Category: life in general

In Chiang Mai, Thailand, there is a moat, seven centuries old, that surrounds the entire city, separating old Chiang Mai from new Chiang Mai. Crumbling remains of a wall built to keep out marauding hordes encircle the moat, in some places full height still, in others, just a flimsy stack of eroding bricks. The water in the moat ranges from a deep blue to a muddy brown. Fish jump out at regular intervals, although, from what I can see, more fish do seem to jump from the blue water than the brown. Despite that, each day, lingering fishermen tend their spindly hopeful rods in both the blue parts and the brown parts. They don’t seem to care. A fish is a fish, I guess. So they hope and they wait and they sleep. Around the moat, all around the city, really, scooters buzz like bees of every shape and size and color. Dozens of them swarm the front of traffic at every red light in town. Entire families seem to stack themselves on a single beleaguered bike, one on top of another — one, two, three, four — like circus performers. They like to wave to you as you walk by. I wave back, happy at the crazy sight of these dark-haired columns, these cheery balancing acts.

The Thai people think I am Spanish, somehow, with my blond hair and blue eyes. I am alien to them. A fascination. Are you Spanish, they keep asking in broken English. No, no, I say, American. They nod, Ohhhh. I try hard to speak the meager Thai I taught myself. When someone in our group needs a songtao, a taxi, I’m the only one who can barter with the driver. They were told to learn some basic Thai for the mission trip, but, eh, they’re young. College kids. What are you gonna do? So they get me to haggle with the driver. Tracey, get me a sweet deal, okay? this one says. Sure, kid, I laugh in mock confidence. I have no idea if I can get him a sweet deal.

I approach the window of the songtao.

“Tao rai ka?” How much?

“Sahm sip baht” 30 baht. Whoa, tourist rate. (I did my homework.)

Behind me, my friend shakes his head; shows me he only has 20.

“Yee sip baht?” 20 baht?

I smile at him hopefully. He looks at my hair. Nods. The hair I can’t help, but the smile is on purpose.

“Kup khun ka,” I say. Thank you.

My friend gets in the songtao, murmurs, “Thanks, Tracey.”

“Sure.” I laugh and walk away. I am the den mother.

At the orphanage where we work, the smallest kids cluster and squat around metal bowls of lam yai, a local fruit. They motion me over, invite me to squat with them as they peel the thin brown crust from each tiny piece of fruit. The peeled fruit looks like a cross between an onion and a grape. Once several are peeled, they dump the pieces into my hand first, faces shining expectantly. I’m not a picky eater and I’m willing to try most anything, so I do. They are sweet and sour. Juicier than I expected. As I bite into the piece, the entire group of children seems to break into one huge white smile. They are so beautiful and small and innocent, they make my heart hurt. We eat lam yai and play hand games. After a long while, I get up to leave — an obligation to meet elsewhere. No. No. They pull me back, fighting over who gets my lap. So we sit around the metal bowls, a child constantly in my arms, and eat more lam yai in the steamy dying sunlight.

I’m working on a very angst-ridden post about my waning days in Seattle and a certain fellow I dated who helped spur my fateful decision to move away.

It’s all very serious and heartbreaking and not silly at all.

Also, I’m working on a post about the falling-in-love moment. The moment when you KNOW: it’s happened. It’s done. Something my sister and I were talking about a while ago that inspired this post in progress.

You know, just a coupla withered crones sittin’ around talkin’ about when people used to love us.

I told MB I was writing this post and he basically shrugged.

So now I am definitely writing it. Not in a vengeful way, of course — no, never — but in a VENGEFUL way. You know, just to be clear.

Look. The man doesn’t have a jealous bone in his body and it is a HUGE HUGE HIDEOUS flaw. I don’t think he could even list the names of the men I’ve dated because, you see, in his mind — HAHA! He has trumped them all!! To him, the other guys mentioned in the post — not by name, of course — are basically Guy A, Guy B, etc. Forever anonymous. So what is there to know?

All right. Fine. Whatevs, Linus.

It’s okay. Later, I will suffocate him in his sleep.

Actually, I’m not sure the other guys would feel “trumped” at all; probably more like they escaped shrieking into the night with their lives and sanity barely intact.

But I’m not just writing it for, you know, VENGEFUL purposes alone, but because I will be interested to hear what it’s been like for the rest of you, that moment when you just KNEW …. you were in love. Toast.

I’m nosy, let’s not forget.

Okay. In all seriousness, I guess I’m writing this huge disclaimer before I even post the piece because I can almost feel a nasty email brewing out there in the ether. Some people may not understand. How could you write about that, etc. But look. MB knows and accepts that I write. He knows I had a life before him and accepts that I will sometimes write about it. People I knew before him, experiences I had before him, these are part of my life. They make up who I am. They impacted me, for good or bad; changed me for better or worse. And these falling-in-love moments I’ll be writing about taught me something about myself. About how my own heart works and responds. About the kind of person I needed in my life.

So I’m writing about it.

And dodging my inbox.

Calm down, little Tracey. The pie will still be there when you get there.

I mean, one assumes. But what do I know? Maybe the whole town will be out of pie. Let’s be realistic. I mean, I can’t guarantee there will be pie. I can’t. Sorry, kid.

Probably what you should do here, little Trace, is take your gun with you, that teeny tiny gun you have, so you can start an old-timey shoot-’em-up if the town ain’t got no pie. That’s what they do in them little mountain towns. Remember, MB is from a little mountain town and you are constantly dodging bullets every dadgummed time you go up there. You know, consarnit! and whatnot.

But honestly, all that silliness aside, it’s my birthday and I want to say that all of you who read this blog are a shining gift to me every single day. I’ve never met any of you in person, but the immeasurable ways you’ve touched my life for nearly five years now are as real and vital as anything. You all blaze with compassion and wit and heart and one of my true joys is that I can hang out with you — any time of day or night.

Thank you for being such friends, such champions, such goofs, such true blue hearts. I love you all.

Thank you, dear pippa, from the bottom of my pie-lusting heart.

I’ve gotten off the track here, what with taking care of The Banshees and a visit from Piper.

But here’s another strike from our Trip to the Resort Up North. I think I can manage to keep with my “no-commentary” policy on this one. Even though I’ve previously blown it, I will try to be strong here.

(The first four are here, here, here, and here.)

So we asked Resort Dude what would our hours be, what the work day would look like, what our days off would be, blahdie blahdie blah — the basics, you know?

He said, “Oh. Uhm. Well. It’s certainly not a traditional work week.”

We said, “Meaning?”

“Well. Okay. Uhm. Well, it’s basically seven days a week.”

“Oh.”

“Weekends are very busy.”

“Oh.”

“But the beginning of the week is slow.”

“Oh.

“So you get a little bit of time to breathe.”

“Oh,” we said. “And are there set hours?”

“Uhm. Well. It’s like maybe 10 or 12 hours a day.”

“Oh.”

“Sometimes more.”

“Oh.”

“But in the winter, it’s really slow. You’d have, like, a month off.”

“Oh.”

So My Beloved shows up at this little house to film the testimony of a retarded woman named Annie. Inside is a room of plastic-covered furniture, coffee table doilies, and wallpaper featuring pastoral scenes of pheasants and hunting dogs and whatnot. Four attorneys in attorney suits are crammed onto one of the plastic-covered sofas, decidedly uncomfortable and out of place, but they need to get to the bottom of this pressing legal matter, and obviously, Annie, the 40-year-old retarded woman, is the key to everything, so they forebear; they endure.

My Beloved sets up his camera, swears in the witness. They’re good to go. Annie just looks around the room as one of the suits stuck to the plastic starts to question her as if talking to a child.

“Annie, are you going to tell us the truth today?”

“Yeaaaaaaaaah.”

“Annie, are you going to tell us lies today?”

“Yeaaaaaaaaah.”

A pause.

“Annie, did you have breakfast today?”

“Yeaaaaaaaaaah.”

“Annie, did you fly in a spaceship today?”

“Yeaaaaaaaaaaah.”

Hm.

Moments later, the proceedings are terminated and four frustrated attorneys leave Annie alone with her plastic and doilies and pheasants.

Continuing my list of No-Commentary Episodes from The Trip.

Number four.

(First three here.)

RESORT DUDE: Another part of my witness for the Lord is that I don’t carry any debt.

ME: Oh. I see.

Okay. I can’t do it, okay? I can’t not comment on this. I can’t. Look. It’s nice that he doesn’t carry any debt, really, it is. But how, how, is that part of his public witness? How do people know this unless, uhm, he tells them? How does it come up in casual coffeehouse conversation? I had many many casual coffeehouse conversations with my customers and it never once came up.

Just how does that come up??

CUSTOMER: I’d like a hazelnut latte, please.

RESORT DUDE: Hey, do you know I don’t carry any debt?

How???

I’m not trying to invalidate his decision on this point. I think it’s probably wise, although, with the kind of business he has, I don’t know how that’s entirely possible — not carrying debt. He wants his business to “go to the next level,” wanted us to be the people to “help make it happen,” and yet, after ten years in business, he hasn’t gotten there. Maybe he needs to take some risks, take on a little bit of debt, and market himself to the next level, you know? He clearly needs some kind of a springboard to get there. Just sayin’.

My issue with this is how is that decision part of his public witness? People notice how you treat them. They don’t notice whether you’re carrying debt. It’s a private issue and his is a private conviction. Don’t make it something else. I mean, my first impression of him wasn’t, “Wow. I bet he doesn’t carry any debt.” No, my first impression of him was, “Hm. For someone in the hospitality business his hospitality needs some work.”

If someone were to ask his opinion on it, then I think he has an opening to discuss it — in principle. But to bring it up unsolicited takes a careful private conviction and brings it out into the marketplace of public opinion and praise. He wanted me to praise him on this private unseen conviction and I wasn’t going to play the game. I was actually less impressed with his private conviction because he was willing to sell it for a compliment. That’s like saying, “Hey, do you know I gave a thousand bucks to such-and-such charity?” No. No. You don’t do that. You do it and shut up about it.

Strike Four.