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.

Hippie Heaven -- Pai, Thailand

AYa bus company did not pick me up at ten o'clock from 60 Blue House. Nor did they pick me up at ten thirty. At ten forty-five, the flustered receptionist at 60 Blue called aYa to make sure they were, in fact, picking me up. 

"They should be here soon," she reassured me. "Maybe they had to pick someone else up from the airport." 

"It's okay," I shrugged my shoulders. 

As long as I know I'm in the right place, that on one is waiting because of me and that I'm not in danger of missing an expensive flight/train, I really couldn't care less. 

But when twelve o'clock rolled around, and the bus still hadn't, I began to feel a tad annoyed. 

I could have gone for another walk instead of just sitting here and browsing couchsurfing. Or eaten some lunch. Now I'll have to go from 7 am until 4 pm without food. Which isn't such a big deal... but it's unnecessary.  

The receptionist, who was on the phone with aYa for the fourth time, also sounded remarkably frustrated. 

"They went to 60 House," she exclaimed as she hung up the phone. "I told them 60 BLUE House. But they went to 60 House, knocked on the red door -- we don't have a red door -- and you weren't there. So they left." 

"Gosh." 

"They're sending someone else now." 

"Okay. Thanks for calling." 

"I was on the phone with them four times," the receptionist heaved. "Four times." 

It was about one o'clock before the minivan I'd booked finally departed to Pai. I'd been warned several times about the three hour circuitous road between the hippie village and Chiang Mai, including a picture Francois had taken during his motorcycle journey to Pai. 

Maybe it was due to my cavernously empty stomach. Maybe it was because my last harrowing bus ride was on the top of a bus in the mountains of Nepal. Maybe it was just that I've been so sick lately that I just couldn't be bothered to feel anything else. 

But the journey was easy-peasy. 

I arrived in Pai at about four thirty in the afternoon. The hostel I'd booked, Suandoi Resort, offered free pick up services, but when I emailed them that I'd booked a journey via aYa and should arrive at around two, they wrote back, 

"Please, just call us when you arrive. aYa is always late." 

So I borrowed the driver's phone and called Suandoi. 

"I'm Aimee Bourget. I have a reservation. I'm finally here." 

"Okay, we're coming. Ten minutes." 

Ellie and I waited in the shade for our ride to arrive, quietly observing the small touristic town bursting with shops selling elephant pants and smoothies.  

 I feel guilty visiting places like this. Places that rely almost entirely off of tourism to survive. Places where all the employees are locals who probably could never afford to do the things I'm doing. 

"Suandoi?" a chap pulled up on a scooter.

"Yes?" I eyed the small scooter skeptically.

He can't be serious. 

"Aimee?" he held out a sign with my name.

Oh dear. He is serious. 

"That's me," I acknowledged without enthusiasm, looking back and forth between his tiny scooter and my freakishly large bag.

"Here!" he motioned to the area by his feet and then pointed at Ellie.

"And I climb on behind?"

"Yes, behind!"

"Okay..."

The three of us balanced precariously on the scooter and sped off towards Suandoi Resort.

I mean... if a mum, a dad and three small munchkins can balance on a scooter, a skinny Thai fellow, fat Ellie and average me should be able to manage. 

And we did. I checked into my dorm at Suandoi and collapsed onto my bed. Which was just a mattress on the ground with two towels on it.

"Big towel for use as blanket. Small towel for use as towel," read a sign on the wall near the toilet.

I tentatively turned the spigot of the shower...

Cold. Bloody cold. Gosh, I can't wait to get back to Europe. 

First world problems, Bourget. First world problems. 

I wonder how long it'll take me to stop being surprised when a shower is hot.  

After checking couchsurfing, I slung my daybag over my shoulder and wandered out to explore Pai. And to find some food to mitigate the grumbling of my cantankerous belly.  

It's crazy to be back on couchsurfing. After three months of just using hostelworld to find places to stay, I'm back to browsing profiles. 

Instead of simply entering my credit card information and immediately receiving a booking confirmation email, I spend hours browsing profiles, find a few hosts I can connect with and write up detailed messages.

I click send.

And then wait.

Maybe yes, maybe no, maybe nothing at all.

Couchsurfing is such a great exercise in non-attachment. If I actually expected to get hosted by everyone I requested, I'd be so fucking depressed. And all the rejection/silence would make me feel super insecure. 

But I have to make the activity itself the end. I have to find a way to enjoy searching for hosts. To enjoy sending requests, regardless of whether or not they'll actually come to anything.  

When a green "accept" finds its way into my inbox, I do a little happy dance.

When a crossed through "declined" finds its way into my inbox, I just shrug my shoulders.

Just means I get to find someone else. 

Instead of reading negative hostel reviews like, "bed was hard as rocks!" or "staff was so unhelpful!" I read negative CS references like, "he made me watch him masturbate," or "he didn't make clear the bed was shared..." Instead of reading positive hostel reviews like, "Staff was so friendly!" or "had really fast wifi", I read positive CS references like, "Cedric is Chocolate-Secret-Hero. He knows a lot of secret spots and the best place to have hot or COLD! chocolate. its so tasty... I still dream about it," or "Ger is a relaxed fella and we enjoyed our stay in his comfortable house, with him and his whiskeys as well as with his enchanting cat we called "an tíogar."

Here I go, back into a world of much higher stakes. The bad things that happen in hostels are hard beds and unhelpful staff (and Japanese women who keep turning off the fan). The bad things that happen through Couchsurfing are unwelcome sexual pressure and sexual assault. 

But the good things that happen through Couchsurfing are just SO much better than the best things that could possibly happen in a hostel. Like meeting a chocolate secret hero. 

I found some fried rice with chicken and vegetables and kombucha for my early dinner.

Of course they have kombucha in Pai. What a hippie place. And I thought Chiang Mai was hippie heaven. This takes it to the next level.

After sating my hunger, I strolled around Pai for a couple of hours, relishing one of my final afternoons in a town with temples instead of churches. 

 

I laughed at a few funny signs. A bittersweet laugh, as I know I won't find nearly as many/any in England, Ireland and France.

WHAT DOES THIS MEAN? Do I party with my eyes shut?

Yes, please. I would like a hearty helping of mix language characters with my lemon grass. Delicious.

I turned in early my first night in Pai. The town hasn't got much going for it except bars, cafes, trinket shops and a small outdoor market wherein one can buy "burito" and vegan chocolate truffles. 

As I'd walked the market street several times, had popped in and out of the trinket shops, had negative desire for vegan chocolate and had a budget too depleted for bars, I figured I might as well return to my mattress on the floor. 

The next morning, I chatted with a few hostel guests over instant coffee, then walked into town to find real coffee. 

...

I blissfully lingered at the cafe for hours, getting back into my swing of things. 

I loved everything about massage school, but I really struggle when I don't have a large chunk of time wherein I can just sit... with a cup of real coffee... my headphones in... and write. Like what Matt and I had in Nepal. This is my introvert time. What keeps this INFJ sane. From becoming a werewolf. Which (Jung and Briggs Myers may or may not have been aware) is what happens when an INFJ doesn't get enough alone time.

So I wrote a blog, sent a few couchsurfing requests and contemplated a play I'm writing about a couple trying to adopt a Venus flytrap.

Totally refreshed and de-werewolfed, I met up with a couple of young Danish travelers to watch the sunset from the White Buddha overlooking Pai. 

The sunset was a bit bashful, but still beautiful.

I'd booked a tour for my final day in Pai. Because one can only hang out at hippie cafes and look at elephant jewelry for so long.

The tour included a viewpoint -- 

a viewpoint which would have been significantly more viewy if not obscured by clouds.

We continued on to Lod cave, where we were assigned a guide and led through the dark caverns with a kerosene lantern.

In the Philippines, Andrej and I were told that all cave structures looked like a) foreign fruits and vegetables, or b) religious figures.

In Thailand, all cave structures look like a) animals, or b) Buddha.

"Look, it is giant crocodile!"

"Look, it is elephant!"

"Look it is Buddha! And here -- here is boob!" our guide pointed out a perfectly round lump of cave with a bit of water dripping from what could have been a lovely nipple.

What is it with Thai people and calling all round things boobs? 

Or is that just people, in general, and you're giving away your homeschool roots by NOT assuming that all round things look like boobs? 

...

Coconuts are round. Peas. Peas are round. Volleyballs. Why doesn't that piece of cave look like a volleyball? 

After huffing and puffing up a plethora of precarious, bat guano speckled stairs, we boarded a bamboo raft and floated to the entrance of the cave.

Walls and ceiling lit by yellow lamplight.

Silhouettes of giant catfish swimming in the water beneath.

Sounds of bats echoing through the caverns. 

What magic. 
 

 Our next stop was a hot spring. I begrudgingly call the lukewarm spring hot, but as it was warmer than my shower, I'll grant it a Thai "hot".

We popped by an old temple and a gorgeous cafe, then finished our evening at Pai's canyon. 

Where the sunset was quite a bit less bashful.

One more night in Pai... one night in Chiang Mai... one night on the fifteen hour train from Chiang Mai to Bangkok... a whole morning and afternoon bumming around Bangkok... a flight to Kuala Lumpur at eight pm... a ten hour layover in Kuala Lumpur... 

THEN a flight to London. 

My journey starts Thursday afternoon at three thirty and doesn't end until Saturday afternoon at three thirty. 

Holy bananas. 

But at least I know I'll have a hot shower at Gio's. And that Maud will be waiting for me. With wine. Maud, wine and a hot shower. 

I can do anything for Maud, wine and a hot shower.