Holidays on Rice

Given that Thailand is a predominently buddhist country, I was surprised to find myself busy during the holiday season. While I'd like to give each event it's own dedicated journal entry, I will have to suffice with a quick recap of my December holiday season.

Saturday, December 13 -- Santa's Little Helpers

A small group of Ferrang and Thais got together to add some holiday cheer to some under privileged children in a near-by village. We started by collecting donations in order to buy each child a "winter" coat. I use the term winter coat loosely, as these coats would be laughed at by anyone who's ever had to brave a Midwestern winter. We took our presents to the village early on Saturday morning, where we proceeded to play games & activities, hand out prizes, and teach the children about the "real" meaning of Christmas.

Santa's Little Helpers

Sunday, December 14 -- Sunday Brunch with Bixby

When I lived in the States, one of my favorite past times was Brunch. It's one of those meals that is perfectly suited for a Saturday or Sunday (any day really), when you get together with your closest friends to get caught up on the previous happenings of the week. Another of my favorite parts about Brunch is the food! After finding a place to have brunch on Sunday with my friends Jen & Otto, I decided to spend some much needed alone time with Bixby. He and I went on a long bike ride, where we got to catch up on each other's lives. One of the most liberating things about living in Thailand is being on your motorbike, with nothing but you and the open road. It's very cathartic! Bixby and I found ourselves up at Kilom Dam -- about 30 kilometers out side of town. The drive was amazing, and while the changing autumn colors aren't much to look at in Thailand, it's a welcome distraction to the "hussle & bussle" of Lampang Proper.

Sunday Brunch with Bixby

Friday, December 19 -- Christmas at LCCT

What's more fun than a Christmas Pagent in a Buddhist country? I give up, because the LCCT Christmas show had to be one of the funniest things I've witnessed since I've been here. As though we need to give our students a reason to skip class for a day, and not study; the administrators at LCCT put on this "holiday" festival each year. The festival includes the usual kareoke, some dancing, a "funky dress" contest, and enough donuts from Mister Donut to satsify even the most voracious of Jenny Craig appetites. One of the other English teachers even dressed the part of Santa Claus for the students. It was a great day, and a wonderful way to start my two week holiday break!

Christmas at LCCT

December 23 -- 25 Christmas In Lampang

Christmas in Lampang is like Chanukah in the States -- it's recognized, but not actively celebrated by most people in the community. I could still count on getting a "Happy Christmas" from my fellow Thai teachers, but it was said with the same affection and zeal you use when you are wishing someone a Merry Kwanza or Happy Boxing Day. On the 23rd of December, a few of us got together at our local hangout -- I Love Coffee-- where we proceeded to have hot apple cidar, some whiskey, and some "fresh" baked cookies (Thanks Mom!). My Christmas Eve was uneventful, as I stayed home and read the latest book in the Twilight Saga (I'm a homo who's hooked on Edward Cullen). On Christmas morning (after talking with my drunk family), a small group of us were invited to a fellow ferrang's house for Christmas brunch. After brunch, we had a small gift exchange, and proceeded to lounge around watching television and enjoying the company of friends. That evening, we all went to our other local hangout -- The Riverside -- for pizza dinner. It was sad to be away from my family, who I love and miss dearly. But, isn't that the idea of Christmas -- disappointment with the gifts you are blessed with.

Christmas In Lampang

Guns or Butter

Growing up in my house, I remember two distinct things: One, we were never allowed toy guns -- not even squirt guns; Two, my mother always kept a well stocked supply of butter in the freezer. I was always envious of my friends who could have toy guns, and even as a kid I found it strange that we were never allowed to play with toy guns. I remember my friends and I had to be very inventive if we decided to play "war" at my house, because my 'gun cabinet' included a very flexible Barbie doll, a cook spoon, and an old T-ball stand -- sans home plate. I never could get my parents to tell me why we were not allowed to play with guns, it was simply an unexplained rule. As for the butter, that remained a mystery -- until just recently.

Years later, when I was studying to be a future CPA (Certified Personal Assistant), I found myself taking the usual business courses, which included micro & macro economics. To this day, I couldn't tell you the difference between the two courses, but my inner writer guesses that it has something to do with the scope of your studies -- very big verse very small. The other thing I remember about these courses is that the professor always used the analogy of guns versus butter to help illustrate the law of supply and demand. Being the self-taught know-it-all that I was as a sophomore in college, I knew without a shadow of doubt that the correct answer was always butter. After all, I grew up in a house where we were without guns but always well stocked in butter, and our household economics seemed to run just fine on that principle -- why would this change for the rest of the theories of economics? It wasn't until I received a failing grade on my midterm in microeconomics, that I quickly discovered that maybe I needed to rethink my approach, as well as my upbringing. In any case, I barely passed the course and to this day I will always choose butter as the correct answer for any multiple choice test.

Since I've been in Thailand, I've discovered that it is difficult to satisfy my one true craving in life -- dark chocolate. I've said it before, and I'll say it again -- never trust a warm weathered country when it comes to producing chocolate. Mark my words, you will be disappointed. The same rule of thumb applies to vodka and the converse is true of cigarettes. Know these things before you begin your travels -- it will save you the hassle of having a bad taste in your mouth.

My family knows about my obsession with chocolate -- heck, it's ingrained in all of us. I'm told it comes from the fact that my mother lived on Peanut M&M's and Twizzlers during our gestation periods. I tell myself that there must have been a Twizzler shortage in '81 because I only have the chocolate addiction. I'm not even swayed by chocolate Twizzlers -- just give me my chocolate! This addiction has only been made worse by the fact that I live in Thailand where chocolate is hard to come by and usually always disappointing. To be quite honest, chocolate in Thailand always tastes a bit like waxy dirt.

Since my stint here in Thailand, my family has been gracious enough to send me care packages, which inevitablly include dark chocolate. They were cautious about sending me the first batch, fearful that it might be a gooey melted mess when it arrived. After successful completion of the first parcel during the hot season, each package thereafter contained a little amount of chocolate, and I learned to ration. It became a game of mathematics & economics, supply and demand; dumping out all the chocolate pieces on my bed, counting out each piece of chocolate, determining the number of possible days I could have chocolate, until the inevitable day that I might run out. Each parcel was like Halloween, except this time I couldn't afford to gorge myself those first few days.

By the time Christmas arrived, I was almost fresh out of chocolate. My calculations were correct, and I was down to 2 lonely little pieces in my refrigerator. Sure enough, parcels began arriving the week before Christmas, and it truly was a chocolate fountain. This year, my Christmas presents included books and dark chocolate. After I opened all my parcels, my next step was making room in my refrigerator for all the chocolate. It was at this point that I realized why our house was always so stocked with butter -- you should never need to ration something that is a necessity in your life. As for the lack of guns -- well, that's still a mystery to me. As for my lesson in economics this holiday season -- Chocolate is always in demand!

A Year of Living Dangerously

You always hear those stories about people who smoked 12 packs of cigarettes in a day, and then woke up one day and decided they didn't want to smoke anymore. BAM! -- They quit cold turkey and never had another cigarette. I used to hear such stories and laugh at the obsurdity of it all. That was, until I had a similar experience.

One year ago today, I found myself with the worst hangover of my "adult" career, which is a bold statement considering I've been drinking since about the age of 17. I woke up to find myself in the Emergency Room of Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. Sadly, I wasn't there to hang out with LiLo or Britney in the psych ward, nor was I sipping fruit juice with Pamela Anderson after our most recent face lifts and nose augmentations. No, instead I was literally woken up on a gurney in the Emergency Room, where I had spent the night -- no wallet, no keys, no money, no mobile phone, no dignity, and no self-respect. Just me and the clothes I had from the night before. I had vague recollection of the prior evening's events -- enough to piece together that I had managed to fall (not sure if I tripped or if I fell of my own volition), and dislocate my thumb. I remember the pain and agony of the ER doctor trying to relocate my thumb using only a local anestetic, figuring the alcohol coursing through my veins would suffice to numb any other pain I might feel. I remember my brother at my side, and then I remember being left alone on the gurnee to sleep until morning, at which point I would be sent to a specialist.

After sleeping for what felt like only minutes, I woke up feeling like death. My face had been plastered to the vinyl of the gurnee, surrounded by a pool of my own saliva. I was sure I had sleep lines all across my face, but I didn't care. I was transported by a cute orderly, and for the first time in my life I didn't make any attempts to flirt. I remember being wheeled outside, only to have the bright LA sun penetrate my eyes like two hot pokers -- making me feel like relief would only come once my head exploded.

I spent part of the morning sitting in waiting rooms, seeing different specialists -- all trying to figure out what the best course of action was with my thumb. Additionally, I was baraded with the usual small-talk questions, when in actuality I had already come up with the solution to my thumb -- cut it off and send me home! Finally, a plastic surgeon (hand specialist) was able to squeeze me into his busy LA schedule, for an afternoon surgery preceeded by lunch at the Ivy. This meant that I had to sit in one of the consultation rooms until my scheduled time. The nurses had taken away my only source of life at that point; my bottle of water. There I was, left waiting to go into surgery. Nothing in my system except for last night's alcohol, completely depraved of food and sleep. At that point in time, I was willing to sacrifice my thumb for the comforts of my own bed, a greasy brunch, and a gallon of water.

With my surgery complete, I found myself back at my brother's apartment still doped up on pain medications. Over the course of the next few days, I quickly discovered what my one night of drinking had really cost me. I was now without the use of my right-hand (I'm right-handed), which made everything a chore. Things that were once easy now became a test of will. I won't go into the specifics of it all, but there are certain activities you take for granted when you have the full use of all ten fingers.

I initially gave up drinking because I was on great pain meds. I had no reason to desire Mr. Alcohol; I had Mr. Vicadin by my side. I told myself that I would stop drinking until I was able to fully function. It took nearly 5 months until I was back to being fully functioning with my thumb. In that time, I had an opportunity to do some soul searching. I discovered that I was letting my desire for alcohol run my life. I would not classify myself as an alcoholic, but in the past I had made some not-so-wise decisions -- decisions and indescresions that could have ruined my life permanently. I saw my incident with my thumb as a reminder that I was using alcohol as a crutch to deal with certain aspects of my life. It took hard work to learn to deal with things without my usual glass of wine, or a stiff drink at the bar. But in the end, I'm glad I made the decision to stop letting alcohol cloud my judgement.

When you tell people that you've stopped drinking alcohol because you dislocated your thumb, they look at you as though you've just told them you've stopped eating food because you burned your tongue. In most cultures, non-drinkers are the social lepers of society. I've been met with weird looks, lost friendships, and judgement galore since my newfound days of sobriety. However, I won't sugar-coat it for you; I won't dilute it with gradure or false pretenses; I won't make it sound like it's been easy. The truth is -- I miss drinking! Nothing sounds more appealing than a magnum bottle of Shiraz, a cigarette, and dark chocolate. Mine is not a story of heroics or piety, but simply my journey towards being unclouded in life. Will I ever drink again? My only response to that is -- never is a long time. Until then, I take my life one day at a time -- making the best decisions for me and my life, with the hopes that some day I'll be stong enough to have my wine and drink it too.

Tea for Two

It finally happened! After living in Thailand for nearly six months; after eating questionable food from quasi-clean surfaces; after teaching Thai students in a germ-infested school -- I finally got sick. During the day on Monday, I started to feel a bit congested in the head. When I finally finished teaching for the day and returned home, watery eyes, runny nose, and total head congestion had set in. I was a mess! I had a low-key dinner that night at Grandma's, and got to bed early that evening. When I woke for school on Tuesday morning I had a decision to make -- you see, Wednesday was Thai Constitution Day and thus a day off from school. I could push myself to go into work on Tuesday and risk getting others sick and also weaken my own defenses. Or, I could stay home on Tuesday, rest up, and enjoy my holiday on Wednesday. Of course, I chose the latter of the two options. I sent a text message to the director of my department (sidenote - even text messaging is used in a developing country like Thailand), informing them that I would not be coming into work that day. Shortly thereafter, I pulled the curtains in my one-room apartment and crawled back into bed for 5 more hours of blissful sleep.

Waking up at 11:30AM, I decided I should find some food and maybe see about getting some tea. When I thought of tea, I immediately thought of the Thai Herbal Conservation Center, and tried to remember how to get there. I've been there once, during my first month here in Lampang. For those of you that have ever tried to operate a Honda Dream when you are congested with a runny nose -- not he wisest decision. Nothing is more fun than driving down the highway when your snot escapes from your nose and quickly streaks itself across your cheek, on its way up to your hair line. Needless to say, when I finally arrived at the Thai Herbal Center, I looked like some DCSF child, in desperate need of a wet nap.

I enter the Thai Herbal shop, which is a rather daunting experience in itself. It's like entering the cosmetics department of Saks 5th Avenue, but instead of cosmetics, it's a wide assortment of herbal care products. I am presumablly greeted by the Thai shop keeper, who asks me a wide-array of questions -- something along the lines of; are you aware your face is covered in snot? do you want me to hose you down? when was the last time you took your vitamin C supliments? I try to explain my ailments to the woman, in the hopes of being prescriped an herbal tea that will cure me in a day. Before I know it, I am satcheled with 3 different teas, and I am signing myself up for an herbal bath.

In my 6 months here in Thailand, I have had one full-on bath, and that was after I checked-in at the Holiday Inn Bangkok and saw the most amazing tub that was calling my name after 12 hours in a Thai train. Needless to say, I was about due for another one. After purchasing 300 Baht worth of herbal teas, I head to another building where I am quickly ushered into another room. This room can best be described as a room with a tub and a bench -- though this bench is too small for the "super-sized" variety of most western asses; it looked more like a step stool. The room is not very large, so as the woman is filling my bathtub, I quickly excuse myself to use the toilet. Something about the sound of warm running water, or a full submersion into a heated tub makes even my empty bladder need to relieve itself. In any case, I return to find the woman has stepped aside and is allowing me into the "bathtub" room. She begins to explain things to me in Thai and all I can do is nod without taking my eyes off the tub.

After the woman leaves, I quickly assess the situation. I'm not sure if you've ever had a herbal bath before, but let me explain what it's like here in Thailand. For starters, the tub is filled with a dark brown, almost black liquid. I'd say at first glance this looks like a large cappucino, but in reality, it looks like a giant bath of the worst cases of amebic dysentery you have ever seen. The tub is foamy and frothy at the top, and in places where the foam has subsided, the liquid is impenitrable to he UV lighting in the room. I hestitantly get undressed, all the while telling myself that this will be good for me, and that "bath time is fun!"

Completely naked, I hesitantly put one foot in the tub. The liquidy substance is intensely warm -- so much, you can still see the steam rising from the top. Slowly, I lower my body into the tub of brown liquid. My extremities are no longer visible once they are 1 inch below the surface. Before I can fully relax, I have to take a quick survey of my surroundings. I begin checking the tub for snakes that might have crawled up through any piping. Next, it's checking for the location of all the spiders in the room. And finally it's looking for the herbal tea I'm supposed to be drinking while I sit in this tub of mysterious substances.

Comforted in my surroundings, I finally begin to relax. For those of you who haven't done a detox herbal bath before, the process goes something like this: soak for 5-10 minutes, get out and drink your tea for 5-10 minutes, and repeat 3-4 times. So, I follow instructions and complete my herbal bath, each time re-filling the tub with "fresh" herbal water.

After my time is done, I can honestly say I fell 110% better. My head is no longer congested, my body feels lite and completely relaxed. After I practically float home, I decide to take a nice long nap. Awoken by my own volition and feeling wonderful, I decided to continue my day of relaxation with a quick trip to my local market for dinner, and staying home to read my book.

After finishing my market dinner, I lay down for an early evening, at which point I become violently ill. Suffice it to say that I contracted food posioning and was producing my own "herbal bath" for about 36 hours thereafter -- every hour, on the hour. In the end, I came away with an herbal bath, a hydrocolonic, the loss of ten pounds, and 3 days home from work. Thankfully I had my tea to see me through it all.

A Thousand Words

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so I guess I'll save you my diatribe about the past month's adventures and simply leave you with the photos that paint such a lovely story on their own. Enjoy!

Halloween -- Thailand Style

Loy Kratong

Bowling Bonanza

Bangkok Fashion Week

Kylie Minogue In Concert

"Father's Day" Weekend In Thailand

Larceny In Lampang - Redux

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Larceny in Lampang

I wanted to let you all know that I've recently been robbed. That's right, and the only thing they took was my Mac Powerbook. The one thing that still connected me to the Western world is now a thing of the past. I'll update more later when I'm in the mood to regail you with the "hilarity" of it all, but right now I have a bag of dark chocolate Dove "Promises" and a pack of cigarettes to drowned my sorrows in. Oh, and it just so happens to also be 11 months of sobriety. Fitting.

Stuck In Place

Before I left on my month long holiday in October, I promised myself I would begin my job search as soon as I returned. I went so far as to post a note on my bathroom mirror that said, “Get a Job!” Prior to my departure, I’d done some preliminary research about various universities, potential cities, and areas of interest in higher education. I’d updated my resume to the best of my ability, and forwarded it to anyone who would read it for critiquing. Then, without a care in the world, I left for a month of laying in the sun on beaches that most people only see on postcards.

Upon my return, amid the course outlines, curricula planning, and various other teacher tasks that were set before me, I also found some time to begin the painstaking mission of searching for jobs. It’s amazing how much time can be spent looking for a new job, especially when that time should be spent on things related to your current job. That’s probably the tell tale sign that you’re on your way out the door. Alas, I finished the responsibilities related to my current position in time for the first day of classes.

I have been working since I was 16 years old – well over a decade of being in the American work force. In that time, I’ve had my fair share of hurdles, uncertainties, and frustrations. My most significant frustration came after I graduated from college in 2003. Armed with my bachelors in accounting, I was convinced that finding a job would be as simple as a few emails on monster.com and in a few short days I’d have the “job of my dreams.” It took me nearly a full year after graduation to land an accounting job, which it turned out I hated anyway. Though it was a frustrating year of job searching, it pales in comparison to what I’ve endured in simply applying for an international position while living and working in Thailand.

For starters, let’s talk about technology. In my town, the internet is not something that is readily available at one of your 3 neighborhood Starbucks. An internet connection in Thailand is something that is to be prized and cherished. There are days where I go without internet because it simply isn’t working – not just at school, or one coffee shop, but in the whole town. It’s as though the entire telecommunications company in Thailand took a holiday, and someone accidentally flipped the wrong switch before leaving the office for the day. When was the last time you went an entire 24 hours without checking your email, or better yet, your facebook? I don’t have internet in my apartment, not because I can’t afford it, which I can’t, but because internet is not an option.

In the western world, most people are walking around with their Crackberries or I-Never-Leave-My-Phone (i-Phone) – up to the minute news, email, and communication with their friends, not to mention games and music to keep them occupied from interacting with the people they pass on the street. I am living in a society where technology isn’t as prevaricating in the day-to-day lives of people. My current mobile phone is closer in model to the Zak Morris cell phone or “bag phones” that were hugely popular when mobile phones first hit the market in the 1980’s. I can text, and I can talk on my mobile phone – both of which are dependent on my location, time of day, and position of the sun in relation to the Tropic of Capricorn. Ask anyone who’s called me – it’s a task just dialing the ridiculously long phone number. What’s +011? As you can imagine, technological idiosyncrasies create some barriers when you are trying to apply for a job in a more technologically advanced society.

Technology aside, let’s assume I have a stellar day in which the sun is in line with the tropic of Capricorn, and I have an internet connection and mobile phone reception. Then we come to the simple task of submitting the paperwork necessary for certain positions. The current position I applied for did not require that much paperwork. A cover letter, CV with references, and an Adobe application. No problem – I submit all these things online via email. However, as any good career counselor will tell you, it is important to send a hard copy of your application to the company. It shows you are truly interested in the position for which you are applying. I jump on the computers at school, and sure enough our printer is out of ink. In most cases, this would be a simple task of replacing the ink cartridge – a 5 minute process in even the most rudimentary offices. Not here – here it’s a matter of physically taking the ink cartridge to the ink supply man in town and having him fill up the cartridge for you. What I’ve just spent in gas and time could have easily bought a brand new cartridge to have on reserve … just in case.

Alright, I took it as a sign that I shouldn’t be using resources of my current employer, while I seek out employment elsewhere. Armed with my USB drive, I search out a place in which to print my materials. Amidst this shenanigan, I also realize I will need resume paper to print on. I stop at one of the 600 local stationary stores in a 3 block radius of my apartment. As I search their resume paper, I discover that all of their professional resume paper is flanked with unicorns or teddy bears, or rainbows. I know you want your resume to stand out, but that’s the social equivalent to performing fellatio during mass at church – people will notice, but not in a good way. After searching 3 stores I discover the Thailand equivalent to resume paper – thick, white paper that is probably used to print those annoying perfume samples in magazines. A bit glossy, but it beat teddy bears and pink unicorns with glitter.

I have the paper – at least, the Thai equivalent. I have the USB stick with my electronic resume. Now all I need is a place that has a computer connected to a printer with ink. I stumble into one of the many shops that boasts faxing and printing capabilities. Using my well-developed charades skills and my very broken and limited Thai language skills, I find a place that I will be able to print my materials. I jump on the computer and sure enough – no Adobe reader. Feeling defeated, I decide to print the rest of my application materials on my glossy resume paper, only to discover that ink jet printers and glossy paper do not make such a fantastic combination – leaving my document looking like it was typed in Arabic, not English. After printing 5 different times, I choose the sheets that turned out the best. Like my sister after she has finished lacquering her nails, I blew on each sheet for about 3 minutes in order to make sure the ink was dried. I pop these semi-coherent documents into an envelop and mail it off to my perspective employer, all the while thinking, maybe I was better off with the unicorns and teddy bears with glitter.

After I finished this laborious task, I started to think about searching for a new job and the hurdles I had to go through to submit one application, however incomplete. Even before the downturn of the global economy, there was a large number of individuals who were unemployed; some subsequently homeless and severely impoverished because of the financial hardships. In the States, most people have become immune to the homeless person they see sitting on the street. They can’t be bothered to fish out some change in their pocket, or supply them with the leftovers from their gluttonous meal at the local TGI-Friday’s. They walk by pretending not to see them, thinking that it’s their “choice” to be homeless; after all, McDonald’s is always hiring. Besides, they’ll only buy booze with whatever money you give them. I’m guilty with the rest; I used to have these same thoughts run through my head as I passed people on the streets. That was before I realized the hardships that are keeping this individual stuck in place. Getting derailed is not what anyone plans with his or her life, but it happens. Some of us are capable of getting back on track with minimal effort, while others are less fortunate. I’ve been blessed with family and friends who support me, as well as the resources to educate myself – something I give thanks for every day. However, this simple act of applying for jobs while living in a less developed country has made me cognizant of the fact that sometimes getting back on track can be like trying to run in wet cement. While it’s possible to stay on track with those who are strolling along on the paved road, sometimes the effort of simply trying to keep up is too much. Eventually the task of lifting each foot becomes so arduous that being stuck in place is all you can do as you weather the storms that come your way.

Winter Wonderland

Living in Chicago my entire life, I quickly learned that there are two seasons – winter and summer. The spring and autumn seasons can only be truly felt by the most seasoned Chicagoan. You can usually spot them on those days when the temperature drops 40 degrees in a matter of 7 hours. While most people are standing on the El platform in their flip-flops and cargo shorts pondering the absence of the sunny skies and summer-like temperatures that were present when they were getting dressed that morning; the seasoned veteran is the only one who is prepared for the day with a warm coat and an umbrella. Sure enough, the next day it will be negative 30 degrees and snowing – remaining that way until mid-May when the reverse happens. Fortunately, spring is more forgiving because it is much easier to take clothes off. However, you have to be careful with the “teaser” days – those days when it’s sunny and 60 degrees in the middle of March. Inevitably, you’ll have a parade of assholes out washing their cars in shorts – that’s how you know spring is on its way in Chicago.

Prior to my departure for Thailand, packing was a huge undertaking for me. I was informed that although Thailand is a sub-tropical climate, the north experiences more “seasons” than other parts of the country. With that, I was told that the temperature could dip down to about 10 degrees Celsius (50 F) during the “winter” months. I scoffed at this illusion of “winter” – after all, I’m from Chicago and we know winter. I packed 2 long-sleeved shirts, my North Face jumper, a skullcap, and an extra pair of jeans – winter, puh-leeze! When I first stumbled off the plane in Lampang and nearly suffocated from the humidity, I immediately thought those “winter” clothes were packed in vain. I buried them at the back of my closet, figuring that the next time I saw them would be when I was repacking for my “springtime” journey back to Chicago.

Thailand has what amounts to 3 different seasons – rainy season (May – October), high season (November – February), and hot season (March – April). After spending my first few months here, I surmised the seasons would probably be more along the lines of: rainy, hot, and fucking hot! I have been sorely mistaken by my assumptions. For starters, the rainy season is officially over. It has rained maybe three times since I’ve been back from my holiday. Every day is reminiscent of spring or autumn in Chicago – when you are lucky enough to experience it. The day starts off cool but quickly heats up to about 23 degrees Celsius (75 F). The sky is a stunning Safire blue, completely unobstructed by clouds. Each day is concluded with a stunning sunset that produces some of the most amazing colors being scattered across the sky – usually around 18:30PM. At this point, the temperature begins to rapidly drop again. With no cloud coverage after the sun goes down, dare I say – it actually gets chilly. I understand that most of my readers are living in the arctic freeze of Chicago, where the wind off the lake in January has caused flesh wounds on contact – so, when I say that it’s chilly, I don’t think empathy is coming my way.

After living in a constant state of swamp-ass for the past 5 months, my blood has definitely thinned out. Also, there are no clouds in the sky to trap the heat of the day. Additionally, Lampang is located in the mountains – a higher elevation than most other areas of the country. Compound that with the fact that my method of transportation is Bixby – a Honda Dream Motorbike. He’s a great piece of machinery, but missing some modern luxuries like heating, air conditioning, a radio, doors, windows, or seating for four. Bixby does have heated seats – just another perk of sitting on the engine. While tooling around in the evening, or on my way to school in the morning, I am usually clad in a short-sleeved shirt, some type of linen or cotton trouser, and flip-flops – not exactly materials that shield you from the elements when you’re traveling at 60 kilometers an hour. My hands become frigid, my feet are numb, and my nipples could be used to direct traffic if need-be. I realize it’s not cold – 10 degrees Celsius is not causing anyone hypothermia or the lose of limbs due to frost-bite. However, my perspective has changed in the five months since I left Chicago. I have become acclimated to the 32+ Celsius days, sweating my weight in water on a daily basis, and learning that sometimes even sitting is too strenuous an activity. That’s why I fully intend on embracing the “winter wonderland” of Lampang, by purchasing a new scarf, hat, gloves, and hooded sweatshirt – Brrrrr, it’s getting cold here!

Change is Good

Warning – This entry touches on political issues of the United States of America.

During the month of October, I had the opportunity to meet a wide array of individuals. I met folks from Canada, a bloke from England, a kiwi from New Zealand, an Australian from Down Under, and Germans from the Rhineland. Not surprising, I met very few tourists who hailed from the good old U.S. of A. Traveling or living abroad, you soon discover the animosity that is truly felt toward Americans. Every time I struck up a conversation with other Westerners, the topic inevitably found its way to the United States Presidential Election, and the first question out of everyone’s mouth was – “Whom do you want to win?” These conversations of politics also gave me a grave insight into the way in which Americans are perceived by other nations.

For starters, several individuals have told me that people believe that all Americans are like President George W. Bush. This realization scared the shit out of me. However, I had to think about individuals living in parts of the world who have limited resources to things like fresh water, clean clothes, and a non-violent environment in which to raise their children; let alone major news coverage or a high speed internet connection where they can access BBC and CNN for up to the minute news. People living in Rawanda, or the Democratic Republic of Congo, or Sudan, or Kenya – these people perceive the United States from what is portrayed through their limited access to media. It only makes sense that the President’s face would pop-up every time they learn the latest in the War Against Iraq. No wonder the majority of the world dislikes Americans – we’re viewed collectively by the individual who leads our country.

I’m not going to get all political on you here – though something tells me, I already have. I will say that I voted in this year’s election, and given the amount of hurdles I had to jump through to submit my absentee ballot, I am thrilled that my vote counted (Not that Illinois needed my help). Submitting my absentee ballot was a startling reality of the bureaucracy that still exists and reminded me of the oppression in our nation and the world abroad. It should come as no surprise that I voted for Illinois Senator, Barack Obama. I readily identified with his platform more so than that of John McCain, and please don’t get me started on his running mate, Sarah Palin. I think she’s proof-positive that pro-longed Vitamin D deficiency will cause serious psychological damage.

On Wednesday, November 5, I canceled the majority of my classes. I wanted to know who won the election and I wanted to be a part of this moment in history – whatever the outcome. During the spotty cable coverage I watched on CNN at my school, I started to realize how much I miss Chicago as a city. The skyline, the people, the energy – it all made me so homesick! As the results poured in, I became ecstatic when it seemed definitive that Mr. Obama would be our 44th president. For the first time in my life I felt truly connected to a presidential candidate and a political party. For the first time I felt as though someone had finally been listening to what I wanted in my government – in my nation’s leader. Barack Obama inspires me, not only because he is the first black president, but also because he has helped me realize that there are doors and barriers that still need to be broken down. We are still living in a society where the color of a person’s skin is the deciding factor of their content and character. Listening to his acceptance speech, I became misty eyed – just shy of crying in front of my students. Today, I am very proud to be an American.

What Not To Wear

It’s true – all gay men like fashion in some realm or another, nay I say, love fashion. Whether it be a makeover show like What Not To Wear, or the fashion challenges of Project Runway – where one day your in, the next day your out; Auf Wiedersehen, kiss, kiss -- all gay men can be roped in like Sarah Palin to an NRA meeting. When I lived stateside, one of my favorite ways to pass a Saturday or Sunday was lying on my couch and watching marathons of What Not To Wear with Stacy London and Clinton Kelly. Let me be the first to say that they are ruthless, caddy, superficial, and down right mean. In short, I think the three of us would have a great time together – so long as I’m wearing my Christian Dior and not my Crocs.

During my beach time alone on Koh Samet, I quickly realized that I had my own personal episode of What Not To Wear unfolding before my very eyes. I soon discovered that the beaches of Thailand were a veritable force of over-confidence mixed with a lack of personal shame and humility. It was during this time alone that I took it upon myself to snap some candid shots of my fellow beach-goers. Move over Stacie & Clinton because have I got a show for you!

I’d like to begin with beach etiquette. When traveling to another country, it is important to always take into consideration the culture into which you are trying to assimilate. Some people believe that the beaches of Thailand are simply an extension of the French Riviera or Greek Isles, where only the prudes don’t get nude. However, it is seen as quite a slap in the face when you go topless at a beach in Thailand – much like this woman.
Her only saving grace was the fact that her chest was still above her waistline, which is much more than I could say for most of other women who were going topless. I hope she applied her SPF – wouldn’t want those things getting aged by the sun like an old catcher’s mitt.

Another important aspect of beaching and beach etiquette is being considerate of those around you. This includes playing loud music, smoking, enjoying fun activities in the sand, children, and my personal favorite; the mobile phone. This woman was either Russian or Polish, and I kid you not when I say she was on the phone every 15 minutes. However, instead of sitting in her chair with the rest of her beach companions, she took it upon herself to pace a 25 foot span of beach while talking incredibly loud on her phone. Apparently she didn’t want to disturb her friends by talking on the phone near them. Instead, she was kind enough to share her conversation with the rest of us, who were sitting near the water’s edge, trying to enjoy our holiday. By about the fifth time she did this I wanted to walk up to her, throw her mobile phone in the ocean, and remind her that it’s difficult to hear someone when waves are crashing at your feet, and that screaming into the phone does not enhance the conversation for the person on the other end – please have a seat and stop disturbing the peace! I might have been more apt to dismiss her behavior, had she been speaking a pretty language like French, Italian, or British English. Listening to Polish & Russian is akin to spending a day at an assisted-living facility during cold & flu season – all that hacking and gurgling in the back of the throat – it’s enough to make you clear your own throat.

Next, I’d like to bring us to the swimsuit competition. This, contrary to popular belief, is also another aspect of beach etiquette. I understand that some people are very secure in their bodies, and don’t care what anyone else thinks, and for that I applaud them. However, your choice in swimsuit attire is not only a decision you have to live with, it’s also a decision my eyes have to live with – including whatever searing images you permanently impress upon my memory. So, unless you can be plucked from the white sandy beaches and stand-in for a Calvin Klein Underwear Advert, let’s be considerate with our swimwear choices.
I am not criticizing the choice in bikini – though that would not have been my first choice. What I am questioning is – why cheetah? Didn’t her girlfriends tell her that animal print makes everything look bigger?!? The only way this could have been worse is if it was a Brazilian thong – but at least there would be one more cheetah in the world.

I’ve never been one for matchy-match – that is, someone who loves to pull on their denim jeans, with their denim jacket, with a denim cowboy hat, with some denim boats – all in the same rinse of course. Or, that friend – we all have one – who insists that their shoes must match their shirt, or specifically coordinate weird items of their outfit to match. Though I despise matchy-match, I truly detest matchy-match couples. I thought I had seen it all when it came to matchy-match couples – the his and her Mickey & Minnie Mouse sweatshirts, the sports team apparel when not at a sporting event; but I was truly disgusted to see matchy-match swimwear.I’m secure in my masculinity, and I’m fine with wearing pink – pink polo, pink bandana, pink woven, pink tie, and even pink paisley (never all together). I would even entertain the idea of a pink swimming costume, but to match with my girlfriend?!? I am going to leave this woman with one word of advice – if this was his idea, you’re only one step away from him asking for a threesome with you, him and another guy, which is really only one step away from you becoming his Matron of Honor at the commitment ceremony; thus leaving you alone with your cat and having Cathy comics taped to your refrigerator for the rest of your life. Do you get what I’m saying?

Women are not the only ones who need to be considerate with their swimsuit choices – some men are beginning to toe a fine-line in the sand with their choices of swimwear. I’m gay, so I it’s in my genetics to embrace brands like Speedo, Aussie Bum, Calvin Klein, Ginch Gonch & 2xist when it comes to choosing a swimsuit. And again, I understand that we cannot all have the body of Michael Phelps (God bless him) when we put on our Speedos for a day at the beach, nor can we all look like the Australian Crew Team (God bless them, too) when we put on our Aussie Bums – however, they make different sizes, different styles, different colors, different cuts, and even different brands. In short, these companies have finally given men the same options that women have had for decades, allowing men to compliment their figure and body type. However, this does not negate common decency.
There is a point when I will realize that my Aussie Bums are no longer appropriate for my beach-going days, and I will hang them up for something more appropriate for my deteriorating figure – like a burlap sack, or floor-length tunic. Though given my love for the sun, I have a feeling skin cancer will pull me off the beach long before I need to consider what not to wear.

What? ... WHAT?

Koh Lanta

My brother arrives in Thailand after traveling for nearly a day. He’s exhausted, looks like death warmed up, and smells absolutely foul – the same way I would image the hotel room smells after that infamous wrestling scene in Borat. It’s after 01:00AM in Bangkok, and I’m half asleep; painstakingly trying to make a dent in Anna Kerenina as I wait for him in the lobby of the Holiday Inn on Silom Road. I too have had my fair share of traveling – nearly 10 and a half hours on a train in Thailand. Exhausted, but I’m thrilled to start my holiday!

Though I’m elated to see my brother, I can’t muster anything more than a hug and a few grunts to acknowledge the journey he’s gone through to meet me here. Nearly comatose, we drop our bags off in the hotel room and he picks up his second or third wind –
“Wanna go out? Get a drink?”
My facial expression must have done all the talking for me because he quickly amends that comment with details of going to the bar in the hotel lobby. Wanting to spend as much waking time with my brother as possible, I reluctantly agree and we head down to the lobby for what I will come to know as his evening nightcap – 3 Henekeins.

As we enter the bar in the lobby, we are met by an empty room and 4 Thai staff sitting at the bar. They approach us and proceed to tell us that the bar is closed for the evening, but that we can order drinks or food from the restaurant. I turn and head toward the lobby restaurant and my brother, still standing there, asks the woman to repeat what she has just said. She repeats it for him, and we head out to the restaurant. At the table, the waitress asks us what we would like to order.
“What?” Asks my brother.
I chalk his lack of comprehension to the fact that he was still severely jet lagged from his recent journey.

We have the entire next day to spend in Bangkok, as our flight to Krabi wasn’t until the following day. We decide to venture into the city and do some sight-seeing and exploring. After a few hours, my brother begins to complain about the heat – like an old Jewish woman complaining about the neighbors. We were both in nearly the exact same outfit – flip-flops, jeans, and white t-shirts. It’s like we were the Hardy Boys on some mission to find the missing Buddah. He’s sweating, complaining about the heat –
“Aren’t you hot?!? I’m sweating – this is ridiculous! How are you not hot?!? You’re kidding, right?!? Tell me you’re not hot”
Apparently I’ve been in Thailand longer than I thought because the heat has no effect on me. We stop for lunch, at which point I order an Americano Ron (hot). I swear, my brother looked at me like I had 4 heads.
“You’re ordering hot coffee? Are you serious?”
I simply shrug – I figure it would baffle him if I try to explain that warm liquids on the inside cool me on the outside. I sip my hot Americano, avoiding the eyes of judgment and disbelief that are shooting at me from behind his face that is wet with sweat.

The next day, we board our ridiculously early flight to Krabi –08:00AM departure time. I’m not sure if it’s the change in cabin pressure, the food at the airport, or the in-flight boxed meal of processed pastries and orange juice, but no more than half-way through our hou-long flight I knew something very un-lady-like was going to happen in the Krabi International Airport. Being as it’s only my brother and I sitting in the exit row on the airplane, I share this thought with him. Apparently my brother though I spoke louder than I should have because the flight attendant in the jump seat across from us gave me a smile and half-laugh.
“You know, she probably speaks better English than both of us, and understood what you just said” says my brother after my dysentery disclosure.
I simply shrug.

Upon landing in Krabi, our first order of business is to get our rental car. Let me rephrase that – my brother’s first order of business was to get our rental car. Me, I had more pressing issues to attend to.
“Can’t you just hold it? I need your help speaking with the lady at the counter,” begs my brother.
I look at him in bewilderment. The lady at the Avis counter speaks English!
“I know, but I can’t understand her – just stay for another minute,” my brother pleaded.
I knew that if I didn’t get to where I needed to go in the next minute, we were going to have a murder on the dance floor, or planters peanuts moment real quick – POP!

I return to the counter just as my brother and the Avis representative are finishing up the paperwork.
“Please, sign X,” says the kind Thai woman behind the counter.
“WHAT?” exclaims my brother in complete bewilderment.
I look at him before the woman can respond –
“She needs you to sign at the X for the rental agreement.”
My brother glanced over at me like I had the knowledge and skills of a UN Interpreter and we were at peace talks with the Iranians. It was at this point that I realized – my brother wasn’t accustomed to listening to “English” with a Thai accent. He would compensate by asking “What … WHAT?” As though getting LOUDER would help the Thai woman better understand him.

After the Avis representative left to retrieve our automobile, I tried to explain the intricacies of traveling in a land where they are speaking your language, but it is not their mother tongue. In my town, I’m accustomed to listening to broken English with a Thai accent. It’s akin to listening to someone from the inner-city, deep south, or Scottland. They’re speaking the same language, but it just requires some patience to understand. In my few months of living here, I’ve learned to boil everything down to the basics and keep it slow.
I want water please.
Where is the toilet?
Can I have Nueng (one in Thai)?
My brother wasn’t keeping it slow – instead, he simply got louder and louder and louder with the person he was speaking with. In the same way I would communicate with my fellow towns people in Lampang, I slowly explained in the most rudimentary words, how talking louder does not help when speaking with foreigners.
Frustrated, my brother proclaimed, “Well, maybe next time you’ll be able to hold your shit until after the paperwork is complete!”
I simply replied, “What … WHAT?!?”

Gone Til November

When you find yourself living on the other side of the world, visitors are a rarity. You’ll hear any number of excuses including – the flight is too expensive; I’m scared to travel alone; I don’t have the time; the flight is too long; or my personal favorite, I’m afraid I’ll shit my pants after a week of spicy Thai food. You can write out personal invitations until your hand falls off, I can guarantee you that almost everyone of those RSVP’s will say something like, “I regret to inform you that my digestive track can’t handle the trip half-way around the world because it’s too expensive and I don’t have the time.” That is why I am so thrilled that my brother will be coming to visit me at the beginning of October.

As some of you know, my first semester of school is finished at the end of this week. It’s odd because I feel as though I’ve just started to get the hang of some of my classes, students, and curricula, but alas, it’s time to end. Either way, I am finished teaching until the beginning of next semester, which starts November 3rd. The past few weeks have been nothing but finals, grading, finals, grading, and more finals and more grading. My official vacation begins on Tuesday, October 7, when I will be traveling via train to Bangkok International Airport. Here is where I will meet up with my brother, and we will begin National Lampoon’s Thailand Vacation – only this time, there will be no Beverly D’Angelo.

During this time, I will find myself almost entirely disconnected from the world. I will attempt to update my Blog, but given that I will not have my laptop, I am limited to Internet cafés and my desire to leave the white sandy beaches of Thailand (forewarning – I don’t leave the beach for much of anything). Not to worry though, I plan to bring my old fashion writing tools – a notebook and a pen. This should prove useful for journaling, which can transfer to Blogging upon my return. Should it be an emergency, you can always reach me on my mobile. In any case, I bid you a fond farewell as I depart for my much-needed vacation; in the words of Wyclef Jean, “I’ll be gone til November.”

Going Green Vs. Granola Gay

It wasn’t until the other day that it finally hit me – it was the simplest of activities, but my reactions have completely changed since being here. I was getting ready to go on a run, and grabbed the last banana that was sitting on the top of my fridge. The yellow fruit was purchased from the market but a few days ago. As you can imagine, the heat of Thailand helps to ripen things at an exponential rate. The once-ripe banana was beginning to soften, and I knew that if I didn’t eat it soon, I’d be taking it to the smoothie lady to make into a shake. As I was beginning to peel it, I noticed an ant crawling on the side. After peeling the top half of the banana, I noticed about a half dozen or so ants inside the peel and on the banana. Nothing is safe from the ants here – nothing! Wouldn’t you know it, right then my banana splits in two and the peeled top half falls to the floor. I scoop it up. Giving it a glance, I am pleased to find that most of the ants have since fallen off. What’s more, the banana has not accumulated any noticeable debris from the floor – I popped it in my mouth. That’s right – I ate from the floor of my apartment! That’s not the worst of it – this whole process took only a matter of seconds to happen. Not once did I think, “oh, my banana is ruined!” It wasn’t ruined when it hit the floor, and it wasn’t ruined because it had ants on it. I was not keen on eating the ants, but they would have been disguised by the overwhelming taste of the banana. It was at this point that I truly began to think about my status of “granola gay” here in Thailand, and I began to look back at the other things I’ve started to do that would seem uncharacteristic of me.

Since my arrival in Thailand, I have found myself “going green;” not necessarily for the sake of saving the environment, but to save myself some green – Baht, that is. We all know the term “going green.” It’s a huge part of popular western culture, which includes recycling, hybrid SUV’s, and my personal favorite, the reduction of plastic bags by using canvas totes.

In today’s western culture, the lesbian, gay, bisexual, and trans-gendered (LGBT) community has been stereotyped as being obsessed with image, physique, partying, and of course, labels, labels, labels! To be fair, this is the stereotype that can be widely associated with gay men. A “granola gay” is a very small sub-set of the gay culture. A “granola gay” is someone who thinks cotton is a label; insists that the greatest scent ever invented is lavender or patchouli; has hair that is either wildly disheveled or way too simple; and their choice of foot apparel is something that is function over fashion – ideally made by Merrell, Birkenstock, or Chaco. To over simplify the definition, it will suffice to say that a “granola gay” is a modern day gay hippie – the counter-culture of mainstream Gay USA.

After my first month of being here, I received my monthly “bill” for living in the BS Apartments. I use the term “bill” rather loosely, as my monthly statement is the equivalent of someone writing their telephone number down on a napkin at a bar, and you referring to this as your “phone book.” In any case, I received my bill for the month and was nearly blown away. My monthly rent is 3,500 Baht ($100). Sounds like a bargain when you’re making upwards of 40-50K US Dollars each year. Take a moment to remember that I am living and working on the Thai Baht. My expense for rent each month is about 15% of my income. Has this changed your perspective any? Fine, 15% -- I can swing that, just let me know who I need to pay. Oh, I wish it were that easy. Instead, I am also charged for water and electricity, as well as the price of laundry. With these additional expenditures, my monthly bill has increased to 5,400 Baht ($156). I’m told there is a “system” to calculating electricity and water for apartment buildings, but that it is at a much higher rate than single family homes in Thailand. Not sure why, but this is what I’m told by fellow Ferrang and Thais alike. With that, no one can tell me the specifics of how they calculate these raping rates – it’s anyone’s guess, really.

After paying the previous month’s staggering bill, I decided I needed to make some serious life changes. First thing to go – the Air Conditioning. For the first few months of living here, I was using my AC like a hooker uses red rouge. It ran day and night, keeping my apartment so cold that I could have rented it out during the day as a meat locker. Come to think of it, that would have been a great way to supplement my rent. But alas, I decided to forego the modern amenity and have since discontinued using my AC. That’s right, I have learned to sleep in the Thailand heat with nothing more than two open windows and an electric osolating fan. The only solace I find is that I have screens which do a relatively good job of keeping most bugs and wild life outside. I have the usual nighttime guests at my inn, including an occasional cockroach, ants galore, and geckos. We usually sleep in our separate quarters, except for the ants who seem to always want to curl up with me in bed. You read that correctly, I’ve learned to have ants and other small bugs crawl on me while I’m sleeping. Going green or granola gay?

With my electricity bill declining at an exponential rate, my next goal was to decrease my amount of water usage. This is where I had to become a little bit more creative. Adopting an old camping term, I learned – “if it’s yellow, let it mellow; if it’s brown, flush it down!” That’s right, one of the ways I have learned to reduce the my amount of water is by not flushing my toilet after each use. It can become a bit gamey in there, and I usually flush the toilet at the end of each day. However, I have learned to get creative even when flushing my toilet. Remember the bucket that I use to cover the drain in my shower, so as to avoid water bugs and cockroaches from joining me and my rubber ducky for bath time? Well, I have learned to collect the water I use from my shower in the bucket, and then I reuse that cleverly collected shower water to flush the toilet. I think you can adequately say that my bathroom has a unique odor all its own. Going green or granola gay?

Finally there was the issue of laundry, and how to bring this cost down. I brought this topic to a few of my fellow expats one evening while sitting at the Riverside. An older gent from London began to tell me about his first few years here in Thailand and how he washed his clothes by hand in the sink of his bathroom. He began to explain the simplicity of it, at which point I stopped him mid-sentence. I began to tell him about my obsession with laundry. I will mark my life’s success when I have in-unit washer and dryer. Until then, I hinge my daily cleanliness on the fact that I do not watch the laundry ladies wash my clothes here at BS Apartments. I’m positive they aren’t using the Kenmore Elite front-loading washing machine that can handle 400 pairs of size 22 denim jeans, on the super-duper sanitary cycle. However, I simply ignore this aspect of my life. Upon the return of my laundry, I don’t ask questions like, why my pants still have stains on them, or why my ‘whites’ are more of a tan. I receive my clothes back from the laundry lady, and I assume they are ‘clean’. If I had to actually do my own laundry in the sink of my bathroom, I would know my clothes weren’t clean. And if that happens, I wouldn’t be able to live with nightly guests in my apartment, while sleeping without air conditioning and covered in bugs. I would sooner make my own clothes from scratch, textile weave and all, before I hand wash my clothes. I would sooner go commando, as opposed to being stooped over a bucket, beating my calvins with a stick. A granola gay has to draw the line somewhere – my line includes the laundry line.

I came home today and received my September bill for PS Apartments. I almost fell off my Flip-Flops! The bill was surprisingly only 4,030 Baht. That’s only 530 Baht more than it’s supposed to be – all because of the laundry I had them wash during the month. I guess all of my dedication to going green or being granola gay, has finally paid off. I saved myself nearly 1,000 Baht ($29.25). I immediately went upstairs, turned on the AirCon and flushed the toilet – I deserved it!

Letters from Lambs

When I was in Junior High School, I remember the cool thing was passing notes between classes. The notes would inevitably be written during a class that bored you to tears, and you decided to take the time and get caught up with your friends. Whether the note detailed your plans for after school, or the latest drama from your first of many devastating break-ups; it was always written in long hand on notebook paper and intricately folded and passed between classes. This trend continued into high school. Once I reached college and at the height of the technological boom, note passing quickly became replaced with email exchange and instant messaging. Years after finishing college, and even with a recent masters degree under my belt, I am continuing to see that even email and instant messaging are becoming archaic forms of communication; replaced with text messaging and personalized websites like facespace and sit-on-my-face. I can’t help but take a moment and wonder – whatever happened to writing a letter, placing a stamp on it, and mailing it to the person? Has technology really become so advanced that we don’t need this form of communication any more, or have we become so obsessed with doing things as quickly as possible, in order to move on to the next thing that we’ve forgotten how to take a few minutes from our busy day and compose a letter?

I’m not sure when it began, but I’d guess it started shortly after I arrived at college my freshman year. I began to receive letters from my Grandma, who I affectionately refer to as LAMBS. Seems like an odd nickname for a grandmother, until you find out that her initials actually spell out L-A-M-B-S, and that her license plate is LAMBS 2. During the first few years of my college career, I would receive letters from LAMBS, and in all honesty – I never really appreciated them at the time. It was simply another piece of mail that served as a reminder that I should call my grandmother – whom I hadn’t spoken with since the last major holiday. The correspondence would usually be something as simple as letting me know what was happening with her; any recent trips she’d taken; who she ran into at the bizarre at St. Joe’s; or my personal favorite, who’s recently died. It wasn’t until I finally left college, and started living in the “real world,” that I finally began to appreciate the letters and notes that she would mail to me. Her letters were something simple that reminded me that she loves me and was thinking about me.

During my ambiguous years of life post-college and pre-graduate school, I began to reply to LAMBS’ letters. I was not nearly as dedicated as she was, but I made it a point to try and send a letter out at least monthly – regardless if I’d seen or spoken with her in that time. Like my days of writing notes in high school, I wrote my notes long hand on notebook paper. That’s right, in the new millennia I used archaic things like paper, a pen, and a stamp. After I began doing it, I realized how cathartic this process was, and thus I began to journal as well. With journaling, I began to explore myself deeper – thoughts, feelings, emotions, rational, irrational, mundane or profound. I started to write down whatever was on my mind that seemed to be bothering me – and now I love it!

I know it sounds tripe and a bit corny, but I love sending postcards when I travel. I remember driving across the country with my brother when he moved to Los Angeles, California. My family and friends all got random postcards from places like Oklahoma, or the Texas panhandle. We would buy them in bulk when we’d stop to gas up early in the day, and mail them out when we stopped for lodging in the evening. This trend continues as I live in Thailand. I have been sending out postcards to friends and family. Though I’m not traveling, who doesn’t like receiving a postcard from Lampang, Thailand?

Being on the other side of the world has revived my love for writing. I continue to journal online, and I also stay dedicated to my personal journal. However, what I’ve truly learned to appreciate while living far from my family and friends and everything else that is familiar – postal mail. Since being here, I have received weekly letters from LAMBS, and staying true to my original commitment, I have continued to write to LAMBS on a weekly basis – usually Sundays. I have also started to write more letters to my friends and family members back home. Additionally, I have also received a few parcels from both my mom, my brother, and a very dear friend, which included among other things, a quick note reminding me that I was on their mind and that they loved me.

Today, I received another such parcel, only this time – it was an entire shoebox filled with handwritten letters from former students and colleagues back in Chicago. I am connected with most of these people on facespace, so the fact that they took the time to write letters – well, this was one of the most touching gestures I could have ever received. This simple act reminded me how truly blessed I am, and how lucky I’ve been to share in the lives of all these different people. I was actually speechless when I opened the box to discover the abundant amount of notes – it’s like I was back in Junior High School. In true form, I immediately drafted a note in response.

I’m not sure where my dedication to postal mail comes from. Is it genetic, and simply passed down from LAMBS? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I hate to see the English language, or any language for that matter, boil down to the point of text messaging, instant messaging, and email communication. Whatever happened to words like “dearest” and “thou?” Have these beautifully written words really become replaced with “C U @ 7 ;)” or “R U Going?” Maybe I was simply born about 100 years too late, and I really belong in a simpler time when letter writing was your only option for communicating with people. Whatever happened to the days of knowing your postman by name? Maybe I’m just a simple Midwestern boy who will always be swooned by a love letter verse a fancy gift – though the gift is always appreciated. Whatever happened to writing love letters – is text messaging the beginning of the end of romance? Well, this is one individual who promises to continue to take the time out of his day to write letters and postcards to his family and friends – even if it is only LAMBS who replies. That’ll be enough to keep me writing.

The First Trimester

I like to think about this experience in Thailand similar to that of giving birth or being pregnant. My contract with the school is about 9 months. I started the experience with excitement, jubilation, and glee – similar to that of an expecting mother (assuming it was a planned pregnancy, of course). That was me before I left Chicago; finishing up my graduate program and preparing to leave for Thailand. I couldn’t have been more excited. My new opening line with strangers was, “Hi, I’m Josh and I’m leaving for Thailand in a week! What was your name again?” As if I was going to actually remember it – puh-leeze! Let’s focus the conversation back on me, and Thailand. Did I mention I would be living there for a year? All the pre-Thailand excitement kicked in. I was shopping for stuff I wasn’t sure I’d need. Picking up travel books, and doing Internet research about my new life-altering topic. Packing cloths for a culture I could only imagine, and buying toiletries for a climate I had never experienced. After all, I’m sure they don’t have things like toothpaste or lotion in Thailand. I’d better pack a year supply. It was all glamour and glitz the first month or so, that was, until the morning sickness kicked in.

The period of morning sickness is what I equate to becoming acclimated in my newfound culture. Everything is different, my sleep patterns, my eating habits, my cravings, my sense of smell, clothes began to fit differently, and I pray that my gestation period of throwing up – or in this case, diarrhea – is short lived. In combination with that, I begin to feel that no one truly understands me, or what I am going through – similar to that of a newly impregnated woman. No one understands why I begin to cry when watching a Thai television commercial, or how the 7-11 clerk causes me to blush with a simple look. Never mind the outbursts of anger at the random market woman. They never saw it coming when they simply asked if I wanted sticky or plain rice.

As I continue on in my cycle, I hit the end of the first trimester. Three months done, and I strangely find myself in a new emotional state. This usually entails talking about the baby with real names, as opposed to calling it just ‘the baby’. In my case, I begin to talk about places in Thailand, and refer to my city with a sense of community and ownership. “I can’t believe they want to open a Starbucks! Do they really think we’ll go there?” As though I can speak for the whole of Lampang because I now live here – I am a member of the community. Heck, I should be the mayor! Additionally, the shopping begins. Normally it includes an androgynous onesie with a cute hat and matching bib. The pattern is usually something fit for both sexes, like clowns or ducks. God forbid we put a girl in an outfit with trucks – it’s sure to brand her a lesbian for life. The John Goodman-flannel-wearing type at that! For me, it is the reverse – trying to fit people with gifts from Thailand. Let’s see, will my father enjoy the ceramic statue of an Afghan man holding a gun, or would he prefer an opium pipe made of corn? And my mother – will she want a pair of knock-off “Gucci” flip-flops with a gold “C” instead of the standard “G”, or will she want a poster of the Queen of Thailand, framed with golden paint? Maybe I’ll simply buy a box of flip-flops from the street vendor, and allow my family to fight over it once I get home. But I’m still curious – who would come out with the “Gucci” flip-flops?

Having survived 3 months of living abroad, I would like to say I’ve learned a thing or two. In this short time, I’ve discovered that Thai is not a language you just “pick-up,” like a carton of milk from the grocery store. I am going to downplay other westernized languages by saying – at least you are using the same, or similar, alphabets in your foreign language. With Thai, it’s anyone’s uneducated guess at the alphabet. Never mind that the difference from one letter to the next is a simple curly-cue french-fry looking thing on the end. And the English translations here are a nightmare! My favorite is a billboard that has the slogan, “Experience Miracle Lampang Since 1,378.” I’m still confused about what this miracle is they speak of, and are they saying they have been around since the year 1378 or have they been around for 1,378 years. If it’s the latter, that is going to be one expensive billboard to replace EVERY year. Oh, 2008 is over – better replace the billboard to say 1,379 years. Furthermore, is this 1378 based on the Gregorian calendar, or the Buddhist calendar? I mean, during high-season there are enough backpackers roaming through the city. Would it have been so difficult to grab one of them off the street and ask two questions – 1) are you a native speaker of English? 2) If yes, does this billboard make sense?

The past three months have been an exercise in patience, but if there is one thing I’ve reverted back to in my every day life, it is my affection for sarcasm. Upon my arrival, I would get frustrated with people walking slowly, stopping mid-stride, or simply not following any sort of pedestrian code of conduct. After a few short weeks of habitually walking through the market in search of food or on my way through town, I quickly learned to smile, be patient, and not be bothered by it. I figured, over time I would understand the pedestrian walking patterns and make sense of the sub-culture that was the market in Lampang. Three months later, I can tell you that there are no social or cultural norms that are adhered to when walking through the market – and I am still bothered by it. In the first few months, if a woman would stop in front of me for no apparent reason while walking through the market – just stop; I would politely duck by her and continue on my way. Lately, I have found myself stating the obvious – something like, “Great place to stop and stand lady!” Or, “Yeah, I understand why you wouldn’t move out of the way – it’s important that you stand in that specific grease stain.” If they really catch me on an off day, I’ll throw in some words of the four-lettered-variety – but you can bet your ass that each passing comment is accompanied by a roll of the eyes. After all, they don’t understand what I’m saying – and it makes me feel better, so why not? And smiling has ceased to exist on my face when walking through the market. I smile at no one for any reason, even if I am buying something. Maybe it’s my inner kraut shinning through – I can hear the Thai vendors now, “Oh, he’s not American – he must be German because he never smiles and he has that shaved head.”

If there is one thing I’ve learned in Thai culture, it is that everyone likes to stare at tall whitey walking through the city. They stare, sometimes point, there is always a laugh or snicker, and occasionally a random “hello!” shouted at me from passing motorbikes. I’ve learned to ignore the “cat-calls” – I am not a prostitute, street-walker, call-boy, or houseboy and this is certainly not Hollywood Boulevard, or even the North Avenue Bridge. Additionally, I’ve learned to stare back. You will be amazed at how many people will back down when you put a stern look on your face and stare at them directly in the eye. And if there’s laughter, I simply stare more intently, until they turn their backs to me. I suppose it’s my inner hard-ass coming out to play in the streets of Lampang. I’m sure I’ll learn my lesson when I’m stabbed with a rusty, sawed off pipe. Until then, I’m teaching them about my culture – staring is rude!

In the end, I continue to acclimate myself to the rigors of Thailand, and I’ve done some minor adjustments to the cultural assimilation – akin to when you buy maternity clothes. The abroad experience is about learning to fit in, but not lose yourself in the process. I’ve simply taken my Thai cultural clothes and bought them a little big, realizing that over the course of the next 6 months, I’ll need a little room to grow into them.

Another Year of Yui

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In addition to the other excitement I had to endure on Monday, it was also Yui’s birthday. As you may recall, Yui is the owner of “I Love Coffee,” here in Lampang. It really is a great little coffee shop that serves breakfast – if you consider toast with condensed milk breakfast; as well as lunch, smoothies, and a wide array of coffee & tea beverages. And the place is almost always open. I think the only day that Yui has abbreviated hours is on Sunday, when she opens at 11:00AM and closes at 17:00PM. We joke around that Yui hasn’t left the shop in over 7 years, as her house is above the shop and connected via a stairway in the back by the shop’s kitchen. I’m not sure about you, but I come from the school of thought that my birthday is the most special day of the year, and therefore, I shouldn’t have to work. I think I adopted this in combination with my 21st birthday, when I took a week-long recess from both school and work, full of black-outs, vomiting, and nursing headaches. Oh, what a way to spend a week!

Yui, on the other hand, doesn’t close her shop for nothing. I’ve talked with a few veterans of Lampang, and they claim the only time they remember her closing the shop was during the family days of “Songkran” (Thai New Year & Water Festival). Otherwise, it is business as usual – including her birthday. The kicker of it all is that Yui is very young – late twenties, early thirties. If you ask me, that is one dedicated businesswoman.

Upon arriving at the coffee shop that dreadful Monday evening, I hadn’t planned to stay very long. I thought there’d be some cake, a quick happy birthday sing-a-long, and then I’d be free to go have dinner and relax with my latest book. When I arrived this seemed to be the case, because the shop was only occupied by Yui and another Westerner. Shortly after I arrived, the place slowly began to fill-up. After about an hour or so, we had a small group of mostly Westerners – all of whom were devoted coffee drinkers and loyal patrons to the java jamboree.

As I began to unwind from the shit-ass day I had, I decided I should order some dinner. Nothing will make you feel more guilty or gluttonous than having to make someone work on their birthday – especially when they are the one who has to cook. That is the ultimate act of selfishness! My guilt lasted for, but a mere moment, before I grabbed the menu and pointed out my requests. If you want to work on your birthday, I’ll surely help you accomplish that goal. It’s amazing how quickly guilt will take a backseat to the pangs of hunger.

The evening continued, in which we feasted on a pineapple-cheese-gelatin concoction. Sounds bizarre, but it was rather quite tasty. We were also entertained with some fried meat of sorts, that was dipped in a sweet and sour sauce. In addition to that, Yui decided to start making slushies spiked with some type of whiskey. I had to kindly decline my portion of the slushy and explain to Yui that I do not drink alcohol. However, this only inspired her to make me my very own slushy – a cantaloupe & lime slushy, sans alcohol. Toward the end of the evening, we finally busted out the birthday cakes to sing happy birthday. Now, when I hear or even think of birthday cake, I am immediately transported to a place of insatiability. A candy land of sorts, where the cake is inevitably moist chocolate, and covered with the most delectable frosting. A diabetic’s nightmare, but definitely worth the risk. Needless to say, I haven’t met a chocolate cake I don’t like – that is, until this evening. Part of me thought for a moment that the cake was made from a box – and the box was actually part of the ingredients. And the frosting – don’t even get me started on the frosting. Like candle wax mixed with Pilsbury’s Frosting from the jar. Don’t get me wrong, I ate the piece that was dolled out to me, but I definitely had to decline the effort on Yui’s part to serve me seconds.





At the end of the evening, I attempted to pay for my dinner and the food I had eaten. Yui quickly told me that there was no charge this evening – it was her birthday. In the United States, we typically go out for our birthdays, and it’s the one night a year when we can grab nothing but our ID and head out to the bar – knowing full-well that our consumption will be covered for the remainder of the evening. In Thai culture, it is the complete opposite. In Thailand, on your birthday you pay for everything. It’s the one night a year when you dole out for everyone else to drink, eat and celebrate your birthday with you – as opposed to repeated times throughout the year. I know a particular friend who would appreciate it if birthdays were celebrated Thai-style during the month of October. He claims that’s when every homo was born in Chicago. Believing in Karma, I simply slipped my refused money into Yui’s tip jar, and headed out for the evening. Besides, she’ll need it come October when I fully intend to celebrate my birthday US Style. “Bitch it’s my birthday – pay up!”