T A B L E_T A L K Aquatic holidays await -- find out the best places to go boating in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk   Find a world of travel books -- new, rare and out-of-print -- at barnesandnoble.com Search by:  Keyword Title Author     R E C E N T L Y This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news from across the globe (01/29/99) "My Mexico" By Diana Kennedy Mexico's foremost food writer celebrates the culinary traditions of Campeche (01/28/99) Deep in the heart of Thailand, Texas By Roger Beaumont Wild-eyed expats swap yarns and squander fortunes in Bangkok's Lonestar bar (01/27/99) Hurricanes and hope in Honduras By Rachel Louise Snyder As the storm-battered Central American country rebuilds, dreams take root (01/26/99) A passion for Pelago By Tanya Shaffer An unlikely village hosts a Rainbow Gathering meets Burning Man meets rave music festival in Italy (01/25/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		THE NEW GREAT PLACE | PAGE 1, 2, 3 - - - - - - - - - - We wound up at the Villa Xiengmouane by accident, after our first choice of hotels -- the well-known Calao Auberge -- proved a noisy bust. At the Xiengmouane (pronounced "sheng'mwan," but I'll just call it the "X") we took a small suite: a pair of rooms facing on one side a handsome wat (from which the guest house took its name) and on the other a large, quiet garden. Laundry hung brightly on the line, and the umbrellas of a riverside restaurant were visible down a nearby lane. In the distance, toward the setting sun, motorboats plied the Mekong. Despite our luck with lodgings, we were a little let down by the town. It was far from what we'd expected. Wandering the streets, Diane and I felt a little brokenhearted, poorly served by the paeans of praise that our friends had heaped upon this rustic peninsula at the confluence of the Mekong and Khan rivers. For all its anti-hype, Luang Prabhan -- "LP" for short -- is already a typical tourist "discovery," a place that was undoubtedly far more charming two years, or even six months, ago. Alternative travel has become a lot like the stock market: By the time you get wind of something, it's over. A day's stroll was all it took to see where LP is heading. The streets were abuzz with new Honda motor scooters; a couple of years ago, Luang Prabang was filled with bicycles. A CNN report on the impeachment trial issued from a coffeehouse; above the Scandanavian Bakery, an enterprising Lao had opened a cybercafe. There was construction everywhere, a steady soundtrack of power tools and the steady percussion of hammers. Observing the new architecture, we had to laugh at the irony. After declaring the old part of Luang Prabang a World Heritage Site, UNESCO insisted that all new structures must be of traditional design; but "traditional," in the case of Luang Prabang, means French Colonial. With its new designation and an evident influx of capital, LP seems well on the way to becoming another travelers' mecca: a watering hole on the ever-expanding Thailand-Cambodia-Vietnam circuit. But the town was not without its charms. We passed the afternoon at the LP's most fascinating temple: Wat Xieng Thong (pronounced "Washington" by some fellow travelers). Walking into the compound is like stepping into a fairy tale: There is a sense of magic that, once upon a time, must have saturated all of Luang Prabang. Built in 1560, the temple complex is named for its venerable thong, or bodhi, tree. The ficus -- like most of its companions at temples throughout Asia -- was probably grown from a cutting taken off the original bodhi tree in Bodhgaya, India, beneath which the Buddha gained enlightenment. Some of the wats at Xieng Thong are inlaid with mosaics made of colored mirror. The style, showing cartoonish figures on a red background (some with their heads getting cut off), reminded me of "naive" American art. Others are decorated with bas-reliefs of carved wood, thickly layered with gold leaf. (The most beautiful building of all, emblazoned with golden panels depicting erotic scenes from the Ramayana epic, is actually a parking garage for the royal funeral chariot.) As the low sun struck the wats, the air seemed to fill with colored sparks; it was like sitting in the middle of a giant jewel box. We caught our breath, looking beyond the temple gates to the shimmering cord of the Mekong River. Only one element compromised the scene. A teenage monk sat on the steps of the main temples, smoking a Marlboro Light and tapping his Nikes restlessly on the steps. Enlightenment, I thought to myself. Just Do It. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The full moon rose over Mount Phousi, casting the wat on its crest into spooky silhouette. Diane and I wandered the old town, searching for a restaurant that served crepes and fruit salad. When we finally found one -- after a long walk in circles through the old quarter -- I decided to stay local, ordering a traditional Lao specialty called laap. Made of minced fish ground in a mortar with spices, garlic and green onion, the brown paste was the nearest thing I've eaten to cat food. (I must add, for fairness's sake, that on subsequent evenings I tried chicken laap, at the Phousi Hotel restaurant, and found it delicious. Lao food can be terrific, but you have to know where to look. Lonely Planet recommended a "small, funky" place where the locals go. We found it; it's now in a cement building, packed with guidebook-toting Planeteers. The food was great, though. And there's precious little to choose from in Luang Prabang.) It felt good to return to the villa, to put Segovia on our portable CD player and nest in our little suite of rooms. Outside the window, Wat Xiengmouane lay in shadow. I could make out the spires of the small vihara shrines and, to their right, the temple's ritual drum: a huge cylinder with two leather heads, suspended from ropes within an elegant gazebo. I climbed into bed at 9, three days of international travel finally catching up with me. Diane was equally spent. She was fighting off a cold as well as the body-memory of four stressful, all-consuming months of work in Nepal. Right away, we ran into trouble. The bed squeaked like a cave full of bats, screaming at every adjustment of an arm or a leg. Tired as we were, we burst out laughing. Earplugs muted most of these high-register sounds, and I drifted off to sleep. I was shaken out of bed -- literally -- at 4 in the morning. Twenty feet below, the monastery drum had begun to beat: thunderous thumps that shook the room by the neck, punctuated by a cacophony of cymbals and bells. The charming cultural racket continued, unabetted, for 15 minutes. I tried desperately to pretend I was back in my old Santa Barbara apartment, right next to the railroad tracks. I'd gotten used to that, hadn't I? The clamorous thumping of the freight train, rolling past my window at 4 each morning? Yes, I had; it had taken two years. In the strange clarity that accompanies premature awakening, I formulated a cunning plan. Years of travel have taught me the value of preparation, and I carry a few items that most travelers never think to pack. My noise-addled brain imagined with satisfaction the bewilderment and confusion of the monks as they arrived for their next wee-hour puja, only to find their mammoth drum webbed behind the bright yellow tape I'd snatched from an Oakland, Calif., patrol car: POLICE LINE: DO NOT CROSS. N E X T+P A G E | The vanished king and the paltry gifts _________________________________ For more information: Stories about this region from the Wanderlust archives _________________________________