, I started to give it right back to them, and I made surprising discovery: Being campy-friendly is worth the effort because it actually improves your mood. Note to self: The next time I'm in New York City, share this tidbit with all of those sour-faced drones who work with the public.

I'm still not sure what went down at Bed my first night in town, but judging from the staff's reaction when I returned the following night, it must have been something good. Everywhere I went, they greeted and high-fived me like I was a hero returning from war. After having an onstage flashback, I asked one guy if I had gone up there at any point during the previous evening. "Yes," he said. "But don't worry. You were very cute and funny." Welcome home, I thought to myself.

I know that I've only touched the surface of Metro Manila, and it will take a lot more than four days to see everything that this fascinating area has to offer. Next time (and yes, there will be one), I want to explore Quezon City as well as some of the beaches that the locals keep recommending. My friends in the U.S. have warned me about the potential danger that awaits American citizens in the Philippines (robbery, kidnapping, possible death), but I'm not worried.

Considering that my friends on the U.S. East Coast had to deal with both an earthquake and Hurricane Irene last week, is anyplace "safe"? My Manila motto: Live life to the fullest, remember that all sales are final, and down every tequila shot like it could be your last.

WHERE IS MY LOVE?: WHY I'M JUST NOT THAT INTO SINGAPORE... YET

As major cities (and countries, and islands, and island countries) go, I've seen much much worse. But despite all of its lovely angles -- and down by the water (technically, Marina Bay), everywhere I turned there seemed to be yet another one -- Singapore hasn't quite brought me to my knees. Beauty is only skin deep, and Singapore's skin is thin and its charms not particularly deep. What you see is all you get. At least that's where the city and I stood after 24 hours together.

Someone told me that Singapore is a stab at creating a kind of Utopian metropolis. But I like my urban sprawl ugly/beautiful (like New York City, Buenos Aires, Milan, Bangkok, all perfectly imperfect, with the alluring state of slight decay that floats my boat and keeps me coming back).

If everywhere you look, you see the unspoilt and the pristine, they start to lose their value -- and ultimately, my interest. Even Paris, which I've never loved and always compare to a beautiful but boring lover, has its dark and stormy side. For me, Singapore is the gorgeous guy who can't make me laugh and is terrible in bed.

I'm not sure why I came. Singapore was never really on my to-do list. The only reason why it's ever been on my radar at all was because of a major news story from years ago in which a young man from the U.S. was threatened with caning by Singapore's legal system because he committed some minor offense like leaving the lid off of the toothpaste.

Actually, I think it was more like misdemeanor vandalism, or jumping the turnstile at the subway station, but in a country where I've been told it's illegal to chew gum in public, and where on the back of the immigration card there's a CAPITAL LETTER WARNING that reads "DEATH FOR DRUG TRAFFICKERS UNDER SINGAPORE LAW," one is immediately aware that it's imperative to be on your best behavior here.

No, I never had any intention of visiting Singapore until one of my friends in Melbourne suggested that I stop by for a day or two since I was going to be in the neighborhood. So I decided to squeeze it in between Phuket, Thailand, and Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, where I'm headed tomorrow morning. To be completely honest and fair, unlike, say, Athens, Singapore does have its charm. I can understand why someone might be attracted to it. I met a guy from Vienna -- another stunning, sterile city -- who fell in love with Singapore at first sight and decided to move here. Despite its good looks, though, it's just not my type.

Three potential deal-breakers:

1. It's too clean. Upon my arrival, I updated my Facebook status to reflect how underwhelmed I was feeling. "My first impression of Singapore: It's like Ryan Reynolds' face (his FACE, not his abs). Perfectly pleasant to look at but lacking any truly standout characteristics. I did love that my cab driver from the airport was wearing one of those wispy, pointy beards that the bad guys always had in '70s martial arts movies!" I'm all for no littering and cleaning up doggie poop, but when I feel like I can literally eat off the sidewalk and die another day, we've gone past neat and orderly into the undesirable realm of sterility.

2. Where's the local flavor? During my Sunday-afternoon solo walking tour, I met a 13-year-old boy from China who made me guess his hobby.

"Video games?"

"No."

"Collecting comic books?"

"No, but close. It's collecting something."

"I give up. Tell me."

"I collect foreign currencies."

He certainly came to the right place then! (And no, he didn't make a buck off of me.)

At the suggestion of my trusted old friend the Internet, on Saturday night, I went to a great bar called Tantric, where pretty much the only thing that screamed "Singapore!" was a drink on the menu called a Singapore Slinger (SP$14, or roughly US$12). I had a lot of fun, and I met some really cool people, but almost all of them came from somewhere else. One of the few locals I met was a girl who approached me on behalf of her friend, also a local. It was the first time I've ever been asked, "Are you a top or a bottom?" by a girl, which might have offended me had I not been so busy laughing.

3. Getting around at night is hard on the heels. The concierge at my hotel couldn't find a taxi to take me to Chinatown at 11pm (the lines of all the companies on his list were busy!), so he directed me to a taxi stand across the street. Though a driver picked me up only a few minutes later, and he charged me a mere SD$7 to take me to my destination (Tantric), finding my way home a few hours later wasn't so easy. After seeing many other people stranded just like me and resigned to their plight because, well, that's just how things are in Singapore, I decided to power walk it back to my hotel. By the time I stumbled through the front doors of the Grand Park City Hall about a half hour later, I'd already forgotten everything I'd seen.

Even Ryan Reynolds' face is more memorable than that!

Waiting for a star to fall: When celebrities tumble onstage

Years ago, my mom and I were walking and talking in downtown Atlanta during one of my regular visits to the city where my mother had moved shortly after I left home for college. I was doing most of the talking (about what, I can't quite recall), and when the time came for her weigh in, there was silence.

I waited. Not a word. I looked over my shoulder and realized that my mother was no longer walking beside me. I turned around, and there she was, about half a block behind me, sitting on the sidewalk, looking up at me. Her eyes were saying, "What is wrong with you, boy?" She'd taken a nasty spill, and I had been to busy yakking to notice.

I ran back and arrived just in time for a lady to help mom off the ground and say, "God bless you," before walking away. I felt terrible that my mom had fallen, and I had been too engrossed in telling my silly story to notice. Had anyone shown up at that moment and started laughing at her misfortune, God knows what I would have done to them. (I'm not sure if my mom remembers this incident, but the other day, when I received an email from her with "Still Standing" in the subject line, I breathed a sigh of relief.)

Fast forward more than a decade later, and my friends and I are at a restaurant in Buenos Aires, laughing at YouTube videos of divas falling in concert. First Mariah Carey. Then Beyonce (mid-"Ring the Alarm," a song that requires total control, both vocally and physically, to work). Both falls looked painful and painfully embarrassing, and falling, which can be quite hazardous to one's health, is no laughing matter.

When we see someone fall on a bustling sidewalk, it's not necessarily side-splitting stuff. During my many years living in big cities, I've seen countless people take nasty spills in transit (usually women), and not once do I recall even cracking a smile. And God knows, I've had my share of public wipe outs -- trudging through iced-over snow in New York City; jogging in Buenos Aires; dancing, drunkenly (natch!), on a platform in Alibi, a club in Milan; wobbling, inebriated (natch!), down the stairs in Heaven, a disco in London -- and I've never seen anyone bust out laughing.

But I'm still chuckling to myself at the mental image of Jennifer Lopez tripping while performing on the American Music Awards last year. And I'm not sure how Naomi Campbell, or any model for that matter (Remember Carrie Bradshaw's catwalk disaster on Sex and the City?), can show their faces in public again after toppling over on the runway. When you think about it, it's bound to happen at some point to anyone who makes a living negotiating complicated movements on a stage. Unfortunately for them, in this age of YouTube, the pain my go away, but the image of the falling star lives on in infamy.

Of the two superstars at whose expense my friends and I were laughing on Saturday night, Beyonce's trip was by far the most spectacular because there were steps involved and, unlike Mariah, she wasn't pregnant, so the laughter wasn't punctuated by pangs of guilt. I'm still not sure how Beyoncé managed to quickly get back on her feet and continue performing without any evidence of physical pain, but I guess that's what super troupers do. The show must go own? Haven't got time for the pain? (Feel free to insert your own relevant song title here).

Meanwhile, the rest of us die laughing and look forward to the next fallen star.