One of Those Days

Today I just want to,

Kick it in my living room.

Today I just want to,

Return to a home cooked meal.

Today I just want to,

Speak English with more than 10 people.

Today I just want to,

Call my family without considering an 11-hour time difference.

Today I just want to,

Book a ticket out of Thailand to America.

Today I just want to,

Be there when I’m here.

But when I was there,

I wanted to be here.

So I was neither there nor here.

And that’s the problem isn’t?

We’ve got to realize 'there' only exists because we’ve left the 'here'.

So today I must stay here,

That’s the only mindful place to be.

Pak Chong: Highway Walks with the Gypsy Gang

Reunions are very important for the soul. It’s not often that you are able to encounter people that make you shine, people that are just as weird as you are, people that you have fun with simply because of their company. I like to call these people my tribe. A band of sisters here in Thailand you might have heard me refer to as my gypsy girls.

So after far too many weeks of separation, we decided we must reunite. Pulling out a map and finding a midway point was the easy part. We weren’t trying to bust the bank so we looked for the cheapest accommodation. But with last minute planning, a place to stay wasn’t the easiest pursuit. So with questionable homage 24-hours before the weekend, it seemed like maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Maybe another weekend. Maybe when we had saved more money. But then, just like that, with Facebook chat the only form of communication, a place was found and the adventure was set.

It doesn’t matter where we are staying, it just matters that we are together.

When I finally arrived from my long journey, five hours with two bus transfers, I phoned the hostel and was happy to hear one guest had already arrived. Must be Zola, no way the straggling Kara had made it there first. After catching up and lounging, we decided to make our way into town to grab some grub and to find the missing piece of the gypsy puzzle.

We took a stroll, with some miscommunication from the German owner on how to arrive in the city. Something about walking to the supermarket and flagging down a pickup truck (songtaw). But with only two possible roads in the right direction, we were certain it must be the dirt road, because there was no way a highway walk was the only option. We passed by some cut up rocks, which I insisted were cave stalagmites, and hit a dead end. Yes, the highway was the only option, we were told, everyone walks on the highway, even families and children. Apprehensive, we started our way, passing zooming semi-trucks, and countless honks. 

As timing works, we arrived in town simultaneously as Kara. Three gypsy girls walking down the backstreets of markets, with stories shared from our wild child about her previous night’s escapades. And let’s be honest, white people get enough eye attention.  It’s that starkly white skin, and that farang tongue. But take that attention and multiply it by 100 for a scene of a motley crew of hippie girls roaming around. It’s all good; we’ve got inexhaustible smiles to share.

In search of some green space, we asked around for advice on local parks that spared the costly admission. We decided on the only park within walking distance, which provided us incessant laughter as we arrived, walking into a cement-filled lot. It featured a running track and pony ride loop.  More laughter. Finding our source of entertainment with an unattended soccer ball, we caught up on our interim lives. A cute young 18-year old passed by and practiced his English with us. After our hour or so long conversation he shared that it had been months since he had practiced with a Westerner. The guts this guy had to approach three foreign strangers was very admirable.

Later, while munching on street food we caught eyes with the very attractive Salad Roll Man. Interested to make a connection, I used the thai wave to call him over. Soon enough, we had a tour guide for the night. After some 7/11 front stooping and the mistake of spending far too much baht on ice, we met our friend again and jumped onto his motorbike. The adventure began. Just like that.

And as us gypsy girls do, we made friends with everyone. With older woman. With older men. With servers. With singers. Kara fell in love with a guy who reminded her to not forget her backpack. And we transitioned from four people on a motorbike to 10 people in a pickup truck. At one point, I turned to look at Zola and she was rocking her dreads with the main bassist. There was an amazing light of energy, and we were treated like pure celebrities that brought the party.

And that’s what it feels like when you’re surrounded by your tribe. Sure, we were in some random town whose main attraction, Khao Yai Park, was unaffordable. But it didn’t matter. I was with people that emit blinding light. My gypsy girls might be extreme. My gypsy girls might be weird. My gypsy girls might have a voracious approach to life. But, most of all, my gypsy girls are magical.

So, find your tribe. Find people you can runaway from hostel owners, dashing towards the highway, laughing out loud, and almost falling over because of your comedic lifestyle. Find the people you resonate with. Your true allies on this journey called life.

So, do it. Find your tribe.

Magnify your brilliance with a trusted tribe of kindreds.

Nong Khai: Solo Peace and Quiet

What good do words really bring? We constantly blabber on in our lives as we justify, explain, relate, admire, and demonstrate. Our verbal input makes us feel…. connected? But there is already this endless chatter in our mind space; does the talk need to consume our lives as well?

 I decided to take a break from the words. A break from the need to be connected. And although I love having company join me in my adventures, I did something for myself this weekend. I went alone. Not to affirm that I can get it done solo style. I already know I can. But to grace myself with the silence my body so dearly needed.

Nong Khai is a quiet, tranquil town that borders Laos. The muddy Mekong River flows between with the Friendship Bridge linking the two countries. The Mutmee Guesthouse was the perfect accommodation tucked away for my weekend of silence.

And let’s be honest, I wasn’t completely silent. On my four-hour transport, on bus and mini-van, I had great conversations with Thais. Regardless if I wanted to be bothered, I’m white, and that often entices the locals to try out an exchange with the farang. One older gentleman reached for my hand before he got off the bus and told me Thailand loves America and America loves Thailand. One college student insisted I sit next to her on the mini-bus and was just staring at me, smiling, the whole way.

I wandered through the markets, snagging an American flag hat for the 4^th of July weekend, a pair of gypsy pants made in Thailand with fabric from Indonesia, and some bracelets . . . because one can never have enough bracelets. And here I was in this peaceful town, taking whatever outlet looked interesting as I walked on. I wasn’t pointing out all the amazing things I saw, I wasn’t verbalizing how sweaty I was, I wasn’t clouding the air of Thai language with a farang tongue. I was just, silently, taking it all in.

With no company at dinner, I mindfully ate my food. Rather than shoveling in bites between stories, I was slowly enjoying my meal and tasting all the ingredients. I thought about the farmer who picked the tomatoes, the cook who made the sauce so perfectly acidic and juicy. I thought, but I did not speak. And at the night market my solitary silence continued. I communicated with the local Thai dancers by snapping their photos as they posed for me. I joined an older couple, who interacted with me through grins, as we watched the music performance. I was all there, but I did not waste my energy on words.

Before my friend, Jick, arrived to take me back to Khon Kaen, I savored the silent moments with a riverside bike ride to the must-see sculpture garden, Sala Keoku. Sala Keoku, built by a Laotian artist, was created to honor the spiritual teachings of Buddhism and Hinduism.  Upon entering the park, with it’s awe-inspiring giant monuments, I was quickly distracted by a precious young boy. We giggled and played, and after twenty minutes I brushed off the gravel, and let him on his innocent way. It’s amazing how I can be in the presence of such beautiful art, and yet be so much more captured by this little live-image nugget.

I spent hours circling this garden. I’m not sure if it’s because company didn’t distract me, but I just had this overwhelming sense that nature was so intertwined with the art. It seemed that every sculpture was paired with wildlife; whether that be a flower growing, a butterfly landing, a beehive serving as a beard, or the fauna backdrop adding to the overall image. The flower child in me was beaming. Beaming on that blessed of an overcast day that allowed me to coolly stroll.

 

Overall, a perfect weekend where I reminded myself it’s ok to get tired of words.

“It is only in an atmosphere of quiet that true joy dare live.” –Bertrand Russell

Losing A Best Friend While Abroad

 I called my parents to exchange stories about our 4^th of July celebrations. To possibly laugh over the mishaps and mayhem from the annual do-it-yourself firework show.

But instead, my laugh quickly echoed into sobering tears as my mother told me my best friend of sixteen years had died. Died. And as I often do, when I’d rather not handle something, I hung up. I hung up and crumbled to the floor.

It was such an unexpected shock to my system. I still remember the first day I met him, how interactive and friendly he was. He never liked cuddling, but man he loved giving kisses. Throughout the years, he put up with so much of my bullshit. All those times I dressed him up . All those times he took the first snow plunge, when we were all apprehensive to see how deep it went.

He was my best friend.

The weekly chore of taking the trash to the cul-de-sac was never a bother because he always joined. He would remind me to not get annoyed at the task at hand, and we’d play in the woods for hours, returning home and getting scolded by Mom because we were only meant to be outside a few minutes.  All those adventures to the creek were always glistened with his footsteps. No matter how far I went, he was always game to join. My brother and I would play paintball by the bunkers, and there he would be jumping over the water to join.

I still have that scar from when the tree branch came crashing down next to us, when he clung onto me so tight with our lives flashing before our eyes. All those all-nighters I spent studying in middle and high school, he was there helping me finish the cookies and milk Dad had brought in. Sometimes I would sneak outside and shed some tears over the drama of being an adolescent, and without even calling him over, he’d be there to empathize. He’d rub my head up and brush away my sniffles. He was the best listener.

As a youngster, he peed on the toilet seat cover, and I took the fall for him. But the timeout in the corner was well worth him not getting kicked out for the day. Many times Mom would object to our sleepovers, so when everyone was asleep I’d sneak out and let him in. Before I even knew selfies existed, I was snapping photos with him. Capturing the moments of absolute affection.

    

                    

I’d return home from college break or an adventure abroad, enter the house, and head straight for my boys. My Calvin & Hobbes. Hobbes would immediately be smiles, purrs, rubs, happiness. . . all a fury overflow of love. It’s always been one of the best things to have these amazing boys, my most beautiful friends provide me with the greeting of home.

And the thing is, I go on these adventures, and selfishly, think things will go on perfectly the same.  But in reality all is changing, all is progressing, all is aging. Although I wish I could be at home, mourning with my other best friend, his brother, Calvin. I can’t. My moment is here. And that’s the beautiful thing about moments, because being present in them is what’s blossomed these amazing memories with my childhood best friend.

Hobbes is living his moment now.

I’ve heard kitty heaven is pretty amazing buddy. Love you. Always.