Myanmar, Burma. Burma, Myanmar. Back and forth I'd go, struggling between the desire to be politically correct and wanting to hang on to the imagined romance of old colonial Burma, the Burma of Mandalay and Rangoon, Merle Oberon smoking a leisurely cigarette on a black-and-white screen, and slow boats making their way down the Irrawaddy (now called the Ayeyarwady).

My sister-in-law had Burma stories of her own. As a young woman working for the U.S. State Department in Washington, D.C., in the late 1940s, she was assigned to Rangoon. The first thing her boss suggested she do was "go out and buy herself six really nice evening dresses." The social life there sizzled.

Needless to say, that Burma bears little resemblance to the place we visited earlier this year. In 1947, Burma became independent after years of British rule. Then in 1962, a Socialist government came to power. By 1988, there was a countrywide uprising against that government, and in a free election in 1990, Nobel Peace Prize winner Aung San Suu Kyi's NLD party won. But the NLD was not allowed to take office, and today the country is ruled by a military junta.

I mention all of this because there are two schools of thought on traveling to Myanmar. Suu Kyi has discouraged tourism, saying that it supports the repressive government. Yet there are other Burmese who feel the money brought into the country helps the average person put food on the table, and while Suu Kyi is beloved, they say she is also uncompromising and unrealistic.

There are good arguments on both sides, and if this bewitching land calls to you, you will have to make up your own mind.

After the 1988 uprising, in an effort to eradicate its colonial past, the ruling junta changed the name of the country from Burma to Myanmar. Since the 13th century, the Burmese have called their country Myanmar. The British named it Burma after one of the country's ethnic groups, the Bamar. The name, however, has become the subject of a bit of a political tussle. But the United Nations recognizes the country as Myanmar, so I will too.

We flew from Bangkok into Yangon as the sun was setting. I'm not sure what I thought the place would look like. I certainly didn't expect such a pretty city. I found wide streets lined with trees, old colonial buildings not showing their shabbiness in the twilight, and graceful people on the street wearing the traditional longyi, or sarong, wending their way home.

We pulled into the Grand Plaza Park Royal Hotel. There we go with those names again. Grand Plaza Park Royal. It sounded as if they couldn't decide between four names, so they used them all. In yet other incarnations, it had been called the Sofitel Plaza and the Hotel Equatorial. It advertises itself as a five-star hotel.

GREAT GOLDEN STUPA

After a good night's sleep, we headed out to explore the city. Like most of the people of Southeast Asia, the Burmese are extremely polite and friendly. The waterfront bustles; buses pass stuffed with so many people you wonder how they can get off at their stops; children follow you and want to talk and have their picture taken, their cheeks smeared with pale yellow thanaka powder. The powder comes in a stick or round cake to which they add water, then smoothing the color onto the skin. Women and children use it, mostly, and it's worn everywhere, acting as a sunscreen, astringent and beauty aid all in one.

Theravada Buddhism is widely practiced in Myanmar (80 percent of the population is Buddhist) and wherever you go in the country, the temples and shrines are beautiful and frequented by devotees. This branch of Buddhism places the responsibility on each individual to work out his or her own salvation, or way of reaching nibbana (nirvana).

You see monks, and to a lesser extent, nuns, everywhere. Boys are expected to "take up the robe and alms bowl" at least twice in their lives. The monks, wearing different shades of red, go out every day and collect their food from their neighborhood.

This day we decide to visit the famous Shwedagon Paya, with its great golden stupa surrounded by smaller temples and shrines. We wait until the late afternoon, when the sun is no longer beating unmercifully on the marble pathway around the temple itself. Burmese temples require you to walk barefoot in a clockwise direction when you circumnavigate the stupa. In the heat of the day, this can be hard on the feet.

Shwedagon Paya is buzzing with activity. Families with children, old people alone, and monks in dark, brown-red robes all join in the stroll past the lesser shrines. This is so obviously a holy place. There are Burmese who hope that just once in their lives they will be able to visit this golden shrine.

At some of the smaller shrines, devout worshippers seem almost transported to a kind of ecstacy by their prayers. Their eyes are closed and their faces are turned to the heavens. Nearby a group of older monks lounge in front of a reclining, white-skinned Buddha, casually watching the crowd. They're enjoying each other's company in the same way any group of guys would at the end of a long day. There's a feeling of celebration — almost like a local bazaar, only without all the noise and food.

Tucked between the shrines are small stations devoted to the days of the week. You go to the one representing the day you were born, pour water from a scoop over an image, and say a little prayer. It's the pleasant sort of ritual that works for the soul, whatever your beliefs.

The next day, we board another plane and fly to Bagan. As we descend onto this vast plain beside the Ayeyarwady River in west-central Myanmar, you begin to see the tops of hundreds of zedi, or stupas, scattered across the landscape.

The zedi date back about 2,000 years. Over the years, until Kublai Khan ransacked the place in 1287 A.D., they kept popping up everywhere, creating what is today a designated national archaeological zone.

SUNSET OVER TEMPLES

Back in the 1970s, there was a village in the middle of this zone. The government decided to move it to another area nearby and gave the residents a week to do it. Our guide, Lin, and his family came from the village. He says that not everyone wanted to leave, but the ones left behind in old Bagan found their electricity and water cut off, and eventually gave in to the move. His family now runs a lucrative lacquer-making operation in their backyard and sells to tourists at the Bagan airport.

We planned to stay at the Bagan Hotel, which is neatly built beside the old Gawdawpalin Temple in Old Bagan. The entire area is dusty, dry and hot during much of the year. The hotel, made of red-brown brick, hugs the land. Cottages radiate from a central courtyard, and on one side is an emerald lawn overlooking the Ayeyarwady.

I'd reached that point in Third World travel when you take to your bed with bottled water and a prescription of Cipro. Everyone else is off to ride horsedrawn carts to the temples to watch the sunset. I'm grateful for air conditioning, quiet, and an old British movie on the television.

The next day, I was feeling better, and we headed for the local market for some bargaining and commerce. Burmese merchants in these open town markets are aggressive, to say the least. The best part is they are also good-natured and accommodating. You need to return the favor and bargain for what you want with the same vigor and sense of humor. A warning: Don't even begin to bargain if you don't want the item. If they agree to your price, it's very rude if you then walk away.

Handicrafts and textiles are everywhere, and they are beautiful. Try to buy from individuals and not government shops. If something you didn't purchase in your travels keeps haunting you, go to the old Scott Market (also called Bogyoke Aung San Market) in Yangon before you leave the country. It is inexpensive, and everything can be found there. Remember to bargain. If you are in the market for precious stones such as rubies, beware. You are probably better off shopping in Bangkok at a reputable shop. Most of the best stones are shipped there, anyway. You don't want to buy colored glass for a pretty penny.

Most visitors to Myanmar make the trek to nearby Mount Popa by bus. The road to this rocky crag (the Burmese equivalent of Olympus) is like a trip into an earlier century. There are small palm-lined sheds along the roadside where people are making sesame oil, palm liquor and jaggery — round, hard balls of sweet palm sugar. Girls, their faces rubbed with thanaka powder, smile at you beneath bundles of sticks bigger than they are. They trudge along the road like beasts of burden, wearing wooden clogs, on their way to their villages.

NAT WORSHIP

Mount Popa is the home of Myanmar's powerful nats, spirits or guardian figures that existed even before the coming of Buddhism. In spite of an early effort to rid the country of nat worship, the belief in these spirits continues. It is especially strong in this area.

We made our way to the Mahagiri Shrine near the town of Popa. Stuffed into the back of a small, low, building without windows are 37 mannequins looking a lot like the ones you used to see in small-town department stores in the 1950s. They are fully dressed in the fanciest clothes, and represent different aspects of life.

My favorite was the nat, a sort of saint, of drunkards. He sat on top of a small horse, looking in very jolly spirits, holding a bottle of whiskey, with even more bottles strapped to the horse's neck. On his face was a silly smile.

The area around Mount Popa is cool, a welcome relief after the Bagan area. There is even a little nine-hole golf course for anyone going through golf withdrawal. It's the perfect place to kick back, read, enjoy a massage and the quiet of the mountain terrain.

Back in Yangon, we rushed over to Scott Market to pick up last-minute trinkets and booked dinner at one of the city's best restaurants, Le Planteur Restaurant & Bar, near Kandawgyi Lake and accessed down a rugged side street in a neighborhood lit only by occasional dim streetlights. They serve French food with a Swiss twist (even though they advertise their fare as "Indochine cuisine"). They're known for their smoked meats and delicious Planter's Punch.

We dined outdoors on the lawn of an old colonial house on tuna carpaccio flavored with bergamot and mango-ginger, smoked ham roasted with honey and coriander, and finished with coconut ice cream and a berry sauce. Moody, red, oversized umbrellas disguise the garden lights around the perimeter, casting a soft glow.

The night is warm. The Planter's Punch is delicious.

It's Myanmar, no longer Burma. But the romance lingers.