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.



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.


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?”


“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.”

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:
IMG_8529 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.