A boy named Sous

So Priestly hadn't quite made it home, yet. In his defense, he'd become determined to do it with his own funds, and as such had had to spend some time actually working under the table in Hong Kong to do it.

Also, he wanted to spend some time in Mongolia. Just because he'd been talking about doing it for months before everything got swallowed up by the Nothing.

So here he was, in Mongolia's capital city, home to 45% of the country's total population, which he'd be calling home for the next six hours before his flight to Moscow, to connect to New York, and then Santa Cruz. He looked around for some sort of native guide, and ended up in a little coffee kiosk.

"Question: do you guys have barbecue?"

"Of course!" said the man at the counter. "We're famous for it world wide! Haven't you ever seen a Mongolian barbecue restaurant?"

"Ha!" Priestly crowed. "In your face, Momoko!"

"Did she think it was invented in Taiwan?" the man at the counter asked. "That's a common misconception."

Behold, the power of memory.

[nfb of course. Open for phone calls if folks are down with some SP.]

"Look," Priestly said. He'd finally managed to scrape together enough money for a long distance phone card and had, naturally, immediately called the Beach City Grill. "You guys can't keep sending me money. You're both broke, too. Unless Trucker decided to give you raises."

"Who?" asked Jen. Priestly pinched his nose and successfully resisted the urge to throw his phone against a wall.

( "Is Priestly talking about his imaginary friends again?" )

[ooc: It's fun to be evil! Open for any pan-dimensional phone calls.]

After a brief stint in a drunk tank in Kuala Lumpur -- he really was going to have to learn how to shut his mouth instead of antagonizing the local police force before he ended up facing off against a cop much less inclined to humor an irritating American -- Priestly had made it to the Philippines.

Manila, he decided, was made of awesome.

He was currently arguing with a man running one of the noodle carts that peppered the streets, trying to talk him into giving a punk (literally) kid from the States an under the table job dishing out glass noodles to tourists. Apparently, the guy wasn't going to make any decisions until he'd talked to the owner -- who lived in the States.

Priestly was beginning to wonder if he maybe should have stuck to Tex Mex in Austin.

[ooc: The sporadic installments of Priestly's international culinary adventure continue! Open for phone calls and such, unless any other character is likely to be hanging out in Manila right now.]