After a two month hiatus from blogging, I am returning with
recollections--recollections of the two month hiatus from blogging. I do
not feel like my vacation was a "whirlwind" or that it "flew by."
Actually, eight weeks of vacation feels exactly like eight weeks of
vacation when entire weeks are defined by a specific activity, reunions,
and locations. This is the second entry of journal "highlights"--here is the first entry and the second entry. These are excerpts from what I wrote while I was in Thailand's south and Bangkok. More soon, friends and
family!
***
01/17
I watch the sunset beyond the backside of the wings. Because of visa restrictions and unexpected inquiries at the ticket desk in Hawaii, I'm not even sure that I can enter Thailand without an onward ticket--I just have the plan to walk across the border to Cambodia.
After reading last year's journal entries, I begin a line of questioning about my direction and my context. I come to a conclusion that I do not feel lost, but I am certainly not feeling as engaged in my daily life as I would like to be.
***
01/18
Luckily, there are no problems getting into Bangkok, meeting Ryan, or getting a cheap and satisfactory hotel for the night.
During a flight from Bangkok to Phuket, I talk with an American communications contractor who used to work for the military in Afghanistan. He hints at suspicious activities and documents legitimizing U.S. presence there; and on a more terrifying note, he leans the conversation towards allusion to increasing tumult with Pakistan.
A brief afternoon downpour while we wait to leave for our live-aboard scuba trip.
Eager yet mellow divers, pineapple jelly cookies, an abundance of fruit and tea. An elderly man offers me a J as we sit on the sundeck of the dive boat and watch a distant beacon become the scattered lights around a fishing dinghy. I graciously decline being aware of movies like Midnight Express and Brokedown Palace. Electric storms blend with flashing Christmas lights in our boat's dining area. A warm breeze circulates through the hallway that admits to our cabin with two bunk-beds. An artist from Brooklyn and a French traveler with an abundance of dives. Sleep approaches quickly.
***
01/19
In the lethargic moments before I reluctantly rise for a sunrise coffee, I wonder about past relationships and where those people have gone.
Now I watch fiery red streaks melt into tangerines and peaches across a cloud-dusted sky. Is there anyone on the other boats in this harbor who wakes and writes in parallel? With equal part sadness over personal estrangement and part appreciation for this moment?
Blue glints off the rippling water, somehow finding a reflection of a sky that has not yet emerged. And the calm surf massages smooth rock-faces of a Similan Island.
After a few moments thinking about the eye color of past girlfriends, I start to wonder more about the directions my thoughts naturally flow these days. Are my thoughts driven by pride? Or, by loneliness? Perhaps I am seeking inspiration--a tighter grip on a past always imagined to be better than this present?
I hate letting-go, but I know its necessity.
The boat lurches forward from anchor, and other divers futilely photograph this morning's elusive brilliance. I am awake, and my coffee mug is drained.
*
Dive, eat, dive, rest, eat, rest, dive, rest, dive...
Not a bad schedule. I peel myself off the blue plastic cushion on a wooden deck chair. Fifteen minutes of lite napping next to Juliette (the French diver) and two North Carolinans as someone's iPod shuffles and soft tides rock me back-and-forth.
Ryan peruses a fish almanac; he creates a "to-see" list. He's taken up a pocket journal, in which he jots notes and sketches in a way that is far more capturing than my own ways.
I turn to a Nescafe with condensed milk while chatting with Stefan and Anna, the Swedish couple who dive in our group (led by French Canadian Martinne).
"Your write everyday?" I'm reminded of days in Namibia and afternoons with a lazy, old cheetah named Goetters.
"I stick to Muay Thai boxing and scuba," another American on board admits in lieu of me asking about her skiing in Michigan.
The sunscreen starts to sting the corners of my eyes, and I read about the dangers of a stonefish sting: "Day 6: Trip to local witch doctor unsuccessful." Others jump into the crystal clear waters from the boat's third deck.
***
01/20
The International Game of Rhythm consumes our free time. It is a puzzle, and the whole point of the game is figuring out how to play the game. Simple and enjoyable for those who like riddles; obnoxious and infectious for those who don't.
Ryan video tapes me underwater instead of taking a picture--he explores the camera's features.
Juliette's house music thumps through the dining deck, Ryan deals a hand of Rummy, Abbey (the animator) studies for her Advanced Open Water test, and Matt and Chris (the NC-ans) help an Argentinian dive leader with The International Game of Rhythm.
Today's first dive was an unfortunate string of set-backs: I lost the clip for the camera (putting the camera at risk of sinking to irretrievable depths for the remainder of the dive), sunscreen seeped into each one of my eyes (one-after-the-other), low visibility below, a strong current, [consequently] quickly depleted air, swimming hard into blue nothingness for ten minutes, ascending into a school of jellies, and hearing about others' fantastic dives. By the time I'm eating my banana pancake, a headache sets in; I wonder if I don't have some decompression illness thanks to being distracted and distressed dealing with my underwater issues while monitoring my dive stats.
Light-hearted Abbey jokes with Ivan, the Chilean dive leader. I enjoy the pattern on her dress that reminds me of material from a Laura Ingalls Wilder story. She tells me about her blog, and I offer some ideas until I can sense I am overstepping my contribution quota. I ask some questions about what its like to be a professional animator, and she tells me stories about clients--including one about turning-down an offer from a major pharmaceutical company.
Juliette apologizes: "I just have two songs by Chromeo--"
Koh Tachai fades into the distance, I sketch the titan triggerfish that attempted to attack me while protecting its nest (it successfully scared my testicles to recede), and a fishing dinghy crosses our wake. The music takes a turn for the headache.
***
01/22
Today's sunrise is barely less magnificent than last night's sunset. I can't remember if I've witnessed four consecutive sunsets and sunrises since Namibia. And just as I felt in Namibia, I feel connected to the moment. The schedule feels natural. I already bemoan leaving the boat: the routine, the beauty, the characters, the basic but satisfying life, the Argentinian's dreadlocks.
Someone shuts down the Kings of Leon in favor of Afropop. I smile and am all the more reminded of Namibian choirs on Sunday mornings.
I can tell that someday I will be ripped away from that moment in favor of nostalgia for underwater acrobatics and made-up signals along the Richelieu Rock wall--while a current fights me and my enjoyment of a pregnant sea horse, cleaner shrimp, baby boxfish, and other rarities. I will always have the photograph of the juvenile emperor angelfish--difficult to spot despite its ornate decorations.
***
01/23
After one moderately raucous night at Walker's Inn:
-Ivan, the Chilean, reveals he is actually a sociologist amidst his PhD studies.
-I get hung over but not drunk from just five beers.
-One of the dive leaders emasculates every other man there with his unparalleled and understated manliness.
-I sleep terribly.
The morning is hot and humid, and the cramped bus to Phuket amplifies aforementioned irritation.
***
01/24
The juxtaposition of deep water soloing along Krabi and Rai Leh's karst island cliffs and being rejected [again] from the Foreign Service leaves me no option but to nap for two hours. I wake at nearly 8 pm to a lobster-y Ryan and the realization that I, too, have sun burns. Now, I fight the rising swells of frustration, confusion, and anxiety: What's next? Will I ever be "fit" for Foreign Service? Do I really want to be?
I'm painfully reminded of my difficulty in finding work in The U.S. Regardless, I start thinking about other plans for the years to come.
Lunch conversations with Peace Corps teachers who make far less but live equally enriching lives in China lead to more questions about purpose, direction, and decisions.
I realize I needn't worry so much while on vacation and working in a job that puts food on my table. Still, I am aware of the questions:
How much does fear of alternatives or a lack thereof keep me where I am?
Am I treading water?
*
After two more curries and lassies at Arun, a delicious eatery down the street from our Pak-Up hostel, we wait for our rotis and write in our respective journals.
Within an hour, we seek air-conditioned refuge in our hostel room. I contemplate alternative career paths. Other hostelers talk about the Full Moon Party.
***
01/25
I have been on vacation for more than a month already! I only realize it as I write the date. I don't have the same eagerness to return to work that I did after a month of vacation last year.
Actually, I wake-up feeling driven and organized. I follow a sequence of thoughts that connect the dots between where I am (professionally and personally) with what I want to do. I realize how crucial furthering my education will be to developing my ideas and skills. As per usual, I create a list: a list of steps to move forward.
The sugar high from a post-lunch Thai coffee keeps my hands shaking as I write from a beanbag in Pak-Up's lobby. Fans circulate steamy afternoon air just enough to procrastinate the eventual sweat. This has been a worthwhile "boutique" hostel.
My eyes continue to bug-out from the sugar overdose, but I can sense my body is starting to crash. I fear for the comfort of tonight's overnight bus to Bangkok.
*
I spend two hours with my face smooshed against a pile of luggage in a van. Now we frantically order pad thai before our bus departs Suratthani for Bangkok. This bus has: AC, hippies, Canadian climbers, and terrible movies.
***
01/26
Upon completing my intensely-spicy chicken-with-rice-breakfast, the middle-aged female chef waves to see if I enjoyed the neighborhood flavor. I give an "ok" sign and smile (eyebrows shooting-up uncontrollably), but, quietly, I am just glad I'm within the oscillating fan's range. The breakfast nook is tucked into a 10x10 building corner, and behind me is a slotted metal gate that could be pulled-up to reveal a city secret. This intersection is alive with women cooking at carts, two general stores, and a barber. Neighbors laugh and mopeds thump by before roaring down the major alleys.
And while my introduction to Bangkok is pleasant and even encouraging, Ryan's was not. He wakes me from uncomfortable-but-Benadryl-induced bus sleep at 4 am:
"Some guy stole my money." He continues to talk, but I'm groggy and still have a bandanna over my eyes and plugs in my ears.
"Huh?" I prepare for conversation and remove my ear plugs.
He leans over the seat in front of me and explains that he woke to his water bottle rolling freely and knew his bag (holding the bottle in place) had been moved. When he found the bag along the staircase to the driver, he immediately conducted an inventory only find 5,000 Thai Baht missing (~$150).
I encourage cautious confrontation, but I really know the money's long-gone. I check my locked bag; all contents remain...back to sleep.
When we stop at Who-knows-where, Bangkok, we're rushed off the bus. Ryan's already raising his voice to confront the bus driver and workers--to no avail. A nosy bystander asks why he's so angry and then butts out when he responds. He bangs on the bus window, but the driver is already leaving. Two other passengers realize they've been robbed as well:
1) All his money (except for 200 Thai Baht) and his debit card, and
2)500 Thai Baht and a credit card.
Everyone's passports remain. I thank my past self for being cautious and locking my bags--even my shoddy locks dissuade petty theft.
After a smiley and accommodating Joy checks us in to U-Baan Guesthouse, I realize someone has pilfered through my big bag's unlocked opening; finding only a sleeping bag, ratty clothes, and some Starbucks "Vias," the scofflaw determined me an unworthy target. I again thank my past self.
Now, Ryan sleeps. I have been ignoring the cheesy music blaring from the TV (old Bollywood-esque, mariachi trumpets, glockenspiel, and bongos). Perhaps it is time to check-on my sleeping companion. I ask the smiley shop assistant to pause from packing "to-go" spicy pepper sachets so she can take my money.
*
Back in the air-conditioned room, I don't mind a few minutes of cool air so Ryan can sleep and so I can plan an attack on Bangkok's endless number of sites. I'm eager to get going, and my coffee has hit with full-swing.
And with the decision to return to The US, I can confidently dedicate myself to all the opportunities I will regret should I have chosen to not pursue them: travel, exploration, education, networking, writing, connecting. I make goals for the semester.
I gently wake Ryan, but I can tell by how quickly he shuts his eyes that he's not getting-up. We negotiate to meet for dinner, and I set out for a day of solo site-seeing.
*
I patiently stroll the ascending ramp of the Bangkok Art and Cultural Center. I continue to feel energized and liberated by my decision to return to The US. Over a salmon and wasabi bagel sandwich, I observe how multicultural and diverse Thailand is. Good dill; good times.
*
I casually chew the ice remaining from my Thai coffee--two parts espresso, one part condensed milk--and wait for the afternoon rains to pass. A bird's song falls like a "coo" before rising in a melodious "chirp" followed by three shorter "chirp-whoops." It's a sound reminiscent of the bird house of my childhood's Denver Zoo.
The rain ripples the surface of a coy pond at Jim Thompson's House. The confused coy mouth the surface hoping each drop is actually a fallen insect. I'm jealous of Thompson's lush gardens and teak houses; a collector of "Oriental" art, Thompson accumulated gorgeous carvings for furniture and doors, Buddhist paintings (on cloth) for decoration, and porcelain ceramics for dinnerware. He even found the occasional Buddhist or Hindu statue to guard or bless his doorways. And though the collection is undoubtedly priceless, the house and its contents retain a quiet and enviable humility that echoes of spirituality.
I daydream about collecting, and two Italian tourists order decaf cappuccinos--the bestriped man bjorn-ing a whispy-haired baby in a dress. Waitresses tend tables and offer the occasional "sawat dii" ("welcome") to newcomers.
No more ice; no more drizzle. I pay and palm my hands together; with a nod, "Krap kohn" ("thank you").
*
Budget tip of the day: seek out an Apple store or Apple reseller for free Internet.
In Siam Square, I wash a newly bought ear ring with Purell--strange how incomplete I feel without this tiny piece of metal. I proceed to Arawan Shrine and wonder if I will need to remove my earring for coming job interviews.
Just half-a-mile-down the noisy and traffic-jammed street, modern Buddhists light incense, praise Buddha, and then check their iPhones. Meanwhile, eight women (dressed in shiny and colored traditional dress and pointed golden hats with spangles) dance and sing along with a tabla and some sort of xylophone-esque instrument. Flies enjoy the coconut and pineapple offerings as much as tourists enjoy the saffron colored flowers and smokey haze rising in front of the shrine with an enormous shopping complex background. Finger cymbals seem to mark the rhythm of the flame dancing in a lantern meant for incense. Chinese tourists gawk at the couple on the bench to my left: a man and a transvestite or transgender woman--a "lady boy." Her appearance is noteworthy not because of her obvious trans nature, but because her head is nearly twice the size of her partner's--consequently, her features are notably larger.
The setting sun as reflected on the towering shopping complex kiddy-corner to the Arawan Shrine indicates it is time to return to U-Baan Guesthouse and Ryan.
*
I pause my iPod to stand with the Thais showing respect for their king and national anthem. Other foreigners plow onto the Sky Train, and I briefly wonder if this is a flash mob before recalling Lonely Planet advice to pay respect with the Thais at sunrise and sundown. I recall Trafalgar Square's flash mob in 2008.
No one stares here; I am still a foreigner, but I don't feel the isolation I do while living as a foreigner in China. Also, this city feels significantly less dirty than any in China; but this country demands less integration effort than China--exertions that have helped me learn and grow in China.
*
After Ryan's torpor fades over our first dinner dish, we play menu roulette and each pick a random item written in Thai. He gets flat noodles with chicken and friend egg served with a sort of Thai taco sauce; I get miscellaneous accoutrements over rice: chicken, liver, squid, and shrimp. It's been just over two hours since eating that, and I am thankful that I am not sick [yet].
Redacted
***
01/27
A strange dream about graduating from high school, estranged cousins I have never met, and no one saving me a seat at a ceremony.
Cold showers, train tickets to Chiang Mai, scams in front of the palace (about paying for borrowed pants to show respect on palace grounds), free rental pants (XXL), heat, sweat.
The palaces golden spires, ornately designed temple buildings. Impatience with the crowd. Incredible interior to the Emerald Buddha shrine, every surface covered with beautiful decoration. A weapons museum with a personalized gun for the "king of Siam."
Pad se ew at a pier alleyway--on a network of floating cafes and shops. Heat and exhaustion triumph while we wait for a boat to the palace in the north of the city; we retreat to our guesthouse for cold showers and quiet air-con time.
More menu roulette results in rice soup with squid. Other patrons are impressed with our bravery.
Movies, Books, Music, T.V.: Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, Molokai by , "Punching in a Dream" by The Naked and Famous, Tycho, Undun by The Roots, Strange Mercy by St. Vincent.
 |
| Thai style |
01/17
I watch the sunset beyond the backside of the wings. Because of visa restrictions and unexpected inquiries at the ticket desk in Hawaii, I'm not even sure that I can enter Thailand without an onward ticket--I just have the plan to walk across the border to Cambodia.
After reading last year's journal entries, I begin a line of questioning about my direction and my context. I come to a conclusion that I do not feel lost, but I am certainly not feeling as engaged in my daily life as I would like to be.
***
01/18
Luckily, there are no problems getting into Bangkok, meeting Ryan, or getting a cheap and satisfactory hotel for the night.
 |
| Similans |
During a flight from Bangkok to Phuket, I talk with an American communications contractor who used to work for the military in Afghanistan. He hints at suspicious activities and documents legitimizing U.S. presence there; and on a more terrifying note, he leans the conversation towards allusion to increasing tumult with Pakistan.
A brief afternoon downpour while we wait to leave for our live-aboard scuba trip.
Eager yet mellow divers, pineapple jelly cookies, an abundance of fruit and tea. An elderly man offers me a J as we sit on the sundeck of the dive boat and watch a distant beacon become the scattered lights around a fishing dinghy. I graciously decline being aware of movies like Midnight Express and Brokedown Palace. Electric storms blend with flashing Christmas lights in our boat's dining area. A warm breeze circulates through the hallway that admits to our cabin with two bunk-beds. An artist from Brooklyn and a French traveler with an abundance of dives. Sleep approaches quickly.
***
01/19
In the lethargic moments before I reluctantly rise for a sunrise coffee, I wonder about past relationships and where those people have gone.
Now I watch fiery red streaks melt into tangerines and peaches across a cloud-dusted sky. Is there anyone on the other boats in this harbor who wakes and writes in parallel? With equal part sadness over personal estrangement and part appreciation for this moment?
Blue glints off the rippling water, somehow finding a reflection of a sky that has not yet emerged. And the calm surf massages smooth rock-faces of a Similan Island.
After a few moments thinking about the eye color of past girlfriends, I start to wonder more about the directions my thoughts naturally flow these days. Are my thoughts driven by pride? Or, by loneliness? Perhaps I am seeking inspiration--a tighter grip on a past always imagined to be better than this present?
I hate letting-go, but I know its necessity.
The boat lurches forward from anchor, and other divers futilely photograph this morning's elusive brilliance. I am awake, and my coffee mug is drained.
*
 |
| Pustulous Wart Slug |
Not a bad schedule. I peel myself off the blue plastic cushion on a wooden deck chair. Fifteen minutes of lite napping next to Juliette (the French diver) and two North Carolinans as someone's iPod shuffles and soft tides rock me back-and-forth.
Ryan peruses a fish almanac; he creates a "to-see" list. He's taken up a pocket journal, in which he jots notes and sketches in a way that is far more capturing than my own ways.
I turn to a Nescafe with condensed milk while chatting with Stefan and Anna, the Swedish couple who dive in our group (led by French Canadian Martinne).
"Your write everyday?" I'm reminded of days in Namibia and afternoons with a lazy, old cheetah named Goetters.
"I stick to Muay Thai boxing and scuba," another American on board admits in lieu of me asking about her skiing in Michigan.
The sunscreen starts to sting the corners of my eyes, and I read about the dangers of a stonefish sting: "Day 6: Trip to local witch doctor unsuccessful." Others jump into the crystal clear waters from the boat's third deck.
 |
| Dental hygiene at depth |
01/20
The International Game of Rhythm consumes our free time. It is a puzzle, and the whole point of the game is figuring out how to play the game. Simple and enjoyable for those who like riddles; obnoxious and infectious for those who don't.
Ryan video tapes me underwater instead of taking a picture--he explores the camera's features.
Juliette's house music thumps through the dining deck, Ryan deals a hand of Rummy, Abbey (the animator) studies for her Advanced Open Water test, and Matt and Chris (the NC-ans) help an Argentinian dive leader with The International Game of Rhythm.
Today's first dive was an unfortunate string of set-backs: I lost the clip for the camera (putting the camera at risk of sinking to irretrievable depths for the remainder of the dive), sunscreen seeped into each one of my eyes (one-after-the-other), low visibility below, a strong current, [consequently] quickly depleted air, swimming hard into blue nothingness for ten minutes, ascending into a school of jellies, and hearing about others' fantastic dives. By the time I'm eating my banana pancake, a headache sets in; I wonder if I don't have some decompression illness thanks to being distracted and distressed dealing with my underwater issues while monitoring my dive stats.
Light-hearted Abbey jokes with Ivan, the Chilean dive leader. I enjoy the pattern on her dress that reminds me of material from a Laura Ingalls Wilder story. She tells me about her blog, and I offer some ideas until I can sense I am overstepping my contribution quota. I ask some questions about what its like to be a professional animator, and she tells me stories about clients--including one about turning-down an offer from a major pharmaceutical company.
Juliette apologizes: "I just have two songs by Chromeo--"
Koh Tachai fades into the distance, I sketch the titan triggerfish that attempted to attack me while protecting its nest (it successfully scared my testicles to recede), and a fishing dinghy crosses our wake. The music takes a turn for the headache.
***
01/22
 |
| Juvenile Emperor Angelfish |
Someone shuts down the Kings of Leon in favor of Afropop. I smile and am all the more reminded of Namibian choirs on Sunday mornings.
I can tell that someday I will be ripped away from that moment in favor of nostalgia for underwater acrobatics and made-up signals along the Richelieu Rock wall--while a current fights me and my enjoyment of a pregnant sea horse, cleaner shrimp, baby boxfish, and other rarities. I will always have the photograph of the juvenile emperor angelfish--difficult to spot despite its ornate decorations.
***
01/23
After one moderately raucous night at Walker's Inn:
-Ivan, the Chilean, reveals he is actually a sociologist amidst his PhD studies.
-I get hung over but not drunk from just five beers.
-One of the dive leaders emasculates every other man there with his unparalleled and understated manliness.
-I sleep terribly.
The morning is hot and humid, and the cramped bus to Phuket amplifies aforementioned irritation.
***
01/24
 |
| Krabi dragon |
I'm painfully reminded of my difficulty in finding work in The U.S. Regardless, I start thinking about other plans for the years to come.
Lunch conversations with Peace Corps teachers who make far less but live equally enriching lives in China lead to more questions about purpose, direction, and decisions.
I realize I needn't worry so much while on vacation and working in a job that puts food on my table. Still, I am aware of the questions:
How much does fear of alternatives or a lack thereof keep me where I am?
Am I treading water?
*
After two more curries and lassies at Arun, a delicious eatery down the street from our Pak-Up hostel, we wait for our rotis and write in our respective journals.
Within an hour, we seek air-conditioned refuge in our hostel room. I contemplate alternative career paths. Other hostelers talk about the Full Moon Party.
***
01/25
I have been on vacation for more than a month already! I only realize it as I write the date. I don't have the same eagerness to return to work that I did after a month of vacation last year.
Actually, I wake-up feeling driven and organized. I follow a sequence of thoughts that connect the dots between where I am (professionally and personally) with what I want to do. I realize how crucial furthering my education will be to developing my ideas and skills. As per usual, I create a list: a list of steps to move forward.
The sugar high from a post-lunch Thai coffee keeps my hands shaking as I write from a beanbag in Pak-Up's lobby. Fans circulate steamy afternoon air just enough to procrastinate the eventual sweat. This has been a worthwhile "boutique" hostel.
My eyes continue to bug-out from the sugar overdose, but I can sense my body is starting to crash. I fear for the comfort of tonight's overnight bus to Bangkok.
*
I spend two hours with my face smooshed against a pile of luggage in a van. Now we frantically order pad thai before our bus departs Suratthani for Bangkok. This bus has: AC, hippies, Canadian climbers, and terrible movies.
***
Upon completing my intensely-spicy chicken-with-rice-breakfast, the middle-aged female chef waves to see if I enjoyed the neighborhood flavor. I give an "ok" sign and smile (eyebrows shooting-up uncontrollably), but, quietly, I am just glad I'm within the oscillating fan's range. The breakfast nook is tucked into a 10x10 building corner, and behind me is a slotted metal gate that could be pulled-up to reveal a city secret. This intersection is alive with women cooking at carts, two general stores, and a barber. Neighbors laugh and mopeds thump by before roaring down the major alleys.
And while my introduction to Bangkok is pleasant and even encouraging, Ryan's was not. He wakes me from uncomfortable-but-Benadryl-induced bus sleep at 4 am:
"Some guy stole my money." He continues to talk, but I'm groggy and still have a bandanna over my eyes and plugs in my ears.
"Huh?" I prepare for conversation and remove my ear plugs.
He leans over the seat in front of me and explains that he woke to his water bottle rolling freely and knew his bag (holding the bottle in place) had been moved. When he found the bag along the staircase to the driver, he immediately conducted an inventory only find 5,000 Thai Baht missing (~$150).
I encourage cautious confrontation, but I really know the money's long-gone. I check my locked bag; all contents remain...back to sleep.
When we stop at Who-knows-where, Bangkok, we're rushed off the bus. Ryan's already raising his voice to confront the bus driver and workers--to no avail. A nosy bystander asks why he's so angry and then butts out when he responds. He bangs on the bus window, but the driver is already leaving. Two other passengers realize they've been robbed as well:
1) All his money (except for 200 Thai Baht) and his debit card, and
2)500 Thai Baht and a credit card.
Everyone's passports remain. I thank my past self for being cautious and locking my bags--even my shoddy locks dissuade petty theft.
After a smiley and accommodating Joy checks us in to U-Baan Guesthouse, I realize someone has pilfered through my big bag's unlocked opening; finding only a sleeping bag, ratty clothes, and some Starbucks "Vias," the scofflaw determined me an unworthy target. I again thank my past self.
Now, Ryan sleeps. I have been ignoring the cheesy music blaring from the TV (old Bollywood-esque, mariachi trumpets, glockenspiel, and bongos). Perhaps it is time to check-on my sleeping companion. I ask the smiley shop assistant to pause from packing "to-go" spicy pepper sachets so she can take my money.
*
Back in the air-conditioned room, I don't mind a few minutes of cool air so Ryan can sleep and so I can plan an attack on Bangkok's endless number of sites. I'm eager to get going, and my coffee has hit with full-swing.
And with the decision to return to The US, I can confidently dedicate myself to all the opportunities I will regret should I have chosen to not pursue them: travel, exploration, education, networking, writing, connecting. I make goals for the semester.
I gently wake Ryan, but I can tell by how quickly he shuts his eyes that he's not getting-up. We negotiate to meet for dinner, and I set out for a day of solo site-seeing.
*
I patiently stroll the ascending ramp of the Bangkok Art and Cultural Center. I continue to feel energized and liberated by my decision to return to The US. Over a salmon and wasabi bagel sandwich, I observe how multicultural and diverse Thailand is. Good dill; good times.
*
I casually chew the ice remaining from my Thai coffee--two parts espresso, one part condensed milk--and wait for the afternoon rains to pass. A bird's song falls like a "coo" before rising in a melodious "chirp" followed by three shorter "chirp-whoops." It's a sound reminiscent of the bird house of my childhood's Denver Zoo.
The rain ripples the surface of a coy pond at Jim Thompson's House. The confused coy mouth the surface hoping each drop is actually a fallen insect. I'm jealous of Thompson's lush gardens and teak houses; a collector of "Oriental" art, Thompson accumulated gorgeous carvings for furniture and doors, Buddhist paintings (on cloth) for decoration, and porcelain ceramics for dinnerware. He even found the occasional Buddhist or Hindu statue to guard or bless his doorways. And though the collection is undoubtedly priceless, the house and its contents retain a quiet and enviable humility that echoes of spirituality.
I daydream about collecting, and two Italian tourists order decaf cappuccinos--the bestriped man bjorn-ing a whispy-haired baby in a dress. Waitresses tend tables and offer the occasional "sawat dii" ("welcome") to newcomers.
No more ice; no more drizzle. I pay and palm my hands together; with a nod, "Krap kohn" ("thank you").
 |
| Jim Thompson's Place |
Budget tip of the day: seek out an Apple store or Apple reseller for free Internet.
In Siam Square, I wash a newly bought ear ring with Purell--strange how incomplete I feel without this tiny piece of metal. I proceed to Arawan Shrine and wonder if I will need to remove my earring for coming job interviews.
 |
| Arawan status update |
The setting sun as reflected on the towering shopping complex kiddy-corner to the Arawan Shrine indicates it is time to return to U-Baan Guesthouse and Ryan.
*
I pause my iPod to stand with the Thais showing respect for their king and national anthem. Other foreigners plow onto the Sky Train, and I briefly wonder if this is a flash mob before recalling Lonely Planet advice to pay respect with the Thais at sunrise and sundown. I recall Trafalgar Square's flash mob in 2008.
No one stares here; I am still a foreigner, but I don't feel the isolation I do while living as a foreigner in China. Also, this city feels significantly less dirty than any in China; but this country demands less integration effort than China--exertions that have helped me learn and grow in China.
*
After Ryan's torpor fades over our first dinner dish, we play menu roulette and each pick a random item written in Thai. He gets flat noodles with chicken and friend egg served with a sort of Thai taco sauce; I get miscellaneous accoutrements over rice: chicken, liver, squid, and shrimp. It's been just over two hours since eating that, and I am thankful that I am not sick [yet].
***
01/27
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| Meditations to be had |
Cold showers, train tickets to Chiang Mai, scams in front of the palace (about paying for borrowed pants to show respect on palace grounds), free rental pants (XXL), heat, sweat.
The palaces golden spires, ornately designed temple buildings. Impatience with the crowd. Incredible interior to the Emerald Buddha shrine, every surface covered with beautiful decoration. A weapons museum with a personalized gun for the "king of Siam."
Pad se ew at a pier alleyway--on a network of floating cafes and shops. Heat and exhaustion triumph while we wait for a boat to the palace in the north of the city; we retreat to our guesthouse for cold showers and quiet air-con time.
More menu roulette results in rice soup with squid. Other patrons are impressed with our bravery.
Movies, Books, Music, T.V.: Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, Molokai by , "Punching in a Dream" by The Naked and Famous, Tycho, Undun by The Roots, Strange Mercy by St. Vincent.
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