Don’t Read This

it has been two months since I’ve reached full inoculation.
This year and change has been a journey. For everyone. There are many ruminations like it; these are mine.
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We entered the pandemic inspired, thinking it would be a few months. I sang, did porch recitals, felt inspired to create during a brief time. I visited regularly with a friend close by, who had terminal cancer.
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Just weeks into the shutdown, on April 15, everything was upended. We rushed to Canada to be with Luke’s mother as she passed. The entire experience was surreal https://medium.com/@phreddiva/border-crossing-in-the-time-of-covid19-dfaea33b08f3, and we were incredibly fortunate. People were incredibly kind, both in Canada, and here. I left Luke and his brother for the final days, coming home to take care of the cat. Luke said “I can’t lose my mom and my cat in the same year” and sent me home. I said goodbye to the last person in my life with the title “mother”, knowing I would never see her again. I keep thinking I don’t have the fortitude to do this again, and then I do it again.
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I was alone with the cat for a few weeks. It was still so early in the pandemic, we didn’t have pods, and were still spraying down groceries. I sang a porch recital, which my mother-in-law attended virtually. She died two days later, on May 17. I found out via text – I had texted her a photo of a lady bug minutes earlier – she hadn’t responded.
My sister-in-law (my brother-in-law’s partner) came over that night. She came into the house and we cried, collapsing into each other. She was the first person I had touched since leaving Canada on the 4th. The trauma, devastation, and isolation of those weeks left what I believe is a permanent scar. Friends were kind; they dropped off food and sent flowers. But not being able to go into a home and feel love and family shattered something within me. Luke returned home a week later, and went almost immediately back to work.
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Construction was considered “essential” in terms of going back to work, but was never prioritized for vaccinations in California. A botched roll-out meant that he was scrambling for vaccination slots long after many people who had been isolated at home for a year received theirs.
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Summer came. I, who have never experienced depression (my mental illness landscape leans anxious), would awaken on a Saturday, eat my coddled egg, and go immediately back to bed. Luke saw this happen once and, the second time, collected me into the car (he drove my car – he rarely drives my car. It was that bad.) and drove. One weekend, North. Another weekend, South. Then North again. A plan hatched. We decided to purchase a beautiful snippet of the California coast, in the Banana belt (area of the South Mendocino coast with significantly less fog than the surrounding areas), close enough to do a rocket run if necessary, far enough to feel removed. Arty. Stunning. We ended up with more than we could have hoped; redwood trees, an ocean view. County (not well) water. Aerobic septic. Coast Development Permit. Deeded access through the neighbor’s property to the beach.
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During this time, Jasper got sick. Very sick. I illogically berated myself, with the “I had just one job this year (keep the cat alive), and I’m failing at it” refrain. We were devastated. For six horrific nights, we called OakVet at two in the morning, crying. Asking for photos. Through miracles beyond conceiving, he came home. A few weeks later, due to returning infection, he ended up in the hospital again; for three days this time. I barely mentioned it. People had, again, been so kind. It felt too much to tax everyone again.
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In between those two vet stays, my friend with terminal cancer died.
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I went into myself. We grieved. We all grieved.
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I isolated. more. More than that. Still more than that.
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I cultivated a murder of crows that brought me my first shiny rock last week.

I donated my trusty steed, Thor, after 20 years, 17 trips to Burning Man. I was sad, and it was time.
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I realized that I do not process information and inputs the way most people do. I realized the impact this has had on relationships, on work, the way I over-explain to strangers, the way I take people at their word. I’ve disassembled my relationships, looking at them through this lens, and everything is so much more clear now. Where there was turmoil before, I am left with clarity. Where there was caution before, I proceed with love.
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My friends have shown themselves. I spent a long time listening to words instead of following actions. I made a spreadsheet to remember actions. I’ve been told I shouldn’t tell people I have a spreadsheet, but I am evidence-based, and trauma erases memory, so here we are. What matters is… I know. I have evidence. I have evidence of love, and care, and I have ceased casting energy into voids. Besides, who’s even read this far?
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People asked me to speak. This was happening before the pandemic, and is happening more now. Speak to their kids about being realistic about going into the arts. About being a successful weirdo – and how we define success. Speak to girls about being realistic about going into tech. Speak about things just for fun! I can dive deep into my passions and there are others who do the same, and there is an audience. My authenticity is complimented, which is great, because I don’t know another way. My authenticity has also infuriated people. The right people, in most cases. Being a beacon and representing an untold perspective is not something I always find necessary but, speaking of voids, when I see one I feel quite literally honor-bound to speak to it. Those infuriated were hoping the void would remain unnoticed. Silent.
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Voids grow.
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I am seeking voids. Voids in my own knowledge, blind spots. I’m inhaling books and podcasts and articles about race and white privilege because my advantage is achingly unfair, and on the list of Things I Can’t Abide, imbalance and unfairness are showstoppers. It’s overwhelming, as it should be.
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The silence has been lovely. My misophonia, hatred of being interrupted, dislike of people in what I perceive to be “my personal space”, discomfort with unscheduled interactions, have all been quieted this year while my brain calms itself. I can observe myself, my reactions, my interactions, my emotions. I actually know what I want, what I like, now. I am not sorry, or apologetic, for my wants, for being clear about what I need to be comfortable. I’ll always over-explain it, but I am done apologizing for it. For the first time, instead of worrying constantly about how my desires might possibly inconvenience others and putting my desires and wants second to someone else’s, I am honoring what I want. What I desire. And realizing that most people do this. I’m not resentful that I spent years considering feelings of those who didn’t do the same for me… but I am definitely thankful to have finally figured out. I’ve realized that there is no bigger red flag to indicate an imbalanced relationship than “but I thought we were friends” as a refrain to stepping on boundaries. That people who constantly challenge boundaries will never relent, are not friends. That people who consider my feelings are friends, and they are rare and gorgeous.
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I love my home. My life. The world I’ve created. My love. This pause has given me time to really sit with what I’ve worked for; work on myself. The hurdle upon hurdle of the constant striving that is the tech industry. The deep investment in another human being that is marriage, true partnership, regardless of legal bonds. I paused for a moment to see how far I’ve come and it’s expansive and unexpected and I am exhausted and proud. I am ready to craft the next chapter, thoughtfully.
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This is a love letter. An unapologetic love letter. I am bruised and scarred, but so are we all. I like and love myself better than I did going in, and my likes and loves are wrapped around me. May I never mistake words for care, nor take you for granted, again.
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I am better than I was going in. Vastly. Better for myself, better to those who love me, better to those I love. The quiet moments on my porch, in my backyard, in another backyard, on the phone, runs and walks on the beach, texts upon texts, have been my lifeline. My deep, unbroken connection to myself, to who I am in the world. The footprints on my heart and the footprints left by others, I cherish. I won’t go back.

Border Crossing in the Time of Covid19

The call came at 9:57 Wednesday morning. 37 days since I started working from home per company mandate, 29 days into California lockdown, 18 days since the last time I’d set foot in a building that wasn’t my home, and that was a masked/gloved grocery shopping trip.

We’d found out it was bad in late February, and decided not to head up before our planned trip the first week of April. We’d canceled that trip mid-March, certain that things wouldn’t get so bad with her before we could visit again. We were doing video conference calls, 2–3 times a week, chatting and keeping each other company. So the mid-morning call was shocking. We weren’t prepared for this. Hadn’t planned on this. We plan on everything. Ok, I do. My husband’s voice broke as he asked me to book a flight for the next day — Seattle/Vancouver, didn’t matter — and a rental car. No context, but I knew. I asked anyway, and he said simply, “she’s going downhill fast”.

Search sites revealed mediocre options. I’m a nervous flyer and, even if I wasn’t joining him, I didn’t want him on a non-major-carrier, making a sad and nerve-wracking journey worse. I hunted online for a bit before pivoting into what I knew needed to be. I closed the computer, calling my best friend, running to the basement for suitcases. I grabbed passports. I called my manager. I flung clothing into my suitcase, grabbed the gifts we’d planned to bring “whenever we could get there” and, by the time my husband got home at around 10:30, had decided that we were driving, and that I was going with him. I love her. She is one of the last maternal figures in my life. I’ve known her since I was 15, since her home was a haven to rebels hiding from parents. We were so misunderstood! And I wasn’t leaving my husband alone to face this. I had been left alone to face this once and made a vow to never do that to another human being that I loved. We piled things into the car haphazardly; suitcases, bags of personal protective equipment; sanitizer, gloves, masks, paper towels. And, yes, toilet paper. We took all the snacks from the house; we weren’t risking going into a gas station. We called my dad and our cat sitter to let them know, begging them for help, and hit the road at 12:15.

(All that travel last year meant my international travel preparation game was strong. I am still wishing I’d packed a pair of sweat pants, though.)

We left the Bay Area, and Redding was our first gas stop. We used gloves, we sprayed down the credit card. We got drive through In N Out. I got out of the car to retrieve the food and walk it to the parking lot, spraying the containers, my husband following me in the car to pay. We ate outside in the parking lot. We… did not use bathrooms (sorry, rural roads, thank you, lots and lots of camping trips).

We stopped again for gas in middle-Oregon, waiting until after 6 so that an attendant would not attempt to pump gas for us. An attendant was there anyway; we left a tip, after pumping our own gas. We noted the hearts in the lights of the buildings in Portland. We smiled as we drove through, texting “wave” to our friends there.

Our last gas stop was in Rochester, WA. Noted the hearts on the buildings in Seattle. It was 1:05 AM, too late to text “wave” to our friends there

I was driving when we reached the Canadian border at 2:57 AM. We were exhausted. We were concerned; not overly so, just generally trepidatious. “What if they don’t let me in? I guess you could turn back and drop me in Seattle, and I could rent a car and you could go ahead without me…?” We didn’t have much of a contingency plan. We had no plan at all aside from getting to her.

As we neared the border, the signs changed from “Staying home is saving lives. Keep it up, WA” to “Border crossings closed to nonessential travel”.

We had chosen the truck crossing. There was no one there. A single lane was open, absolutely everything else closed. We were the only car — no cars ahead of us for the time leading up to the border, none behind us.

The tall man in the booth (gloves, no mask) looked at us dubiously as he took our passports — my U.S., my husband’s Canadian. His face impassive, he said “we can let him in. I don’t think we can let you in.” We paused. “Why are you essential?” “He’s not even sure he can drive safely,” I said. He called his colleague over. A blonde woman with a knit cap. She stayed in the corner of the booth, nodding as he spoke. “Not only am I not sure we can let you in, but if we do let you in, we need to know that you can quarantine for 14 days. Can you quarantine for 14 days?” “Yes, we have an AirBNB cabin on the property where we’ll be staying. It’s fully separate from the house.” We went back and forth for some time there, no one coming up behind us. We were asked the usual questions — total value of items in the car. Any alcohol. Any weapons.

“We’ll be going through your whole vehicle.” “Of course.”

We gave our email addresses, our phone numbers. They are, absolutely, tracking our phones. We gave the address where we’d be staying. The name of the AirBNB when where we’re staying is rented out. We repeated an oath — that we understood what coming in would mean. That we understood we risked a 1,000,000 CA fine and/or 3 years in jail if we were found to be in breach of the oath. I don’t think my husband needed to read it aloud, but he did, with me. It was 3:15 and we got a lot of the words wrong. We were delirious. This man could not approve me. He did not know what to do with me. I got the sense that this was, for good reason, a rare situation. He had to bring us in. He had our passports, and directed us to park and come in. We drove to “lane 1” — again, the only car anywhere — donned masks and gloves (how strange to put on a mask to enter a government building), and headed inside. I have blue hair. Was wearing my travel t-shirt; a giant photo of our ginger cat, looking pensively up at us. He looks cute, but he just wants snacks. We were met with the same man, another, younger, smaller man, a brown haired shitkicker looking woman who I liked because she wasn’t trying to be nice or warm, which reminded me of me, and the Canadian border version of Hank from Breaking Bad. These were the only people in the building, and they were all at our counter. We were the only people trying to cross. These people wanted to help my husband. They did not want to help me.

Younger, smaller man:

“You drove straight from the Bay Area.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a long drive. What time did you leave?”

“About noon.”

“So you didn’t stop.”

“Just for gas. Three times.”

“No hotel?”

“No. We didn’t even use restrooms.”

“OK. Well, he can come in. I’m not sure you can.”

“If it matters, I haven’t had contact with anyone but my husband since the 28th.”

Hank:

“It doesn’t matter. The US numbers are bad.”

“I’m from the Bay Area. Our numbers are better than most of the US…?”

“They’re still much worse than ours.”

“I understand.”

Brown haired shit-kicker woman, to her colleagues:

“We need to call this up to CBSA.”

Hank:

“Wait… over there.”

We stepped away from the counter to the center of the room. I curled up into my husband. I apologized for complicating this trip — it was the last thing I wanted. We waited.

First guy:

“Ok, so are you two…?”

“We’re married.”

“Do you have evidence of that?”

Thankfully, we’re in the middle of a refinance. I pulled out my phone, where I had, just last week, taken photos of our marriage license.

“How long have you been married?”

“7 years.”

[I left out “She married us.”]

…

“Do you have health insurance?”

“I do, through my employer.”

“Who’s your employer?”

“[Fortune 500 software company]”

Younger, smaller guy perks up.

“What do you do for them?”

I tell them. Then, “We have great insurance. Plus, I can get help anywhere in the world, if I need it.”

“Yeah, they’re a good company. Big.”

“We have rockstar insurance.”

First guy:

“Because we can’t have you taking a hospital bed from a Canadian who needs it.”

“I absolutely understand. I wish our government cared as much about us.”

“You’re a risk.”

“I understand.”

Smaller guy:

“Tell me more about the residence where you’ll be staying.”

I describe the AirBNB; the completely separate free-standing structure about 50’ from the main house. The kitchen, loft, fireplace.

“Please wait.”

We go back to the center of the room again. We are exhausted, hopeless, making the plan to turn back.

“Come on over.”

…

“We’re going to let you in. Because you have proof of marriage, and good health insurance… and because we know this isn’t a trip you wanted to take.”

I don’t waterworks very often. I certainly don’t authority-waterworks, because they know it’s a blatant attempt at manipulation, and because it’s not productive. When I heard these words, I burst into tears. I couldn’t hold it together. Mask on, mask still on, never off, we retrieved our passports. I thanked them.

To my husband: “We know you’re going to see your [her]. You’re a citizen. We can’t stop you. You [to me] need to stay in the other building.”

“Absolutely.”

“You made it past federal. In about half a block, there’s a road block. It’s provincial. They need to know where you’re going to be quarantining. If you can’t prove that, it won’t matter that you passed here because they’re just going to turn you right around.”

“Thank you.”

“Good luck. With everything.”

We left the building. On the landing outside, we held each other. Shaking. We walked back to the car, discarding gloves, removing masks, sanitizing hands. They did not, in the end, go through our car.

My husband drove. It turns out he could drive. And, 1/2 block later, a full barricade. We rolled down the window. A red-haired man there asked where we were going, the purpose of our visit. We told him.

“Do you have accommodation?”

“We do.”

“Do you have accommodation where you can quarantine for 14 days?”

“We do.”

“You’re not supposed to stop for anything until you get to your destination. Do you have enough gas to get to [a 40 minute ferry ride and an hour drive north of Vancouver]?”

“Yes, we just tanked up.”

The ginger took my husband’s passport. He was 2 feet from the car, no mask, no gloves. He took our names, phone numbers. We got paperwork outlining Canada’s rules on Covid 19. They did not ask for any of my documentation at the provincial stop.

We were cleared. Our adrenaline spiked, we drove from the border to the ferry, arriving at 4:50 AM. We parked, falling asleep repeatedly until it was time to board the ferry. We slept the entire ferry ride.

We made it to our destination. A beautiful respite of trees and wildlife.

She saw us passing the house, through her window, to the cabin out back that would be our quarantine home.

“Just kidding, I’m not really sick,” she yelled to us. We broke up laughing. It was 9 AM exactly.

Would that she were kidding. But that she can joke means we got here at the right time.

Until 2 weeks from now, when we can hug, I am here, quiet. Had we flown, had we arrived separately, I would be back home by now.

Forced peace, a gift from the Canadian government, at the closing of a life.

[ETA: My husband’s brother, a Canadian citizen with expired passport, was allowed in with a lot of questioning and the same quarantine restrictions just a few hours later. HER (the she in question) sister, not a citizen, was turned away at the border and may not see her sister again in this lifetime.]

Border crossing closed

These things I know

There will be more. But to start.

I know that Ellinor did her job. When, on her deathbed 20 years ago this year, my mother asked her to look out for me, Ellinor took that job seriously and raised me into adulthood in a way I never expected, but in a way that my mother absolutely knew she would.

I know that I finally had the chance to grow up, to be with a mother as she went from middle to late age, to absorb her lessons, to have the timeline of which losing my mother at 22 robbed me.

I know that she waited until I was well and truly away, not just Canada, but a 40 minute drive, a 45 minute ferry ride, and another 45 minute drive, from an airport that wouldn’t have brought me anywhere near Medford for the first flight, and could never have gotten to her in time.

I know that she didn’t want me to see her sick, or weak, ever.

I know that she had two wonderful other daughters with her to guide her on the path, and that, having met them once and never, respectively, they did a brilliant job.

I know that the thought that got her out of the woods several times in the last few years was “I can’t do this to Marisa”.

I know our last real conversation was last Sunday, on my way back from church, and how excited she was that there were morels in her creek, and how she was going to prepare them, and how much her friend had sold them for, and we both forgot the word for mycologist and we both said “THAT’s right!” when I looked it up.

I know that, when her social worker put her on the phone with me on Saturday, and she was beyond speech, I said “I love you, Luke and I love you so much, and we want you to be comfortable, and it’s ok, I’ll be ok, I’ll be devastated, but I will be ok,” that it was the last time she reacted to anything; she moved her hand and tried to open her eyes.

I know that telling her that is the second-hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I know I needed to tell her to let her journey go on without me.

I know that, when people say “my love to you and her family,” I think “that’s weird. I *am* her family.” She has four daughters. I am the youngest.

I know that, when she was so sick a few years ago, one of her last thoughts before losing consciousness was “I haven’t done my taxes,” and it’s not lost on me that her taxes were done last week.

I know that she died on the six-year anniversary of the date my dear friend fell out a window and that, six years ago, she was visiting San Francisco, and talked me through it until he was declared dead four days later.

I know that I thought, for some reason, that we’d always have another conversation. But that is the nature of close friendship. It’s not long goodbyes. It’s thousands of small conversations that make up a lifetime, and no matter when one person ends their journey, it will feel like an interruption.

I know that I couldn’t have been in a better place, surrounded with trees and stillness and so much peace and love.

I know that, upon coming home, I could not escape her; glasses and dishware from her. My down comforters. The rose gold necklace she gave me that is set out for repair. Every plan I make for the last decade+ has come with “Should I visit then? When will be the next time, if I go away for the weekend?” and “Will I have to explain why we’re going to Thailand again when she thinks we’ve been too many times?” and “She’ll be happy I’m not traveling without Luke.” I know that there are 8 “favorites” in my phone and now I have to delete one of them…

I know I now have Mother’s Day weekend free, and I hate it.

I know that “What would Ellinor do” will continue to be my guiding light, and I’ll try to be honest about it, which means I have to add:

I know she was always more focused on what she didn’t know.

Thankful

Every day.
Every day my husband comes home, I hear the key turn in the lock, I am thankful. A smile crosses my face just knowing I will get to see him in moments. My heart floods with warmth, and I am content. A man who, this morning, when I said “Baby, it might not matter to you, but I’m really sad Dmitri Hvorostovsky died,” said “The Russian Baritone? Wasn’t he only 56?” and I was reminded, again, of the deeply running waters of my amazingly surprising man. Every time I see him, this is the feeling that comes over me. Seeing him happy, smiling, makes my heart smile.

When we get to curl up with our ridiculous cat, our familiar who is such a part of our lives and our home, those rare moments when we’re all sleeping in, my heart basks in warm light and I am so overwhelmed with gratitude that it brings tears to my eyes.

When I am on the way to work, I have several lady friends that I often speak with. I talk on the phone like a teenage girl – I know this, because I used to be one. Friends with whom I touch base regularly, know what’s going on in their lives, they know from day to day my little dramas, nothing big, nothing life-altering, nothing worth mentioning to the people I see less than once a month. Just… daily. It is such a joy to hear their lives, day by day, “Did you talk to that teacher?” “What happened with the desk situation at work?” I am thankful, every day, to still have friends who spend this time with me.

My best friend of 25 years, who has seen all of my ups and downs, who calls me on my shit and supports me and, despite having twins, has never made my problems feel trivial. For her I am immensely thankful.

I get to take the ferry to work. Of all of the commutes in the world, this feels so decadent. I write in my journal, I breathe deeply. I am thankful to live in this beautiful, ridiculous place, still so full of stunning nature.

My work is challenging, exhausting, wonderful. I’m surrounded by intelligent people in an environment where I am constantly expected to perform better, and we are building amazing things. It enables me to live the life I live in the Bay Area and take vacations. I am immensely thankful.

My fiercely loving, opinionated family. They’re all still talking to me, not necessarily to each other. So, I’m thankful. Wary, but thankful.

My nephew, with whom I spend a few hours a week of dedicated us time, hearing how his mind works, asking questions, marveling at the goodness in nature, giving, empathetic spirit of this small human I got to watch enter this world. I am thankful that his heart is helping to build the next generation.

Wine lunch. Some of my closest friends also moved to the island. People I have known, some of them, more than 25 years. So, there is a weekly wine lunch. I can’t drink at lunch because I fall asleep in the afternoon but, once a week, like a ridiculous sitcom that shows people hanging out talking more than any adults hang out and talk, we hang out and talk in a way I was sure, 15 years ago, was a lie. We share a meal, catch up with each other’s lives. For this moment, this touchpoint of unbelievable fortune, I am thankful.

Verismo Opera, specifically Fred Winthrop who, this year, helped me to realized the biggest operatic dream I had. I have had to set new challenges, because he helped me to blow the roof off of the old ones. For that love of learning that only other learners will understand (the rest confuse us for people who like being onstage). I am so, so thankful.

Gregangelo Herrera and Velocity Arts and Entertainment, who continue to challenge me, grow me, see me through injuries, let me play, expand my performer self, who is the first group that encouraged me to be all of me, not parceled out into easily understood parameters. I’m immeasurably thankful.

For the many opportunities I have to sing; for Entire Productions, for St. John’s Presbyterian, for the other organizations and groups that hire me, again and again, and let me live my art, I am so thankful, beyond thankful; whole.

For the artists with whom I have the opportunity to collaborate as a result of Burning Man – Sonic Runway, Center Camp Cafe, the Artumnal. To be sought out to perform in these venues… well, I didn’t know enough to dream this when I was a young weirdo singer. To have been a part of creating this…an honor of which I dared not dream. I am thankful.

For Thunderdome. But not just Thunderdome. For this evolving group of people who have grown so, so much in the 19 years I’ve been doing this crazy thing. The people that continue to be drawn to this adventure, the ass busters who match each other’s (and my) work-hard-play-hard in a way I wasn’t sure existed; brilliant people from machinist to sex worker to doctor (several!) to rigger to CTO to corporate trainer to club manager to visual artist to musician and back again, thriving with each other. We are in each other’s lives, seek out more and more ways to spend time together. We could do, literally, anything, with this group of people. These are the people I want to, am, getting old with. I am beyond humbled to be steering this ship. Thankful doesn’t cover it.

My non-Thunderfriends. People who do things like fly across the country to see me in an opera I’ve spent a year memorizing. That I can join for dinner after not seeing them for a year and we simply pick up where we left off. I am beyond rich in friends, and I can’t say why, and I’m thankful.

Every day I come home, and step up the steps of our home, and open the door, I’m thankful. My sanctuary. Sanctuary I don’t leave for days when I’m in town, because it’s warm, and lovely, and clean, and home. The feeling of that work, that payoff, a place I can call my own, make my own with my husband, is so often more of what I feel than the crushing weight of the remaining debt of the place. I wrap myself in thankfulness, in gratitude, and I stay that way most days. There is so much externally – not just my health, or that I was born in country with clean drinking water, where I cannot (technically) be persecuted for being bisexual, or pagan, or for hating our president, or for a family where going to college was going to be the bare minimum – for which I am thankful, that I can only hope to do justice to all of these gifts.

New York, 1998 : Headhunter

There was a pretty dark period in my life, thousands of miles away from my mother as she was dying.

I worked as a headhunter in Manhattan. Mostly I was an account coordinator, which meant I supported the other headhunters and occasionally placed an Executive Assistant. The office was plain, but in such a great location; right across from the library (which I never entered) and Bryant Park.

My bosses were fantastic; powerhouse women who’d started a recruiting firm together. I was the only Shiksa in the office, and they took good care of me. They knew I was broke, and “leftover” food would make its way to my desk. During that Summer, when my mother’s cancer returned and I was flying back home once a month, I spent a lot of time on the phone with Karyn. We hadn’t yet met, thought we’d been introduced, and all of the other women in the office were in their forties (THEIR FORTIES. ANCIENT!) and didn’t need jobs; their husbands worked. So, they talked on the phone a lot, gossiped with each other, kvetched. I was definitely the odd woman out. Linda Maier, in particular, was a devastation of a human being. A woman in her fifties held together with bad facelifts and a nightmare attitude, it took me until my forties to realize how very much she resented me the simple fact of my youth. I just thought she was hateful. I mean, I was right, but I didn’t know at the time, couldn’t know, why. She insisted the hotel at which I surprised my boyfriend (on a work trip) wasn’t award-winning (just Conde Nast, bitch, your husband ever take you there?). She told me I couldn’t take my lunch from 2-3, after the crowds died down, as this was “unusual” and “frowned upon”. The owners specifically pulled me aside to tell me otherwise, and remind me that Linda wasn’t my boss. Once, during a slow period, she turned to one of our other co-workers and said “It’s a good thing our husbands have jobs, isn’t it?” and looked at me and laughed. Because she knew I had to work my ass off, that I was hungry every day, that I walked several miles instead of taking the subway, to save money. I mean, I was fresh out of school; everyone does this. Again, youth.

The phone system was … old. There was shared storage for all of the voicemail messages, so we were supposed to delete them.

Except those from my dying mother. We, as a family, were sort of in denial about the dying; “metastasis” isn’t a work that’s often associated with happy endings, but we were optimistic until the end. So, I saved my mother’s messages, and they took up space, but not too much space. I kept meaning to record them, but we got the news so suddenly, there was no time.

I was in the office; I think it was August 1st. And I got the call that my mother’s cancer was terminal; she had two to six months. It had taken two days for my family on the West Coast to realize that no one had told me. I was 22. I shook. I ran to my colleague Marian’s office. Marian had been kind to me, had honestly split commissions with me 50/50 when she was only obligated to give me 5%. Had told me about her marriage, her daughter, Dev, who had come back from England with a British accent. (Dev would, a bit more than 3 years later, become the first stranger I ever picked up in my Mutant Vehicle at Burning Man. During that drive, she would tell me that she was from New York, and that she had developed the accent during her time in England. I would ask her if her mother’s name was Marian. Just a few short weeks after that, on Tuesday, September 11, I would be the person who would connect them, tell them that the other was ok, because they couldn’t make calls within New York, but long distance calls out were easier.) Marian was interviewing a candidate. She looked at me, said “Can this wait?” I didn’t respond, and she said “I’m sorry, this interview is over,” and ushered the candidate out. In hysterics, I made a plan to leave the office. I didn’t have anything that wouldn’t fit in my bag. The owners said they would call me a car, and I foolishly turned it down, insisting it would be too expensive as I lived in Jersey. I told them I should quit, as I wasn’t sure when I would be back, and I took the bus back to Jersey.

I flew home on August 3rd. I reenrolled in school, thinking I might as well finish my master’s degree if I was going to be there 2-6 months anyway; I only needed one semester to do it,  and it was a short semester.

My uncle and older cousin had visited the United States for their first, and only, time, to visit. I had been the one to tell them to come. I said, “Wenn du dein Schwester nochmal am leben sehen willst, dann musst du fliegen.” I took them driving, to my old haunts, to the wall, overlooking the Bay. The day they left was the last time my mother left the house. She died August 13th.

(I wrapped myself in the unimaginable love of those around me. It has been 19 years and I have not forgotten any act of kindness shown in that devastating time.)

I unenrolled. I went back to New York. I spent thousands and thousands of dollars on whatever I wanted, racking up a massive credit card debt. I went to Renaissance Fairs. I had my first girlfriend. I flew home for my birthday, for a couple of concerts, and on the flight back I huddled in the back of the plane in hysterics as the back of every seat showed Meryl Streep, who looked not unlike my mother, in “One True Thing”.

In early October, I went back to the placement firm. I said hello. It was my touchpoint. Plus, I had my pick of any job for which they were placing. But first, I went to check my voice mails, to collect my mother’s voice.

They were gone. They were gone, and the only person who knew the password was Linda. She’d requested it right before I left. I was in haste, and I gave it to her.

She’d deleted them. She hadn’t needed the space. She had done it because she could. That woman had taken my mother’s voice, my mother’s messages, from me, irretrievably.

Linda’s either dead by now, or she’s still old(er than I am, if she’s alive). But despite her small, shitty pettiness, and my dead mom, my life is still a million times better than hers. Because I have never once held anyone’s youth and spirit against them, and because I have decided to use her as reminder to not resent anyone the time I certainly never wasted.

Oh, and, fuck you, Linda Maier. You’re a bad person.

Fading

She tells me her stories
(I record them)

She works all day in her office while I work all day at the dining room table
(she prints out the Living Eulogy I wrote and asks me to update it)

I show her photos of Thailand while she asks all kinds of questions
(she gets mad at a photo of the perfect sand because she will never see it)

We share stories of our ribald pasts
(she tells me she wants to see Luke again…soon)

She delights in food
(she is not as hungry as she used to be)

I take her on a trip through her amazing garden
(through Skype – she cannot walk to the creek on her own)

I connect her via Skype with her friend in Italy, whom I met this Summer, and they talk for hours
(they will never see each other in person again)

I rub her feet after I take off her shoes at night
(they are cold and puffy, congestive heart failure)

We sleep until 9
(me because I went to bed at 1, her because she is in so much pain)

I cherish her as a mother, a friend of the heart
(and I get this mother into old age, unlike the other one)

I cherish every moment
(I always have…now her caretakers are telling me to cherish every moment)

Life is precious, and I love it
(no matter when it happens, it will be too soon, and I will rail against the unfairness of death)

Grand Adventure IV : vii – the boat to Kradan

A private longtail boat for hire between islands is 1200 baht.

It’s the most direct way to get where you’re going for the least amount of hassle.

You can take a speedboat or a ferry, but these things get a bit more complicated. The islands, which don’t even have streets or roads or motor vehicles, let alone a robust aquatic transportation system, rely heavily on weather; a storm can render the islands inaccessible – and un-leavable – for up to a week. In a land where 3-foot swells can seriously impact transport, you’re always at nature’s mercy.

You’re always at nature’s mercy anyway, but here there are fewer trappings to help you forget it.

I booked the speedboat. I’d seen them pull right up onto the sand in Koh Ngai (Koh Hai, or Nngg-Hai, if you get really good at it), and opted for that method of leaving for Koh Krahdan. Koh Ngai is the bigger of the two islands – fully two kilometers of lovely beach and water, resorts, longtails, relaxation, beach bars, and the friendliest people you’ll meet.

I thought I’d want to sleep in. This was also a mistake. The seas pick up the further in the day you go, and thirty minutes can make a huge difference.

Also, I was staying at a cheaper hotel, and this hotel didn’t have its own longtail; it had a tiny yellow-and-white power boat. The power boat would take me to the meeting point for the other boats. There, a longtail would take us to Koh Ma, a snorkeling island, because the surf was too high for the speedboat to come to Koh Ngai. I didn’t know this when I boarded the tiny yellow boat to go the 1.5 kilometers to the spot on the beach where the other long tails would meet. I know the swells were already significant enough that between me, the captain, and my suitcase, I wasn’t allowed to sit in the first two tiny rows closest to the prow because he was having difficulty navigating. Still, I got to the beach meeting point and thought nothing of it.

 

I hauled my suitcase and bag to the beach and waited with the other passengers. Still, when one of the employees frantically counted us, over, and over, and over again, I thought nothing of it. I had my ticket. I knew I had a spot reserved on the speedboat. And so I didn’t think much of it when someone grabbed my suitcase and put it in the prow of a longtail. I even didn’t think too much of it when I help my backpack high over my head, went into shoulder-high water, handed it to another passenger, and climbed the ladder to the boat in the bucking surf.

I did, however, think twice when I saw how low the boat was sitting in the water. And again when the guy who’d counted the people and hauled my suitcase told us, while still anchored, to put on our life vests. And I couldn’t help but notice that, every time anyone moved, or shifted, water flooded into the back of the boat. In fact, the back of the boat was by this point flush with the swelling sea. While I was not the only person at the back of the boat, I was the only person who seemed to notice this.

“Guys! Guys!” yelled the captain.
I’ve learned, since having been charged by elephants, that any time a Thai person shepherding tourists says “GUYS!” that shit is about to get real, since these are the only two times I’ve heard it.

“Guys, everyone put on your lifejackets!”
In a daze, I dutifully took a lifejacket from the side of the longtail and pulled it on. I paused. Every time the captain shifted his weight, more water flooded into the back of the boat, beginning to push above the secondary layer of slats covering the floor of the longtail. We crammed, sweaty and covered in saltwater, our luggage piled into the prow, in rows onto the thin wooden boards. Children were screaming, men gripped the board seats and tried to look calm. Women looked at men to determine whether they should worry. I made a decision.

Removing my lifejacket, I stood, more water pouring in, I turned to the mate and said “I’m getting off.” The ladder had already been removed, so I jumped over the side of the boat into the roiling surf and held on, tiptoes grazing the ocean floor, cheap waterproof lanyard case ripping at the connector and dropping my phone and passport back into the boat. I grabbed the case, and a kind Italian man handed me my backpack and flippers. I ran these items back to shore, part swimming, part kicking, until the water was shallow enough for me to get my legs under me. I dropped them on the beach and walked/swam back to the boat.

People on the boat had begun to eye me with interest. I yelled to the captain for my suitcase.

“You cancel?”

“What?”

“Are you canceling your trip?”

“Yes! Yes. I want my suitcase. Yes. I’m canceling.”

A few moments, some shuffling, some yelling in Thai, the captain got out of the boat and went to another boat.

“My suitcase?”

“One moment, one moment.”

More shuffling. Then he turns to the people on the boat.

“Ok, guys, we’re taking a different boat. You [pointing] – come.”

It’s very rude to point at someone in Thailand. It’s rare that a Thai person will do it. Apparently our captain, upon seeing my willingness to jump out of the boat and lose a whopping 350 baht, decided to commission a second longtail and split us up.

Still standing in the water at the first boat, I noticed a family; a mother, father, and two children, about two and three years old, the children in hysterics, the parents navigating how to get their children off the boat. European of a language I don’t speak, I looked at the mother, made eye contact, nodded, and help up my arms for her young son. She handed him to me and I lifted him high above my head, so his feet wouldn’t touch the water, bouncing him to shore. He cried, and screamed, and I turned him so he could see my face, smiling and saying “it’s a fun game! It’s a fun game.” Once we were in ankle-deep water, his father took the boy from me, too shaky to say anything.

I brought my backpack and flippers to the second boat, tossed them over the side and climbed in after them. Without prompting, I took a lifejacket from the side of the longtail and snapped it on, firmly. I was joined by an Italian family, four adults, and the family whose boy I had brought to shore. Our luggage was still on the first boat.

Once we were safely underway, the mother held her son, her body racked with sobs. She reached for my hand and gripped it, said “thank you”, holding her son, crying, holding onto my hand. Her son looked at me, panicked. I smiled and repeated that he was fine. I didn’t want him to see his mother upset.

Both boats met at Koh Ma, a snorkeling site, to rendezvous with the speedboat we had booked; the speedboat can’t approach the shore of Koh Ngai in high swells, which is what led us to the longtail debacle in the first place. When both boats made it to the rendezvous with the speed boat, the boat we’d left was sitting 2 feet lower in the water than the one to which we had transferred.

When it was time to transfer off the longtails to our respective boats, the Italians and I agreed that the family would go first.

“I bambini primi.”
“Vero.”

Without ceremony, we were split up; my things were transferred to the speedboat and I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to the Italians or the family.

The speedboat brought us safely and swiftly to Koh Kradan, where I didn’t care that my cheap flippers didn’t make it, and I stepped to dry land with gratitude.

I may not have saved us from drowning… but I certainly believe I saved us from sinking. All because that boat captain didn’t want to spend 1200 baht on a second boat.

I didn’t notice until I was on dry land that I’d lost my Thunderdome hoodie.

Four days later, I had returned to Koh Ngai (insisting on a large ferry), and returned from my hike through the jungle across the top of the island. I passed a row of longtail ‎boats, looking briefly into each, not even walking up to them, hoping against hope. A man saw me and made a gesture like he was pulling on a shirt, said “you?” and I said “yes!” He pointed me to the office, where they handed me my 2012 Thunderdome hoodie. It smelled like 5 days of seawater but felt like home. Though he was there, I did not make eye contact with the boat captain from The Incident.

 

Grand Adventure IV : vi – Kanchanaburi

A few more travel tips:

-carry a small ziplock filled with silica beads (the ones that come with new shoes or suitcases). When your phone gets wet, it works better than rice, and you’ll be so, so happy you have it.

-“no mosquito net” = “we’d like you to think it’s mosquitos, not bedbugs”.

The hotel can only be described as “The Shining, in Summer”. Huge and mostly abandoned. Beautiful, colonial, vast porches, hundreds of rooms, a giant swimming pool and hardly any guests. We walked minutes upon minutes to get to the room, and didn’t pass another person. The lobby – vast. The restaurants – expansive. Everything – abandoned.

So, when I finally made it to my room, I didn’t feel relaxed; I felt creeped out. I was also exhausted, so I immediately fell asleep. I awoke, puttered, and headed to the Rice Barge. The Rice Barge is the nicest thing about the hotel; a delicious floating restaurant in the River Kwai.

My first full day I decided to do the thing you’re supposed to do in Kanchanaburi – Erawan falls. The name, obviously evocative of Tolkien (if you’re me, or enough like me that this [hominem] would be impossible to hear without visions of wild, foreign trees, a hidden wonderland, elves and magic.

Wild foreign trees and hidden wonderland, yes. Russian tourists, yes. Thai tourists, yes! Finally, a place the locals visit, and on a weekend, no less. I overpaid for a driver to get here. The wiser move would have been to stay in town and take a bus up. Did I mention the resort is near nothing? I’ll get to that.

Go to Erawan falls. If possible, go and just drop in and don’t do anything else, because it’s kind of in the middle of nowhere, but some people day trip it from Bangkok. Do that. And hike all the way up. Get some provisions and prepare yourself for an absolutely stunning “walk”. I don’t like calling it a “hike”, because this can technically be done in flip-flops (though not comfortably). Go to all seven, because the top one is the best.

Jump in and try to not shriek when the fish nibble at your feet. Try to not fall on your ass on a slipper rock and land in the water and scrape your bum. It’s humiliating, or so I’ve heard.

Erawan was a truly stunning spectacle, and I’m glad I saw it…but I missed Luke…

(and if I ever find that picture I’m sure I took of the stacked rocks, it’ll go here…)

I did not die during the terrifying, constantly-on-the-phone cab ride back. I did not tip the driver, after I twice said “we can pull over if you need to talk on the phone” as she veered to the right like an American tourist on a scooter.

The rest of the stay passed in a bit of a fugue state. I ate dinner that evening in the main restaurant of the hotel as the only guest. The music, on repeat, was terrible. I slept early. I awoke and went to a (reduced) breakfast buffet with the three other guests in the hotel.

I decided I was going to walk to the River Kwai. At the height of the day. Down a country road. Hidden tip – if you’re the only pedestrian, you’re in the wrong place. This sign:

 leads to a place where the locals don’t want you to go.

That’s ok, because eventually, as you’re walking down a country road and hear a rustling in the bushes and you think it might be a snake and, 10 feet later, you see a snake carcass and you can’t walk further away from the snakes in the bushes because that means getting run over… a local woman on a scooter will take a look at your sorry, heat-exhausted ass, pull over, and give you a ride to town. Because you look THAT bedraggled. Yes, it was bad. No, she wouldn’t take my money. I got on the back of the scooter of a woman with a dog riding on the tank and didn’t think twice about it. What a kind person, and how fortunate I was to encounter her.

I bought an iced tea and stumbled into a massage parlor, thinking that all I wanted was pampering and air conditioning. It was my first real Thai massage (not coconut oil or foot massages, both of which are wonderful but not the nearly spiritual experience of a Thai massage). Angelique (that’s not the name she gave me, but it’s her Facebook name!) has magic hands and an amazing spirit. We talked, she soothed me, we talked more. I left the parlor refreshed, bought a ridiculous hat

and walked across the Bridge over the River Kwai, just to say I had.

I taxied back to the hotel and had another night of weird isolation, the weirdest so far, as this was a Monday night.

I was thrilled to escape early Tuesday morning, taking the train back to Bangkok. It’s not that the hotel was so bad. It’s just that it was isolated and I thought I’d get axed to death in a hedge maze. These are typical concerns, right?

I was actually a bit relieved to be back in Bangkok, where I understood things, where there were other people. I bought my train ticket to Trang (pronounced “trung”). I went and checked into our ridiculous hotel. I went to immigration (I can now absolutely deftly navigate the Bangkok train system… not that it’s complicated, but still) and had a surprisingly smooth time extending my visa. Headed back to the hotel and was joined by Josh and Annetta! I’d used my many hotel points to get us a (nearly) free two-bedroom suite. It was obviously intended to be a condo, because it was huge, had a kitchen, a balcony, a couch. I headed down to the pool to meet up with Nathan. We were joined by Josh and Annetta, and the four of us sat by the pool, had snacks, drinks,

then headed up to the roof, had drinks, shared stories, reveled in friendships new and old, and, finally, went back to the room to fall asleep.

There is a deep comfort in good friends in strange places. On the other side of the world, gathering, sharing stories, opening our lives to each other, we become closer. I couldn’t have shared an evening with four better people; I only wish we’d had time to build a pillow fort.

I said goodbye to Josh and Annetta in the evening, and to Nathan in the morning. I intended to go back to sleep, but the electricity in the air from the previous evening’s storm tickled the fibers of my being. It had rattled the building, slammed our doors, and I couldn’t go back to sleep. I wandered. To MBK market for a bag (like JJ market, but air conditioned and less touristy), to the hotel to load that bag, to Bangkok self-storage where I really hope my bag still is (#76).

To simply wander with the knowledge that I wouldn’t see another person I know for three weeks.

I made it to the BKK-Trang train with plenty of time. I tucked in and chatted for hours with Victoria, the Lithuanian woman with the honest eyes and piercing questions. She’s a tour guide but will be do so much more. I missed her because she got off the train in Surat Thani so, Victoria, if you’re reading this; good journeys! Trang to the pier. And now here. Here is elsewhere. We’ll get to that.

Grand Aventure IV : v – Road to Kanchanaburi

The best part about Kanchanaburi was getting there.

All I knew was I wanted to spend as little time as possible in Bangkok. I’m over it. I’m over the big city, the smells, the sights, the sounds, the tourist traps. I prefer my tourist traps smaller. Sandier.

But seriously – Bangkok is a great, huge city. Everyone should see it once. Now I’ve seen it five times and it’s a blast with friends but wandering that city alone, completing various tasks – I want other adventures. Bangkok feels like…work.

So, as quickly as possible, I made my way from Hua Lamphong to Thonburi, from Thonburi to Kanchanaburi, and caught a cab to my hotel.

But the stuff of life is in the moments between – music is in the rests, and travel is about the people you meet on the way there, by whatever definition of “there” you’re currently using.

In this case, that’s Majeed and Mai. I can’t remember the first sentence of our conversation. I remember a man with a rich, booming voice and an accent I couldn’t place and a sweet Thai woman, communicating in English. The second sentence was “where are you from?” to which Majeed responded, “I’m from the country that America destroyed.” Ah. As usual in cases like this, self-deprecation is the only way to go. “You’re going to have to be more specific.” Thank goodness he laughed. Thank goodness.

I don’t want to tell you the details of the conversation that took place over the next three hours; 1 hour waiting for the train to depart and two hours in our third-class seats, yelling over blissfully open windows. I’ll tell you these few things:
-we know so little about the rest of the world when we only know what the news tells us
-travel is for meeting people so much more than it is about seeing things, but if you’re lucky, you can meet people while seeing things, and that’s pretty neat.
-people are the same, everywhere, and every childbirth is a lottery
-I can’t write this without crying

Mai is a psychologist who specializes in working with Cambodian children. Majeed is a refugee from Iraq. With four children; three doctors and an engineer. He can’t go back to his country. He is a writer with no audience, now, who sees his family in snippets, when he can, in places he knows are safe. His mother died in his arms ten years ago as the Americans came. American soldiers were seen putting bombs in mosques. And churches.

Do I recognize that he could have been lying to me?
Yes. Anyone can lie to me. Anyone can lie to anyone at any time.
Does my government stand to gain more by lying to me, and to its employees, than this man gains by lying to me?
Yes, a million, million times.

So I know whom I believe.

I cried. I felt my heart open in a way I didn’t know it had been closed. When I bought tea and water for us (I just had 100 baht closer to the seller), Majeed said “I’m an Arab man – this is not acceptable!” I said “It’s too late for you – you’ve already been talking to an American woman!” He laughed, a full, open laugh. We laughed. We shared music; one of his poems has been turned into a song – if he sends me the link I’ll update with it here.

[Update : Majeed sent the link! It is here. Thank you, Majeed!]

Mai smiled and joined in the conversation; sometimes she looked at him sharply, obviously concerned he had overstepped a boundary. Anyone who knows me knows that this is a near impossibility.

Please, see the world.
Please, meet people who are not like you (some of them live next door to you).
Please, don’t just hear them, but listen; listen like your life depends on it, because it does, it does, it does.

 

Grand Adventure IV : iv – Goodbye, Chiang Mai

Goodbye, Chiang Mai

Chiang Mai was the first of the unplanned stops on my trip, but it certainly wasn’t unexpected. Anyone who’s spent more than a few weeks in Thailand, and even some of those who’ve spent fewer than that, sing the praises of Chiang Mai and, upon learning I had unscheduled time in Thailand, insisted I make it a priority. 

 

Ok then.

 

New traveler rule

-the minute you land anywhere, go eat some local yoghurt. This will help your stomach to process everything else you eat while there.

 

Once I knew Luke was safely on the ground in San Francisco, I slept a few hours, woke, and headed to Hua Lamphong. Monday morning commuting being what it is, I made the train with moments to spare, without having eaten a thing. This is the way sometimes, that we’ll trust that food will appear; in this case, in the form of mackerel. Mackerel soup, mackerel in a sealed container… a whole train full of people eating mackerel. It smells exactly as you might expect… as does the bathroom.

 

 

While I was on the train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai, the news came out that David Bowie died. I will always remember where I was; surrounded with people who didn’t know who that was, with the exception of the British guy behind me, both of us incredulous, his Chinese companion oblivious to the significance.

 

R.I.P., Thin White Duke. I can’t believe it.

 

After hours of stunning Northern Thailand scenery

 

 

I did finally arrive in Chiang Mai, the train just a half hour or so late, and took a red cab.

 

Red cabs are fascinating; part bus, part tuktuk, all Thai; pay 50 baht, and an enterprising driver goes around the train station collecting people who are going near that location. Your luggage goes up top, the final people hang onto the back, and you jostle through a new town, hoping your luggage doesn’t fall off the top. Mine didn’t, and I ended up at my delightful, quiet little hotel tucked just inside the old city. It was a beautiful sanctuary, one within which I spent very little time. I didn’t use the facilities other than to get the free breakfast, nor did I use the free 15 minute massage. I dumped my things, likely unpacked some of them, and soon, my new friend Nathan came to meet me. 

 

We strolled the old city, the city within the walls. What a charming, delightful place. We ate street food and talked. We accidentally ordered steak tartare and it was delicious. We had planned to drink the ginger wine I’d inadvertently left and which Nathan had carried back from Cambodia, but it slipped out of my hands and crashed on the front porch of the hotel where we planned to drink it, so instead we toasted Bowie with gin martinis in some bar. I am listening to this as I write.

 

My first goal on my first full day in Chiang Mai was obviously to extend my time there. I had initially planned on only three nights, which was immediately apparent as a clear mistake. A trip to the train station secured my (LAST ONE!) private overnight sleeper back to Bangkok, and a quick call extended my stay at the hotel.

 

It was time to wander into the world. Here, this meant meeting Nathan for a quick snack (finding something not fried that is not papaya salad can prove somewhat challenging, actually), then continuing the wander. I was determined to find the people to whom I’d been directed by various friends. A friend of Baeleay (my mother-in-law), some folks at a tattoo shop, a motorcycle shop owner.

 

I failed miserably at all three this first afternoon, but at least had contact information for Baeleay’s friend. I wandered through a Wat (Chiang Mai has over 300 of them – this one was Chedi Luang), exploring

 

 

noting some important cultural similarities

 

 

and, before I left, chatted with a monk (they do this to practice their English, and so that foreigners can learn about Buddhism), and went to hear some chanting. Savorn was very sweet and we became Facebook friends – I need to edit a photo for him but the wifi has been horrible until now; sorry about that, Savorn! If anyone with better Photoshop skills than me is willing to edit his photo, please let me know.

 

Patient Shea, Baeleay’s friend, was at a cafe connected to my hotel when I returned. What followed was the getting to know of another new friend; serendipity abounds. He worked in tech, but had another career as well. Through the windings of fate, he has ended up partially in Chiang Mai, partially in Ireland. Through the simple living of his life, he has some insights about living a dual life that I quite badly needed to hear. There are no coincidences.

 

He recommended Cooking Love (the second one, on the right as you walk north, not the first one, on the left) and, while he couldn’t join for it, Nathan & I enjoyed our dinner there immensely. Have the garlic shrimp; it’s amazing. Per Shea, the woman who opened it had a street cart a few years ago, and expanded. Now Cooking Love I (on the left) is partnered with a hotel, but the one on the right has her original chefs.

 

I’m getting accustomed to this no-planning travel thing… so I awoke the following day, put a swimsuit on under my shorts and tank top, and was prepared for elephant visiting or a waterfall hike (but not Doi Suthep – you can’t visit a temple in shorts and a tank top). The elephants were not an option for that day, so I booked for the following day, ate breakfast, wrote a bit, and got a driver for the falls.

 

A beautiful hike

 

 

 

followed by a trip to the insect museum

 

(yes, pedants, I know that’s not an insect)

 

where things tickled my hands

 

 

and I eventually headed back down the hill to the old city.

 

That evening, I finally had the opportunity to introduce Nathan and Shea.

When you have three people who are usually the connectors, the, as Shea calls it, multi-potentialite, together for dinner at a really fantastic place called Dash (go here, it’s amazing.), the conversation flies, from Eastern Healing, to workouts, to software, and back again. The only thing missing was opera, but I get quite a bit of that at home. The conversation wound, around and around, as I enjoyed these two new friends and our delicious corner garden spot.

 

The morning yielded elephants.

For goodness’ sake, don’t ride them. Don’t be that guy. We went to a place that rescued elephants from places like that. During our tour, I asked how the “rescues” take place; a bit  difficult to abscond with an entire pachyderm… they are, indeed, rescued with money.

 

Mostly gentle, injuries only occur when the elephants don’t notice you and you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s also important to note that elephants will follow the baby. This becomes relevant momentarily. The baby wanders off, and eight adults follow. So, after spending some time with this sweet girl

 

 

we wandered close to a parade (yes, look it up) of elephants and were told not to get too close, as they’re aggressive. So we didn’t. And we took photos.

 

 

Soon after this photo was taken, the baby wandered off, followed by three of this parade.

 

Moments after that, our guide was yelling “run! run! this way, guys!” as the remainder of the parade thundered to join the rest. Yes, we had to run out of the way of a charging parade of elephants. We ran through some wet stuff. We didn’t care.

 

That occurred fairly early in the day, and we naturally retained a healthy respect for the elephants; feeding them

 

 

bathing them

 

 

and, finally, piling back into the van and heading back to Chiang Mai.

That evening we headed to the Clay Garden

 

 

a place Nathan had discovered during his stay a few years ago. Following that was was another night market dinner (this becomes relevant later), then wine at Ginger, another Shea recommendation. This evening, my last in town, Nathan, at my request, gave his assessment about the panic and other issues that have been plaguing me for years. In short – I have a lot of work to do. The assessment made a lot of sense, and, of course, is in keeping with a lot of the things I already knew on some level… or I likely wouldn’t have agreed with them, because I’m obstinate like that. I am incredibly thankful to him for his perspective and thoughts on this, and can thank him further (and help myself) by applying what he has said.

 

A few burning folks met us at Ginger – Ky, who was a connection made through Tania, another multi-potentialite, and two friends, Alex and Alex, all from Camp Disorient. They were interesting, fascinating; a film critic, a designer, a brand specialist…but I felt myself slipping. Was this a panic attack? Something else? The next trip to the restroom answer the question and my delightful fried shrimp street food dinner was consigned to, at least, one of the cleanest public restrooms I’d experienced in Thailand. I regretted more than ever the inability to rinse my mouth with tapwater, but eventually made it back to the table, feeling immediately more energized. Sadly, everyone was saying goodbyes for the evening (including Shea, who arrived for a hello and a goodbye as we were leaving) and I needed to do the same, as I had an early checkout, so we traded information, said our many goodbyes, and I packed.

 

Morning found me on a very small tour of three up the hill to the Mong village high in the hills over Chiang  Mai. Our tour guide, the abundantly honest Toy, let us know that most villages, particularly the Long Neck villages, for example, are faux. This one had enough commerce that it was clearly self-sustaining… as we watched children go to school

 

 

and drank tea

 

 

and eventually wandered back down through the town, shopping.

 

then to Soi Duthep, a stunning place where we didn’t get to spend nearly enough time

 

 

I have heard from everyone that this is a fantastic place for meditation, and look forward to coming back (because, oh, yes, am I coming back), and experiencing this for myself.

 

Down the hill, we were dropped off at the Warorot Market, an overwhelmingly huge place where I did final Chiang Mai shopping and met with Nathan again for our last snack. Stomach still upset, I downed some noodles and he reveled in the vast herb selection. He gave me some herbs for my stomach for the road and walked me to my hotel, where we said goodbyes.

 

I made my way to the overnight train, where I slept nearly the entire time. Without caffeine, my body rebels, unable to retain consciousness, let alone wit. Maybe I needed to unconsciously reflect on this city; a haven for so many people of so many types; drawing multi-potentialites from all over the world, and no shortage of digital nomads. It feels accessible, but is huge. It is old and new, with tourists, yes, but retaining its character in a way that absorbs, unlike Koh Tao, which risks being overrun, or Bangkok, which is too huge to be impacted in any way other than trying to make money off of them. And so I write this entry from Kanchanaburi, refreshed, overlooking the River Kwai, and planning my day. I look forward to telling you about my trip from Bangkok to Kanchanaburi, one about which I will be thinking for a long time.