My final evening in Pagan, I ride a clunky Chinese bicycle to Shwesandaw Pagoda and climb to the topmost terrace of the whitewashed, 1,000-year-old stupa. Hundreds of other travelers have already assembled to view the sunset; another dozen or so drift overhead in hot-air balloons. As the sun begins to plummet behind the hills, burnishing the towers of sandstone, red brick, and gilt, I think about what Magic told me a few days before.
"Stay away," he said. "Most of the money goes to the government's pockets. I can always find another job. I can drive a taxi." I nodded. I wanted to come back; I just didn't know when. This, as Mister Smile would say, is a problem.
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