Bixby's Back, Baby!

The past few days have been rather difficult for me because I haven’t had Bixby to rely on for rides to school, or taking me around town like he usually does. I’ve been depending on See-Laws for rides to school, and walking everywhere I need to go. All in all, it hasn’t been horrible, but this was midterms week at school, which pretty much means I show up in the morning, put in my “face” time, and leave after a few hours. The past few days have been difficult because I didn’t have Bixby to rely on for getting home from school. On Monday, I walked the 2.5km home from school, and let me tell you what a sweaty mess I was when I got home. Nothing says sexy quite like khakis that have been sweat through from the back side. I also discovered that at mid-day, with the sun a blazing, this adventure takes me a solid 45 minutes to complete on foot. I know I live in a town where I have nothing to be on-time for, but I’d much rather spend that time at a coffee shop or reading a book, as opposed to sweating in the mid-day sun along a very busy Thailand road.

Today, I received a ride home from a colleague who owns a car. I miss the safety and security of an automobile – that’s for sure. I came home and quickly changed out of my work clothes and darted over to the motorcycle shop. I was told today was the day Bixby would be ready to come home. I grab my helmet and make the trek across town. I show up to the shop, and there he is, like new! New basket, his handle bars are facing the right direction, the foot pedal is fixed and the back tire is completely filled with air. My baby! I swear he even looked different when he saw me enter the shop – it’s hard to explain, but it was as though he was smiling. Like a little kid being picked up late from kindergarten, who finally sees that his parents haven’t forgotten about him. I quickly let the shop keeper know that I am here to pick up Bixby – though, without knowing Thai, I had to simply point at my bike. The total damages including parts and labor came to 530Baht ($15.81). While I’m there, I decide it would probably be a good time to renew my insurance and pay the taxes on the bike – all of which was due for renewal in August. I quickly learn that this will cost me an additional 750Baht ($22.80). Fine – I was finally paid, I had money to burn! I wait an additional 30 minutes while a gentleman takes Bixby to an undisclosed location and does who knows what with him and my ownership papers. Upon his return, I am told that I need to come back to the shop again tomorrow around noon to complete the process. Fine – it gives me a legitimate reason to cut out of work a bit early, not like I needed one. I jump on Bixby, start him up, and off we go. I promised him we would get him cleaned at some point this week, as he still has not had a bath.

Through this whole experience I’ve learned a few things. The first thing I’ve learned to do is always drive on the defensive. With that, I have also learned to expect the unexpected, because there are no rules of the road. Driving, especially that of a motorbike is a completely different culture all its own. And while I’m still trying to learn about this culture and adapt as best I can, speed is not necessary. The second thing I’ve discovered is that there is no need for speed because there is only one speed in Lampang – Slow! There is no need to be anywhere on time because nothing starts on time. Up to this point, I have done nothing in this country quickly. I was never one to be in a rush to get to work – I’m not about to start now. This is drastically different from my life in the states where everything is go-go-go, faster, multi-task, get things done – and for what? So I can be given more work, or so that I can risk dying in my car on the way to work because I was in a hurry to get there for fear that work might not be there if I show up late? Work will always be there – it’s not going anywhere, this I can promise to you. The lesson I’ve learned is – take it easy. There’s no need to rush, because chances are you are just rushing yourself to an early grave, in one way or another. Take time to sit and enjoy the things you take pleasure in doing – reading a book, drinking your coffee, walking in the park, or journaling about your day. Why rush something that you enjoy doing? That’s just stupid!

Sugar, Spice, & Everything Nice

I’ve always been a believer in the wise words of one Brenda Dickson, “I’ll try anything once as long as I don’t bleed or cry.” I have taken this mantra and added to it, “I’ll try anything once as long as I don’t bleed, cry, or get dysentery.” This is a reoccurring theme in my life on a daily basis here in Thailand.

Each day, I go out to the front of our school and purchase fruit from the lady at the “fruit stand.” I use the term fruit stand loosely as it is a motorbike with an attached side car that has been made into a “fruit stand.” Have fruit will travel. Whateves, she always has the best fruit, and my favorite guy mui gone. She cuts the fruit right there for you, bags it, shoves a stick in and offers some sort of sugary topping. Two things you should know about Thai culture. One, they love anything you can eat on a stick. If you can make it meat on a stick, they will surely eat it up – no questions asked! Two, they love to garnish anything with sugar. Things you wouldn’t imagine – sugar topped on it. It’s a bit odd, but definitely not the strangest thing I’ve seen since being here.

Today I visited my fruit lady as usual, but she was out of my staples; no guy mui gone and no pineapple. That’s fine, I can venture away from the staples and order something different. I visually peruse her glass case with ease and see a fruit that seems interesting. The fruit lady quickly tells me that it’s champ-poo (like shampoo) and good. Like a middle-aged woman fresh off her diet at the bakery, I point, nod, and smile; indicating that she can start cutting. The champ-poo is about the size and shape of a strawberry. It is similar in color to that of a pomegranate shell. The inside looks like a tiny apple, complete with seeds that she cuts out with the same expertise and precision a heart surgeon uses when cutting steak. Freshly cut, she offers to throw some sugar on the top. I’ve learned that the best way to handle this is by simply looking confused, and then she’ll add it on the side. Which is much better than the alternative of smiling and having her dumb it all over your fresh fruit. Sugar on the side, stick pointing out the top, I am set with my “take away” champ-poo. I take my first bite and I am pleasantly surprised by the texture. The texture is what I would imagine it is like trying to eat the insides of a pomegranate, but very watery. Interesting. I continue to eat, figuring that even if it’s not the most pleasant, it’s still fruit and has to be good for you. Half-way through the bag, I decide that maybe the sugar will help with the taste. Instead of dumping all of the sugar on the fruit, I decide to test the waters by dipping the fruit into the sugar. I take a bite – very interesting. The interesting part is that there is chili-spices in the sugar. It’s the equivalent of eating chocolate covered pretzels or adding plain M&M’s to your movie theatre popcorn. Strangely addicting and I am having difficulties stopping. My mouth is sweetly on fire with each bite of the fruit. I can’t get enough! I’m not sure if it’s the fruit, or the sugars and spice concoction, but I am hooked! Who knew sugar mixed with red pepper flakes could be so distinguished?!

Sticking with my mantra, I have also ventured out of my comfort zone when it comes to eating alone at my favorite internet café. The café serves coffee, tea, milkshakes, as well as food items. The beverage portion of the menu is in English and Thai, but the remainder of the food menu is in Thai. Feeling hungry, and not wanting to leave the free air-con on a hot day, I’ve learned to order by pointing. That is, I randomly find something that is within my price range, point, nod and smile. They repeat my choice back to me in Thai, and I say, “Sure!” Smiling, they turn and leave the café. That’s the other part about the food menu. They don’t prepare the food there, but instead go to a local street vendor to have the food made. It’s like playing Russian Roulette with your intestinal track. For one, you don’t know exactly what you’ve ordered, nor do you know who is preparing the food. I’ve done this on several occasions, and each time I have been pleasantly surprised with my choice. Not to mention that I am so God-blessed hungry ALL THE TIME, that you could feed me fried malang-sab (cock roach) and I’d be fine. I’ve learned that the trick with eating strange things – don’t ask what you’ve eaten until you have finished eaten. I don’t need to relive my own personal version of the scene from Funny Farm when Chevy Chase is going for a world record eating the Lamb testicles. Only here, I have a feeling it would be dog testicles. I hope I’m never that hungry!

Lock-out, Cop-out!

Prior to coming to Thailand, I was a Resident Director in charge of facility operations for a large, urban, religious-affiliated university. In a very condensed summary, this job required me to handle health and safety inspections for on-campus residents, as well as safety and security for all the residents in the hall. My favorite part about the job had to be the “live-on” component, especially when it included pages or fire alarms at 2:00AM, and because it also required me to bring ALL of my guests past the front desk student-workers; the very same students I was in-charge of supervising. At one point, a good friend and co-worker told me that this experience would change my outlook on operations management, and other facility related issues. We always joked around that one of us would be the first Resident Director to start a fire, or have a carbon monoxide leak in their unit. I didn’t believe her until just recently.

One of the things that my previous job entailed was a lockout. We had a staff of student workers who were responsible for after-hour lockouts of residents who had been locked out of their residence hall. In my two years of living on-campus in my Resident Director position, I had managed to not lock myself out of my apartment. Sure enough, after just six weeks of living in Lampang, Thailand, I managed to do the most embarrassing thing ever. I locked myself out of my apartment.

A little background for you about Thailand locks. Each apartment has a standard door lock with a key. In addition to this, the door also has a metal clasp similar to that which you will find on a utility shed or toolbox. As the resident, you are welcome to add security to your apartment with the use of a padlock. Following suit of the other residents in the building, I bought a padlock about a week after living in Lampang.

Thursdays are usually my day that I start late. I don’t have class until 13:00PM. I will usually go in at 08:00AM, put in some face time by completing lesson plans, grading assignments, and then I jet out to have a long lunch, before returning for my class that afternoon. This past Thursday, I decided to stop home because I had forgotten my mobile phone, and I was anticipating a phone call from a friend. I stopped off to have coffee, and then I went home to retrieve my phone. No sooner had I clasped my padlock shut on my door, do I realize that I do not have my keys - $&@%!

Checking my pants pockets in triplicates, I am confirming that my keys are not on me. My keys include not only the keys for my apartment, but also the keys for Bixby. Needless to say, I am stranded at my apartment building until I can get my keys out of my apartment. I shamefully walk downstairs to my local lobby lesbian, at which point I begin to explain to her that I have locked my keys INSIDE my apartment. Either the concept of INSIDE was not registering with her, or I was doing an inefficient job of explaining the dilemma. In any case, after about 10 minutes of explaining this situation, her and I are finally on the same page. She tells me that she will be calling the engineer. If there is one thing I’ve learned in nearly six weeks of living in Thailand, it is that any preconceived notions of any word or word association that you once had – throw it out! It might translate in words, but the concept will most likely NOT be the same.

Sure enough, 10 minutes later, the engineer shows up. The engineer is two twenty-something guys equipped with fanny packs and makeshift tool belts, blazing in on a Honda Dream, circa 1945. Not wanting to judge on looks alone; I continue to remain positive with my thoughts. We escort them up to my unit, and they assess the situation. They check the padlock and ask about the keys. Again, I explain that the keys are INSIDE the apartment, and that any spare sets are also INSIDE the apartment. They dig into their canvas fanny packs and pull out what can best be described as an old container to hold reading glasses. However, instead of reading glasses, the container houses “lock-picks.” Now, I am not an avid lock-picker, and in my old job I had a key ring that only an engineer or tradesman could empathize with. These “lock-picks” can best be described as old wires that come in various circumferences, each having a look on the end to hold while picking.

I continued to remain hopeful, after all, maybe there’s more tools in the … Honda Dream? The engineers try to pick the lock for a solid 45 minutes. I see them pull out every possible old wire with a loop, and still remain unsuccessful. In my mind, I keep wondering – where’s the lock cutter? I was never one for tools, though Home Depot is my favorite store for other reasons, but I do know that there is a tool called a “lock cutter”. It cuts locks, chains, and other thick metal devices. In my mind, I am envisioning that this secret gem of a tool is simply hiding somewhere and will soon magically appear. As we begin to round a solid hour of “picking,” I am asked if it is alright to break the lock. Screaming in my mind, “ Just get me INTO my apartment!” This inner exclamation translated into a non-verbal head-nod and smile. At this point, the one guy sends the other guy down to get something. “FINALLY,” I’m thinking, “the lock-cutter!” The guy returns, carrying a metal hammer and a large rod. It’s at this point that I call a co-worker at school and let them know that I might not make it back for my class. After all, it is nearly 12:00PM and class is slated to start at 13:00PM (I say slated because nothing starts on time here).

And so the pounding begins. Two guys armed with nothing but a hammer, a metal rod, and an old rag pounding incessantly at the padlock. Again, my previous job was in health and safety inspections. In that time, I’ve seen college students do some pretty stupid things, especially when it came to avoiding the $25 lockout fee. But this – this won out! Not wanting to catch metal shrapnel in the eye or any other body part for that matter, I find myself outside the hall massaging my temples as a headache is most-definitely on its way. Rounding the 2 hour mark, and encroaching the 13:00PM mark, the engineers finally succeed in busting through the padlock and granting access to my apartment. At which point, I discover that they require 150 Baht ($5) for services rendered. Thankful that the fee is minimal, I hand them the Baht, and send them on their way.

I quickly grab my keys from my desk, and head back to school. With only minutes to spare, I arrive at campus to administer a midterm for my students. During the test, I had time to reflect upon the previous experience. My initial reaction with the situation was anger and frustration toward the engineers. I wanted to know where the lock cutter was, where was the master set of keys, where was their expertise in picking locks? I wanted to know why it took a solid 2 hours out of my day. I had to step back and realize that this whole situation was my own doing. I was the one who didn’t check to make sure I had my keys prior to leaving. I was the one who is accustomed to living in a culture with modern amenities, and tools that might be unavailable here. I was the one who didn’t plan accordingly and grab my mobile phone before heading to work. And what’s worse – the reason I went home to get my mobile, the phone call I was expecting; they never called!

A Lesson In Thai Government

Throughout my journal, I have complained and insinuated that Lampang is boring. I’ve said that I need more excitement in my life, otherwise I was going to go stir crazy. I guess I should be careful what I wish for, because excitement is just what I found today; and let me tell you, I now wish it were more boring here.

Since I’ve been in Lampang, I have tried to listen to my gut instincts. I try to listen when my gut tells me that maybe I shouldn’t eat that food, as it looks like it might cause me digestive issues later. Or when I see something that doesn’t look very safe – I tend to avoid participating. This morning was another one of those days when I should have listened to my gut. I woke up and decided it looked like a great day to search out a local area Wat (Buddhist Temple) I had wanted to see. Looking out the window, I was torn. Should I jump on Bixby and try to find the Wat, or should I walk to the local coffee shop and spend the day with my book? My gut was telling me that I should go to the coffee shop, but instead, I decided to listen to my inner adventurer and jump on Bixby for some exploring. After the course of the day ended, I realize I should have just stayed in bed.

Bixby and I decided to venture out and find this Wat, which is supposed to be located right outside of town – 10 minutes maximum. Driving down the street, I am headed the direction I think is the way I should be going. I approach a four-way intersection, slow down as there is other traffic, and when I deem it safe to continue, I begin to go straight through the intersection – POW! From the left comes a motorbike with a family of 3 on it, who decides they want to turn right from the cross street. I was not going terribly fast, but fast enough that we collided, and I am thrown from Bixby! I find myself laying in the middle of the intersection, dazed and confused. I slowly pull myself up from the road and discover that I have re-opened my previous scrapes, but otherwise, I am not injured. Staggering, I walk back toward the bikes that are now lying like road kill in the middle of the street. No sooner do I remove my helmet, that I have a Thai woman screaming at me. The only word I am able to make sense of is “Ferang” (Foreigner). At this point, the local area neighbors and merchants are all coming out to the street to see what has happened. All 3 individuals on the other bike seem to be fine – a little shaken, but no one is badly hurt. The mother has a few scrapes on her leg. Mind you, the only person wearing a helmet – the mother, who happened to be the 3rd person on the bike. With her still screaming in Thai, I begin to explain that I did not see them, and that I was headed straight in the intersection. At this point, the woman is on her phone with I assume to be the police, and I am approached by a Thai man who speaks English. He explains the process that normally happens with accidents in Thailand, and how I should wait for the police to come and assess the situation. My initial concern is for myself, and then I am concerned that the children on the bike. I wanted to make sure that no one was terribly injured from the accident. I then glance over and see Bixby, who is painfully laying on the ground. Dented basket, twisted alignment, and cracked front fender. Poor Bixby!

The police come and take notes of what had happened, snapping photos and assessing the damage. The woman, still screaming, is taken to the hospital. The officer, who speaks limited English, asks me about what happened. Learning from my limited time as an ESL teacher, I slowly and simply explain what had happened. We move my bike from the road and I am escorted by the police back to the police station. This is where I discover the truth about the Thai legal system.

At the police station, the officer begins to ask me questions. Do you have identification on you? Were you driving fast? What happened? Were you drinking? Wishing I was drinking, I slowly answer his questions to the best of my ability. After that, I am left to sit at the police station, waiting for the woman from the accident to return from the hospital. Not sure what to do, I contact the only person I think can help me in this situation – the woman I bought the bike from. She shows up, and thankfully brings her Thai boyfriend. Shortly thereafter, the woman from the accident arrives back from the hospital, that’s when the fun really begins.

Apparently Thai law is similar to US law, in that you can “settle out of court”. Mind you, the concept may be the same, but the process is nothing like anything I’ve seen before. The woman returns from the hospital, with her husband, son and daughter. Fresh from the most expensive private hospital in all of Lampang (nowhere near the accident site – shady lady), she’s limping and bandaged. Still angry, she and her husband begin to negotiate with my friend’s Thai boyfriend. Initially, they want me to pay all of the damages; hospital bill, and damage done to their bike. All in all, they are asking for nearly 5,000 Baht ($150). My friend’s Thai boyfriend begins to tell them that I will pay the bike damage, if we can have the damage assessed at a shop of our choosing. This infuriates the man and woman! You want to see something fun – watch a middle-aged Thai man get upset. Kind of humorous. After some shrewd negotiating on the part of the Thai boyfriend, we agree on me paying 2,000 Baht ($60) for the medical bills, and I never hear from them again. No coming to me with damages from the bike, no coming back with additional medical bills, nothing. It is agreed. Case is settled!

Prior to leaving, the woman and I need to complete paperwork with the officer. It is at this time that I had to remember my manners. While waiting for the police officer to HAND WRITE the document, the little girl and mother start talking with the officer about me. I may not understand Thai, but I do understand the Thai words for teacher, foreigner, and the name of my school. I was fuming! I had to remind myself that I was a guest in a foreign land, and that talking about someone while they at the same table was simply a cultural enigma. In my culture, we at least wait until the person is out of ear-shot before we begin to talk about them, regardless of the language barrier. Fuming and wanting this whole day to be over, I quickly sign my name and head off to get Bixby, hoping my path never crosses with this woman or her family ever again!

My friend and her boyfriend were kind enough to wait for me, and she offers to drive Bixby to the bike shop. Apparently Bixby had some cosmetic damage that needed to be taken care of, including wheel alignment, front fender repair, and fixing the basket. I also learned that the bike shop is backed-up, and Bixby will need to stay there until Tuesday. Chalking it up to just another part of the day, I leave Bixby in their care and head to lunch with my friend and her boyfriend.

Taking some time to reflect about the situation, I am grappling with what I have learned here. This experience has definitely reinforced my desire to live in a city with a good mass public transportation system. A city that does not require the need of automobiles or motorbikes to transport oneself to and from their destinations. I have also learned that while I am here in Thailand and continue to ride Bixby, a helmet is the most important thing one can possibly have. And though I’m often one to complain about the litigiousness of US society, today I would have enjoyed a lawyer, a traffic cop, heck – I would have settled for a stop-sign at the 4-way intersection where the accident occurred. Though it was an experience I would rather not have had, I am thankful and blessed that everyone involved was able to walk away from the accident with minimal damages. Battered and bruised, I realize the motorbike is a crucial aspect of the Thai culture. Like the language, food, clothing, or living conditions, the motorbike is another one of those factors that I will need to learn to become assimilated with – I just need to do it more carefully.

Big Gay Uncle Josh

This morning, I woke up to the phone ringing at 09:00AM. I know any phone call this early had to be from someone in the Western hemisphere because no one in Lampang wakes up that early. Even city shops don’t open until 11:00AM, at the earliest. Rolling over, I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was my mother. I did some fuzzy math in my head and realized it was about 21:00PM, from where she was calling. Hesitant and still a bit groggy, I answered the phone while still rubbing the sleep from my eyes. We made it through the usual conversation; How are you? Have you made any more friends? Don’t spend all of your time alone – it’s not healthy. Are you eating enough? Do you have diarrhea? All of which, I have the standard response of; I’m doing fine. I’m still hanging out with the other teachers from school. I’m enjoying my time alone. I’m eating enough. I am having no issues with my digestive track – thanks for the concern. Shortly thereafter, I discovered that my sister and her husband are also with my Mom and her partner, up at the marina in Racine, Wisconsin. My sister gleefully gets on the phone and asks the loaded question, “Hey LB! Are you ready to be an uncle?” (She calls me LB, short for Little Brother. I call her BS, short for Big Sister). This jolts me from bed. Completely stunned by the question, and not sure if I heard it right, I stuttered, “Wha-?” She repeats herself, this time a bit slower – “Are – you – ready – to – be … an – uncle?” – similar to the way I repeat things for my ESL students. At this point, I have a so many questions that I am having difficulties forming complete sentences. Assuming she’s been through the gauntlet a few times with these questions, she responded similarly to how I respond when asked the same repertoire of questions by friends and family on the phone. I was so excited to hear the news and to obtain all the details about the soon-to-be newest member of the family. The remainder of the conversation was lack-luster at best. I mean, how do you follow-up a conversation about pregnancy – unless it’s unwed, teenage pregnancy. In which case, any host of topics will surely lighten the mood; just make certain you avoid words like plastic bag and wire hangers. These only spark ideas in the case of unwed, teenage pregnancy.

After I hung-up with my mom and her partner, my sister and brother-in-law, I was left standing alone in my apartment thinking about my family, specifically my siblings. For those of you who have never met my family, you should know that my family is very close and VERY crazy. And while I realize everyone says his or her own family is crazy, I think once you meet mine, you’d realize why I am the way I am. I truly am a product of my environment. I am very close with both my brother and my sister. As long as I can remember they were there, taking care of me, helping me along as the baby of the family. They let me make the same stupid mistakes they did, but then gave me tips and pointers on how to get out of them with the least amount of punishment. Surprisingly, it worked every time. And I have learned valuable life lessons from them. Like from my brother – if he ever tells me to call mom a word that I don’t know or understand – look it up before you shout it out. To this day, I still can’t stand the sight of the Dr. Schols’ Orthopedic Wooden Sandal. And from BS – if you ever need a dose of reality, she’ll be there to give it to you, but also support you in your ultimate decision. During our young adulthood, we have lived together. That is, I have lived with each of them separately during my young adulthood. The three of us back under the same roof in our adult lives? That would be a sick hybrid of Lifetime television, The Real World, and Law & Order. Nothing says classy quite like a convicted felon in the family, especially when it’s homicide of your own kin.

I believe these times of living with each other as adult roommates has helped strengthen our bond as siblings. My friends are always surprised what I am able to share with my family. Some are shocked and appalled, while others are intrigued by our openness. For instance, when living with my brother, I became comfortable talking with him about my relationships and vice versa. Sure he didn’t enjoy the gory details, and I often abbreviated certain aspects to maintain the comfort level, but over the course of living together we became comfortable talking with each other about these details. Though, it became quite the cock-flock when others knew you were the little brother and roommate of the much-sought-after Hydrate bartender. I think some of these sick bastards secretly fantasized that he and I shared a room, or better yet, a bed and often slept naked. For this reason, I didn’t disclose my last name until the following morning – if at all. My brother understood; he usually stayed in his room until the previous night’s trick left.

During the few years I lived with my BS, her and I also began to develop in our relationship; moving from simply siblings toward future friendship. In fact, I remember when her and her-now-husband first started dating. There were things we discussed that I don’t think most people have talked about with their older sister. Or, maybe they just don’t discuss it in an open-forum, like I do. Either way, it was remembering this experience of living with my sister that really began to hit home for me after I ended today’s life-changing phone call. I began to think about all the things I will miss-out on with my BS being pregnant. I will miss-out on the phone calls from work, detailing her mourning sickness. I will miss-out on her stories of her developing motherhood bulge, or people telling her she’s getting fat. I will miss-out on going shopping with her for maternity clothes, or going to Babies ‘R Us for the needed supplies prior to the arrival of this little bundle of insanity. I will miss-out on having BS complain about her swollen everything. I will miss out on having flatulence contests. I will miss-out on going with her for all the fun cravings she’s going to have, like pickles and peanut-butter sandwiches. She knows I’ll eat anything, and I’m always hungry. I will miss out on my other family members freaking out as they prepare to be a grandmother, grandfather, great grandmother, and uncle. I will be missing out on that constant combined look of emotions she’ll have on her face as she prepares to be a first-time mother. But I am most upset about missing first-hand, how beautiful my BS will be as an expectant mother. That is what I am most upset about missing during the next nine months.

Inevitably, I began to think about change, and how life is changing and evolving even when I’m not there to be a witness. I knew life would not freeze in time until I returned from Thailand, but part of me was secretly hoping it would. I was hopeful that life would continue as is, and the really important stuff like weddings, babies, new jobs, and new relationships, would hold-off until I returned. I guess it’s the old case of wanting my Pad-Tha and eating it too. You can’t always get what you want, and sometimes you need to sacrifice what you want, for what’s important.

28 Days Later

It has officially been 28 days since I arrived in Lampang, Thailand, and 30 days since I departed Chicago. With the passing time, I have discovered that this is the longest I’ve been away from Chicago, my family, my friends, and my stateside self. My previous trips to foreign lands consisted of a month-long study abroad trip, weeklong vacations to tropical destinations, and stateside road trips to remote and unusual destinations. But in all these prior travels, one thing remained constant – I had friends or family there with me.

Life coaches, personal trainers, and behavior therapists alike, will tell you that it takes 28 days to form a new habit. Whether that is quitting smoking, establishing a workout routine, eating healthier, or any other change you wish to see in your life – 28 days creates a new habit for the average human being. What habits have I picked up in my 28 days of living in Lampang, Thailand? I wish I knew. I know it’s not waking up at any specific time – my body is still on who knows what time zone, along with any bodily functions that go along with that “body clock”. I know it’s not working out – after trying to get in the habit of running every morning, I quickly discovered that I would sooner die of dehydration, before getting that perfectly sculpted runners’ body. I have managed to remain substance free since I’ve been here – minus the occasional cigarette and Coca-Cola when I’m out with others. My inner hypocrite doesn’t count the glasses of red wine over international waters during my 23 hours in transit – that’s fair game in his minds eye.

Here are a few things I do find myself doing every day. I go to the Asawin Market every day after work. Whether I’m buying food for that evening’s dinner, or picking up some fresh fruit to keep in the house, I am there on a daily basis. I go to school on a daily basis, Monday through Friday, to teach, as well as be taught about the Thai language and culture. I go to the coffee shop nearly every evening after work. Some nights it’s for journaling, some nights it’s for dinner, but it’s always something to get me out of the house and into some free air con (air conditioning). I do shower on a daily basis – I know some of you thought that would quickly go out the window once my inner love-child was set free to roam Thailand in a sarong. However, my daily shower tends to come in the evenings, so I can go to bed feeling fresh and clean. Though my daily hygiene has not gone out the window, there are a few things I’ve learned are just a part of life in Thailand.

Here are a few things I’ve learned to live with, or without during my short-time here in Thailand.

Bugs – I’ve learned to live with bugs, and accepted the fact that ants are just a part of your daily living arrangements. I store any and all food products in my refrigerator, including medications, multi-vitamins, and even gum. If it might contain a gram of sugar, I store it in the fridge because otherwise the ants will find it and attack it like a fat kid running off the soccer field for half-time treats. But, storage of these products does not insure that you are ant free, it simply cuts down on the number of ants that will be part of your living quarters. With that, I’ve also learned to live with spiders in the bathroom, so long as they stay high in the corners and away from me while I shower. I’ve quickly discovered that a spider in the bathroom will take care of other unwanted pests like mosquitoes and moths that might otherwise ruin your bliss. And while we’re in the bathroom, I’ve also learned that keeping a small bucket of water over the shower drain will help deter any unwanted “water bugs” (call it what you will, but it’s a cockroach) from making a home out of your bath sponge. I’ve also learned that house lizards (geckos) are attracted to any UV or neon lights. It’s best to leave these off at night, to avoid any unwanted visitors. Also, I’ve learned that no matter how much bug spray you put on, mosquitoes and other biting bastards will always be able to make a meal out of your feet – no matter what!
Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you said a unit with a water bed.

Sweat – I’ve learned to live in a constant state of sweat. Not perspiration, not a healthy glow, not shvitzing, SWEAT! I am not talking about just your armpits. When I lived stateside, I was known for my pit sweat. I avoided grey t-shirts like the plague because any time during the year, it would look like I was storing slices of bologna under my armpits. Something to snack on later, I guess. Sure, everyone sweats in their armpits. Fine, lather on some deodorant and pepper in some antiperspirant. Heck, if it gets real bad find yourself some prescription strength deodorant or get yourself some Botox. Either way, there is an end in sight with the sweating when you are stateside. Here, the armpit sweat is the least of your worries. Why? Because you are now contending with brow sweat, upper-lip sweat, neck sweat, between the pectorals sweat, upper back sweat, lower back sweat, leading to the inevitable ass sweat. I’d go into the details of the ass sweat, but it’s its own beast of burden that makes me sweaty just thinking about. Imagine all of this before 11:00AM on any given day. Surprisingly, the only part of me that doesn’t sweat is my legs, and long pants usually cover those on most days. I consider it a good day when I can remove my underwear at the end of the day, and it’s not like pulling Reynolds Saran Wrap apart. You know what I’m talking about, when you pull the Saran Wrap from the rest of the roll and instantaneously it clings to itself. You’re left sitting there for another 10 minutes trying to pull it apart, before you finally give up and start over. I have simply learned that getting my clothes off at the end of a hot day requires more effort than putting them on that morning.
I’d like a pound of the roast beef, and a half-pound of the bologna – sliced thinly please!

Hand Soap – I’ve learned to live without hand soap in public toilets. I’ve learned to simply do my business (most often just a number 1, as there are very few bathrooms suited for much more), rinse my hands with cold water, and dry them on my pants. At first I was an avid user of anti-bacterial gel, but after a month I’ve discovered there’s no use in trying. I kid you not when I tell you that I have come across hand soap and towels in 3 bathrooms since I’ve been here. With the lack of hand soap, I have also learned to stop wondering about my food preparation. If there’s no soap for me, and I’m using the same bathroom as my cook – well, it doesn’t take a degree from MIT to figure that one out. I assume the heat and flames from the food preparation will kill off any of the really bad germs. Everything else is just building my immune system that much stronger!
I’ll have the tomyam-gai, and extra typhoid if you’ve got it!

Toilet Paper – I’ve learned to also live without toilet paper in the public toilets. Not that this is necessary, based on the premise mentioned in the previous paragraph. Oh, and I’ve also learned to call them toilets. Not restroom, powder room, the lou, the john, the little boys room, or any other affectionate term that has been conjured up by cultures to glorify a room used for defecation. Trust me, most of the “powder rooms” I’ve been to in Thailand would not conjure up any images of glamour or beauty. Also, if you refer to it as anything other than toilet or “hong-nam” the natives will have no idea what you are looking for.
Excuse me, can you tell me where the toilet is before I hong-nam on the floor?

Cleanliness – I’ve learned to live in a constant state of grime. Most of my friends would classify me as a bit of a “dirty gay”. That is, a gay man who doesn’t uphold the “cleanliness is next to Godliness” portion of the gay handbook he was issued when he first came out. For instance, I’ve been known to not shower for days on end, wear the same jeans several weeks (sometimes months) without washing, allow my apartment to become untidy with dirty dishes and a ring around the bathtub. These types of things are frowned upon in some circles. Fret not, it would get cleaned, and it looked and smelled presentable enough for a queen. Here, clean clothes, clean bathroom, clean body, clean everything, are all things that I have learned to live without. I shower every evening, but there’s still something that doesn’t feel right. Maybe it’s the lack of water pressure from the showerhead. Maybe it’s the fact that I could sit on my toilet and shower at the same time. Maybe it’s the water that has a hint of brown to it. Maybe it’s the towel that was washed last week, but still doesn’t smell quite right. Maybe it’s my disgusting feet that no amounts of scrubbing are getting clean; pumice stones or household cleaners alike. This constant state of grime is something I’ve learned to accept as part of my experience here. When I do come back stateside, first orders of business – sit in the back of a pick-up truck and go through the car wash … maybe a few times.
Is that shirt white or yellow?

Fruit – I’ve learned to live with fresh fruit on a daily basis. Oh, let me tell you the deliciousness of the fresh fruit. This is something I could get used to on a daily basis for the rest of my life. My daily walk through the Asawin Market almost always requires me to stop and buy fruit. At first I was a bit hesitant with eating the fruit. I figured most fruit was made of water; the water might not be safe; I could get sick. I threw caution to the wind one day and ventured out on a limb and got fresh-cut pineapple. I was HOOKED! I’m not talking about the stuff Dole puts in a can, throws on a shelf, and you buy for your cottage cheese. No, no! This pineapple was freshly picked that morning, brought into the market, hand cut by a woman with a butcher knife, and packaged into a nicely sized bag for individual eating with a wooden pick, all for the bargain price of 10 Baht ($0.29). And that’s the same for every fruit. It’s all carted to the market fresh from the fields, ready to be sold that same day. Sure there is the usual stuff, pineapple, watermelon, apples, bananas, but they also have a wide array of new and fun fruits. I wish I knew the names of all the different fruits I’ve tried, but I only know that I point and they bag it up for me. My ultimate favorite fruit – dragon fruit. It is magenta in color (go figure), and has seeds like a kiwi. It actually tastes a bit like a kiwi – same texture, consistency, but not as sweet. It comes from a cactus, and it is the most delicious thing you can possibly buy – in my opinion. Anyone that comes to visit me will be eating these with me. I buy them whenever possible, but I always have to have them cut it for me because the skin is tough to maneuver … and I don’t own a knife. I think the Thai name for it is “Gae Mu Gone”. I always point and make a chopping signal with my hands. Seems to work every time. A fruit with his fruits – how fitting!
Can I please have some of your Gae Mu Gone?

This is the condensed list of things I’ve learned to live with or without. I am living a life that is drastically different from the one I’ve been accustomed to. I’ve learned that right when I think I have a handle on something, I am thrown a new cultural curve ball. In the end, it’s been a great 28 days, and I am looking forward to what the next 8 months will have in store.

I Knight Thee, Lord Bixby

Recently, I was told I should tone it down with the gay humor in my journal entries. Apparently some of my readers don’t enjoy the innuendos, sarcasm, or references to gay sub-culture. I’ve decided to tone this next entry down, and make it more appropriate for our readers at “Highlights Magazine”.

As I become older and more mature in years, I am still amazed at the memories I can recall from my childhood. One memory came to my mind this afternoon, and I remembered it like it was yesterday. It was the memory of my 6th birthday. I remember it perfectly. It was later in the evening, the day before my actual birthday. Under false presences, my mother asked me to go out to the garage to fetch something for her. Finally persuaded, I tug on my Superman Sneakers, flip on the patio light, open the back door and head toward the garage. No sooner does the screen door slam shut behind me, that I see it – my birthday present. It was my very first bike! There it was – illuminated by the patio light, slightly glistening from the rain that had started to come down, tags still hanging from the handle bars, it was a Murray Bicycle. Better yet, it was MY Murray Bicycle. I was so excited! I remember my mom coming out moments later with my brother in toe and asked me what I thought about the bike. I was thrilled! I remember that I didn’t know how to ride a bicycle yet, but I was practicing on a crummy hand-me-down bicycle from my older sister, circa late 1970’s. Complete with a banana seat, fringe coming from the handle bars, and painted with rainbows (insert obvious comments here). My new bicycle had none of that. Instead, it had fun racing stripes of red and white and green, with the words “Murray” etched along frame. I was assured that we would put the new training wheels on my new Murray, and we would start practicing. Sure enough, the next day we got those training wheels on, and I spent the next few weeks practicing with my Opa (Grandpa in German) every day after school. After a few weeks, I was officially riding with just two wheels. No more training wheels for me! I felt like I was the king of the road – I had officially moved into the status of big kid! I had a bike that could take me anywhere, and I swear I thought I was the fastest peddler – EVER! Murray, me, and my Superman Sneakers – I was invincible! And thus a legend was born – Murray.

Having decided I had mastered the small side street that my Oma & Opa lived on, I was ready to try my skills out on the open road. I asked my mom if we could go on a bike ride early one evening. She agreed, and I was so eager! Finally, I could ride with my brother and his friends, and keep up. No longer lagging behind because my training wheels were slowing me down. We headed toward the K-Mart Bike Trail (it’s where the bike trail started, next to the K-Mart, so it became known as such) to begin our bike ride, my mom, my brother and his friend, and me and Murray. The bike path ran along the creek, and it was the end of the summer, so the creek was at a high point. Additionally, there was this one semi-tricky turn, when you would enter the bike path from the sidewalk. My brother and his friends always cut through the grass and rode down to the bike path, and this time was no different. Armed with my invincible Superman Sneakers and Murray, I was determined to take this path, same as my brother and his friend. Third in line after my brother and his friend, I take the turn, only I forget to cut the wheel and turn onto the bike path. Instead, I continue straight across the bike path, down the steep embankment, and right into the creek. Murray and I are completely submerged underwater, and I quickly pop-up to see my mom, brother and his friend standing at the edge trying to fish me out. They pull me to shore and fish out Murray. I am soaked head to toe, and freaked out, sobbing from the traumatic experience. My confidence is shot – I wasn’t ready for Murray. And what’s worse, he betrayed my trust! My mom and I walked Murray all the way home – what felt like miles! I was soaking wet, sobbing uncontrollably from the experience. My mom was trying to encourage me to get back on Murray, claiming we’d be home in less time. I didn’t want to get back on Murray – though he was fine for riding. I felt betrayed by Murray -- he had let me down! How could he have let me ride into the creek? Why didn’t he help me out? It was like my new best friend had completely deserted me. It took me some time to rebuild my riding confidence again, but when I did, Murray was there and it was just like old times.

As you all may know, I recently purchased a new bike, a Honda Dream Motorbike, to be exact. After riding him around for a bit to learn his personality, as well as completing some research into literary characters and names, I have officially named him Bixby. Bixby is periwinkle in color, and therefore a bit androgynous in nature. I wanted a name that exudes this aspect of his personality – masculine with a strong hint of femininity. Pat seemed too easy. After reading and re-reading Dr. Seuss’s classic, Oh, The Places You’ll Go, I decided that Bixby was the most suitable name for my new motorbike. And so, I knighted him Lord Bixby. Bixby has been a great trooper these past few weeks. We get on the open road together and set out to wherever he or I think is most suitable. He does like to play this little game with me called, “Empty or Full?” Basically, he will stay on F for about 5/8 of a tank, and then like any good alter boy, he will slowly begin to drop to his E. To counteract this game, I have quickly learned that he does about 150 Kilometers on a tank. There’s no fooling me!

Freshly fueled, Bixby and I decided to take a trip up to the damn. Not sure what I was expecting, but the Hoover Damn, this was not. It was more like a beaver damn. To get to this disappointing sight, it required a side road that you take off the highway for about 10km. The road was average at best, with some major potholes and gravel from the mining trucks that come through the area. Add to this the slickness from the rain, and it is anything but good driving conditions. Armed with my backpack, rain gear, and my maps, I think I’m fully ready for whatever the road may throw at us.

travels so far on a fresh tank of gas, we decide to head back the way we came. I climb aboard my faithful travel companion and set forth. I make it not even 5 more feet from where I was parked, and down I go. A top speed of maybe 5km, and I find myself lying side-by-side next to Bixby. Always one to bounce back up from an injury, I quickly stand to survey the damage. I have managed to give myself quite a few knocks and scrapes along my left arm, with the palm of my hand taking the brunt of the damage. As always, I had jeans on, which saved my legs fromOn our way back, I quickly stop on the “bridge” to see if there are any good shots worth taking before we head back to the city. Wanting to explore further, but realizing that Bixby only additional damage. Freaked out, I began to cry. Crying seemed like the best possible option at that point, though I knew it was not accomplishing anything productive. Tears running down my face, bleeding from my hand, and still freshly shook up from the whole experience, I wanted to leave Bixby laying in the road and walk home. A pick-up truck came by shortly thereafter to ask if I needed any assistance. Wiping the tears from my face with my dirty, bloody hands, I asked for some assistance with picking Bixby up off the road. The man obliged me, and offered me a napkin from his truck. He checked to make sure Bixby was running fine, still started, and left me to my own devices. They say those that forget the events of the past are doomed to repeat them. There was a point where I thought I would walk hand-in-hand with Bixby all the way back to Lampang. It was my first instinct at that point. Instead, I cleaned myself up as best I could with this napkin, and hesitantly climbed back on Bixby. Still shaking, we shifted into gear, and slowly began our journey home. For the remainder of the ride down this dirt road, we proceed at a top speed of about 15kpm (9.3 mph).

I swear there was a moment where I wanted to leave Bixby battered and bruised on the side of the road – the same he had left me. It was nearly 21 years later, and I was still on the side of the road crying because I fell off my bike. Sounds silly, until you’re there reliving the same moment from your past. But as we grow older, we realize that our mother isn’t there to pick us up again, or walk us home. We need to do it for ourselves – pick ourselves up off the road and make it home – no matter how far, or how hurt. So, during the slowest ride back to Lampang, I shared my memories of Murray with Bixby, in the hopes that he would be interested in starting new memories with me. Upon our return home, we agreed no matter how much we fall down, no matter how much it hurt, we’d always be there to pick each other right back up. And that is how I met my Knight in Shining Armor.

A Dose of Reality

Lately, I’ve had the concept of reality on my mind. I think about the concept of reality and how it is all relative based on your experiences. I used to live in Chicago, and before that the suburbs – and no, it wasn’t Schaumburg, thank you! My reality prior to going off to college was the palatial bliss of Palatine, Illinois – home of the fighting Pirates! Upon arriving at college, my reality soon changed. The boundaries of my life had been expanded to include Chicago-proper, and with that I gained new experiences. These new experiences quickly reshaped my sense of reality. Continuing on with my life, each new experience changed my sense of reality. Whether it was graduating from college, landing a new job, moving into a new apartment, a new neighborhood, a new relationship, or loss there of, my sense of reality was constantly changing.

During my journey, I was fortunate and blessed to have great mentors and friends help me throughout the various stages of this journey. One such mentor exposed me to so many different experiences and ideas that I have been forever changed. I had the opportunity to go on service trips to remote parts of the United States, as well as within Chicago. I had opportunities to work with individuals who had a drastically different reality-base. Their reality was different because life dealt them a different set of cards to play with -- in some cases, a completely different game. These experiences changed my reality and reshaped my views. When I decided to take this position as an English Teacher in Thailand, I knew this would be another experience that would reshape my reality. This was a chance to change my views and opinions, yet again, and bring with it the awesome responsibility of reshaping someone else’s reality.

I realize that not everyone is privileged enough to leave their hometown, explore different worlds, different cultures, different foods, different languages, different traditions, and different people. I also realize that there are people in the world who never want to experience those things – they are completely content with where they’re at in life – their reality. The idea of their reality being changed, well, it scares the hell out of them. But, I started to think more about my presence and how it is shaping the reality of those I interact with; my students, the Thai teachers, my neighbors, the vendors at the market, the woman at the coffee shop who always smiles and personally greets me every time I come in (heck, I’m there nearly every day), or the other Ferang who are from the Western World, but not “my” Western World. I constantly think how I might be altering their reality, about “Americans” (which I always correct to United States – “American” implies two whole continents of people, not just the states).

I also think about how I am changing your perception of reality – you, the reader. How has my journal changed the way you view Thailand, or South East Asia, or Asia as a whole? I think about this, and the impact I’m having on molding your sense of reality. Has reading my journal prompted you to leave your house and explore other worlds? Do you get a hankering for Thai food after you finish reading my various escapades? Or, have I managed to instill the opposite reaction? Has my journal reinforced your own biases? Or has it made you want to lock yourself in your house, never to experience anything new? I will say that I bring in humor and sarcasm to my stories (at least I try to) because it is what I know, and these are the emotions I am most comfortable expressing in such a large forum. What I want you to know is that the stories I tell are my reality, and I want you to experience it with me – if you so chose. I want you to be there with me as I try to navigate through the market, or try my hand at driving through the streets of Thailand. I want you to experience my reality, so you can understand that there are different realities in the world. The reality of a family who has to commute to work using a motorbike because that’s all they can afford on 5 Baht a week ($0.15). Or, what about the man who sells Pineapples on the side of the road because he can’t afford a pick-up truck to transport his goods to the market. Or, what about the student who commutes for 2 hours on a motorbike every day, because our school is one of the best in the area and his family wants him to have the best education they can afford. Or, what about the other Thai teachers at school who understand only their culture and therefore our interactions are socially awkward at best. I want to help you understand the realities of these people because my hope is that it will help to reshape your own reality. It will help you think differently about the Pakistan cashier at Wal-Mart, who doesn’t speak very good English; the Latin-American family at the grocery store who shop with their extended family and take up too much room in the aisles while you’re trying to shop too; or the man on the street corner who is simply trying to get back on his feet with a little help from you. These are the realities I want you to think about, and how we’re all connected by something larger. Because once it’s all stripped away, the only thing we have left to cling to is our human dignity.

Weekend Retreat

Yonok Rafts

This past weekend, I had an amazing time! It started with a phone call from a fellow Ferang, asking if I wanted to go to dinner at Yonok Rafts. When living or traveling abroad, it is always a good idea to accept invitations (within reason, of course) that are extended your way. I jumped at this opportunity! Heck, it beat getting dinner at the market, and gave me an opportunity to meet and socialize with other Westerners – my fast-speaking English skills were starting to get rusty. After work on Friday, we met up and went to the Yonok Rafts. This restaurant can best be described as being pulled right from the movie Swiss Family Robinson. The restaurant is situated on a lake, and the tables are rafts with a grass roof – a floating grass hut, if you will. You walk down to your raft, order your food, and once it is brought out to you – you and your party pull yourselves out to the middle of the lake via a pulley system. You sit in this grass hut, in the middle of the lake, eating your dinner by candle light. It is a very intimate gathering, and most ideally set up for a date with that special someone. Sans my special someone, I still had a great time hanging out with fellow Westerners. It is one of those restraints where the food is good, but made even better because of the ambiance. I’m told there is a similar restaurant situated on a better lake, but the food is not as good. All I’m saying – middle of a lake, you, a potential special someone, and good food – you’re definitely going to score. Possibly right there in the raft!

Wat Mon Phraya Chae

The following day, I woke up feeling adventurous again. Having not learned my lesson from the previous misadventure to the Thailand Elephant Conservation Center, I decided Bixby and I (Bixby is the name of my bike) would take an adventure. We decided to stay closer to home this time, and ventured up to Wat Mon Phraya Chae. One thing I’ve discovered since I’ve been here – take a moment to detour off the beaten path. I have been surprised at where it has taken me. This was one such instance. I saw a sign a few days ago about a Wat (Buddhist Temple), which is situated up in the hills. I read a bit out it in my guide book and decided to check it out. The guide book made reference to there being some stairs involved with this Wat. Stairs? No problem – I used to do 45 minutes a day on the stair master. My gluteus was maximus and could handle anything this Thai country could throw at it. Bixby and I arrived at the Wat, and the first thing I see is a group of people meeting with some Monks. I stumbled awkwardly into a prayer session, and quickly realized that I still have my shoes on, and I am obviously interrupting. Not wanting to inflict any more cultural damage, I decided to make a quick exit and continue up the hill towards this infamous Wat. At first glance, I noticed the stairs ascending the hillside. The stairs seemed normal, nothing out of the ordinary, but I am having a difficult time seeing where they led to. No problem – I grab my backpack and start climbing. Did I mention that it is nearly 12 noon at this point? Yeah, the sun is at it’s peak, and so is the temperature for the day. Did I mention that I’m wearing jeans, a semi-white Hanes T-shirt, and sandles? Yeah, I was riding Bixby, and to avoid getting burned by him, or pelted with bugs on my legs, I usually wear jeans to protect myself. Not really noticing the time, heat, or my ill choice in wardrobe choice, I continued onward with my trek. As I began to round the first hill, I realized the stairs continue further. Not a problem – again, I’m a stair master pro. I continued climbing the stair case. The first sign that this trek might be more than what I bargained for, there were little bungalows situated at various points up the staircase of death. I reached a plateau – ideally a spot to stop and rest as it has a bench with some shade. I don’t need a rest – I can do this! Mind you, at this point I have really started to perspire. In fact, one might think it was Sunday morning at the 1st Congregation of Southern Baptists, and my name was Heidi Fleiss. Either way, I was determined to make it through this sermon and up these stairs. I continued with my mission, beginning another set of stairs with no foreseeable destination ahead. As I toke these stairs with a slower stride, I begin to think about the pain and agony it would be if I passed-out and fell backwards down the stairs. I could see it now – bleeding to death in the arms of a Monk because they didn’t believe in using things like bandages, sutchers, or even applying some pressure. Trying not to think about my possible demise, I shifted my focus to something positive – reaching the top of this never-ending hill. After a few more stairs, there it is – the infamous Wat! Wanting to snap a photo and call my journey complete at that point, I mustered up the final energy I needed and continued to the top. Having reached the top, I felt a bit like Rocky on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Unfortunately, I did not have that kind of energy. What I had instead, was a see-through T-shirt, jeans with some serious ass sweat, and a forehead that glistened like that of George Costanza. In short, I looked like I was freshly showered – in my clothes! The smell would allude otherwise. This was nothing like my 45 minutes on the stair master. Had I not been so exhausted, I would have composed a strongly worded letter right then and there to the makers of that machine, informing them that their choice of “master” was deceptive, at best. I also soon discovered why it is considered a place of worship. After climbing all those stairs, you either saw God because you died on the way, or you are so dehydrated that you are seeing images in your mind. God was there alright!

After exploring the Wat, and snapping some photos, I began my descent. I contemplated just rolling down and praying for the best, after all, it is a place of worship – God was close. Instead, I slowly began the trek down. This process was much easier, but I did manage to make use of the many stopping points along the route. It’s a good thing I remembered my water bottle, otherwise I would have been dead for sure! Reaching the bottom, I decided to take a quick break before jumping back on Bixby for the ride home.

Mon Phraya Look Out -- Sunset Picnic

As usual, the ride home proved to work as an instant dryer for my sweat-soaked clothes. This didn’t stop me from immediately jumping in the shower, re-hydrating myself, and laying down for a much needed nap. Waking up, I realized I had a text from a friend asking if I wanted to go to a sunset picnic at the Lampang look-out. Again, I know not to turn down an invitation, I immediately took them up on the offer. During the trip up to the look-out, I learned that it is near where I was earlier in the day. Thinking about those stairs, I had a moment of sheer dread. Fortunately, the look-out is at a national park, prior to the Wat. We reached the sunset point, and had a picnic with nearly 30 other Ferangs and their families. The sunset was a no-show, as the clouds from the afternoon rains blocked out our guest of honor. It was still a great time, and an opportunity to meet some great people. Still exhausted from the adventure earlier in the day, I decided to make it an early evening, and headed home shortly thereafter. It was a great weekend – but I needed a weekend from my weekend!

Patiently Pondering Patience

It’s been said that patience is a virtue. Based on my birth date, I was naturally forced into this beloved virtue. I have always been the youngest. I was the youngest of three siblings. I was the youngest of my friends to start driving. I was the youngest of my friends to turn 18 and start voting or buying cigarettes. I was the youngest of my friends to turn 21 and start drinking. And I was the youngest of my friends to turn 25 and start getting discount rates on things like auto insurance or car rentals. When you are the last of your group of friends to gain the rite of passage, you tend to be in a hurry to catch up with them. Maybe this is why I am always in a hurry with my life – trying to catch up with the crowd. As I encroach those landmark birthdays of 30 and 40, I begin to realize that being last has it’s perks.

Since my days of learning to drive, I have always considered myself more of an urban dweller. Maybe it had something to do with my inherently bad driving skills – who knows. Either way, I enjoy the hustle and bustle of a busy downtown sidewalk, moving briskly through the other pedestrians as I head to my destination through the concrete jungle. Don’t get me wrong; I believe there is a time and place for slowing down and appreciating things – stopping to smell the roses, if you will. My favorite vacation getaway is anywhere with a nearly deserted beach with crystal clear waters and sand as white and fine as sugar; where I can sit with my book and not be bothered, unless of course it’s by a cute cabana boy who wants to rub me down with SPF. I had walking through Chicago down to a science. Passing-by slow moving people (usually tourists), getting to the bus stop, crossing the street, making it from 500 N. Michigan to 1000 N. Michigan in 10 minutes on a Saturday afternoon without breaking a sweat – sure I had to throw a few elbows, but that’s to be expected. I had that traverse down!

Lampang has become my ultimate test of patience, especially when it comes to walking through public areas, like markets or “The Big C”. I consider myself a rather quick walker. Having been blessed with a 34inch (82cm) inseam, 74inches (188 cm) of height, and a size 11 ½ foot (US), I was meant to cover some major ground in a short amount of time – it’s pure physics. I also come from an environment where you either move quickly, or get run over while standing around staring up at buildings. Here in Lampang, I have run into every bad driver and now, every bad walker there can possibly be. For a city that is so obsessed with driving fast and getting to the front of the line, they sure do take quite the opposite approach when walking through public areas. While I am walking through the market, at any given point I will have a gaggle of girls in front of me; all linked arm-in-arm like they’re getting ready to play Red-Rover. Passing them is nearly impossible. Add to this, the incessant parade of random cats and dogs roaming the market at your ankles. Kicking them or stepping on them is sure to get a yelp or a hiss. If I do manage to make it by the people in front of me, I have to contend with the on-coming pedestrians. You would think, here in Thailand, they would pass you on the right. They drive on the left; naturally it would make sense that the flow of pedestrian traffic would adhere to the similar rules. Oh, no – definitely not the case! For the first few days, I thought I had it confused. Then I realized, the city never walks; I shouldn’t be surprised that they don’t know how to do it in an organized manner. It’s what I imagine Los Angeles, California, would be like if all the cars broke down on the same day. The only saving grace they have in LA is that no one would get out of their cars to walk anywhere. They’d all wait for someone to come get them – the valet, perhaps?

I had a good friend tell me that the lesson of this experience is in the “slowness.” Maybe they meant patience, but either way, I am learning to be more patient when it comes to traversing through a foreign land. I need to understand that my inseam alone is taller than most of the population. I also need to learn to relax, because as I’ve discovered here – nothing starts on time. There is no need for appointments, clocks, schedules, or organizers because it’s not going to happen on time anyway. I am learning this is a part of the culture here in Thailand. Sure you can learn to be patient with a difficult student, or patient with a co-worker you find irritating, but isn’t the true lesson of patience when it comes to being patient with yourself. After all, patience is a virtue—I just wish it wouldn’t take so long to get here.

One Night In Bangkok - Redux

I was recently told by a near and dear friend of mine that my first entry lacked … well, everything that should be present in a good work of non-fiction storytelling. I believe the exact quote was, “I felt jet-lagged after reading that entry, and it made me really question whether or not I was going to be able to commit to reading this blog on a semi-regular basis.” I quickly revisited this entry and soon discovered the horror that was my first journal entry. It lacks heart, emotion, wit, and basically sets you, the reader, up for sheer disappointment. After all, the first entry is my introduction to the remainder of my journal and if it leaves you feeling jet-lagged, it should be because the story was so vivid and exciting that you understand the sheer exhaustion of the experience. Therefore I have decided to revisit this post, and align it with the canon of work that is to follow. With that, here is my updated entry, “One Night In Bangkok.”

The day has finally come; the day I begin my departure for Lampang, Thailand, to be an ESL Instructor. Per my usual habits, I am still completely unprepared for my flight. I still need to make a trip to the Post Office, the Bank, as well as stop and say good-bye to LAMBS (my grandma). The day’s activities are quickly taken care of, and I find that it is nearly 10:00AM. I am planning to be at the airport no later than 11:00AM, as my flight leaves at 13:00PM. Anyone who knows me, knows that I am never ready on time, nor am I the most punctual of people. I usually find myself running late for most appointments, and I am notorious for keeping people waiting. It’s usually only for social circumstances, but occasionally it overlaps into my professional life as well. I quickly threw my bags in the car, and my mom and I raced to the airport, only to arrive around 11:15AM. I am very accustomed to traveling domestically, especially out of ORD or MDW. With that, I have also become used to the insanity of passengers being dropped-off or picked-up amid the cars and taxis galore; Chicago Police Officers, each armed with their thick south-side accent and over-used whistles trying to direct traffic. You can imagine my pleasant surprise when I arrived at terminal number 5 at ORD, and discovered that we are one of three cars unloading at the curb. No police, no shouting, no noise – almost peaceful, really. Now this is the way traveling should always be!

Arriving at the curb, I load up my bags and hug my Mutti one last time, before turning to enter the terminal. Reminiscent of those years she used to send me away to Bible Camp for weeks at a time, I still have tears in my eyes, but this time I refused to turn around, as I know I’ll immediately bust out crying. Unsuccessful with holding in my tears, I try to regain my composure and continue to get in line for Korean Air, my in transit home for the next 23 hours.

I think it’s my brother who always tells me I over pack when I travel. Mind you, this comes from the same guy who wears the same dirty-ass jeans, nasty old man Hanes 3-to-a-pack T-shirts, for a 3-week trip to a foreign country with a temperature swing of 40 degrees Celsius. I only assume the small backpack he usually packs has a few changes of maybe clean underwear, and enough cigarettes to last him throughout his trip. I, on the other hand, pack like my future destination will not have resources like textiles, water, or other natural resources. Needless to say, packing for a year in Thailand was quite a task. I managed to pack, filter, re-pack, filter, re-pack, filter, and re-pack. After this month-long process, I successfully reduced my luggage to a total of four bags. One normal-sized school backpack that I would be carrying on the plane with me; one laptop bag that I would also be carrying on the plane with me; one duffle bag that I would hesitantly check, as it contained ALL toiletries for the next 9 months; and one backpack that my family affectionately referred to as “my child.” Now, my planning wasn’t that effective because I never once considered what it would be like to move while carrying these 4 bags. If you can imagine my 6’2” stature and I am carrying a backpack on my back that extends past my buttocks and clears my head by a solid foot. On the front is another backpack that is packed to the hilt and gives the illusion of a pregnant woman who should not be flying in her condition. Additionally, in each arm there is a bag, one duffle, and one laptop case. When fully loaded, I felt like the fat kid at Boy Scout Camp; the one they make carry the canteens, silverware, kitchen stove, propane tanks, and tents; inevitably holding up the group because he’s moving with the speed of a snail on sandpaper. This was me as I moved through the terminal to find the line for Korean Air.

Standing in line, I soon discovered that my abilities of over-packing are amateur, at best, in comparison with my fellow Asian travelers waiting in line. I saw a woman with the entire Louis Vuitton luggage line in her possession and me, secretly wondering what her toiletries bag looked like. I saw another gentleman with several boxes of unknown goods, all taped as though he had 400 roles of packing tape, each with about 6 inches of tape left on each. Then there were the families who appeared as though they were fleeing the homeland, reverse-style. And what was even better, they all went to the ticket counter together. That’s right, 10 family members at a counter together – that really expedited the line when there were only 3 ticket agents. Needless to say, the relatively short line was compounded by the large amounts of Asian families all preparing for a much-needed trip back to the Far East for upgrades in their technology and electronics.

I finally reach the front of the line, and like all air travelers, I am secretly hoping that I have accidentally been booked in the First-Class Cabin. I cross my fingers that I get the Gaysian (Gay Asian) at the ticket counter, as I’m sure I can flirt my way to at least Business-Class. As my luck would have it, I get called up by the only white, middle-aged, female at the counter. Based on physical appearances, I’d guess single and bitter too. Armed with my vital ticket information in hand, I slowly move up to the counter with my bags. She quickly informed me that I have not been assigned a seat for the flight. SCORE! I immediately turn on the charm, smiling, batting my big blues, and anything else I have in my arsenal to score a good seat from this otherwise, angry-at-the-world woman. She stepped in back and came out to inform me that I have been assigned the Emergency Exit Row, as this should afford me some more legroom on the flight. Alright – could have been worse, and I’ve never sat in the Emergency Exit Row before. It could be a good experience. We weighed my bags and I quickly learned that the scale must be off, because it claims “my child” only weighed in at 25 pounds. Far be it for me to argue, I let them take away my two check-on bags, all the while keeping a watchful eye on my duffle bag full of toiletries as it slowly drifted away on the conveyor belt.

My load lightened, I proceed through security checkpoint. At which point I discovered that International flight or not, TSA is still lacking in all levels of customer service, proficiency, and effectiveness. Nearly naked, I make it to the other side of security and continue on to find my gate. Not realizing that the international terminal at ORD is relatively small, I find my gate quickly and situated myself to wait another hour and a half, until they begin to board the flight. At this point, I decided to look for something to eat , only to discover that the only food court option is on the other side of the security checkpoint. Not willing to get naked in public again, I decided to find something on this side of the wall. Feeling like a captive resident of East Germany, I soon discovered that my only options for food included duty-free alcohol and tobacco. Defeated with my options, I find a spot by my gate and wait it out.

As our flight begins to board, I quickly discovered that all cultural norms are out the window once you are boarding an international flight. For instance, the use of lines at Korean Air is nonexistent. They begin to call different groups of people to begin boarding, and it’s like a mad rush of people hoping to get the new Tickle-Me-Elmo at Wal-Mart the day after Thanksgiving. Not accustomed to this, me and the other conservative westerners proceeded to form a line, which basically means we were going to be dead last in boarding this plane. Knowing that I have 23 hours of travel ahead of me, I was in no rush to be on this plane any sooner than need be. Let the Crasians (crazy Asians) have their way!

After waiting in line like a normal civilized person, I finally reached the attendant at the gate. I begin to board the second largest plane I’ve ever been on. For my novice travelers, most international flights are on 777’s or 757 planes with a 3x5x3 seating arrangement, and there are usually about 437 rows of seats. In short, it’s a big-ass plane! In the event of a crash, you’ll be thankful for that 437B seat – otherwise, it’s just a pain in the ass to move all the way to the end of the plane with bags in toe, knocking into people and being ass to crotch the entire way to the end of the plane. Fortunately, I was seated in an emergency exit row, so I was only ass to crotch half-way through the plane. I had the window seat – great, something to do if I get board, watch the wing! I approach my row and quickly discover that this was someone’s idea of a sick joke. For starters, the emergency exit row also accommodates the big-ass emergency exit door. When you are sitting in the window seat, the emergency exit door quickly takes up any hope you have of stretching out for the flight. Additionally, the seat itself is smaller than the rest in the row; at least that was the case here. I soon discovered what it must be like to be a 300-pound man trying to travel in coach for 23 hours. First, I decided to put my computer bag up in the over-head bin, as this will probably not be needed during the flight. Just kidding, there is no under seat storage with the emergency exit row. I had to quickly take out my essentials and put my backpack in the over-head bin as well. Armed with my iPod, a book, and my Xanax, my next feat would be getting myself situated in this seat. Like a Great Dane trying to mount a chiwawa for mating purposes, I soon discover this will be tricky. The worst part about this, I have two Korean passengers sitting next to me. Mind you, they both barely clear the height requirement for the ride “It’s A Small World” at Disneyland. I manage to get myself situated for the flight, quickly popping my Xanax, I am sound asleep before the flight takes off.

Waking half-way through the flight, distraught and disoriented, I discovered that the way they keep you busy during international flights is by feeding you. Starving from having not eaten for the past 20 hours, I anxiously await the food cart that is on its way around the cabin. Not really thinking that I was on Korean Air, I was expecting the usual food tray of digestive binding products: cheese, toast, applesauce. Anything to keep you from filling that septic tank for the next 14 hours. Instead, I was served what can best be described as Ramen Noodles with Soy Sauce. Starving, I devoured the meal before she could even ask me what I would like to drink. Needing something a little bit stronger than Coca-Cola, I quickly agreed to have a glass of red wine. For those of you that are unaware, I had been sober for nearly 6 months, but my inner hypocrite argued that if it happened over international waters, then it didn’t count. A Xanax and two glasses of red wine later, I am back asleep for the remainder leg of the flight. Fourteen hours never seemed so blissful.

Upon landing, I quickly discovered that chaos and order are part of the Asian culture, and it didn’t end with racing to the gate. On a typical domestic flight in the US, most passengers stay seated until the plane comes to the gate. Sure they announce this over the speakers, but I thought it was a common traveling knowledge. Most people simply turn on their mobile phones while waiting for the plane to arrive at the gate, checking voicemails and calling rides. This was not the case on Korean Air. No sooner did we land, there were passengers standing and grabbing their bags from the over-head bins. I mean flight is still on the runway; not on the tarmac, not moving to the gate, still on the runway at a relatively top speed after barely touching the ground. It happened a few times throughout the landing with different passengers. If I was the passenger sitting next to someone doing this, my immediate response would be, “What the fuck are you doing?” Maybe that’s my inner-American, rude, crass, and lacking self-control. I argue it’s no different than racing to the gate with no semblance of order.

After we arrived in Seoul, Korea, I checked my next flight and discovered that I had a 5 hour layover until we would leave for Bangkok. Pumped full of Xanax, I slowly make my way through customs and find my way to my next gate. Not wanting to fall asleep and possibly be mugged, robbed, louted or raped, I decided I needed to keep awake. At this point, I quickly discover the international success of one Ms. Gloria Jean. Apparently the suburban entrepreneur had made it to Seoul. And here I thought she never left the safety of the Midwestern malls and shopping centers. Coffee in hand, I decided to peruse the duty-free shop. Looking like the cosmetic counter at Saks 5th Avenue, I quickly discovered that you can glamorize anything to make a sale. I actually found myself interested in L’Oreal face cream – something I wouldn’t look twice at in the States. I declined the overly eager Korean woman and moved on to my gate where I patiently waited with heavy eyes for my flight to board.

Upon the arrival of the ticket agents at the gate, I decided, when in Rome, do as the Crasians would do. Remembering that lines don’t mean a thing in this culture, I march right up to the gate, ticket in hand ready to board the plane as soon as they call the first set of seats. Sure enough, I am on with the first class passengers, the only jackass sitting in coach. I find my seat, place my bags, and set myself up for another 5 hours of transit. I awake toward the end of my flight with an older Thai lady leaning over me and looking out the window. Startled awake by this, she simply smiles at me and points out the window at Bangkok. Freaked-out by her proximity to my face, I smiled as politely as possible. She must have recognized the superficiality of it all and leaned back into her own seat, at which point she began to ask me questions about my trip to Thailand. Groggy and not in the mood for conversation, I am curt with my answers, and turn to watch the approaching city lights.

We land and I quickly discovered the massiveness of Bangkok Airport. Like a lamb headed to slaughter, I follow the rest of the passengers towards luggage claim and customs. Floating through the terminal on Xanax, I soon found myself magically at the customs counter, not bothered by a thing. I soon discovered that like any government position in the US, the Thais are also disgruntled and displeased with their government job. For this being “the land of smiles,” this Thai customs woman was anything but smiley. Doing my best to abide by the mantra of this new country, and with the added help of my prescription mood-enhancers, I was all smiles at the customs counter. She quickly informed me that they will be taking my photo for customs, and I am NOT to smile. Perplexed by the irony of the situation, I obeyed her commands and quickly moved through customs where I am greeted by the baggage claim. Like a mouse chasing cheese in a wheel, I finally retrieved my checked bags from the luggage carousel. I make my way toward the exit, where I am quickly over stimulated by offers for a taxi and trips to Ko Samui or other blissful Thai Islands. I found my ride and soon discovered that this is only the beginning of my travel experience in Thailand.

At the Cross Roads of Disfunction Junction - How's Your Malfunction?

I had my first pangs of frustration at work today. For those that don’t know, I am not much of a morning person. For me, the first few hours of the morning should be spent as a reflection time. A time when you shouldn’t have to speak with anyone, and you can reflect about the upcoming day. Sure, I can get up and go to the gym at 6:00AM, and sure I can be to work early when necessary. However, most people know not to speak to me until after 10:00AM, or when I’ve had at least have a cup of coffee in my system. It’s usually at this point that I have my wits about me, and I’m able to function like the Joshua we all know and love. If you catch me before all these prerequisites, I am a bit … on edge, and usually not very pleasant.

This morning, I decided to come into work early. My first class, Advertising and Public Relations for English Majors, is at 8:00AM, and it is the one I dread teaching the most. For starters, this is my largest class, with nearly 36 students in attendance. Second, this is my only college level course that I am teaching this semester. The remainder of my classes are high-school level. In addition to that, I don’t have a book or lesson plans to teach from for this class. That’s right, no textbook, and no resources to an ESL for marketing textbook. Additionally, trying to get these students to participate is like trying to get customer service at the DMV – it’s just not happening. I consider myself a rather fun instructor; I crack jokes, make funny faces, get animated in the front of the room – all of which is met with blank stares. I’ve decided that my humor must be lost in translation somewhere. Needless to say, I am always scrambling to pull together a lesson plan that has ANYTHING to do with Marketing, PR, or any aspect of business, really. Arriving early to work, around 07:15AM, I am thinking there will be very few teachers in the office, the internet will be working, and I’ll be able to plan out at least a few weeks of lessons during the 45 minutes I have prior to class. Shortly after I arrive, I discover that I am sorely mistaken about my planned period of productivity.

I arrive to school at 07:15AM, which meant that I did not have a chance to go running this morning prior to school. Already, the day is starting off bad. I walk into the office, only to find that nearly every teacher in my department is already there, apparently with the same idea of pulling together lesson plans for their classes, or simply putting in face time with the upper administration. No big deal, hopefully I can work on a computer without any bother. I decide my best course of action is having a cup of coffee or two. If you have never been to Thailand, let me tell you what I’ve discovered about coffee. Thai culture does not believe in coffeemakers. Mr. Coffee & Cuisinart are definitely lacking in their international marketing department. Though, I’m not sure how much good it would do them – coffee grounds for drip-coffee makers are like trying to find a Krispy Kreme donut at a Weight Watchers Meeting. Either, they’ve all been eaten, or they simply never existed. Same thing goes for coffee. You either get your coffee at a restaurant, where they make it Barista-style, a la Starbucks (but way better); or you get instant coffee. The coffee you get at a Thai restaurant is almost always delicious. Perfectly measured grounds, right temperature, brown sugar, and the always-present powder creamer. I’m learning more and more that it’s a good thing I’ve managed to live without dairy for the past few years, because in Thailand dairy is a gift from the Gods and only used on special occasions. Fine by me, lactose creamer usually expedites my digestive process way too quickly, and causes a “gotta-go, gotta-go” type situation nearly instantaneously. For my coffee lovers out there who are salaried employees for the corporate monster, you know what I’m talking about – that mid-morning “break” we all like to take on company time. Why not? – I’m getting paid for it! In some cases, it’s the most productive time you have all day.
I digress – for my stateside companions who consider themselves even semi-committed coffee drinkers, you know that instant coffee does not compare when you are used to the real thing. Whether your java juice comes from Starbucks, Caribou, Intelligentsia, Dunkin’ Donuts, McDonald’s, or Folgers at home, you know when you’ve been duped with a cup of instant coffee, or worse yet, decaf. I would equate instant coffee with mud scraped from the bottom of the river, or something I find poured from a pan at an automotive repair shop. It is a near impossible science of concocting the right combination of water, instant coffee grounds, sugar, and creamer. Compile that with the hot water that is always gone from the hot water machine at school, and I’m left drinking coffee that is room temperature. Thankfully, it’s Thailand and room temperature is luke-warm on a cool day.

Here I am, almost cold sludge for coffee, a room full of teachers and administrators, and me trying to concentrate on getting a lesson plan together for my dreaded upcoming class. I am using one of the computers, diligently researching curriculum for this class, when the morning assembly begins. The morning assembly can be equated to a morning roster call at boot camp. The students are required to stand, facing forward, listening to someone bark random information at them in Thai, while someone else is going down the roster for attendance. Did I mention that each individual department does a morning assembly all at the same time? At any given time you will have at least 5 “morning assemblies” all occurring at the same time. What’s worse – they give them microphones and the audio speaker for our department’s morning assembly is situated right outside our department office. Additionally, our office is adjacent to another department’s “morning assembly”. Never fails – at 7:45AM you will be blasted with incoherent Thai shouting. Have you heard someone speaking Thai? That is, a true native speaking the Thai language? I used to think German & Russian were some ugly languages, but Thai bumps these two into the same caliber as the romance languages of French or Italian. As I’ve mentioned before, Thai is a very singsong language, in that if you have the wrong pitch, sound, tone, tongue placement, or breathing, no one will know what you are talking about. Well, it is also a language that is largely spoken through your nose. It makes the nasally accent of the US Midwesterners, sound like English fit for the Queen of Britain herself – Where’s your crown at? Painstakingly, I try to drown out all of this noise and furiously continue to work on my curriculum. After all, it is T-minus 20 minutes at this point, and I still haven’t a clue what to do with this class for 2 hours.

The morning assemblies have completed, but that only makes things worse. I now realize that I have about 15 minutes to make a lesson plan, and everyone from the department is back in the office. Compound that with students coming into the office to ask other teachers questions, all speaking through their nose, and an internet connection that is moving at the speed of dial-up; I am definitely on edge at this point. Part of me wants to turn in the direction of all the noise and shout, “Shut the %&!# up, I’m trying to work!” But I realize the effort would be futile, as only a handful of people would understand my request. Instead, I turn back to my workstation, curing myself for not taking that extra dose of Adderall this morning. Thankfully, I have not had to interact with anyone up to this point. That is, until one of the administrators comes over to me. “Aj. Joshua? Aj. Joshua?” (Aj. Is an abbreviation for teacher). Mid mouse-click, I turn expressionless and face her, “Yes?” She proceeds to update me about me taking over another class for the remainder of the semester. A class that I will be taking over … next MONDAY! Clearly an urgent matter for WEDNESDAY morning. Obediently, I take the text from her and foolishly ask about the curriculum. She quickly let’s me know that I will need to make up the curriculum for the remainder of the term – what a surprise. For those of you that know, I speak volumes with my facial expressions. Unbeknown to me, I must have been expressing myself facially at this exact moment, because she quickly apologized and rushed away. Pure frustration coursing through my veins, I close out of the workstation, grab my things for class and head up to confront the emotionless faces that are my students. Realizing that it’s futile to get upset, I make lime juice out of limes. The students were a bit confused with my activity – Heads-Up, 7-Up, but half the fun was teaching it to them!