Disneyland For Dogs/A Day With A Stranger/I'm Going My Way You Go Uruguay

Uruguay - Disneyland for Dogs

Lustrous coats and full bellies. Untethered, unbothered and beautiful, dogs seem to rule this country.

Never before have I seen such well mannered well taken care of dogs roaming the streets of a foreign land. Fancying myself a bit of the South American dog whisperer I must say I've thoroughly enjoyed communicating, if only with a glance (ok, maybe I talk to them too) with this cast of characters.

After an extraordinarily late night of lord knows what in my cozy cabin, while some sort of frat party was doing lord knows what across the hall (one of the kind gentlemen at the party gave me a candy bar for no evident reason which may, in these parts constitute a marriage proposal so stay tuned) I went to sleep.

I stayed one night in Casablanca at a hostel that I was quite certain had been the seen of multiple lascivious acts and this was a step up. But only one. Hesitant to rest my weary head directly on the linens in places such as this, I used a towel as a pillow and my scarf as a blanket. Resourceful and ridiculous, I know.

Waking the following morning felt like Christmas. Not because of the eager anticipation of candies and gifts, an anticipation I sadly never experienced - not due to lack of effort on my parents part but lack of childlike wonder from the get, but because of the smell of active fireplaces and the clear crisp cold of winter. The type that cuts right though your spandex and fat to the bone.

It was time for a run and, like many before, I loved the quite time alone with the city but ached for my Canon tucked neatly away back at the hotel.

The mix of wood burning fires, lingering mist that sits in the chilly valley at night and bright clear skies makes for the most beautiful light in Minas mornings. I decided to leave my duffel at the hotel and wander before blowing this pop stand. 

The quiet beauty of a small town, though not a draw for living, is never lost on me. Apparently Lorelai Gilmore and I don't share all qualities.

Maybe it was the loud print plastered all over my ass, but the animals knew. They knew I was an outsider and took the opportunity to squawk, chirp, bark or bellow at me to adequately protect their home. Or maybe they were just hungry.

I passed a group of boys on their way to school who would have barked at me if they could but instead continued their 12 year-old conversation that read the same in Spanish and it does in English despite the fact that I couldn't understand a word.

As you make your way further outside of the city centre the town becomes more rural, and more beautiful. Though there are smatterings of fuchsia and mint green on walls and doorways, the wardrobe here is seriously lacking.

I mean, does anyone own a single jewel tone down here? Maybe a pastel? Missoni would make a killing introducing the Crayola world of color to the tiny South American country.

I made my way further and further out of town, discovering the problem with living in a basin is no matter which way you walk, it's up.

The air was cold, but the sun was warm and I felt as though I was able to really breathe, if only for a minute.

Never one to pass up a good cemetery (insert Irish melancholy here) I entered a beautiful white marble mausoleum, with headstones and boxes, plastic flowers and brass vases stacked haphazardly, high as the eye could see. It was beautiful in its disarray and I took my time meandering about.

As I made my way even further out or town the people weren't cold or distrustful, they were fascinated, the menfolk in particular.

The more I wandered the more charm this city exuded. I'm telling you, if there were places to eat or attractions of any sort here, I would most definitely consider staying a bit longer.

My stomach was telling me it was time to eat and my watch was telling me it was time to find the bus station.

Passing what was either an old folk's home or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory's grandparents watching The Price Is Right, I felt a pang of sadness for what I imagined were the infirm and a pang of guilt for my grandmother, who passed away in December, just 6 months after my dad in one of those establishments.

Getting old can be scary and confusing, and no one wants to do it alone. And I say that at 33.

As I passed through the Plaza Independencia, I was almost distracted by a 17 year-old telling me I was hot - thank you young man, by the way, but then I saw it - like an apparition - a restaurant!

I eagerly entered, expecting heating - I was sorely mistaken. I devoured pages of menu fantasizing about the meals I could consume, typically a large array of pastas, hamburgers, salads and sandwiches made of meat that I want to say means wolf but I'm guessing not - I was sorely mistaken. Either because of the hour or because God is playing a cruel cruel joke on me, there were very few items from which I could actually choose, none of which sounded terribly appealing, and I was forced to get tea and a sandwich with no bells or whistles, including papas fritas - apparently thats how things are run 'round here (the only good Counting Crows song, FYI).

Nothing says top of the morning like a cup of hot tea and a hamburger. Not a red meat eater I decided to relax and make some international Skype calls figuring if I were to fall ill from this mysterious meat, i'd rather do it not while on a bus. While chatting with a friend in New York a man walked in, discarded his bright green scarf and sat down to dine alone.

After hearing me speaking something other than Spanish, he asked me where I was from and, once finished with my phone conversation, asked me to join him.

Between his broken English and my kitchen Spanish I learned he was 35, had one daughter who lives in Canada, is obsessed with Cuba and hates the United States.

Emphatic and expressive, his points about culture and politics were made, even if the language posed a barrier.

After resisting the offer to share in his mashed potatoes - a feat of epic proportions for me - I setteled for chatting over some tea.

Hearing the musings of what someone who has never visited the states, but has powerful positions on it thinks is wildly amusing, if not totally accurate. Hearing someone tell me about Cuba, soccer and his love of photography is mildly intoxicating.

Once he told me I didn't have the face of a North American (whatever that means), insisting it was a 'normal face' and not a 'shit face,' which apparently he thinks all Americans must have. Charming, no? Once family photos were shared - his of his beautiful daughter mine of my beautiful sister I was sold and I had a new and strange friend in Marcelo.

After drinks were finished and the bill was paid - entirely by him I might add - he told me he was going to the north and asked if I would change my flight and stay a day or two longer with him.

Now, I just met this man. And I had no intention of spending money to change my flight and spend two days with a strange man in a strange land, besides I was in love with someone else, but I will be lying if I said it wasn't nice to be asked...

Flattered but not swayed, I had already missed the 2 pm bus I had planned on taking back to the Capitol and figured, if I had hours to burn, why not spend them here with Marcelo? After all, this is what traveling - especially solo - was about. Meeting people from different places with different cultures and seeing how they lived.

And see how they live I did. In the most fantastically banal way imaginable. From what I can surmise, with language and context, Marcelo is a traveling paint salesman and had a few calls to make while in Minas. He asked if I'd like to come along, and I obliged. The truck was warm and the world unknown.

I'll often say that part of what I love about being a photographer is the ability to be present for or involved in worlds I wouldn't otherwise, all because I had my camera - a ticket to the other side.

Conversation and not cameras were the impetus here but the result was just the same. Who else do you know that got to witness paint salesmanship in a small southern Uruguayan town? Exactly!

After traversing the city, making stops along the way, we parted ways for him to finish some business and for me to pick up my bag from the hotel as grab one last regalo that I now hope has not broken in my luggage.

I left a note on his car to meet me at Porky's, a Porky Pig branded pizzeria which was a bit beyond me,  but I often find America's influence in other places to be convoluted and confusing; lost in translation. 

Some tea and a meal of questionable origin and a decision was to be made were had. I could continue with my 10:45 bus ticket to Montevideo, arrive at nearly 2 am and take a cab directly to the airport, where I would attempt to sleep in public for a handful of hours - not my first or last time doing so - or I could stay one more night here, change my bus ticket to a 4:20 am departure and (fingers crossed) make it to the airport just in time. I crossed my fingers.

Marcelo had been peppering me with questions all day long, often in relation to my father. My answers were brief, appropriate and said in a vague, present tense.

As evening became night we continued to chat, this time him taking his turn to eat dinner, evidently we were doing it on shifts. I had been relaxed and contentedly distracted by my new company throughout most of the day, but had just received a message from a former flame and it had left me feeling off, not really for any particular reason, just uneasy. My mood had clearly dampened. 

Marcelo proceeded to ask me about my father, this time about his love life - perhaps a sensitive subject though I didn't realize it at the time, and I began to cry. Now, for anyone who has known me more than a week, or who reads any of my writing, you know I'm a crier. There is no shame in my game, I'm an emotional woman and, for a number of months now, with good reason. That being said, I do usually try to wait until someone learns my last name before breaking down on them. His Latino forcefulness pushed the subject of why, and when I gave a very succinct and perfunctory answer he asked why I hadn't told him, and expressed how awful he felt. 

I'm new to this game and though in a pretty transparent (once again, not in the Caitlyn way) person I'm not sure the protocol on when you drop that bomb on someone. Or, if I need to at all. It is certainly not a shameful secret, but it is very much a private and personal experience.

Needless to say my slightly dampened mood had turned stormy and the evening was over.

It's so interesting how spending a handful of hours with the wrong man makes you realize just what it feels like when you're with the right one...

I set my alarm for 3:30 am and I was off to another restless, dream filled state.

Pulling on my only clean clothes left, like a delayed birthday present I save for myself on trips such as these, Marcelo met with me in the morning and drove me the short distance to the bus station in the frigid dark of the morning. His density became more evident as he brought up why I became upset last night, but he had been extraordinarily kind and gentlemanlike and I knew he, like those friends at home who keep sending me supportive text messages, meant well.

We bid adieu, with declarations of love on one of our parts - i'll let you guess who - as the luxurious Nunez bus bound for the Capitol rolled into the station, with promises to stay in touch.

There is something sexy about a night bus, even more so for a train. It's like the champagne room of travel, your own personal viewing of what happens after dark, or before light, as the case was here

We were at Tres Cruces before long, and before the sun bothered to greet me and warm my freezing ass. I usually steal a blanket on international flight to carry with me on my journey, and this night bus was exactly the reason why. They are always cold and I am always uncomfortable - being a woman is so much fun! With a little insider intel, and likely the use of some common sense, it's come to my attention that no where is heated here because it's expensive. Not shocking, but painfully plapable.

Making my way into the bus terminal, just long enough to take out 1500 more pesos, which I assume with cover my cab ride and to leave my ATM in the machine. A nice silent man promptly returned the card to me, as well as my faith man. Strangely, that waivers little regardless of space or time,  but with two separate woman inhabiting my apartment yet not feeling the need to pay for such a luxury this year - it can be tough. Karma's a bitch. And so are they.

A teeny tiny smoke filled cab awaited me outside of the automatic doors and, with a little coaching on his part, as far as proper pronunciation, we headed to the aeroppuerto.

My paralysis has subsided and stroke face has greatly improved upon this trip. I can't help but wonder if it is because I may have relaxed in the last 8 days. Something I have not done in what seems like ages and something I need much more of in my life.

With a mind as brilliant as mine ( please read proper tone here), it functions efficiently and luckily, I am able to process information rather quickly, usually evidenced by witty quips or repartee - really changing the world stuff. It can also create a cacophony of voices in my head, rounds of questions and theories and concerns all singing in sequence, overlapping one another like a never ending Christmas concert housed in my brain, but without the hot cocoa or gingerbread cookies. Occasionally, taking a step back from 'real life' can offer perspective, and quiet.

Though a bit on the quiet and cold side for my liking maybe Uruguay was the perfect place to escape this time of year for it's unexpected tranquility.

According to my very shallow research, Uruguay has been called the Switzerland of South America. I can see why.

It's expensive and boring, yet beautiful and safe - just like all of those girls you slept with in college and the trophy wives heard round the world. 

Gracias, Uruguay.

Not quite ready to boo this one up, I guess I'll just keep walking...

The Day The Music Died/For Whom The Bell's Tolls/I'm On My Way to Uruguay

June 17th - the day the music died.

Confrontational by nature I have chosen to deal with this particular anniversary a bit differently. In October, when His birthday was upon us, I booked a trip to Southeast Asia and spent the 29th changing planes in Tokyo, so jet lagged and wanderlustful that it was easy to let the day go by, almost unnoticed. Now I have two separate days a year from which to escape - a welcomed excuse to travel, if not for the best reasons.

Today, June 17th 2015, I board a plane to Montevideo, Uruguay. I will arrive in this foreign land after touching down in both Houston and Rio de Janeiro - almost guaranteed to be too distracted with overpriced airport fare and restless upright slumber to see the sun rise and set on a day that changed my life entirely and forever.

I could talk about my father endlessly. From what I am told I always have.

Regardless of whether I was on a first date or on a transatlantic call with an old friend, my dad came up in nearly every conversation. He touched every part of my life in an incalculable way. Even when living 3000 miles apart it was he who I called to help me pick out an appropriate pair of running shoes. It was he who I forwarded inappropriate text messages from unsavory men to, hoping for some insight into the bewildering gender. He knew what I had had for lunch on any given day, because he was most likely on the phone with me when I ordered it. When someone is this involved in your life, their absence is felt in such a profound way that there is no safe place to hide.

Movies and books are simply things you want to discuss with the Shel Silverstein inspired missing piece.

Decisions to be made, contracts to be signed. Ensembles to be purchased. With a relationship this intimate and a bond this unbreakable, like the strands of DNA coursing through both of your veins, there is no possible way to detach.

I have a very kind, if very dim friend who recently suggested perhaps it was time to 'let go' of him. Now, I know this gentle giant meant well, but he is an idiot. There is no way I could let go of my father without erasing my very existence; without destroying who I am. What I can do, is manage the feeling of loss and the reality of a new life. In recent weeks I have likened this shift to diabetes. A condition that is not fatal, but chronic. One from which you can never be cured, but hopefully, through trial and error, you can manage - you can live with.

Trying to live with it; trying to #keepwalkingkeepwinning is what I have chosen to do. So here it goes...

What better way for me, a bit of a travel junkie, then to pack up my bag and head south to visit a new land and mark a year of torture, ready to turn the page on a new perspective, a new life?

This new perspective was in no small way aided by a recent health crisis.

Three weeks before my scheduled departure to Uruguay, a country about which I know absolutely nothing, I suffered a bit of paralysis. This was scary, sudden and very very unattractive. This physical manifestation of a 12 months of stress, sadness, love and loss could have made me sink deeper into the pool of depression in which I have been more than wading for some time now. It should have pushed me over the edge, but for some reason, awaking to a face that only half functions and a right hand too jittery from either nerve damage in my once so efficient brain or the meds used to help quell that has left me, better...

When your body starts to scream at you. When it starts to turn on you. You have no choice but to listen.

So I did what any grief stricken, partially paralyzed young woman would do to deal with the world falling down around her. I grabbed my camera, packed a duffle bag, and foraged forward.

Travel has it's ups and downs. There are always the rude passengers and endless lines, but being seated next to a nice young Mormon man on the Houston - Rio leg of my journey south of the equator allowed me to have a conversation about faith, marriage and family with a total stranger and, despite the fact that he asked about my own personal timeline for marriage and children, started my trip off in this positive vein, on in which I am attempting to live.

Having long harbored a fantasy of being a Latina through and through, the Rachel Dolezal of Afro-Latin America (yes - that was for you and yes, you know who you are...), being mistaken for a native in Brazil - flattered though I may be, was fantastically awkward as I don't know how to utter a Portuguese syllable yet alone understand a series of phrases and/or questions thrown in my direction, intensifying in speed and agility the more contorted my already stroke induced face looks.

Wedged into the last seat on the plane, confined to a space few Americans could fit according to the most recent obesity polls did not in any way stop me from uncomfortably passing out before take off on the last leg of my multi-stop voyage to Montevideo. I was awoken by the sounds of a snotty pubescent both figuratively and literally. Spoiled brat seems to transcend language and when my empathy for the teary teenage quickly gave way to disgust once I realized her tears were not over Sean Cassidy or the Biebs, but over the fact that she was not pleased to be served a muffin during the snack coarse on the plane. 

Off the plane and quickly ushered through immigration I grabbed some pesos, hopped in Angel's Mercedes cab and took what I only later realized as a $60 cab ride to Mercado del Puerto, the hotel at which I would be laying my head the next couple of days.

The drive in was at dusk and gorgeous and once I made an attempt to chat casually en espanol with my driver I settled into my South American sojourn.

Death, taxes and For Whom The Bell's tolls was left back on US soil, at least for the week, and the plan is to return, a woman reborn.

Wish me luck with that...

Thoughts Are Physical and My Pants Are Too Tight

They say you don't know what you got till it's gone, but I'm not sure that is always the case.

I've always know California is a great place from which to come. I've been confident that my best friend is one of the greatest people to ever walk the planet. And I was certain, with every ounce of my being that my father was as special as he was loved. Sure, I may have questioned some of his decision making skills, as we all do with those we love - but my confidence in him as a dad and as a person never wavered and I felt blessed each and every time I was able to make him chuckle on the other end of the phone.

I think it is when we lose those things; the things we cherished when we had them, that it hurts the most.

It was with this heavy heart and swirling mind that I began my first day alone in Thailand. When the distraction of a travel companion is taken out of the equation that you only have your thoughts, memories, and feelings to keep you company it can be dangerous. Being terribly charming and endlessly amusing this is usually not a problem for me, but this particular morning was rough.

With sugar as the only substance upon which I rely in times of trouble, or in times of waking hours, I selected for the healthier option to clear my mind and went for another morning run to Santichaiprakarn Park, my new favorite not only for its proximity to my pad but for the tai chi and Zumba participants doing their best to mimic actual physical activity when really they are just shaking their groove thing to Rhianna on their headphones in sweatpants.

Relinquishing any fantasy that I will remain clean for more than 5 minutes at a time, tops, whilst in Thailand I postponed the shower and set up shop in the outdoor lobby of my hostel to get some tech time and catch up on emails, work, and personal business. Also, to make a couple calls home and hear some familiar voices.

After a shower and a switch from a double in room B 32 to a single in room B 31 for a reasonable 330 baht a night I felt that familiar pang - of hunger.

Though Chomp had not proven itself useful in terms of a yoga destination the previous day I decided to head to the Brit run establishment for their famous burgers. A massively huge chicken sandwich was evidence that it was Western run and the spotty WiFi proved it was still in the third world. The lack of modern distraction allowed me to sink into the book I recently purchased at The Strand for this adventure. 'Hector and the Search for Happiness' seemed appropriate and had colorful cover art so I was sold.

An hour or two of Hector's trials, tribulations and triumphs throughout the world searching for what makes people across the globe happy was not terribly enlightening, but it was sweet, and entertaining and that was enough for today.

With some time before I had to set out to visit Laura in Sayala I luxuriated in the form of a midday nap. Not a terribly exciting day, but sometimes the simple things are the sweetest.

Thinking I'd give myself some time to let higher education rub off on me at Mahidol University, the name of which had been emailed to me phonetically, before Laura got out of class, I hailed a cab, negotiated a price and was soon on my way. My driver absolutely did not speak English so when he turned down some unsavory alleyways outside of town literally swerving to avoid sleeping or dead vagrants mid- road I was a bit suspicious. Turned out he had better things to do and just wanted to swap out and have his son drive me the rest of the way.

After some help from the international student center staff I located Population and Social Research building and began to wait, observing the throngs of uniformed students on bikes traversing the campus thinking - I am pretty sure I wore pajamas to class, i.e. I'm so very American.

Laura soon emerged from class with her fellow graduate students emitting curiosity and cultural intelligence from their pores.

I had been informed there was a local yoga class for 10 baht. Turns out local was on campus where a staff member hosted weekly classes in a back room that was part storage, part studio. The next two hours involved a lot of sweat, a lot of stretching, and a lot of touching tiny strange Asian women.

The first hour was essentially Bikram, followed by couples yoga where I got to link sweaty body parts with a woman 1/3 my size, and all in the name of wellness.

Excited to show me her new home, Laura took me to the outdoor strip of market that faces the university and behind which her apartment is tucked.

We feasted on noodles and coconut ice cream and caught up. Tears and laughter were shared in equal parts and I was glad to be in the presence of my friend who I had not seen in so long.

A couple of hours were spent in the cozy student apartment that she shares with her incredibly kind and generous boyfriend trying to figure out the rest of my trip and where, along the road, she would meet up with me. After endless circles I had to call it a day and felt calm when crossing Rama Vill Bridge knowing I was close to my home for the evening.

Waking in a heat induced stupor I saw messages from a fellow traveler on my phone inviting me along to a ping pong show shortly after I had fallen asleep and I was devastated. How will I ever truly understand the female reproductive system if I do not see small plastics balls shoot out of them on command? I am at a loss.

A lengthy breakfast at a local 'French' cafe and some stressful dealings with back in the states and I was a mess.

Not only had chosen to wear one of the shelf bras I had purchased at MBK, leaving my naturally large breasts with tiny tit torpedoes, ready to take an eye out, pointing off the ends making me look like some sort of Doris Day reject, but I also didn't know what to do next. Both literally and figuratively.

I, like many people, often react emotionally and have been trying my very best to limit that behavior so I did my best impersonation of a sane person, not stressed to the point of Alopecia, and packed up my bags, checked them at the front desk and caught the 53 bus to Hualumphong train station where I used my deductive skills and blind faith in the exchange with a woman who my money in exchange for a train and bus ticket, a 15 hour journey, down south to Krabi. Krabi, where rain was expected and bugs would absolutely eat me alive, but where I was hoping to find peace, in mind and soul and if my cellulite turned a shade or two darker Id be ok with that too.

Back on the 53 wood-floored bus and I am listening to the Dixie Chicks while crawling down the streets of Bangkok. It may not seem congruent with my personality, as well as the environment and it may not be cool or hip or timely, but who the hell cares. Their lyrics are beautiful and Natalie Maine's voice conveys the beautiful pain housed in my heart - and isn't that the point of great art?

The public bus offers you a unique tour of the city,  The bumper to bumper traffic by the flower market was a highlight, and as I pass Chinatown I realize there is so much this particular city has to offer that I will never I uncover.

Usually one to respect cultural traditions after two attempts to make it only the Grand Palace and two rejections, the most recent of which was literally 'lady, you are wrong,' I have thrown in the towel on that majestic center of beauty and Buddhism.

I mean come on, I'm covered head to toe in sweltering heat yet I have to have the exact attire you deem fit at this particular destination? No wonder the homeless hippie chic/lesbian aunt ensembles is so popular amongst the 'travelers' here, because otherwise you will directly and aggressively be told that you are wrong.

If I have to dress like a middle-aged art teacher to join your illustrious club, I don't want to be a member anyway! I happen to think it would be against God's plan to hide this bodacious booty, clearly the staff at the RP disagree.

In my indignation I decided to walk home and quickly realized a) I knew my way and b) that my suspicions were correct and the cab Sharlene and I took the other day took us on an awfully circuitous route to get back. Ah, the perils of wing white.

I passed a couple of places filled with westerners and, when a delightfully green establishment just next door was filled with locals I wondered why on earth they wouldn't give it a go.

So I did.

The menu had one dish on it that, to the best of my understanding offered a selection of pork products all in on bowl. Usually not one to dig on swine, while in Rome...

The broth was full of onion and the meat palatable. Just like in my sex life, if something feels suspicious in my mouth I just try to ignore it and swallow (sorry, Mom). For a fraction of the cost of all meals previous I was satisfied and only mildly disgusted by the man making slurpy food sex noises.

A little window shopping and a stop at the photo shop where a cheerful older man took my picture for a potential Burma Visa and directed me as to attire, amount of teeth displayed and posture very specifically. I figured I should cover my bases while possible.

So I am packed. Packed and ready to head to the next city, as I have spent more than enough time in and around this one.

Hopefully there will be fun. Hopefully there will be sun. Hopefully there will be Wifi.

Till then...

Ta Ta I am Off to Thailand

Awaking before the sun lit the sky I knew I was in for a long day.

A day better suited for the likes of John Candy in my mother's favorite 'Planes Trains and Automobiles' fraught with the aforementioned, several time zones and what I can only imagine to be a cacophony of calories only sourced from places like airports and train depots.

Tightly swaddled in my freshly purchased fur lined leggings and delicately mixing it with every pattern and color scheme known to man, I was ready. I was ready to hit the road for what was bound to be yet another adventure, another chapter in my already schizophrenic memoir.

Or was I?

With personal tragedy comes lots of introspection and already possessing and over-sized cranium that works harder than the North Pole in Winter introspection, speculation and preponderance have pretty much over taken my life.

Some big decisions have been made and some big changes lay in wait, leaving me a month in South East Asia with  a couple pair of leggings, some beat to shit Converse, my camera and the time and space to figure out who I am without the person who made me.

I've contemplated teaching English in Costa Rica, priced out a ticket to take me 'round the world in a whole lot more than 80 days and considered moving to a number of domestic locations, most romantically New Orleans.

And this is where I landed, 1,000 pound bag on my back and my homeless chic attire in full bloom. Passport in hand and nothing but uncertainty as far as the eye can see.

An easy check in at ANA Airlines, a nickname from a dear friend, seems to be to be a good sign and free Halloween candy at the counter solidifies my suspicion.

And with a fun sized Milky Way in my breast pocket, I'm off. Off on the sort of flight bursting at the seems with people who so clearly look nothing like me, or me like them and who say things like 'thank you for your cooperation' when my inquiry into the procurement of hot tea is met with a disappointing no - as tea is saved for a later point in my 20 hour flight. I can only imagine this is more of a cultural 'lost in translation' than actual gratitude for me not throwing a full blown air fit.

One of my most favorite things about international flights is not the actual silverware or mandatory blanket and pillow but the extensive supply of current American movie titles I never got a chance to see but had accumulated on my mental 'gotta see at some point' list.

After watching a teen tearjerker about kids with cancer and not so much as a heavy mist in my big brown eyes I begin to flip through the options and seeing 'Taken 2' available in Japanese, Portuguese and English I burst into tears.

That is the funny thing about grief. That is the funny thing about loving someone despite the fact no longer at home reading, or working, or writing a report due on Monday, but gone. Gone completely. Gone in a way that can't be altered or adjusted or negotiated in any way. The kind of gone you just simply have to deal with it. And that is the kind of gone that elicits waterworks at the mere glimpse of a bad action sequel because your dad was, and will always be your own personal action hero.

10 minutes into the newly released film 'Dead Poets Society' and I can already tell Liam Neeson may have been the more prudent choice for an emotional woman like myself...

As I look out at the Japanese landscape during our decent I can't help but think back to my only other experience in Asia. Last year, en route to Vietnam I had a layover in China. Not one to get excited over much past the occasional 'Nsync concert in my teenage years I had a 'holy shit I am in China moment' and have a clear visual of calling my dad from the airport to share this rare wonderment. Wheels down in Tokyo evokes a similar sentiment and I cannot help but think the man that shared my experience via Face Time nearly a year ago will now only share experiences, like this one, in a small metal vessel tucked securely into my carry on and set for trips around the world. Life is so bitter sweet.

Bitter when you realize the love of your life is gone. Sweet when you discover a woman in her 60s seated across the aisle from you is dressed like a member of the lollipop guild sans any dash of irony, and ones faith in humanity is restored.

I wanted to be offended when I deboarded and the kind air hostesses switched immediately from their native tongue to thickly accented English. A  5'7" white girl with a Michael Jackson sweatshirt on is bound to stand out, at least a little, after all, I am in the Far East.

An extended layover in the Narita airport, offset by ramen and Instagram and the final 6 hour leg of my flight begins, through most of which I sleep. That is until those tiny paper immigration cards that seem awfully antiquated to somehow protect homeland security are handed out and I  am able to look around the plane a bit.

A man in line boarding mentioned all the 'Westerners' but I saw no chaps and spurs , heard no John Wayne impersonations,so I thought little of it. Now, as I sit here with the haze of awkward travel slumber hanging heavy over me I see Westerners really means while people and, as is the case here, old white people.

I knew Thailand had become a popular destination for those recently retired and ready to turn it up on a pre-booked tour and for the kids sporting shiny new North Face backpacks who chose a location 'safe' enough to have daddy bankroll their senior spring break abroad, but man - there are a lot of white people on this plane. Sam Jackson should make a sequel ...

Once safely on the ground in Bangkok I am not only met with the thick humidity that pulls at my pant legs as I traipse through the nighttime air, but also with my travel mate for the week, a woman part family, part friend, too complicated to explain but too amazing not to love.

She has taken advantage of my voyage and tagged along for the first week to get a taste of the Orient, and the hostel life. We will she if she survives either...

Happy Birthday, Dad.