I'm leaving Chiang Mai tomorrow morning between ten and ten thirty, depending on when aYa bus company manages to swing by 60 Blue House. I hear they're notorious for being late, so I'm thinking it'll be closer to eleven when Ellie and I begin our journey to Pai. Or twelve. Who knows.
I'm leaving Asia on Friday evening at eight pm.
After spending three months in Nepal, Malaysia, the Philippines and Thailand, I'm ready to return to Europe. The land of cheese, wine, sit down toilets that work more often than not, hot showers, drivers with a modicum of respect for pedestrians and tap water that doesn't equal death by dysentery.
But there's a lot of Asia that I'm going to miss.
I'm going to miss my British Canadian named Jerry and our fruit salads together.
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I'm going to miss the colorful, lively markets.
Markets bursting with interesting food and interesting characters.
I'm going to miss the narrow streets cluttered with motorcycles, cats, dogs, rickshaws, wheelbarrows.
Streets wherein anything goes.
I'm going to miss laughing at topsy-turvy telephone wires.
I'm going to miss spotting all the offerings people leave. Near temples, in front of shops, tucked into nooks and crannies of ancient trees.
I'm going to miss watching people live on the edge. There's something refreshing about visiting a place with few rules and regulations.
Although I'm sure it's different to actually live in these places. Quite different.
I'm going to miss temples. The intricate gold latticework glistening in the sun, the stone animals, the incense, the flowers, the monks in their bright, billowy robes.
I'm going to miss (after a while, anyway), seeing elephant artwork, statues and merchandise everywhere.
I'm going to miss all the lush aquatic plants. And the tiny fishes that frolic about around them.
(fishes can frolic. Don't put them in a box. In Chiang Mai, I witnessed a good many especially frolicsome fishes)
I'm going to miss being in a place wherein shoes are never worn inside.
I'm going to miss all the adorable Thai children. They're so stinkin' cute, that a few of them have given me the faintest pangs of mommy angst.
But I visited a dentist the other day to get my teeth cleaned. Because teeth cleaning in Chiang Mai costs seventeen dollars. Which seemed like a swell bargain to this budget conscious vagabond.
"You don't know how brush teeth," the dentist told me solemnly after he'd finished hacking away at my intimidating layers of plaque. "No cavities, but you need brush your teeth different. Like this," and he proceeded to show me how to properly brush my teeth.
Reason 857 for not making a baby.
At nearly 28 years old, I don't know how to brush my teeth.
I'm going to miss the colorful lanterns, ribbons swinging in the slightest breeze.
I'm going to miss the scenic old people.
I'm going to miss seeing the ubiquitous garlands of cheerful marigolds.
I'm going to miss some of the stray animals. Certainly not all of them. Most of Thailand's stray cats and dogs are friendly, but a few aggressive dogs have chased me down a narrow lane or two.
I'm going to miss acro yoga in the park with all my massage buddies.
I have mixed feelings about some of the other things that happen in the park.
It was around five o'clock pm. None of my massage buddies had turned up to play with me, and I couldn't be bothered to approach the other acro ninjas. So I contentedly ate a hearty helping of jackfruit and started journaling about my most recent experience in the doctor's office.
An experience wherein my doctor thought I might have a tumor in my throat. An experience wherein I had a CT scan and then spent forty-five minutes alone in the mostly abandoned waiting room.
Numb.
Just floating. Telling my mind to run far, far away from my potentially diseased body.
Watching nurses and doctors pad back and forth across the vast, empty, sterile room.
Desperate for one of them to finally call my name.
And desperate to not be called.
Even though I was at last told that I do not, in fact, have a tumor in my throat, the experience of waiting alone to receive that kind of news is one that will haunt me for a very long time.
It was made worse by the fact that I know I can't go home to be sick. I can't afford to be sick in a place like the United States. I have to be sick on the other side of the world, away from my support group, in order to afford the care I need.
I need to find a new home base.
Yesterday.
A home in a place where when people are sick, they take care of each other. And that's all there is.
I didn't have time to journal about my lonely experience in the hospital, however. I was licking obstinately sticky jackfruit off my fingers when a young fellow with boisterous, shoulder-length, honey hair called to me, "Hey! How are you?"
"I'm fine. You?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear," the young man scooted closer to my sarong. To, umm... hear me.
"I'm fine. How are you?" I repeated, eyebrows raised.
"Oh, I'm good. What are you writing?"
"Just something for a blog."
"You should stay with me and my friend for a couple of weeks. You'll really have something to write about then. You'll be famous. You want to be famous, don't you?"
"Where are you from?" I asked the fluffy-haired invader.
"Ask him," the young man pointed to his friend, an older fellow with slightly less boisterous hair than the young man. "We're from the same place."
"Where are you from?" I smiled at the friend.
"Sweden."
"And you?" the younger Swede gazed at me intensely. "Where are you from?"
"Colorado."
"Oh, America."
"Yes."
"And what is Colorado famous for?"
"Well, it's famous for its mountains. The Colorado River. Lots of hiking and skiing. Good beer. Recreational marijuana. Aspen."
"Oh! I've heard of Aspen!" the young Swede's eyes, which had wandered to the bit of exposed skin on my low back, lit up in recognition. "I know that name! There is a funny movie where they went to Aspen."
"Yes..." I grimaced. "Dumb and Dumber. They go to Aspen in Dumb and Dumber."
"Yes, that's the one!" the Swede nodded triumphantly. "Anyway, were you... uh... made... born this way, or did someone knit you?"
"Pardon?" my voice rocketed up a few notes, startled and amused by the botched pick-up line.
"Well, in Swedish," the young man with honey hair floundered. "What does it mean in Swedish?" he asked the older fellow who was smiling wryly in the background.
"Are you natural?" the friend suggested. "Or did you have to make yourself that way?"
"It means you are perfect," the young Swede summarized for me.
"Oh."
"So, where are we going to drink wine tonight?" he recklessly segued into the more important issue.
"You move fast!" the older Swede saved me from having to respond. "Too fast..." he said more contemplatively.
"What is your name?" the young Swede backtracked.
"Aimee."
"Oh, Aimee..." he mulled over the syllables of my name while his eyes roamed over my face. "The name fits your face."
"It does," the old Swede concurred.
"And your names?" I asked the Swedes.
"My name is Daniel," the younger replied.
"Peter," the older chimed in. "We're crazy."
"Well, I'm used to crazy," I said, thinking about Joanna, who had stumbled back to 60 Blue House at 3:30 this morning, drunkenly singing a prayer to Buddha in Thai at the top of her lungs.
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| Joanna's feet after a night out. Don't ask. Nobody knows. |
I laughed. My easy, rippling, ridiculous laugh.
Daniel stared at me.
"You're funny. You're very funny."
"No, I'm funny," Peter protested. "She laughed at something I said."
"No," Daniel contradicted. "I said something funny."
"No, I said something funny. I said -- "
"Anyway," Daniel interrupted his friend and turned on me. "Kate. Why is your neck so big?"
"To help me laugh," I replied, amused that he had called me Kate so shortly after telling me that my name fit my face.
"Well, I guess your shoulders are big, too."
"I guess they are," I grinned, imagine an old granny in a rocking chair, switching to extra bulky yarn for my big shoulders and neck.
"Where are we going for wine?" Daniel persisted.
"I'm not sure if I can..." I trailed off helplessly, cursing myself for being so damn lost when confronted with a shamelessly flirtatious Swede.
"Do you have a mouth?" the Swede countered. "Of course you can."
"Well, I've been on a lot of antibiotics lately, and I want to be good to myself," I shrugged my shoulders helplessly.
"We should find something to put in your mouth," Daniel's eyes roamed about my knit together body.
"I'm going to the Saturday night market. I'll find something there."
Welcome to life as a single lady traveler.
Hilarious...
... but also...
BLURGH.
The Swedes eventually wandered off, and I meandered over to the Saturday night market. Where I put found fried banana leaves, fried yams and some manner of green ice cream to put in my mouth.
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