Transvestia

were in fact a woman.

He always sat in the back, always sat through two shows until the outgoing crowd was large enough to give him additional protection, counting on the bright lights of the lobby to give him further screening from his part- ially-blinded co-patrons. He probably had little to worry about; he had invested in a fine wig: he dressed carefully, tastefully with an eye not to stand out in any particular way; he enjoyed himself.

Anyway, while William Turner was brushing the popcorn off his skirt with a napkin, the African diappeared from the screen and the music changed to a wierd, raga-like theme while the announcer suddenly said, "If you're a transvestite, you'll probably want to go to the monastary of Lo Mantang. High in the Himalaya mountains, fabled location of Shangri La, a group of monks has forsaken the ways of men in a different manner." William Turner's wig nearly flipped. He inhaled several kernels of popcorn. There was a faint roaring in his ears as the nar- ration went on:

"Newly accessible by air, the monastery at Lo Mantang has been in existence for hundreds of years. The recent discovery of the uses of the medicinal herbs grown only on the high plateaus here has brought the twentieth century to this remote region. Far from shunning the manners of the Western world, the monks of Lo Mantang have eagerly embraced com- merce with the West." As the narrator continued his dialogue to a flute-arrangement of "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody", the camera showed scene after scene of monastery life, ranging from a com- plete Western-style beauty parlor to monks engaged in their daily devotions while dressed in haute couture from the Salons of Paris. Elaborately embroidered silks and brocades from the Orient jostled elbows with nylon and dacron from the West. It was a fantàstic spectacle,

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