Hmm. Bangkok. Tricky. Part II

When the bus came to a stop sending a curl of water in its wake, we bounded aboard. We pulled away…and stopped. Inched forward. Stopped. Inched forward. Stopped. Was a wall of water impeding our progress? No. The view from the window was dry, but a clot of cars, tuk tuks and buses fumed and spewed ahead. According to a fellow passenger, this was simply the usual evening crawl. Walking might have been faster, but we had a ways to go and we were tired and ready to sit.

Following our headlong sprint through the Grand Palace, our next stop was MBK, a shoppers’ mecca. Casey had written a lot about shopping in her blogs. A lot. Given her tight budget, I’d been concerned about her spending, and doubted that Dave and I would find much to tempt us in Thailand. So wrong. Ceramics, beaded bracelets, hand-painted wooden bowls, scarves, and mini tuk tuks crafted from beer cans… Fun! And cheap. I could say “inexpensive,” but the prices surpassed inexpensive. “Cheap” is exactly, and happily, the right word for the bounty of bargains. The sprawling markets of Chiang Mai were an endurance test in scope, but we loved the hours (hours!) of browsing. Still, when the girls insisted on a visit to MBK, a seven-story mall in the heart of Bangkok, I turned up my nose. A mall? I avoid the malls at home and had no interest in an Asian version.

Again, so wrong, for MBK, we discovered upon arrival, is a seven-story marketplace. A barrage of booths piled, draped and abundant with Thai silks, colorful bags, carvings, jewelry, sarongs, blousy pants, and funky tee-shirts in which to dive, splurge and wallow. Bargains, bickering, and buying! A heady opportunity to expand on the gift list, pick up a few more trinkets, and wander until thirst and hunger made one stiff, hollow-eyed… and alone. Alone? Um. Where did everyone go? Where was Dave? Where were the girls?

I wandered the aisles, up and down, back and forth. Forlorn, I returned to booths where I’d made purchases just to see the familiar faces of the vendors. Most spoke a smattering of English, but when I told them, “I’ve lost my family,” they smiled and shrugged; they’d seen it before. I amused myself by spinning a legend about a haggard matron said to haunt the aisles of MBK ever-seeking her loved ones among the Buddhas, gold cats, and pashminas.

Finally Dave found me. Oh glorious reunion! He led me to the girls, aisles and aisles away, trying on fisherman pants. Clearly, they had not missed me, but I was giddy with relief (and, as I said, hunger and thirst) and hugged all three of them, giggling with a hint of hysteria.

By that time, it was late and many vendors had cloaked their stalls in fabrics to signal the end of business. We chattered about our purchases as we headed to the food court, but it was closed. Our moods changed. Blood sugar plummeting, lips thinning, we rode the escalator down, defeated.

MBK is a massive enterprise. Foolish to think it had only one food court. Certainly not! One floor down, a vista as welcome as any oasis opened before us: an array of kitchens offering Thai, Italian, Indian and Chinese food. A bit of this, a bit of that, noodles, pasta, humus, and curry. Wine and beer, a place to sit, a restroom nearby. Shoes shed, weary feet off duty beneath the table. Bliss.

After dinner, refreshed and happily buzzed, we rode the sky train, Dave and I tottering like tired children behind Casey and Karis as they took command. Upon reaching our stop, we crossed the platform, and nabbed a tuk tuk for the ride to Hua Lamphong station. Despite the spreading waters we’d seen outside the palace, the roads we’d traveled since were dry so the girls hoped to find the trains still running and purchase tickets for their trip south.

While the white arched façade of the station was impressive from the street, the scene inside the station would have been cautionary at home. We reminded ourselves, again, to suspend judgment, avoid comparisons, and be open, but it was dimly lighted and dingy, and people were sleeping on the floor. Everywhere on the floor. Was this the norm or were these people flood refugees?

Awkward with our bags of MBK booty, we picked our way around mats, luggage, and bodies to reach the ticket booth. Casey and Karis got in line, I went to the bathroom, and Dave went to buy some bottled water.

When I rejoined the girls, Dave was sitting on a bench chatting with a monk. Yes. A head-shaved, orange-robed, pleasant-faced monk. This is not as surprising as it sounds as my husband is a friendly guy, one to strike up conversations with cashiers, gas station attendants, and waitstaff. A monk would have been irresistible. It turned out Dave had offered the man a bottle of water and in return, the monk gave him braided bracelets, one for each of us, “to keep you safe on your journey.”

Dave beamed when he returned to us, related the encounter, and showed us how to tighten the string bracelets on our wrists. We went over to bow our thanks, retraced our wobbly path through those asleep on the floor, and left the station.

Outside, Casey asked a taxi driver for directions to Shanghai Mansion. It was only three blocks away and we felt strong and triumphant after our shopping spree, the girls’ success in getting their tickets, and the monk’s blessing. We had Bangkok nailed.

As we strode across the busy intersection, Dave and Casey ahead, Karis and I side-by-side, we grinned and waved as men in neon orange vests, a construction crew at work on the road, hooted at the girls. I took little note of the helmeted rider on the gold motorbike stopped at the traffic light.

Suddenly, Karis was flying. Flying. At the end of a chain. What? What was happening? “Karis!” I screamed. And then, she was skidding down the road on her back and Casey was a blur of fury, running and yelling, “Bastard! Fucking asshole!” as the gold motorbike sped away with Karis’s bag dangling from the handlebar by a broken chain.

We ran to Karis who was still and pale, blood spotting her cheek and hand. We kneeled beside her, to check her, to protect her from the cars whizzing by. Bystanders stopped and the construction guys rushed over. Some squatted, hands on knees, brows knit. Horrified. “She okay?” Others directed traffic around our small knot of people with our wounded Karis at its core.

Karis lifted her hand to her face, her eyes open. Thank God: she could move. With trembling fingers, she pressed her stomach, her hip. “Pain. Something’s wrong. Inside.” Someone started to lift her. “Don’t move her!” I snapped. “It might hurt her. Her back…we don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Got to get her off the road. Too dangerous.”

“Careful…careful.”

A young man with worried eyes said, “The hospital is close. Five minutes. You go?”

Karis didn’t want to. But as she rose, helped by as many caring hands as could reach her from the circle, she winced. Took a few tentative steps. No tears, but she was scared and sore. She tucked in her bottom lip and nodded. “Yes. The hospital.”

The young man with worried eyes hailed a tuk tuk and pressed money into the driver’s hand. Dave tried to repay him, but he refused. A generous cluster of kind people and one greedy asshole; the saving grace is in that dependable percentage.

I wonder now how we squeezed into that tuk tuk. All four of us jammed into a seat for two, with Karis stiff and tender. The driver was silent, his eyes on the road, mindful of his mission, and his injured passenger. We passed the turn to Shanghai Mansion: we’d been so close.

Our tuk tuk pulled in to a circular drive and the bright lights, the sterile white, the beeps, soft voices, and uniforms of the hospital. Dave went to the front desk to provide information while Casey and I followed two nurses and Karis into the emergency room. She needed us and we needed to be with her. In the U.S., would they have separated us since we were not family? We were deeply grateful for that kindness.

Slowly, carefully, we helped Karis to an examining table and supported her back to lower her. With intake of breath and brow furrowed, she lay down as the nurses surveyed her abrasions. “Crazy, right?” she said. “He got my camera. Can you believe it? Again?”

In Viet Nam, the girls’ cameras were stolen on the beach. Casey had downloaded her shots onto her computer, but all of Karis’s pictures from the first month of their travels had disappeared with the thief. It had taken some self-talk to move past that, to buy another camera and start over.

Karis continued, “But, maybe an hour ago, I took out the memory card and put it in my tummy pack. An hour ago. He did not get my pictures. I think I would have given up photography for good if he’d gotten my pictures.”

The curtains parted. A handsome eighteen-year old boy entered. He was solemn and kind. He was also the doctor. So maybe he was twenty-eight. Didn’t look it. In heavily accented English, he asked Karis questions, told her to raise and bend her arms and legs, gently prodded her hip and stomach.

“You will be fine,” he said. “You have a torn muscle only.”

“I know bodies,” Karis said. “I teach pilates. And something feels wrong.”

“It is the trauma. But it is not serious. We will give you something for the pain, but you are okay.”

I pictured Karis dragged down the street. Dragged. I was breathless at the image. Could we trust this diagnosis? I thought about Karis’s father, Gary. The trip in and of itself worried him so. The theft in Viet Nam worried him. Karis’s fall in Hong Kong worried him, as had Casey’s motorbike accident. For parents a world away, these have been tough stories to hear. I was sick for Gary, knowing how he would feel at this news.

The doctor was writing a report at a small desk to the side of the room. I went over and asked if I could speak with him. Graciously, he gestured to the chair.

I told him about the girls’ trip, their plan to load those cumbersome packs on their backs day after tomorrow to travel for another month. I told him I was not Karis’s mother, that I wanted to be sure we could report honestly to Karis’s father that he needn’t worry. Tears filled my eyes; it was hard to talk.

With gaze unwavering, the doctor listened patiently and said he was “almost positive” in his diagnosis, but there was a specialist in the hospital, and if we wanted to wait, he would call for a second opinion. I bowed my appreciation, assured him of my respect for his judgment, but requested the additional examination.

So we waited. The nurses cleaned the cuts on Karis’s face, shoulder and finger and bound them with gauze. Karis was sore, wide-eyed, and worried about ruptured organs, mobility, and her camera. “I keep having a déjà vu. All this white. The blue curtains. Did I dream this? What would trigger it? Crazy.” She noticed the parched skeleton of a tiny gecko trapped in the neon light over her head. “How did he get in there? Poor little guy.”


I stroked Karis’s hair and thought about her mother, Cathy, who had passed away. Silently I prayed, hoping Cathy could watch over her girl, could have some heavenly influence over her condition. I wondered why the monk’s bracelet had done so little to protect us. Or had it saved us from something worse?

On the far side of the neighboring curtain, a man hacked and spit. Another man stood next to someone swathed in blue blankets on a stretcher. An old man with rubber sandals and long stringy hair slumped in a chair against the wall. People came and went, walking slowly, heads down.

After completing the paperwork and calling the police, Dave found us and joined the vigil. The police told Dave we could come down to the station and file a report, but given the hour, Karis’s injuries, and our certainty that they’d never find the cyclist, we decided against it.

Casey was white-lipped and woozy. When not asking the nurses questions or soothing Karis, she’d disappear into the waiting room to sit with her head between her knees. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she’d murmur as she resumed her place at Karis’s side. Her eyes met mine – worried, her mind racing, I was sure, with thoughts akin to my own: would Casey be able to carry both packs? Would Gary let Karis continue to the islands, or insist she return home? Would Dave and I let Casey go on without Karis? Would she listen to us? Damned cyclist.

“Beast,” she spat. And then she turned to Dave, “What would I have done if this had happened, and you and Mom weren’t here?”

“Case, you’d have done exactly what we’ve done. You’ve dealt with hard things here. You handled them. You would've handled this.”

Karis wanted to pee, but feared getting up, feared there’d be blood in her urine, feared what that might mean. With raised eyebrows, the nurse held up a bedpan. “No way,” said Karis. The nurse pushed the bed close to the bathroom and the process of dismount began. False starts. Halting, cautious arrangement of legs and elbows as Karis struggled to rise and swing a limb over the side. She stood, and Casey helped her into the bathroom. Dave and I waited.

The girls emerged, Karis limping, but grinning. She could stand and walk. There was no blood in her urine. Victories.

The surgeon arrived, a woman, again so youthful as to appear twenty-five or so. She wore a pink collared shirt and her jet-black hair was pulled into a ponytail. We helped Karis onto the bed. Casey stayed with her, while Dave and I stepped outside the curtain. I stuck my head in to remind the girls to mention Karis’s déjà vu. We could hear the discussion, the girls’ many questions and again, the reassurance that the symptoms were those of trauma, not breakage or ruptures.

Karis was not broken, but we were shaken. That cyclist could have killed her, and it didn’t faze him. He just drove away.

Hmm. Bangkok. Tricky. - Part I

I was nervous about Bangkok. This sprawling city bisected by the curving Chao Phraya River has a reputation. Just as I felt uncomfortable, and yet, in awe of the beautiful but promiscuous girl while in school, I suspected I’d be out of my league in Bangkok. No exaggeration, I spent hours and hours from home, searching the Internet, reading TripAdvisor reviews, zooming in and zooming out on Google Earth, dizzy from the effort to establish a sense of distances. Where should we stay? Near the river? Near the wats (temples)? How far was it from this hotel to that wat? The city had me stressed out long before our plane took off.

Dave and I asked friends for recommendations. Several suggested the Mandarin Oriental. Perfect! It was exactly what we’d envisioned, a place rich with history and character…at $500 per night. Ah well. Another friend suggested the Federal because it was smack in the middle of everything. Given what I’d heard about Bangkok’s sex shows and scams, I was leery about what “everything” meant. Many hotels listed online were towering new structures of glass and steel, shiny, modern, not what I wanted, not my idea of Asia.

My idea of Asia was exotic and ancient, shaped by storybooks and my grandmother’s tales about her travels in the sixties. So, perhaps my idea of Asia no longer existed, but I kept returning to the Shanghai Mansion in Bangkok’s Chinatown. The pictures showed a nineteenth century hotel with vibrant colors and traditional furnishings, but I hesitated because several TripAdvisor reviews complained of an unfriendly staff. In the end, I gave in, and Casey made the reservations while we were in Chiang Mai.

Our flight from Sukhothai landed in Bangkok around 7:30 PM. We collected our unwieldy packs, loaded up, and trudged to the information booth to plan our next step. What could have been a bewildering series of trains, connections, and tuk tuks unfolded smoothly as Casey and Karis listened to a list of incomprehensible names of streets and stops, repeated them clearly, received approving nods of confirmation, and led the way.

It was dark by the final leg of the trip, a tuk tuk ride to Chinatown. Dave and I were captivated by the Chinese lettering, the flash of neon, and glimpses of past elegance in Art Deco façades and wrought iron signs, but I longed for a restorative movie-style flashback to swab away the pervasive layer of grime.

The flood waters had not yet seeped into the streets, but the outlying areas were awash, so the inner city was on alert. Upon our arrival, we had to clamber over a four-foot high wall of sandbags barricading the entrance to Shanghai Mansion, but once inside: colorful hanging paper lanterns, a koi pond, red lacquer accents, pen and ink artwork, dark filigreed wood. My idea of Asia, still here.

Like loonies, we gawked at our exotic rooms. The tea set and fruit bowl on the sideboard. Decorative birdcages, parchment patterned wallpaper, embroidered green satin runners, a sinuous carved black frieze atop deep purple walls. We danced from the girls’ room to our own, cameras in hand, snapping away. Bangkok would prove to be a challenge, but Shanghai Mansion was a jewel.

* * *


Suspend judgment. Avoid comparisons to the familiar. Be open to experience and to others. By following these precepts, our travels have been enriched, but in Bangkok, it is not wise to let your guard down.

The day had been one of extraordinary contrasts. In the morning, we’d had a taste of the TripAdvisor warning about the Shanghai Mansion staff. When we asked the front desk clerk if the river boats were running, she said no. She did not elaborate or offer suggestions, nor was she helpful in answering questions. Her expression was set, eyes dark. Well, our rooms more than made up for it. We headed out to the street, hailed a tuk tuk and asked the driver if he knew of any river ride possibilities. Of course! Plenty of boats out there. He drove us to the docks…and the waters were rippling with traffic.

Apparently we had on our “I’m a sucker” tee-shirts, for Casey was aghast at the price quoted by the woman selling tickets. “It’s a scam. Ridiculous. Do NOT pay this,” Casey urged. Again, Dave and I were a disappointment to our daughter…and paid. For the not-so-unreasonable sum of $15 a person, we could board the boat as opposed to spending the next hour sweltering in the sun in search of a better deal. Casey was steamed…and proved correct in her assessment as we were charged an additional docking charge at every stop we made.

Hmm. Bangkok. Tricky. And I didn’t even mention the three-inch long cockroach that landed on my neck last night after dinner…

Shaded by the canopy of our long-tail boat, we were cool, our sweat-sticky skin dried by a breeze, as we glided past tiled pagodas, soaring spires, and a giant golden Buddha. We stopped to explore the legendary Wat Arun, grudgingly paid the docking fee - after a heated discussion with the attendant - and climbed the marvelous, steep, stepped, tower encrusted with brilliant pieces of porcelain.

After re-boarding, our navigator steered down a side canal. I’ve read that Bangkok has been dubbed the “Venice of Asia” because of its canals, but that’s a stretch. And because of the floods, the canals had risen in their channels, swamping the houses along the banks. One woman stood knee-deep in water in her doorway, hanging laundry to dry in the eaves. Two men sat in folding metal chairs, ignoring the water swirling about their legs. We’d heard that crocodiles and snakes were an added flood concern and kept a lookout for serpentine swells in the current.

Our ultimate destination was the white-walled Grand Palace and the temple, Wat Phra Kaeo. At the main gate, we discovered we had one hour until closing. Bad timing. We discussed postponing the visit, but Bangkok is huge, and our days, unpredictable. While we had no idea the degree of truth to that, we decided to stay and hurry. So we ran. Literally.

The guards were not impressed with our need for speed, nor with the girls’ shorts and bare shoulders. Casey and Karis were forced to make a detour to the tourist office to borrow appropriate cover-ups at the cost of precious time and a hefty deposit.

Once properly clothed, we ran up the steps, kicked off our shoes, as required, and dashed in to see the emerald Buddha. We zipped past garishly colored guardians, snarling and angry with their curved scimitars. We squinted at the gleaming gold chedi tower that houses a piece of Buddha’s breastbone. We whirled the length of the Grand Palace and watched the changing of the guard. Silvery sun rays escaped mounding gray clouds to illuminate spires, peaks and finials. Magic. My idea of Asia. But the crowds had thinned and uniformed staff were sweeping. “I don’t want to lose our deposit,” said Casey. “We’ve got to wrap this up.” Right. Next time, we’ll hit the palace first.

The scene outside the walls was disturbing. Murky water seeped from catch basins and crept down the road. We stood at the bus stop, eyes fixed on a spot on the sidewalk to gauge the rate of the water’s rise: how long before that spot disappeared beneath liquid fingers? Not long.

Naturally, the bus we wanted had pulled away just as we passed through the palace gate, and we had no idea when the next one was due. We stood and waited, exchanging anxious smiles with those around us, all of us tracking the advance of the water, watching as cars and tuk tuks plowed along sending waves splashing against the curb. How far inland might crocodiles come?

As pedestrians lifted their pant legs to cross the road, I wondered, would we have trouble leaving Bangkok? Day after tomorrow, the girls planned to take a train south to the islands and we were due to fly home. None of us wished to extend our stay.

Feast to Flight

Our departure from Sukhothai did not start out well.

To celebrate his wife’s birthday, our host, Marco, graciously invited us to a traditional Thai luncheon along with the other hotel guests. After checking out of our rooms, Dave, Casey, Karis and I gathered with the others on the porch at the main house. The cool refreshment of the morning’s dip in the pool had sweated away in stuffing the backpacks, hauling them to our shoulders, and lugging them to the front entrance. While the view from the shelter of the porch was sunlight on neat patches of lawn bordered by green fronds and flowers, it was sweltering hot.

Stretched the length of the table, browned and grinning, was a roast pig. A whole pig. I glanced at Dave, chagrined. Since childhood, I’ve been a fan of pigs – Wilbur of E.B. White’s Charlotte’s Web, and the plucky Babe of the 1995 movie by that name. Pigs are smarter than dogs, and with a forgiving permanent smile, greet a world that sees them as pork and bacon. Where many would relish this feast as a delightful native experience, Dave and I don’t eat meat, so we were grateful for the hospitality, but tentative. One hears stories of guests eating monkey brains and eyeballs rather than offending a Chinese host, and while this was not as dramatic, I wished not to be rude, but was not going to eat that pig.

Ceramic bowls heaped with steaming concoctions were arrayed around the main course. Perfect. I ladled onto my plate a generous portion of pasta-like tubes in thick red sauce. The dish smelled rich and spicy, but I was wary enough to ask before digging in. It was not pasta and tomatoes, but a stew of blood sauce well stocked with assorted arteries, veins, and ducts. Surprisingly, I was not hungry. There was a lovely bowl of fresh fruit on the table, thank God, and I can report that orange and banana peels make excellent cover.

After picking and poking through the meal, artfully arranging the remnants on our plates, we thanked Marco and his wife effusively, then requested a tuk tuk for our trip to the airport. Marco waved the idea aside – cordial as he was, we’d found he was a man of strong opinion, accustomed to control – and declared a minivan was better, given the length of the trip and the nature of the roads. He made the arrangements and indicated a cost of 300 baht, or nine dollars. Not bad for a forty-five minute ride for four people.

Upon arrival at the airport, the driver turned and requested payment, 1200 baht.

Casey leaned forward from the back seat, her spine rigid, uncompromising. Her eyes locked with those of the driver, her gaze strong as a steel beam. “That is not what we were told.” She said.

The man spoke little English and repeated the price. Held up four fingers. Pointed at the four of us. Perhaps we were unaware of our number? Couldn’t add?

My daughter shook her head, lips set in a tight line. “Not acceptable. I realize this is not your fault, but we will not pay 1200 baht.”

Who was this woman, so firm, so noble, in her pursuit of right? Her antennae had been quivering with caution about Marco since she met him. He was out of her reach, beyond the laser of her indignation, but she was glorious in her determination to shield her parents from his conniving.

Unfortunately, Dave and I were not up to the battle. Soothing others, seeking agreement: that’s what we do. Maybe this was a misunderstanding? Given the option of striding from the van trailed by a protesting driver, Casey and Karis with heads high, Lea and Dave, heads down, hoping no one would see us, we paid. “I’ve learned to sniff out scams, Mom, and that’s what this was.”

*Sigh*

But what better way to ease resentment than to spend an hour or two at Sukhothai airport? I jest not; the place was a joy. The waiting area was an open-air shelter, breezy and aromatic with the scent of surrounding gardens. Rows of comfortable wooden chairs branched from the central focus, an artful arrangement of sea-swept gray driftwood and sinuous purple and white orchids. To increase the pleasure of our stay, a complimentary self-serve counter offered juice, tea, cappuccino, hot chocolate and coffee, as well as banana chips and crispy rice treats studded with sesame seeds and cashews. It was festive, light-filled, as we chatted, snacks in hand, with a couple from Australia.

A winged vision in pink, red, yellow and coral glided to the gate, and our flight was announced. I fairly danced to the plane with its mural of fanciful fish and flora painted on the fuselage. Smiling attendants bowed in greeting as we boarded, and once we were seated and buckled in, outside the window, the ground crew, in neon vests and goggles, waved as we rolled away.

Asian airlines return fun to flight.

On this one-hour jaunt, lunch was served; one of the best meals I’ve had on the trip so far. Wide noodles, shrimp, carrots and baby corn in a sauce with a hint of curry. I don’t like cooked carrots as a rule, but these were cooked to the point of just the right crunch. Oh, and did I mention the free beer and wine?

Who do I write to lodge compliments and complaints? I’ve come to accept the harsh conditions of the airlines we usually travel. Delta seating allows no room to shift or stretch and throws a defiant gauntlet to one my age. Creaky knees? As if we care. Sore coccyx? Alternate butt cheeks. Hungry? Have some peanuts. But Bangkok Airways? May I offer more fresh pineapple and papaya? How can I make you more comfortable?

While we relaxed with our wine, fruit, and curry, the view out the windows of the land passing below was grim: swaths of brown mud with geometrical borders of spindly green: flooded rice paddies. On the ride from the Lotus Hotel to the airport, we’d seen our first glimpses of the devastation reaped by the floods: people picking around in yards strewn with debris, porches askew, roads and bridges washed out. This plane ride had been the only viable route open, as we’d heard that buses were forced to take detours up to twelve hours long, and even then, some bogged down, water seeping into the vehicles' interior.

What would await us in Bangkok?

Sukhothai, Part I - Plan B

The ancient city of Ayutthaya is flooded, so we won’t be wandering among its temples as planned. Rising waters are eliminating travel routes and transportation possibilities, but I am striving to stow worry about reaching Bangkok in time for the flight home in five days. Live in the moment. Pay attention. Absorb my surroundings. Good goals. And right now, Karis, Casey, Dave and I are tucked in a van among a jumble of bags, backpacks and passengers for the trip to Chiang Mai en route to Sukhothai, our Plan B after studying the guidebooks for un-flooded ancient sites.

The girls were shaking and wobbly-kneed after our wild careen up to Pai, and were not about to tolerate reckless driving again. Seasoned travelers as they are, they have learned to assert themselves and demand satisfaction. My sisters tell me I’m conflict-avoidant and there may be some truth to that, so I have been impressed with my daughter’s confident “don’t mess with me” attitude.

In this case, Karis did not wait for Poo, the unfortunately named driver, to demonstrate his skills at the wheel, but put a hand on his arm as soon as he settled into the seat next to her. Her blue eyes and solemn smile expressed, “We will understand each other,” as she said, “Slow and steady wins the race.”

“Number One driver,” replied Poo, hand upraised, index finger extended. #1.

“Number One, yes, if you get us to Chiang Mai with no one sick and everyone safe.”

“Number One,” repeated Poo.

“Do you know the story of the tortoise and the hare?” Karis asked.

Casey, Dave and I chuckled, sure that Aesop was prominent in Poo’s education. Still, either Poo is a man who values his passengers’ lives and mental health more than his colleagues, or Karis’s intensity conveyed her message. He takes the switchbacks cautiously, honks a cheerful warning before blind curves, and drives at a speed that leaves us hands-free as opposed to clinging desperately to the seats before us.

“Besides,” Karis tells us, “the number on the van is my mom’s birthday, so she has us covered.” Karis lost her mother six years ago, and we are grateful for this sign that Cathy’s on watch from the Other Side.

Once underway, the girls flip through Poo’s CDs, and discover Rod Stewart. Crazy. As soon as Rod begins to rock, the girls chime in and commence a synchronized chin-jut, shoulder dip routine in rhythm with the sway of the van. Poo observes their antics with amusement. “I bet he doesn’t usually share the front seat with dancers,” Karis says with a grin.

I love my view of those two bobbing heads, Karis’s streaky blond hair in its neat bun, and Casey’s tousled brunette knot, wispy tendrils curling down her neck. I am infused with their joy, these funny, light, high-spirited girls who are reveling in this portion of their Asian journey.

Beep, beep, beep. Poo blows the horn as we pass a van on its way up to Pai. “Was that your friend?" Karis asks him. He smiles, but doesn’t respond.

“Nice. Nice greeting,” Casey says. I think they’re relieved to have a sane man piloting us down the mountain. Everything he does is cause for praise.

“He’s being very careful, girls,” I say as Poo honks a warning at a pedestrian.

In unison, their heads swivel to smile at me and nod. “Yes. I love him. I might even give him a hug once we arrive.” Karis beams.

* * *

A night arrival to the unforgiving white lights of a bus station in an unfamiliar town is always unsettling. Add the Asian factor? Disorienting and disconcerting. Disappointing. Disheartening. All kinds of words that start with “dis.” It is warm out, but I’m cold, perhaps it’s my mood more than the temperature. We have no reservations, and when a tuk tuk driver, handsome despite a birthmark that stains half his face, grabs two of our packs and hustles us to his vehicle, we comply without complaint. He has a tiny child in tow, a little girl, and for no good reason, that reassures me, but knowing nothing about my surroundings is way out of my comfort zone.

We load into the tuk tuk and leave the station behind. I watch suspiciously as a sign for the historic park points one way, and we head in the opposite direction toward “New Sukhothai.” Doesn’t sound good. I don’t trust “New.” I want to say, “Wait!” but there’s a window between the driver and me, so we forge on into the dark.

In ten minutes or so, we pull into what appears to be a rest stop. No. It’s a hostel. Dave and I clamber from the tuk tuk to check out a room. It’s clean, but sterile, and I can’t imagine that New Sukhothai is the place to be. We shake our heads and our guide says he will show us something else.

“Something else” is down a long, light-less, street that snakes along a canal. “Something else” is a place where one might be murdered and disappear forever. No.

Casey has been flicking through the Lonely Planet guidebook and finds an inn near the historic park. Our driver hesitates, “Far away. 15 kilometers.” My fellow travelers are adamant, thank god. Alone, I might have caved and settled for the sterile hostel, but we head for the Lotus Inn which, as it turns out, is only ten minutes away.

The place is whacky; we can see that despite the hour. Chubby statuettes of gnomes and grinning, bare-bummed girls peek from ferns lining wading pools afloat with water lilies. Paths inlaid with ceramic flowers weave among shrubs and canopied enclosures hung with bamboo hammocks. Scents of wood-smoke, honey and incense perfume the air. We are charmed as we can be, given our rumpled state and fatigue, as Marco, the proprietor, leads Dave and me up the steps of a porch to a snug bungalow.

Marco is sixty-five or so I’d guess, and his white hair is swept back from a high forehead, prominent arched nose, and piercing eyes shadowed by extravagant brows. In a loose canary-yellow shirt, he fumbles with the lock, opens the door, and gestures for us to enter. The room is small but attractive, the bed draped in mosquito nets. Oddly enough, rather than fleeing after spotting a pile of chewed fabrics and telltale turds – a rat’s nest perhaps? – we troop behind our host to check two other bungalows. During our short time in Thailand, I have tried to suspend my American sense of what is acceptable. Besides, I have never slept behind mosquito nets, and I am drawn by the stunning red lacquer bathroom with its sink of smoky blue ceramic graced with circling fish in simple brushstrokes. We search the rooms thoroughly - no sign of rodents – and agree to stay.

We will not tell the girls about that nest.

We Gulp from the River of Shit and Visit the Marigold Strippers - Part II of the One Day Trek

(See Part I below)

It is raining. Of course. In the front seat of the van, Casey and Karis are white-knuckled as they press their fists to their mouths and then cover their eyes as we speed, skidding, over a slick red-mud road cut through the jungle. The mountainside rises immediately to our right; there is no shoulder to the left between the van and the drop to the river. The van fish-tails, wheels spinning, spewing a slurry of brown slush. “And they were never seen again,” someone intones. It is too easy to imagine that red earth, rain-loosened, sluicing down the slope and sweeping this creaky van with it.

But we make it to the raft loading area – an open-sided, roofed shelter – where we shed our clothes, but for our bathing suits, and don yellow life-vests and helmets. We hear our captains long before they drive into view, hanging off the side of their van, honking, hooting, exploding firecrackers, a wild yowling crew of yahoos eager to have some fun with the tourists. Wonderful.

Actually, we are pleased with the arrogant stance of the young man who props one foot on the raft we are assigned to, a paddle gripped upright by his side like a shepherd’s staff. He is cocky, lithe, and tattooed. He has almond eyes, cocoa skin, and black hair pulled tight into a short ponytail. Captain Don.

Don gives clipped instructions in pidgin English. He shows us how to wedge our feet under the inflated rubber seats of the raft to anchor us, how to paddle forward or backward on command, how to hold the rope and prop the paddle across a thigh when he says “stop.” How to leap to left or right to shift weight so the raft does not flip.

“No flipping!” I say sternly. “I am the mother! Keep us safe!”

“No woman, no cry,” Don says, grinning. Could mean anything.

“Okay! We Off!” Captain Don barks orders and we snap into action, shoving the raft into the tug of the current. We paddle like crazy people, clutching at the safety rope as the raft buckles and twists up and around hidden rocks, folding as it tumbles into troughs. Eyes bulging, mouths agape in screams or laughter, hard to say which, we ride, waves lashing our faces, drenching us. “Great!” Dave hollers. “I brush my teeth with bottled water at Sirilanna, but I’m swallowing gulps from the river of shit!” Oh yes. We’d seen the turds, big as bocci balls, that the elephants dumped in this river.

Don hoots with glee. We laugh – hysterically. Don shouts orders. Dave repeats every one. Casey yells at her father to shut up. “Forward! Stop! Back!” calls Don. “Forward! Stop! Back!” whoops Dave. Casey glares at him. Dave ignores her. The raft zips and careens as we leap to comply to rocket-fire demands. Our captain is amusing himself at our expense; still we dare not disobey.

And then, peace. The rapids are behind us. The water is calm, our paddles at rest across our thighs as instructed. We admire the scenery. And Don tells us to pull over.

Crude rafts of bamboo float along the bank. Don points and we clamber awkwardly out of our rubber craft - which looks pretty luxurious at this point - to crawl on hands and knees in water a foot deep, our fingernails scraping up wads of muck. We jabber about the possibility that resident worms and bacteria have easy orifice access. I assume someone will tell us how to distribute our weight evenly so the raft will float on top of the water as pictured in the brochure, but no. Once all eight of our original Panda Tour crew assembles, we set off, with Karis still on hands and knees, giggling, wide-eyed.

We drift downstream in water up to our waists as a man seated at the rear paddles listlessly. The raft rocks steeply left to right, right to left, left to right: why is it so unsteady? I picture the post-ride gathering of the captains as they exchange tales of idiotic clients and their own cleverness in ordering us about. I glare at the paddler in the back, sure he’s the cause of this shaky ride. He does not return my gaze.

* * *

The ride is blessedly short and when we dock, Ghee and the Panda Tour van wait among a cluster of guides and vehicles parked at a rough encampment. In open-air cinder-block shower stalls, we rinse-off in a warm dribble of water no doubt siphoned from the river, then pull on our damp clothes for the well-earned drive back to Sirilanna.

Except we don’t go back yet. After a brief drive, the van slows and pulls over. “You’re kidding, right?” Casey moans, her eyelids drooping. “What did we sign up for?”

A tour of the Mae Tang-Muang Khaud Area, is what. And today’s trek includes visits to several mountain villages. This one, our third, is surrounded by sweeping hillsides stained with orange, pumpkin orange, orange the color of monks’ robes, a brilliant wash of color in the dusky light. “Marigolds,” Ghee says, “used to make dye.”

Our bedraggled troop trudges down dirt roads, past rude shacks with roofs of corrugated metal, wood, or thatch. Dogs lounge against walls, and bare-chested men squat in doorways or snooze on hammocks suspended beneath platform-porches. The way opens to an area encircled by shelters, floors spread with blue striped cloths piled high with orange mounds. Men, women and children bend to the task of stripping petals from stems; they grin and nod when we hold up our cameras for permission.

I feel sheepish as I point and click, point and click at the marigold-strippers, at ancient women working their embroidery, at small children playing with puppies. What must they think about these sodden white people captivated by work and flowers, by baskets of corn, cooking fires, a cow in a rickety pen? Life here is utterly alien, a life I am grateful to visit, a life I want to capture on film, but a life I wouldn’t want.

On this day, this one day, I have lived many days. I am thrilled to be able to head back to Sirilanna’s Jacuzzi, pool, comfy beds and fresh fruit. But today, with my dear ones, I trod a slick red-mud jungle trail, bathed in a waterfall, and clung to a rope in a raft on a swirling river. Today I rode on an elephant.

Casey's blog

Rumblings, Gunshots, and Hysteria in the Jungle - Part I of the One Day Trek

I know two Thai words and one is our elephant’s name, Sawasdee, or “hello.” Yes, Dave and I are seated on a metal bench resting on many layers of padding upon the shoulders of an elephant. Casey and Karis are similarly situated on an elephant behind us. The girls are laughing and indeed, there is a swell of such joy in my chest, such astonishment, that I am in Thailand, lurching and sloshing through a chocolate mud river on an elephant’s back, that my laughter spills and mingles with theirs. The sun is bright and hot. Dark, mysterious mountains, wreathed in mist, slope to meet an expanse of brilliant green rice paddy. Beneath my feet, leathery gray skin puckers as a great ear flaps and Sawasdee’s trunk stretches to probe the shrubs along the riverbank. How, how is this real?

At 8:30 this morning, our guide, Ghee, arrived with her driver in a tattered Panda Tour van to pick us up at Hotel Sirilanna for our “One Day Trek of the Mae Tang-Muang Khaud Area.” Ghee’s tiny pale face, bushy hair and over-sized glasses peeped from a beige wide-brimmed hat. She was fully swathed in a long-sleeved rain jacket, jeans, socks and sneakers. Doubtfully, she eyed my sleeveless shirt, striped Capri pants, and sandals, and said, “Walking shoes? You have walking shoes?”

I headed back to our room to change and met Casey and Karis on the stairs. Both were wearing camisoles, shorts and sandals. When I told them Ghee’s remark, they exchanged a look. “These were fine the last time we rode elephants, Mom,” my worldly girl commented. “It will be harder to clean mud off of sneakers.”

Oh. Well. “Ghee was adamant,” I said.

So, with sneakers on our feet, bathing suits under our clothes, and raincoats in our daypacks, we rejoined our guide outside the hotel and climbed into the van. Four others had signed on for the expedition: three girls about Casey’s age and Marcel, an engaging young man from Brazil.

After a brief stop at an orchid and butterfly preserve, we were off to the elephant camp, a compound of thatched huts, canopies and platforms at the toe of the mountain, at the edge of the ride paddies, in the curve of a river.

Elephants!

We were distracted, delighted, and amazed that we were in the presence of elephants, so Ghee had some difficulty corralling us to read a large sign, written in English, posted beside the platform where we mounted up. Frequently asked questions – or perhaps, accusations – were addressed, most of them related to the chains around the animals’ ankles and the prods used by the mahouts, their trainers. Elephants, the sign said, are not allowed in the jungles or paddies, and they are prone to disputes, or even stampedes, at mealtime. The chains minimize such problems. As far as the prods, they do not have points, and we saw that the mahouts were gentle and affectionate with their charges. Still, something is wrong in the world when elephants are banned from their jungle, and chains on ankles are the answer.

Two by two we were helped onto our elephants. Soo-Ree, the mahout, speaks no English, but turns to grin at us often and, open-handed, reaches for Dave’s camera to capture our ride upon Sawasdee.

In front of us cavorts James Bond, a two-year-old baby elephant the size of a VW Beetle, tethered to his mother’s leg by a length of chain. Despite the mahout’s calls and urging, young James lolls in the water, at times disappearing below the surface but for the tip of his trunk. He emerges, his mother tugging him along, but he pulls to the bank, flops in the mud, wallows, takes his time – he’s a little kid out for a stroll. There’s fun to be had and he is doing what he wants – at least, to the degree he can at the end of a chain.

James’s mother urinates copiously, impressive amounts, gallons, into the river.

We hear a hollow thrumming, in this setting, a sound we know only from war movies. It would seem a helicopter is approaching. Sawasdee shoves past shiny green ferns as the grumbling grows so loud, we can feel it in our feet. In our feet! It is not a chopper, but Sawasdee, working up to a resounding trumpet! We are thrilled at her call. What is she saying? From behind us, Casey and Karis’s elephant rumbles a reply. We imagine the exchange between these two immense working girls, When do you go on break? My back is killing me.

I crane through the safety bar to caress tough skin bristling with wiry hairs. I take in the view down my leg: my sneakered foot, the mound of massive skull, the slap of a gray, wing-like ear. I want to soak in the scent of earth, manure, bug spray, sunscreen and elephant, the squelch of huge feet in mud and water, the shrieks of our two girls as a spider web sweeps their faces as they brush through overhanging foliage.

An hour passes and we circle back to the enclosure to dismount. Dave buys some bananas to thank Sawasdee and James Bond. Two snaking trunks eagerly probe for the yellow fruit and curl it away, gently, from our hands.

Ghee gathers our group and herds us to lunch at a wooden plank set on a platform beneath a thatched canopy. Two women garbed in black dresses swathed in pink fabric with multi-colored beads and ribbons serve bowls of yellow curry with tofu and potatoes, and a salty soup of broth, carrots and cucumbers. The food is delicious. After we eat, one of the women coaxes Casey, Karis and I to a booth draped with beaded necklaces, silver bracelets, woven goods and embroidered bags. “I make,” says the woman, and Casey and I pick out two beautiful scarves.

A little girl sits in the shade of the booth playing with a kitten. Near strangling the kitten. Tucking the kitten into a bag and zipping it shut. “That cat’s not going to last long,” Karis murmurs. We mime cradling, cooing and patting an imaginary cat, and for the time being, while we are there, the child heeds us.

“You ready to walk?” Ghee appears at our side. “We go down, down, down, then up, up, up.” She did not say, “is velly dangerous.” She saves that for later.

* * *

Gingerly, we seek solid footing on widely-spaced rocks at stream crossings and on the deep-red earth of the narrow path, stretching for a toe-hold where the trail has not washed away. We are grateful for our sneakers. Through much of the hike, we laugh hysterically – and I mean that literally. We are scared, but exhilarated. I wonder how we missed the part in the trek brochure that said “periodically perilous.”

NPR did a segment on laughter in one of their Radio Labs and concluded that it is not just a response to humor. Fear and anxiety are triggers as well. When Dave falls from the spine of a massive downed tree, when Karis slips on rocks beneath a pounding waterfall, when I tumble as the trail drops away, we are teary with laughter.

Always after one of us trips over roots or rocks, after one scrabbles to regain footing on a particularly tricky incline, or after the rickety bamboo handrail sways out of reach just when a clawing hand lunges for it, then Ghee shouts from the head of our wavering line, “Keh-ful! Slipp-a-leeee!” And it is. So very slippery. We crack up, weak with laughter and exertion, at the too-late warnings, the monstrous spiders, the holes by the track the girls insist are tarantula lairs, the gun shots cracking through the jungle. “This is where the sound track turns ominous and the drug lords appear and lead us, at gunpoint, to their compound…and we are never seen again,” I observe. Laughter. Hysterical.

“And they were never seen again,” becomes a regular refrain.

As we inch over a section where the trail used to be, Ghee sings back a minute too late, “Keh-ful! Landslide!” We glance up the slope of slick red earth at the jagged gap between the mountainside, the tiny trail on which we stand, and the dead drop through groves of bamboo, ferns and trees. Hysterical.

“We are in ‘National Geographic’,” says Dave, breathless.

After an hour and a half of sweating, muscle-twitching, weepy-with-laughter hiking, we hear the thunder of falling water – a promise, a beacon. Our skin is feverish, burning; cold water sounds heavenly.

“Strong water. Velly dangerous,” says Ghee. Ah yes. Danger. And we are howling again, laughing like lunatics.

A wild froth of water tumbles from an unseen source hidden in the foliage high above. Marcel, the young Brazilian, is first in and he disappears beneath the deluge. “It’s great!’ he shouts above the water’s din. “Come on!” Ghee slogs in, fully dressed, and submerges.

Casey and Karis have learned on this trip to turn no opportunity aside. They stagger into the churning foam, mouths wide, laughing. These girls have a spirit and courage I envy.

Dave and I make our way slowly and cautiously into the pool and toward the waterfall, but I can’t bring myself to take on the full force. Karis slides on a rock and goes down, wincing as she smacks her shoulder. It hurts, clearly it hurts, but she smiles, rolls it back to test it, and says she’s okay. Reassured, Casey yells, “Someone take pictures! Awkward family photos!” a phrase she and Karis use for the goofy stances they’ve observed other tourists assuming. Marcel climbs from the water to oblige. So, there, in the jungle, beneath a waterfall, after an elephant ride, we point our toes, grimace and primp for the camera. Hysterical.

“Next, back to the river,” says Ghee. What? More? “White water rafting,” she adds.

“No way,” says Casey. “Was that in the brochure?”

Ghee nods and says, “And bamboo rafts after that.”

Casey's blog

Flying Dreams and Happy Landings

October 13, 2011 9:00 AM

Cathay – Marco Polo’s destination. The word whispers of ancient cultures and kingdoms. Silks, incense, temples and elephants. And we are going there, borne by Cathay Pacific Airways. For two anxious months we’ve wrestled with doubts: should we go or not? Can we take the time from work? Does Casey want us or will we impose on her free-wheeling journey? Will it be an incredible experience or an opportunity to contract malaria, polio or typhoid fever? The path scattered with those decisions and fears is behind us, and we are waiting among our carry-on bags and fellow passengers at Gate 22. I am afloat with elation. I feel daring. This is not just a trip, it’s an adventure.

Dave and I have been rendered disease-immune machines by a multitude of inoculations. To-do lists are done, discarded in the recycling bin. Research and recommendations have reaped a hotel in Chiang Mai for five nights, and a few sights to shoot for, but for the most part, we fly to Karis' and Casey’s guidance… and chance…as well as floods and monsoons.

When we made our plans, the dates dictated by when we could leave work and where the girls would be during that brief window, we knew we’d be hitting the rainy season: we have our EMS raincoats in our backpacks. Casey called two mornings ago to alert us to possible travel glitches due to flooding in Thailand. Trains are no longer running, but she assures us that they will get to us… somehow.

Control is an issue for me, yet today, I feel giddy at letting go.


In-Flight:

We are off to the other side of the world! My personal display screen and entertainment center (yippee!) flashes the time in New York and Hong Kong (Hong Kong!) in English and Chinese characters. Dave and I will be aloft for twenty some hours. Unclaimed hours! Hours without phones or email! Hours to read, write and watch movies! Twenty hours might not be enough. I want to watch movies that Dave would hate – Green Lantern, Bridesmaids, Pirates of the Caribbean, and Thor. I want to read Paul Theroux’s Ghost Train to the Eastern Star. I want to read magazines and write. I want to sleep a little.

I have time and choices. Bliss.

* * *

When we boarded, lovely Asian women with serene smiles directed us to our seats in Economy. We passed the private cubicles of business class, each with its cozy quilt, individual monitor, stretch-out seating and decorative purple orchid sprig, but even our steerage seats are roomy compared to the cramped quarters offered by Delta, Continental and their ilk. Our meals have been delicious, and during the quiet lights-off hours, a whiff of something soothing and salty led us to a woman stirring noodles with chopsticks. She grinned and nodded and waved toward the rear of the plane. Apparently, we can lurch back to the galley any time we wish to order noodles…or tea, or peanuts or crackers. Dave clambers from his seat and returns with two steaming bowls, a glass of light, fruity white wine for me, and a beer for him. Bless you Cathay Pacific!

Brunch is served a few hours later – a noodle dish and a cup of fresh fruit. Soon after, a pleasant attendant distributes drawstring bags of water, oat bars, apples and refreshing towelettes for our comfort. Heaven forbid we be hungry for even a moment. Fed! Entertained! Rested! May I recommend Cathay Pacific for your traveling pleasure?

Our on-screen flight information display tells us we have 8 hours, 55 minutes and 4386 miles to go. We are content and cared for, our circumstances clear, while all is uncertain once we land.


October 14

I had set my expectations low. In fact, I’d aimed for no expectations. With reports of hundreds dead in the flood, the potential for Karis' and Casey’s delayed arrival, and the possibility that we’d be stranded in the airport, it seemed a wise mindset. My aim was a Zen sense of calm even if our bags were lost, no one showed to meet us, and rain poured.

But ours was a joyous welcome.

First, triumph, as we spotted and retrieved our backpacks from the tumble of duffles and suitcases rattling by on the conveyor belt at baggage claim. As I slipped my arms into the straps, bent to take the weight in my knees, and straightened, I pondered that an exercise-aversive 58-year-old woman had no business carrying a forty-pound backpack. But I liked the image – the connection to the twenty-one year old Lea who traveled Europe in the seventies.

Like wistful children hoping their parents have not forgotten to pick them up after school, we pushed through the double doors into the pick-up area and scanned the crowd. An Asian couple, a young man in a coral uniform jacket and a woman in a white blouse and black pants, held a sign bearing our name. As we approached them, they beamed and bowed, hands pressed together as if in prayer. They seemed as overjoyed to see us as we were to see them.

Outside, the hotel’s van was a silver mirage of sumptuous seats, ornate mirrored décor, and frosted water bottles in cupholders. We were in THAILAND!

During the brief drive we learned that, yes, Casey and Karis had arrived earlier in the day. Karis, a petite, spirited blond with expressive blue eyes, was Casey’s roommate in New York for three years. She has been my daughter’s companion on this journey, experiencing the extraordinary, as well as sharing the anxieties of the utterly unfamiliar and the terror of the seemingly dangerous. They have also peed together in the dark of a rice paddy and shared a bathroom in weathering the hideous aftermath of a tainted chicken sandwich. As Casey says, “We were close. Now we’re closer.”

Borne in comfort by our silver van, we passed tented street stalls, lighted store-fronts and the swooping red-tiled roofs of temples. As we took a turn, the woman said, “And now down this road, a beautiful hotel.” I craned to see, and she giggled. “It is our hotel! Sirilanna!” And we pulled to a stop before a stairway flanked by two snarling white plaster lion-guardians and water-filled pots arranged with palms and flowers.


Our hosts would not let us tire ourselves with our backpacks. Those were whisked away up a flight of stairs as we were invited to sit, sip a chilled glass of guava juice and wipe our faces and hands with a damp, warm towel. Happiness! But where were Casey and Karis?

Hospitality is not to be rushed. Once assured that we were indeed refreshed, we all pressed our hands at chin level in that prayer-like gesture and Bow-ee, a slender girl in a white silk top and black pants, led us to our room. With as much delight as if she’d crafted them herself, she showed us the massive carved wooden armoire, a chair of sinuous dragons, the throne of a bed with its carved head and footboards. She gestured toward the floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors to the balcony overlooking the pool. She pushed through saloon doors to the expansive bathroom to point out the double Jacuzzi, tiled shower and folding stained glass windows with jeweled handles of amber, emerald and turquoise that opened to the bedroom. Spotless, beautiful, luxurious! Thank you Sirilanna! All for eighty-five dollars a night!


On the desk, a wooden bowl borne on the backs of elephants was heaped with pomegranates, pineapple, and what looked like a plump pink blowfish. A baggie of…hmm…yes… large stewed crickets - perhaps a daughter’s touch? - was tucked beside some bananas. An aromatic lei of jasmine blossoms twined across the arrangement. All lovely, but I could wait no longer. Where were the girls? Bow-ee smiled and said, “Right next door…”



I peeked out into the hall just as a face appeared. Casey! We hugged and danced and clapped and grinned. And then Dave and Karis trotted into the hall and we babbled and hugged and danced some more while Dave and I took in these two travelers, heroines of our favorite blog, dauntless voyagers of the Mekong River, Great Wall, and Angkor Wat, survivors of Viet Nam thefts, piddles in paddies, creepy boatmen, and tubing in Vang Vieng. Dressed in blousy Asian pants, wrists wreathed with beads and string bracelets, hair wispy in the heat, faces alight, here they were before us, in the flesh, themselves still. It seemed weirdly natural and normal to be together, but we kept shrieking, “Here you ARE!”

And for two weeks, we will be together, part of their adventure, In THAILAND!