This Lonely Hobo -- Chiang Mai, Thailand

I'm starting this post from the restaurant of a hotel across the street from Hua Lamphong train station in Bangkok, Thailand. I've been sitting at this small, wooden table for six hours straight thus far, and will remain another hour before I finally shoulder Ellie and galumph off to Bangkok's unpronounceable airport. 

I was abandoning Ellie in Hua Lamphong's "left luggage" and using the morning and early afternoon to explore Bangkok, but after I stepped outside the train station and walked into a wall of polluted air that smelled strongly of urine, I decided to escape into the restaurant of this air conditioned hotel. 

Like the weary vagabond I am. 

I hope it's not that my curiosity is waning... I mean, I think I'm still very curious. But I'm selectively curious. I'm curious about places like Santa's village in Nepal and about meeting subversive couchsurfers in Donegal, but I am not curious about exploring this piss smelling city for a few hours in the blistering heat when I have a flight this evening. 

And that's okay. 

My final day in Chiang Mai was quiet. I met an Indonesian chap from massage school and told him about the week two test. I ate some noodle soup. Drank a smoothie. Contemplated going to the park for some journaling, but decided I'd rather not risk running into the Swedes.

As charming as they were. 

I organized Ellie (she wanted to look her best for the flight), wrote down the information of my hosts in London and Dublin and transferred the rest of my photos from my camera to my laptop.

There are dozens of carts like these in Chiang Mai. And each says it's "the best in town." I want them to have a crepe-off. It would be the best kind of "off". Besides, perhaps, a "cheese-off".

As I'm getting ready to close this Asia chapter, I'm thinking about the next few chapters of this year.

A chapter of hitchhiking through Ireland with Misho.

I'll have a friend again. For an entire month, I'll have a buddy. To picnic with, to yoga with, to help me not forget all of my socks. 

After hitching through Ireland, Misho and I will fly into Lyon. Where we'll meet with Francois and Teodora for a few days before heading south to Avignon and Montpellier.

Then Misho will fly home. Home to Bulgaria. And I"ll continue a solo adventure around the circumference of France.

In the original plan (if there is such a thing), I'd hoped to spend the summer teaching yoga and practicing massage therapy with Mari on the coast of Montenegro. But life happened to Mari (as it does to all of us), and her mother up and decided to move to the states (which doesn't happen to all of us, but is still understandable).

So she was too busy with life and the happening thereof to run a retreat with me this summer.

Eh... I'm a little bummed. I would have learned so much from Mari and it would have been incredibly fulfilling to teach yoga for three months straight. 

But now I have more space in my life. What can I do with that space? 

I can go to my cousin's wedding on an island off the coast of Washington. I can't remember which one... but one of them. I can live with my friend Emily in Seattle for a few weeks. I can adventure with my friends and family in Colorado for a month. I can pop up to Canada and visit some of my father's family whom I've never met. 

Then fly back to Italy by mid-September. Because I WILL be there for the wine festival in Asti. 

Girl's got priorities. 

So other than my month of hitching alone through France, this concludes my chapters of solo travel until September. 

And this lonely hobo is okay with that. 

This lonely hobo is ready for some friends, some community, some fondue parties, coffee mornings, wine nights. 

I spent a long, sleepless night at 60 Blue House. Joanna had gone out for a drink with a friend of hers (she didn't make it home until seven in the morning), so the hostel was abandoned except for the fan-loathing Japanese girl.

I can't believe she's still here. 

Japanese girl seems to have developed a bit of a tic during my absence. Every few minutes, her bed would creak loudly, keeping me on the brink of sleep all night.

Serves me right, I guess. Maybe this is what the fan does to her. 

When normal people have a train that leaves at 15:30, they arrive at 15:00.

When Aimee has a train that leaves at 15:30, and has recently been traumatized by nearly missing a very important train, she arrives at 13:00. And contentedly naps on the benches in the station until it's time to board.

I spent the journey listening to podcasts and trying not to laugh at the funny young Frenchman sitting in front of me. Wearing black and white elephant pants, a black and white elephant shirt and a black and white elephant handbag slung over his shoulder.

The train staff swept down the aisles and briskly made the beds. I drew my blue curtains shut and let the soothing motion of the rumbling train lull me to sleep.

And now here I am. Nearly seven hours sitting in a productive chair at this hotel's restaurant. Blogs written, podcasts listened to and still well over twenty-four hours of the journey to London left to me.

No more excuses for not writing the play about adopting a Venus flytrap, Bourget.