T A B L E_T A L K Learn about the ins and outs of house-swapping from those who've been there, done that in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Spiritual discomfort By Anne Cushman A yoga student discovers a real sadhu -- and spends the night in his cave in northern India (06/16/98) Adventures of my youth By Louise Rafkin Can midlife travelers recapture the carefree wanderings of old? (06/15/98) Suddenly last summer By Hal LaCroix Babes, buzzwords and biz-bonding at the Nantucket Film Fest (06/12/98) Letter from Jakarta: After the sky falls By Jeff Pulice When expats flee, foreign guys become very attractive -- and other bits of wisdom (06/11/98) Are we the world? By Andrew O'Hehir Despite our uneasy place on Planet Soccer, the United States will be one of 32 nations vying for glory as the globe's most passionately watched sporting event begins (06/10/98) Browse the Wanderlust Mondo Weirdo archives		A DIFFERENT KIND OF RESORT IN SRI LANKA . | . PAGE 1, 2 Only a few hours after checking in, when I hauled my jet-lagged body out of my room, I was nearly trampled by a thundering herd of elderly British tourists, straight off a Saga bus tour. As I staggered past the karaoke bar, past the disco (which doubles as a movie theater; "Waterworld" was playing that night), past gaggles of sunbathing guests, I realized that the Club Palm Bay was not an exotic tax dodge, but some warped Sri Lankan version of Club Med. My instincts were confirmed moments later when I inquired at the front desk whether there was a gym and was chirpily told that one of the Club's "animators" would happily guide me to it (in my sleep-deprived state, I would have happily grabbed a gun from the guard and pistol-whipped someone for coming up with such a ridiculous name, but it turns out that they are completely unarmed and their only apparent function is to have their photographs taken). Everything about the Club Palm Bay was slightly off. Every room had a phone, but only the two phones at the front desk worked -- one for incoming calls and one for outgoing calls. Go figure. There was nightly entertainment at dinner, though it too was just a tad weird. On the first night, a solo performer played the synthesizer and warbled Neil Diamond songs; he was promptly followed by a different act -- a guitar-strumming puppet mouthing the identical songs in a suspiciously familiar voice. But my personal favorite was the group from the third night. They went from table to table seeking requests, except they invariably did not know any of the requested songs and ended up singing something by Dire Straits. The best part about the group was their lead singer, who looked exactly like Abraham Lincoln -- if you are willing to believe, as I am, that Lincoln was 5-foot-5 and Sinhalese. And then there was the beach, which requires a separate explanation. The Club abuts a small, impoverished town named Marawila. It's a tiny town: one road and a handful of shacks. It has some fishing boats, a little subsistence farming and one identifiable business: a Chinese restaurant that lacks both tables and chairs (I came to the conclusion that it must be takeout). You can walk through town; it does not take long and everyone is very friendly. Most guests from the Club don't venture that far, so the only forum for interaction is Marawila Beach. The beach sits immediately outside the Club's main gate. It is a long, sandy strip that at one point becomes a high dune that plunges down into the Indian Ocean. In the afternoon, with the deck chairs and the beach umbrellas of the hotel guests perched atop the dune, the beach has the stylized look of a Bacardi rum advertisement. In the early morning, however, when the less fortunate of us were bused off to work, it was impossible not to notice that this same beach was dominated by hordes of cows, chickens, goats, pigs, cats and dogs, and their actions, to put it delicately for the more sensitive among us, did not conform to ordinary Western notions of hygiene and sexual decorum. Sad to say, none of these scenes made it to the club's postcard collection. -- Ken Stern SALON | June 17, 1998 Do you have an off-the-beaten-path adventure to share? Send your tale to wanderlust@salonmagazine.com.