On the Way to the Wedding - Part I

June 27, 2012

Tucker’s face was drawn and grim when he pulled into the driveway in Weekapaug, supposedly for a leisurely dinner and night with us in this final full week before his wedding. He and his fiancé, Lisa, had been out straight with work and wedding plans since…well, pretty much since he commissioned a snow sculpture carving for his proposal last July. We hoped this overnight would be a respite.

“I can’t stay. It’s blowing up,” he said when my sister, Rita, greeted him by his car. Blowing up? “Lisa’s dress isn’t ready and the pianist can’t locate a piano to play at the hotel during the service. I have to go back.”

Given the options in what “blowing up” might mean, this was stressful, but not disastrous. Lisa might argue me on this, but the two of them were united in their distress, and that union, be it in joy or despair, was what all these plans were about. Still, Lisa purchased the dress back in the fall; how could it not be ready?

Over the past few months, Tucker’s voice on the phone had been cheery, for the most part, but selecting invitations, pondering colors and ribbons and fonts, tromping from venue to venue in search of THE place, assembling welcome bags, and monitoring RSVP’s, well, these had not emerged as my son’s favorite activities. When Dave and I got married in the seventies, my mother took care of details. I chimed in on guests and flowers, but I was still in college, a kid really, and Dave had zero interest in weighing in. “Do you ever wish you’d used a wedding planner, Tucker?” I asked once. “Every day,” he replied.

With each call to our son, I kept hoping our question, “Are you feeling less stressed?” would elicit an affirmative, but a sense of relief had remained elusive.

While my only responsibility was arranging the welcome dinner the night before the wedding, I was anxious about that. My to-do list was short and definitive - select a restaurant, plan a menu, decide on decorations and make photo collages of Lisa and Tucker. I could imagine the restrained panic the kids lived with. They were so excited about being married, so excited about their honeymoon – about being away, being together, about leaving this monolith of mind-spinning details behind them – and I wished there could be some fun in the anticipation of the wedding itself. But I get it: for me, the delicious sense of anticipation I used to experience as a child is often overshadowed by jaw-clenching, knots-in-shoulders, sleep-squelching, stewing. “Have faith in the unfolding” has become my oh-so-wise mantra, but I'm not very good at it.

Standing in the driveway in Weekapaug, we tried to convince Tucker there was little he could do that night about dresses and pianos. Jan, Lisa’s mother, texted him that Lisa was calmer and he should stay. “I’m concerned for your safety,” she said. But he wanted to be with Lisa in her worry, so he shoveled down his dinner of shrimp and salad; we swaddled him in hugs, soothing words, and admonishments to drive carefully; and he hit the road.

* * *

Friday, July 6. Boston.

Dave, Casey and I have settled in at the Millenium Hotel. Casey will be sleeping on a cot with us tonight and then moving into a room with her boyfriend, P.J. once he arrives tomorrow. My mother, sisters Rita and Francie, nephews, and brother-in-law, know P.J. by word-of–mouth, photos and Facebook, but this will be their first meeting, so Casey’s abuzz about that as well as her brother’s wedding.

Rita calls on her cell to say their van from the airport has pulled into the hotel driveway, so Casey, Dave and I zip down the hall to the elevator to meet them. At this stage of my life, with Tucker in Boston, my family in Pennsylvania, and friends scattered, visits by phone are the norm. What joy this will be to have my Ingersolls and Sylvestros, friends, and children all in one place.

We approach the front desk, spot Mom, Rita and Francie, my tall, lanky nephews Jared and Campbell, and my brother-in-law, Matt. “Hell-ooooo,” I call, waving like an idiot and grinning widely… but immediately I perceive pinched faces. Oh dear. One room’s not ready, there’s confusion over bed-types (kings where twins were desired), and a question of whose fault this might be. Sigh. It’s almost 2:30, lunch is a few hours past, and food and a seat at a shady restaurant might be just the thing. McCormick and Shmick’s is right across the street: Casey gets a glazed look on her face and her lips curve in a baby sloth smile as she murmurs, “lemon drop martinis.” Everyone perks up.

After depositing luggage in the room that is ready, we troop to the restaurant and nab a table outside. Our wrought iron chairs scrape on the bricked patio as we sit under a wide-spreading tree, enjoying the bustle around Faneuil Hall and the view of our hotel but a crosswalk away.

I am close to content, but my stomach will not let me forget my responsibilities – my toast and the welcome dinner tomorrow. I have practiced my little talk in the shower, in bed (why sleep?), and during the drive to Boston. Why does the thought of speaking, even before a loving audience, trigger such agitation? Beyond that, my antennae are swiveling: is everyone happy? Is Mom feeling more relaxed? She was concerned that a snack so close to our 6:00 dinner reservation at Top-of-the Hub was a poor idea, but she seems to be enjoying her gazpacho. Casey, Francie and Rita are blissfully sipping their lemon drops while I’ve chosen iced coffee. For now, I need the caffeine.

Dave has been in cell-contact with Tucker who is joining us, the Ingersoll clan, for dinner while Lisa’s family gathers for a barbecue elsewhere. As we rise, snacks and drinks consumed, Dave spots our son striding briskly toward us, his eyes scanning the crowd.

My boy - soon to be married! Of course I know this, but it’s hard to truly grasp that this tall, slender, handsome man is the little guy with the bowl cut, the toddler who loved Frog on His Own, the same kid who made the bi-plane of toothpicks, and collected He-Man action figures. It stuns me when we are recalling decades-old stories and Tucker chimes in with his memories of that time, proof that this grown-up holds within him the three-year-old, the five-year old, and the ten year-old Dave and I raised. My son is getting married… and I wrap him in my arms and hold him close.

“Sweetie! Hi! Is the dress ready? Are you feeling less stressed?” I repeat the refrain of this wedding’s soundtrack so far, and blessedly, he nods and smiles. “The dress is set as of this morning (this morning!) and my vows are close to ready, so that’s a relief. I sent them to Dad for a look. Now I just have to get through the dance.”

The dance? I know he and Lisa have been taking dance lessons as many young couples do nowadays. Despite many family living room dance sessions in the eighties, with the kids bobbing on a parental hip or racing around like crazy-heads while Ry Cooder or Jackson Browne rocked on the stereo, my son was never an enthusiastic dancer. It makes sense that he and Lisa would seek to tighten up Tucker’s fox trot for their First Dance.

After a brief meander around Faneuil Hall, we return to the hotel, pick up keys to the additional rooms, freshen up, and hail cabs for the trip to the Top-of-the-Hub at the Prudential Center. Upon arrival, we spin through a revolving door, ride the escalator, and walk across the mall to the elevator. I reflect that it would have been a difficult stretch for Dad had he lived to join us. It is a long march for Mom too, but she doesn’t say a word until Dave pushes the button for the 52nd floor.

“Which floor? The 52nd?” Mom queries. She inhales and clamps her arms more firmly over her pocketbook “Well. I suppose I’ll be okay if I sit near an inside wall. I’m not wild about heights.”

Oh my God. How did I not know this? This special treat atop a skyscraper with 360 degree views might not be Mom’s favorite.

But she is a trooper and once she is snug in her seat several tables away from the windows, she is fine. Eventually, she even strolls the perimeter with the rest of us, from window to window, to admire views of the famed Citgo sign, Fenway Park with its spotlights blazing, the islands in Boston Harbor, and a cluster of sailboats, circling like white butterflies,
on the Charles River below.

Once we settle in, we ponder the menu for a time. A long time. It’s expensive and I keep reading it over, hoping with each pass that I’d missed an item more moderately priced. No. The server describes the seafood cioppino and its ingredients artfully, and, with just the right Italian and French accents, explains the difference between that and a bouillabaisse. With or without tomatoes, with a touch of cream or not, they remain costly. Mom selects a scallop appetizer for her main course, I choose vegetarian lasagna, Dave opts for the cioppino, and the others order steak, salmon, and halibut. Choices made, stunned absorption of the prices accomplished, Tucker raises his glass for a toast. A toast to Dad.

“Here we are, the family together to enjoy good food and drink… yet somebody’s missing. It’s strange to gather without Grandy who would have loved this so much. In picturing what my wedding day would be like, I never imagined he wouldn’t be here. To Grandy.”

With tears in our eyes, we repeat, “To Grandy.” It’s a big table, so Rita, Casey and Jared have to stand to lean across the table and I rise to meet their glasses. Francie, Mom, Campbell, Matt, Dave, and Tucker - we all make sure every glass connects for Dad.

And later, during another Boston-beyond-the-windows viewing, Francie spots “NOSE” written in large white letters on a stretch of roof a block away. Mom nods in confirmation. “He’s here. I know he is.” “The Nose” had been my father’s nickname since his teens.

Piece of Cake - Part of Their Story

Cake tastings. Something new. When Dave and I were married, the cake was yellow with white frosting and plenty of flowers. Fulfilling two wedding cake requirements, it tasted good and made only a moderate mess when stuffed into each other’s mouths. Now, young couples research cakes. They attend showcases to collect brochures and perhaps nibble a few samples before making appointments for a more complete presentation. And when Tucker and his fiancé Lisa invited us to Boston to accompany them on this excursion, Dave and I jumped at the chance.

Times have changed since the seventies when my mother took care of the arrangements while I remained at college, desperately partying in the final weeks of school. At age thirty-two, Tucker and Lisa have experienced venues, DJ’s, flowers, favors, and food at any number of family and friends’ celebrations, so they have taken on the details for their wedding; they know what they want.

They wish the wedding and its preparations to be distinctive, to hold a story. Tucker’s wedding proposal to Lisa was carved in 800 pounds of snow trucked into the Esplanade on the Charles River on a hot July day. In April, they went into New York to learn how to craft, file and finish their own wedding bands. Their engagement pictures were taken in settings around Boston that had played a role in the early chapters of their life together. Memories sculpted and forged as much as the snow and the gold.

After a thrilling night Friday at Fenway Park, Dave, Tucker, Lisa and I rallied early for our first appointment at “Icing on the Cake,” the “Best of Boston” wedding cake service, according to Lisa. Paula, the owner, met us at the door and ushered us to a small room lined with models of cakes garbed in sumptuous fondant folds, cascades of marzipan flowers, and glittering silver sugar beads. The kids were leaning toward a cupcake tree or dessert buffet rather than the traditional tiered cake, so our mission was to eat our way to a decision.

With short, wavy, brown hair, dark flashing eyes and a ready smile, Paula had clearly done some sampling in the process of developing her award-winning recipes. She grinned and said, “Never trust a skinny chef.” She was friendly and chatty, professional and organized. She filled out paperwork with names, dates, guest numbers, and the wedding location. She provided binders replete with pictures to spark decorating ideas. She cautioned Lisa away from geometric designs because cutting and placement of the shapes was costly, but was flexible about the possibility of combining silver beads and frosting vines. She was firm in her policy on cupcake tree stand rentals, ($50, and the bride and groom are responsible for returning the stand within seven days of the wedding) but mentioned that many of her brides buy them on Ebay. So many details to consider in cake decisions alone!

After the preliminaries, Paula served plates of multi-layered cake strips: lemon with raspberry or Grand Marnier filling, chocolate mousse, yellow with strawberry filling, and red velvet with white frosting. We took our time, savored each bite, and made note of pros and cons. Well, not many cons; the cakes were moist and delicious. When the plates were empty, we shook hands, gave our thanks, borrowed the bathroom, and promised to get back to her.

We had several hours to recover before Tucker’s suit fitting and our next tasting at 4:00, so we walked down historic Boyleston Street. The 19th century buildings with their graceful mansard roofs, rounded brick facades, and black and gold storefronts were a fascinating contrast to our fellow strollers. Tuck and Lisa were unfazed by the passersby, but Dave and I whispered and nudged each other like kids in a classroom. “How does she keep her balance on heels that high?” “What might be the significance of that tattoo?” “I think that attractive woman was a man…”

You just don’t see that in Easton.

Next, a first for hippie-throwbacks Lea and Dave, a trip to Brooks Brothers for Tucker’s fitting. Past madras slacks in astonishing bands of red, yellow, navy and green; past polo shirts embroidered with tiny whales; past ties awash in lobsters, sailboats and Scottie dogs; past vintage photographs of early Brooks Brothers’ work rooms; past photographs of the original Brooks Brothers themselves, then up the staircase with its polished cherry railing to the fourth floor.

A man in a tailored suit (naturally) greeted my son by name, handed him a dark navy suit, and showed him to a dressing room. Moments later, Tucker emerged, handsome, tall, straight, and pleased at his reflection in the mirror and the pride in our eyes.

Unable to escape nostalgia, I invited toddler Tucker into the room, and remembered that same look of restrained pride – eyes alight, small smile (big smile fighting to break through, but held back) - on his little face while building a bi-plane from toothpicks or nailing a plank of wood onto a fort. My boy. Soon to be married...

With deft movements, the tailor made a series of chalk dashes on Tucker’s sleeves and marked the locations of the buttons down the front. Lisa rose from her seat and tugged at the back of the jacket a bit, ran her hand down Tuck’s arm, then stood back for the full effect. The two exchanged happy smiles.

Anything else? The question flashed in a glance from the tailor to Tucker, Tucker to Lisa, Tucker to us. Nods of satisfaction all round. Perfect.

After lunch at Sel de la Terre, we marched (running late! We lingered too long over lunch!) back to the garage to grab the car and drive to Conditor Meister, “master baker” in German, for our second tasting.

A different ambience entirely from the calm at Icing on the Cake, this shop sold pastries from expansive display cases and was feverish with activity. Held in their parents’ arms, children licked frosting off cupcakes, or whined and pointed with that goal in mind. Customers studied wads of dark chocolate, smoothly iced mocha topped with espresso beans, cream puffs, and chocolate dipped strawberries. Which one to choose? Perhaps a selection? To eat now or take home? The air was warm and heavy with yearning and the scent of baked goods.

We had business to attend to. Lisa checked in with Kimmy, a woman of twenty-two or so, olive-skinned, with long shining black hair pulled into a ponytail. We followed her to a room in the back, again, lined with cake models and binders of possibilities. She sat with us, noted the necessary information on her clipboard, then left briefly and returned with a tray of pastries. Full size pastries from the display cases out front. Cupcakes gussied up with multi-colored sparkles, roulades, a swan-shaped raspberry cream puff, chocolate mousse, fruit tartlets, key lime pie, and mini-cheesecakes.

Did I mention that Lisa is forced to follow a gluten-free diet and Dave is lactose intolerant, so Tuck and I were the sole tasters for this sugar-rich array?

We dug in. The roulades, cake rolls with fillings of lemon and Oreo creme, were divine – a surprise as they looked dry and mundane. Lisa reminded us, however, that wedding guests would make their choices based on “curb appeal” and those rolls might not even touch lips. The fruit tart was pretty, vaguely healthy, not my favorite, but a colorful addition to the assortment. The cheese cake? I’m not a fan, but many are. Actually, Tucker and I are of the “if it’s not chocolate, it’s not dessert” camp, so we tried to consider others’ tastes and stretch beyond our instinctive grab for the mousse.

Not wishing to waste, Tuck and I were thorough, and left little but crumbs and frosting smears in the ruffled paper pastry cups.

And then Kimmy appeared with another tray.

What? Yes. “And there’s more to come.” We would have paced ourselves if we’d known! Taken a tidbit only of each! But no. Resigned, we took new plastic forks and gingerly tried the almond crusted marzipan mounds, raspberry filled chocolate candy cups, and crumbly cannolis. We had a job to do.

Wistfully, Lisa asked if any of the desserts were gluten-free and was rewarded with a hunk of fudgy…um, fudge. Even Dave took a taste. Heavenly.

“Want some coffee?” Dave asked. God, yes. Something to cut through the sugar bloat.

“There’s more,” Kimmy said.

“Impossible,” Tucker and I gasped. I would have thought open season in a pastry shop a blissful dream, but could not imagine prying my mouth open for another forkful.

“Then I’ll pack them up along with your favorites,” said Kimmy brightly.

Groan.

Tucker and I parried about who would take the two boxes of complimentary pastries. “Really Mom, you take them.” “No Lovin’, I want you to have them.” Reeling as we were from all that frosting and filling, rarely have we been so gracious about desserts. I won the debate and left the boxes behind with my son, in hindsight, a hasty move. Coffee with one of those almond crusted marzipan mounds sounded pretty good Sunday morning.

When Dave and I left Boston, dessert discussions were still underway. After that selfless day of gluttony on behalf of friends and family, would a stand of Paula’s cupcakes entice the wedding guests, or a delectable array of cream puff swans, fudge cake and lemon roulades?

Up the Water Spout

I am re-reading Robert Fulghum’s book All I really Need to Know I Learned In Kindergarten. Every cheery, soulful essay resonates and makes my nose prickle with near-tears. Be fair, be kind, clean up your own mess, and when you go out into the world, hold hands and stick together. Fulghum muses about how different the world would be if more people and governments lived by the lessons of childhood.

Another chapter humorously reports a neighbor’s encounter with a spider web and the resulting horror, shrieks and fright. Fulghum imagines the equally terrified spider and recalls that kindergarten favorite, “The Eensy Weensy Spider.” What a plucky lass, that undaunted arachnid, to dry off and try again every time the rain washes her down the water spout.

These upbeat essays have been part of my morning self-cheerleading regimen during a difficult stretch: I miss my Dad, my mother-in-law was hospitalized with pneumonia, and Dave totaled his car on I-95.

After Dad died in January, I wasn’t just sad, I was also fragile. A friend observed that when her father died, she came to see an added value to the old tradition of wearing black: not only was it a sign of respect for the dead, but it also showed others that one was grieving and might need greater gentleness. I get that. People who know about Dad have been so dear, dear in a way that I have not been for others. Until my father died, I did not realize, exactly, what it means to lose a parent, this person who is woven into so many memories, into the very person one has turned out to be.

Then, while sitting in the doctor’s office with my mother-in-law before taking her to the hospital, this fragile Lea received Dave’s call about his accident. Surreptitiously, I took deep breaths and thought, “What would a grown-up do?” I am a daughter who has lost her father, and fifty-nine or not, my grown-up self remains an elusive person who has not reliably established herself as a solid pillar. Once, along with my mother, Dad was that pillar. Dave stepped in a while back to help fill the role.

Every day as he heads out the door for his commute, my husband promises me he will drive carefully. He is a cautious driver, owns a Volvo, and I like to think the Universe watches over him and honors what should be his unbreachable encircling wall of good karma. Following Dad’s death, though, I’ve been poignantly aware of mortality, and this accident shook me. Dave was not hurt, but he could have been, and I have worked hard to eliminate that possibility from my mind.

In fact, I was bearing up well in the wake of these setbacks, sustained by others’ kindness and reassured by my unexpected ability to deal with hard times. Stronger than I thought, I’d reflected. Wishful thinking.

Early on Friday, the day after Dave’s accident and his mother’s admittance to Bridgeport Hospital, I got a call about a cell tower proposal. A company in Danbury thought a strip of land about 400 feet from our 1782 house-in-the-woods was the perfect site for a monopole. Across the swamp and up the rise, just over the old stone wall, it would be plainly visible from our backyard. What would the deer, turkeys, songbirds, and frogs make of this? Would they leave, the woods becoming silent and still but for the hum of the tower’s machinery?

My home was under attack, but I wasn’t sure I would be able to find the energy to do this – go to town hall to review cell tower regulations, rally neighbors, attend meetings, and protect my house.

Casey, my twenty-nine year-old daughter, was on her way to the gym, but decided to stay when she saw my stricken expression. Upon hearing of the tower, she was enraged, as much by the effect on her mother as the tower itself. “It won’t happen, Mom. I will stand before them, tell them about your cancer, and that will sway them…I tell you, it won’t happen. You’ll see.” She stood straight, tall, young, imposing, my warrior princess. She folded me in her arms…and I sobbed. When she left for work, I went to bed, curled up under a quilt, and wept.

Over that weekend, we received calls from friends who had read about the tower in the newspaper. Just as my daughter had, they offered help, hands to hold out in the world. Dave came home from work in his bright red rental, a snappy FIAT Cinque-Cento. We had lentil soup, cheese bread, and wine for dinner, and watched funny movies. It is amazing what a difference fuel makes; fuel for the body, fuel for the spirit.

On Friday afternoon, I’d been a pathetic lump on my bed in the dark. By Monday, I was the spider, dried off, buoyed, and on my way to town hall.

Shifting Gears

[This entry actually precedes all the Thai essays, as it was written last summer before Casey departed for her trip...]

10 rolls of paired socks
15 pairs of undies
a fistful of thongs
3 LuluLemon tank tops
2 pairs LuluLemon cropped pants
3 pairs of shorts
4 blousy tee shirts
3 bikinis (reduced from 6)
raincoat
bandanas
personal care products:
4 toothbrushes
toothpaste
bug spray – lots of it
a Ziploc bag of OB tampons
soap
make-up
travel toilet paper
assorted medications for an array of potential afflictions, including malaria
roll-up bag with plastic compartments for personal care products
2 dresses – 1 rainbow spaghetti strap, 1 little black dress
Luna health bars
water purification tablets and devices
2 long sleeved shirts

A moss green backpack lies open, gaping, at the foot of the guest room bed. My daughter Casey marches back and forth between her own room and the guest room, packing for a four-month trip to Asia. I follow her, hoping to seem good company as opposed to a pathetic mother who wants to drink in every last moment with her before she leaves.

“Do I need this many undies? Would I wear this white top? How do I feel about all the warnings on this DEET insect repellent?” I realize she is not asking me, merely musing aloud, but I know how I feel about the warnings: “Don’t put it on your face. And be sure to wash your hands carefully after application.” It is all I can do not to spew a stream of reminders and cautions. “Yes! Bring the white top – to wear over the LuluLemon tanks! No! You don’t need all those thongs. Do you have any long pants? Have you researched which country doesn’t allow chewing gum? Where you shouldn’t look a man in the eye? Where you need to cover your shoulders? Have you…? Remember…! Don’t…!”

I know Casey doesn’t want to be caned or kidnapped any more than I want her to be, but I eye those short dresses and cute little tank tops and I want to add a voluminous shawl or at least a few more additions to the long-sleeved shirt pile.

She’s had inoculations, perused travel books, and done a lot of Googling. We have copies of her documents, a list of the few contacts she has overseas, a loose itinerary, and a new Skype account. Her father, Dave, has written a packet of sixteen poems for her, of the “Roses are Red” variety, one to be read every Monday she’s away.

I have made sure the saints are on duty by purchasing a St. Christopher’s medal – a must for any traveler. I have silently called on deceased relatives who love my girl to ask that they keep watch. Dave bought SOS insurance so we can helicopter her out in case of an emergency. We considered buying a personal tracking device, but Casey did not want the extra weight. Besides, “I’m not trekking into any deepest, darkest jungles, Mom...”

Well, not exactly…She is going to Viet Nam, Laos and Cambodia. For a child of the seventies like myself, names that conjure images of dark, green, tangled danger; bloody soldiers; fear. Friends who have made this trip rave about the beauty of these countries and the kindness of the people. But still…

What more can we do to protect our child on this distant journey? At what point is our wish to protect an intrusion? How much of this is about our own fears? My own fears? A lot. I know.

Like an idiot, I’ve flipped through photo albums from the eighties when Casey and her brother were content to hold my hand, sit in my lap, or ride on my hip, close and safe. But Casey is twenty-eight and has lived in New York for the past four years. She knows how to handle herself. She’s resourceful, resilient and brave.

Still, anxiety has been a gnawing discomfort – for her as well as me. One afternoon, I peeked into her room and thought she was napping …then I noticed her shoulders shaking under her coverlet. “Sweetie? What’s wrong?”

“What am I doing, going on this trip?” she said, sobbing. “I’m so overwhelmed.”

I found myself in the unlikely role of trip champion. We discussed the reasons for this journey beyond the obvious call of adventure: broadening horizons, forging connections and immersion in different cultures. She is searching – for self-insight, for direction, for what might be her next step. We’ve talked about the clarity - the potential for sorting out her life - that four months away offers. We both know the truth of these points. And suddenly I had an image of myself, Eeyore-like: my worry as draining to my daughter as the malaria she hoped to avoid…and something within me shifted.

In the days that followed, as Casey’s to-do list bore a cheering column of check marks, excitement displaced her worry as well. While she pawed through her drawers and closet deciding what to bring, I sat on the floor in her room and read travel books. I marveled at pictures of pagodas, pandas and elephant orphanages. Of men poling low-slung boats on the Mekong River. Of narrow streets strung with scarlet paper lanterns. Of the towers and gateways of Angkor Wat twined with tree-like vines. And I could feel it – the flame, the lure, of things so foreign.

When an event is anticipated for so long, it becomes unreal. Once the backpack was zipped, passport and documents checked and counted four or five times, and her room swept visually for any errant articles, it was…time to go. Dave, Casey and I stood by the door, almost surprised. It was actually happening.

I am the mother so I had to say, as a matter of routine, “You’re sure your plane departs from JFK, right?”

“Yeah… (Pause). Yeah. But you make me nervous by asking.” She fumbled through her bag for her itinerary. Couldn’t find it. Started to boot up the computer. Took too long. Called Karis, her partner-in-travel, who was already on her way to Newark.

Newark?

“Right. Okay. (Embarrassed laugh). Newark,” said Casey.

I resisted the urge to say “Aren’t you glad I asked?” more than three times during the ride to New Jersey.

Now she’s in China. She has written blogs about a jelly-kneed cable car ride to see a giant Buddha, about markets selling shark fin, turtles, bags of live frogs, jade and silk. About a scary arrival in Beijing to a haze-filled night, a half-naked man who blocked their path and vomited, dark alleys, no English in evidence, and no idea where to go. And she wrote about the kind woman who saw they were lost and stopped to help, who hailed a taxi for them, then pulled out her cell phone to call their hostel for directions to guide the cab driver. About a beautiful, ancient man playing a stringed instrument in the street. About other travelers who helped her feel she was safe.

She is fine. She is safe.

We’ve seen her on Skype once – her face blurry and pixilated, her speech delayed. We email and we’ve spoken on the phone a few times and it sounds like she’s in the other room. But she’s not; she’s thousands and thousands of miles away. And the fullness of life far beyond anything she has known is unfolding before her.

Smile No Matter What

When our cab pulled up to Shanghai Mansion with four somber passengers, one gauze-swaddled and gimpy, the cluster of tuk tuk drivers outside the hotel crowded close to help Karis dismount. The doorman gently boosted her over the sandbag barricade at the entrance and turned to Dave with questioning eyes. The tale of the theft and our trip to the hospital rippled from doorman to drivers, and set heads to shaking with mutters of concern and disgust.

We stopped at the front desk to fetch our keys from the clerk, and I babbled our story again. Karis smiled weakly, and held up her white-padded finger. With no change in expression, no indication she’d heard my monologue or noticed Karis’s bandages, the clerk said, “Which rooms?” then slid the keys across the desk.

Maybe bandages in Bangkok are too common to warrant comment?

As we shuffled down the hall, the girls supplied the missing exchange in fierce whispers, Casey fawning, “Miss, are you okay? Can I do anything to make you comfortable?”

“No,” sighed Karis stoically. “I’ll be fine. Just a bit of internal bleeding, but I’ll survive.”

We chuckled morosely, but really, lady. Not even a hint of curiosity or kindness?

Still, we were giddy with relief to be back at the hotel. Dave and I left the girls to settle in, and returned to the refuge of our purple walls, red-lacquered woodwork, and welcoming bed.

But sleep? No. I was too wired, and a tumble of questions vied for frontrunner: How would Karis feel after a night’s rest? Would she be able to lift her pack? What would her father say once that difficult call was made? Would the girls continue south to the islands as planned? And beyond all that, would the luxury of decisions wash away in rising waters?

Like flood debris snagged on a submerged limb, my churning thoughts came to rest on the callous clerk. We weren’t the only guests to be treated so: we’d almost passed on Shanghai Mansion because of negative TripAdvisor reviews about staff. Most of the morrow’s issues were beyond my control, but in this small area, I might be of service. I didn’t want to get the woman in trouble, but surely when faced with an injured guest, a response of some kind - surprise, if not sympathy - was warranted. I resolved to speak to the manager in the morning.

The next day, Karis was sore and her finger throbbed, but she’d removed the bandages on her face and shoulder, taken a shower and washed her hair. I had grown to love this dear girl with her wide blue eyes and easy laughter, and I was weepy with gratitude to see her moving about her room, tucking clothes into a bag, and smiling at me as I stood in the door. It so easily could have been otherwise, but for the grace of … I wasn’t sure who or what to thank… God? Cathy? Buddha? The monk’s bracelet? In my heart, I thanked them all.

As it turned out, the girls informed me, the medications had worked spectacularly well, and Karis felt so good after returning from the hospital that she and Casey had opted to re-pack their bags before bed. What? The woman had almost been killed mere hours before, but she’d had an urge to sort her stuff? Again, I was weepy and giggly with gratitude at Karis’s mobility and her insane impulse to sort even as I told her she was out of her mind. “Believe me,” said Karis, “Nothing could have made me as happy as getting this done,” for they’d unloaded half of each backpack into an MBK duffle for Dave and me to take home. With their packs lightened, island breezes beckoned and they were eager to flee Bangkok. Karis still had to call Gary and was dialing the phone as I headed downstairs to talk to the manager.

The clerk with the pinched-kitten face was on duty as well as a woman I’d not seen before. She had powder-white skin, kohl-lined almond eyes and a delicate frame. Her nametag said, “Pattyana.” When I asked to see the manager, both women looked alarmed. “She’s in a meeting. What’s wrong?” they said in unison. “I am the assistant manager,” Pattyana said. “Can I help you?” When I indicated I wished to speak in private, the two exchanged glances of greater concern than any shown when Karis hobbled in the night before.

Pattyana and I sat in two overstuffed chairs in the lobby, out of earshot of the front desk. A graceful purple orchid arced from a large glass bowl on a small table between us.

When asked, Pattyana indicated her familiarity with TripAdvisor, and I told her about the negative staff reviews and our own experiences. “It may sound foolish,” I said, “but for people far from home, their hotel is their home. Something as simple as a friendly smile means a lot.” Immediately, Pattyana’s lips curved to comply, and remained so, except for moments when a furrowed brow was more appropriate. She was listening; she was trying… and she stroked my arm kindly when I described the theft and Karis’s wounds.

When we wrapped up the conversation, I reiterated my hope that I’d not jeopardized anyone’s job. Pattyana said, “We can move people around…make sure the right person is in the right position.” She said she’d pass along my comments to the manager, gave me coupons for complimentary drinks, and smiled and smiled and smiled. Mission accomplished and everyone was happy. At least, that’s what I thought.

Meanwhile, Karis had reached her father. From half a world away, he heard about his daughter dragged down a dirty city street by a thieving cyclist on a gold motorbike. She told us later that he worried because the mishaps were escalating, each one worse than the one before. And he was right. He wanted her home, but she wasn’t willing, yet, to concede. Gary was reassured, to whatever extent was possible after such news, that no other big cities were on the itinerary, and the islands would be a safe place to heal.

For Dave and me, it was our last day in Thailand. Originally, we’d planned on more sightseeing, but decided a leisurely day was in order after the trauma and late bed-time of the night before. As we left the mansion to wander Chinatown, the doorman and tuk tuk drivers grinned to see Karis, walking, smiling, whole. I couldn’t look at her myself without a lump in my throat.

We meandered narrow alleys to peruse the market stalls in Chinatown, eyeing tables laden with dried fish, herbs, pork rinds, and squid. Karis scrutinized street vendors’ displays of jewelry, key chains, and cell phones spread on squares of fabric on the sidewalk to see if any resembled the contents of her stolen bag. Twice, she approached women wearing their purse straps looped around their necks to warn them to be careful. She angled her neck so they could see the angry red welt rubbed in her skin by the chain strap before it broke. “If I can save someone else, then some good has come of it.”

We gazed in store windows and entered a shop specializing in porcelain. Throughout her travels, Casey had purchased an abundance of clothes and bracelets, but I encouraged her to buy a special piece, one that would be a lasting memento of her journey. After scanning shelves of figurines, bowls and platters, she decided on a tea set with a pale crackle finish and blue floral motif. I imagined her, long after I’m gone, holding up the rounded pot to show her children and grandchildren, while reminiscing about her long-ago trip to Bangkok.

Upon returning to our room, flowers, a bountiful bowl of exotic fruits, and a note of apology from the management greeted us. Dave and I darted across the hall and the girls flung open their door, beaming, as they had received the same, plus a colorful get-well card for Karis. “I will keep it forever,” she said.

Casey, Karis and I went to find Pattyana and encountered her in the hall with two other employees. We gave her hugs and lavish thanks, oohed and ahhed over the fruit and flowers, and praised the design of the card. Shyly, she admitted she’d made it herself. She also said she’d conveyed our conversation to the manager who said she’d use my input in future staff training sessions. It seemed my comments had been heard and would be put to good use in serving the hotel.

But later, when we came in from dinner, the woman on duty was she who had supplied keys but no sympathy the night before, and she was as impassive as ever. Well. Perhaps the smile-message had not reached everyone.

As we turned to head to our rooms, she said in a small voice, “Wait. I am sorry about last night.” Her eyes filled with tears as she reached across the desk to take our hands in hers…and she was trembling. Trembling! My mind raced at her distress. What had been said to her? What was the penalty in Bangkok for upsetting a guest? We tried to reassure her, patting her arm, cooing and clucking as our faces sagged in sorrow to reflect hers. She smiled gamely; I guess she had been instructed to smile, smile, smile, after all.

* * *

I write from my seat on the Cathay Pacific flight to JFK. Lunch was a sumptuous repast of curried rice with cashews, chickpeas and corn dumplings, with a side of dragon fruit, papaya and pineapple. For dessert, a tasty corn and coconut milk pudding. Oh Delta, American, and United, take heed!

Our 6:00 a.m. farewells with the girls at Shanghai Mansion were uneventful, if surreal. No water splashed at the sandbag barricades, no nasty clerks snubbed us as we shouldered our packs. But after dipping so briefly into Casey and Karis’s fantasy journey, Dave and I had no wish to leave.

At home, our lives are dictated by the school schedule and our calendar, and the decision to take this two-week adventure, for us, was an unaccustomed display of daring. Given our ignorance of the world beyond Europe, we had approached Asia with high anxiety. Where the cocoon of routine and internal chatter so often shutters my senses, Thailand was an awakening. Stripped of blinders and control, we encountered wonders by taking risks.

As enthusiastic as they’d been about our company, Casey and Karis were ready to be on their own again. I knew Casey felt responsible for us, for every setback, for every walk that went too long, for every meal Dave disliked. After the worry and stress of Bangkok, the islands promised breezy beauty, simplicity, independence, and freedom.

Years ago, I saw Jewel, the singer, accept an award on television. She said her parents taught her to live bravely, and she had embraced that mantra. I was gripped by her words, and yearned for Tucker and Casey to have that spirit, but while Dave is a courageous soul, my creed is caution. I wished I'd heard Jewel's speech a bit sooner.

After graduating from college, my daughter moved to New York hoping for a career in theater, a difficult goal. She was disappointed, at least temporarily, but she rebounded, sought a new direction, and trained to teach pilates. She had a solid clientele, but felt restless. When Asia called, she seized the opportunity to travel, write, photograph, and learn more about herself. During this trip, I have seen her chase a thief, hug a tiger, and navigate the streets, subways and sky trains of Bangkok, undaunted and ready for more. I have mused that my son, Tucker, too, has taken risks and faced challenges in launching businesses in Nashville, Cambridge and Providence. My kids do live bravely…and they’ve done it on their own.

As I flip through the movie selections on my in-flight screen, tears well in recalling our arrival in Chiang Mai only two weeks ago. Dave and I had drooped into our room at Sirilanna to a vision of pink dragon fruit, fresh bananas, aromatic jasmine leis, and a baggie of crickets. And just when I peeked into the hall, Casey stuck her head out her door. My girl and Karis! They’d hiked, sailed, flown, and ridden tuk tuks and trains across China, Viet Nam, Cambodia and Laos to reach us. There they were: two brave travelers in blousy fisherman pants, wrists wreathed in leather bracelets and beads, their skin shining with sweat, hair wispy in the humidity, faces glowing. They emanated confidence. Armed with their well-earned citizen-of–the-world credentials, passports brilliant with visas and stamps, they had proved to themselves they could find their way... and conquer anything.

Smile, No Matter What - Bangkok Part III

When our cab pulled up to Shanghai Mansion with four somber passengers, one gauze-swaddled and gimpy, the cluster of tuk tuk drivers outside the hotel crowded close to help Karis dismount. The doorman gently boosted her over the sandbag barricade at the entrance and turned to Dave with questioning eyes. The tale of the theft and our trip to the hospital rippled from doorman to drivers, and set heads to shaking with mutters of concern and disgust.

We stopped at the front desk to fetch our keys from the clerk, and I babbled our story again. Karis smiled weakly, and held up her white-padded finger. With no change in expression, no indication she’d heard my monologue or noticed Karis’s bandages, the clerk said, “Which rooms?” then slid the keys across the desk.

Maybe bandages in Bangkok are too common to warrant comment?

As we shuffled down the hall, the girls supplied the missing exchange in fierce whispers, Casey fawning, “Miss, are you okay? Can I do anything to make you comfortable?”

“No,” sighed Karis stoically. “I’ll be fine. Just a bit of internal bleeding, but I’ll survive.”

We chuckled morosely, but really, lady. Not even a hint of curiosity or kindness?

Still, we were giddy with relief to be back at the hotel. Dave and I left the girls to settle in, and returned to the refuge of our purple walls, red-lacquered woodwork, and welcoming bed.

But sleep? No. I was too wired, and a tumble of questions vied for frontrunner: How would Karis feel after a night’s rest? Would she be able to lift her pack? What would her father say once that difficult call was made? Would the girls continue south to the islands as planned? And beyond all that, would the luxury of decisions wash away in rising waters?

Like flood debris snagged on a submerged limb, my churning thoughts came to rest on the callous clerk. We weren’t the only guests to be treated so: we’d almost passed on Shanghai Mansion because of negative TripAdvisor reviews about staff. Most of the morrow’s issues were beyond my control, but in this small area, I might be of service. I didn’t want to get the woman in trouble, but surely when faced with an injured guest, a response of some kind - surprise, if not sympathy - was warranted. I resolved to speak to the manager in the morning.

The next day, Karis was sore and her finger throbbed, but she’d removed the bandages on her face and shoulder, taken a shower and washed her hair. I had grown to love this dear girl with her wide blue eyes and easy laughter, and I was weepy with gratitude to see her moving about her room, tucking clothes into a bag, and smiling at me as I stood in the door. It so easily could have been otherwise, but for the grace of … I wasn’t sure who or what to thank…God? Cathy? Buddha? The monk’s bracelet? In my heart, I thanked them all.

As it turned out, the girls informed me, the medications had worked spectacularly well, and Karis felt so good after returning from the hospital that she and Casey had opted to re-pack their bags before bed. What? The woman had almost been killed mere hours before, but she’d had an urge to sort her stuff? Again, I was weepy and giggly with gratitude at Karis’s mobility and her insane impulse to sort even as I told her she was out of her mind. “Believe me,” said Karis, “Nothing could have made me as happy as getting this done,” for they’d unloaded half of each backpack into an MBK duffle for Dave and me to take home. With their packs lightened, island breezes beckoned and they were eager to flee Bangkok. Karis still had to call Gary and was dialing the phone as I headed downstairs to talk to the manager.

The clerk with the pinched-kitten face was on duty as well as a woman I’d not seen before. She had powder-white skin, kohl-lined almond eyes and a delicate frame. Her nametag said, “Pattyana.” When I asked to see the manager, both women looked alarmed. “She’s in a meeting. What’s wrong?” they said in unison. “I am the assistant manager,” Pattyana said. “Can I help you?” When I indicated I wished to speak in private, the two exchanged glances of greater concern than any shown when Karis hobbled in the night before.

Pattyana and I sat in two overstuffed chairs in the lobby, out of earshot of the front desk. A graceful purple orchid arced from a large glass bowl on a small table between us.

When asked, Pattyana indicated her familiarity with TripAdvisor, and I told her about the negative staff reviews and our own experiences. “It may sound foolish,” I said, “but for people far from home, their hotel is their home. Something as simple as a friendly smile means a lot.” Immediately, Pattyana’s lips curved to comply, and remained so, except for moments when a furrowed brow was more appropriate. She was listening; she was trying… and she stroked my arm kindly when I described the theft and Karis’s wounds.

When we wrapped up the conversation, I reiterated my hope that I’d not jeopardized anyone’s job. Pattyana said, “We can move people around…make sure the right person is in the right position.” She said she’d pass along my comments to the manager, gave me coupons for complimentary drinks, and smiled and smiled and smiled. Mission accomplished and everyone was happy. At least, that’s what I thought.

Meanwhile, Karis had reached her father. From half a world away, he heard about his daughter dragged down a dirty city street by a thieving cyclist on a gold motorbike. She told us later that he worried because the mishaps were escalating, each one worse than the one before. And he was right. He wanted her home, but she wasn’t willing, yet, to concede. Gary was reassured, to whatever extent was possible after such news, that no other big cities were on the itinerary, and the islands would be a safe place to heal.

For Dave and me, it was our last day in Thailand. Originally, we’d planned on more sightseeing, but decided a leisurely day was in order after the trauma and late bed-time of the night before. As we left the mansion to wander Chinatown, the doorman and tuk tuk drivers grinned to see Karis, walking, smiling, whole. I couldn’t look at her myself without a lump in my throat.

We meandered narrow alleys to peruse the market stalls in Chinatown, eyeing tables laden with dried fish, herbs, pork rinds, and squid. Karis scrutinized street vendors’ displays of jewelry, key chains, and cell phones spread on squares of fabric on the sidewalk to see if any resembled the contents of her stolen bag. Twice, she approached women wearing their purse straps looped around their necks to warn them to be careful. She angled her neck so they could see the angry red welt rubbed in her skin by the chain strap before it broke. “If I can save someone else then some good has come of it.”

We gazed in store windows and entered a shop specializing in porcelain. Throughout her travels, Casey had purchased an abundance of clothes and bracelets, but I encouraged her to buy a special piece, one that would be a lasting memento of her journey. After scanning shelves of figurines, bowls and platters, she decided on a tea set with a pale crackle finish and blue floral motif. I imagined her, long after I’m gone, holding up the rounded pot to show her children and grandchildren, while reminiscing about her long-ago trip to Bangkok.

Upon returning to our room, flowers, a bountiful bowl of exotic fruits, and a note of apology from the management greeted us. Dave and I darted across the hall and the girls flung open their door, beaming, as they had received the same, plus a colorful get-well card for Karis. “I will keep it forever,” she said.

Casey, Karis and I went to find Pattyana and encountered her in the hall with two other employees. We gave her hugs and lavish thanks, oohed and ahhed over the fruit and flowers, and praised the design of the card. Shyly, she admitted she’d made it herself. She also said she’d conveyed our conversation to the manager who said she’d use my input in future staff training sessions. It seemed my comments had been heard and would be put to good use in serving the hotel.

But later, when we came in from dinner, the woman on duty was she who had supplied keys but no sympathy the night before, and she was as impassive as ever. Well. Perhaps the smile-message had not reached everyone.

As we turned to head to our rooms, she said in a small voice, “Wait. I am sorry about last night.” Her eyes filled with tears as she reached across the desk to take our hands in hers…and she was trembling. Trembling! My mind raced at her distress. What had been said to her? What was the penalty in Bangkok for upsetting a guest? We tried to reassure her, patting her arm, cooing and clucking as our faces sagged in sorrow to reflect hers. She smiled gamely; I guess she had been instructed to smile, smile, smile, after all.

* * *

I write from my seat on the Cathay Pacific flight to JFK. Lunch was a sumptuous repast of curried rice with cashews, chickpeas and corn dumplings, with a side of dragon fruit, papaya and pineapple. For dessert, a tasty corn and coconut milk pudding. Oh Delta, American, and United, take heed!

Our 6:00 a.m. farewells with the girls at Shanghai Mansion were uneventful, if surreal. No water splashed at the sandbag barricades, no nasty clerks snubbed us as we shouldered our packs. But after dipping so briefly into Casey and Karis’s fantasy journey, Dave and I had no wish to leave.

At home, our lives are dictated by the school schedule and our calendar, and the decision to take this two-week adventure, for us, was an unaccustomed display of daring. Given our ignorance of the world beyond Europe, we had approached Asia with high anxiety. Where the cocoon of routine and internal chatter so often shutters my senses, Thailand was an awakening. Stripped of blinders and control, we encountered wonders by taking risks.

As enthusiastic as they’d been about our company, Casey and Karis were ready to be on their own again. I knew Casey felt responsible for us, for every setback, for every walk that went too long, for every meal Dave disliked. After the worry and stress of Bangkok, the islands promised breezy beauty, simplicity, independence, and freedom.

Years ago, I saw Jewel, the singer, accept an award on television. She said her parents taught her to live bravely, and she had embraced that mantra. I was gripped by her words, and yearned for Tucker and Casey to have that spirit, but while Dave is a courageous soul, my creed is caution. I wished I'd heard Jewel's speech a bit sooner.

After graduating from college, my daughter moved to New York hoping for a career in theater, a difficult goal. She was, at least temporarily, disappointed, but she rebounded, sought a new direction, and trained to teach pilates. She had a solid clientele, but felt restless. When Asia called, she seized the opportunity to travel, write, photograph, and learn more about herself. During this trip, I have seen her chase a thief, hug a tiger, and navigate the streets, subways and sky trains of Bangkok, undaunted and ready for more. I have mused that my son, Tucker, too, has taken risks and faced challenges in launching businesses in Nashville, Cambridge and Providence. My kids do live bravely…and they’ve done it on their own.

As I flip through the movie selections on my in-flight screen, tears well in recalling our arrival in Chiang Mai only two weeks ago. Dave and I had drooped into our room at Sirilanna to a vision of pink dragon fruit, fresh bananas, aromatic jasmine leis, and a baggie of crickets. And just when I peeked into the hall, Casey stuck her head out her door. My girl and Karis! They’d hiked, sailed, flown, and ridden tuk tuks and trains across China, Viet Nam, Cambodia and Laos to reach us. There they were: two brave travelers in blousy fisherman pants, wrists wreathed in leather bracelets and beads, their skin shining with sweat, hair wispy in the humidity, faces glowing. They emanated confidence. Armed with well-earned citizen-of–the-world credentials, passports brilliant with visas and stamps, they had proved to themselves they could find their way and conquer anything.

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.