50 Shades of Thai

So I'm sitting on a wooden pier off the gulf of Thailand. It's warm, but the late afternoon breeze makes it bearable and just then, the call to prayer come wafting through the air like the sweet smell of Jasmine.

I'm reading The Alchemist, per the suggestion of a friend, and they are speaking of omens, signs from God.

I am not a religious woman but in great pain I find people seek solace in many ways, and I choose to believe the chanting, echoing off of the mossy rocks of southern Thailand is speaking to me, and telling me that as badly as I want my father to be here with me, he is.

And just like that, the prayer is over, and he is gone.
And it is quiet.
And I am alone.

But I digress...

Having to hoof it to the train station because my chucks carry me faster than the wheels of the bus not going so round and round, the I made it in the knick of time to catch my night train to Surat Thani, which would take a total of 12 hours, and would force me to lay in a cocoon known as an upper sleeper for the better part of that time. Sadly, this midnight express experience made me feel nothing like Jack Lemon or Tony Curtis larking about in drag.

Off the train and onto a bus to Krabi, where I came to the following conclusion: Anyone drinking beer at 6 am is suffering from one of two afflictions: alcoholism or douchebagism. The young Brits at the front of my bus, presumably heading to the Full Moon Party in Kho Pagnan were likely suffering from the latter. Though I know people come from all around the world just to attend this all night beach rager, I will be avoiding it at all costs.

Once in Krabi Town is apparent that there are some things back at home to which I need to attend immediately and spend many hours and many Skype dollars attempting to remedy.

At one point 'it just is what it is' and I am forced to pull myself away from WiFi and hop on the back of a motorbike with a strange man who will be taking me to The Bananas, the accommodation I have booked through to next week based on lush photos of the location and not its proximity to city center.

An hour later my left shoulder is a rosy brown and my ass numb from the vibration of the vehicle's seat. Being met with this beautiful little hostel situated on the coast, consisting of a series of bamboo huts and run by a jovial German man, I quickly forget about my nearly 17 hours of travel to get here and hastily put on a swimsuit and head to the pier and enjoy the beautiful day in the jungle.

A lazy afternoon in a lounge chair with a book and my camera is not only welcomed - it just might be necessary. It is difficult for me to relax and whenever I attempt to do nothing I am struck by overwhelming amounts of guilt - maybe it's the New Yorker in me, maybe it's the or maybe it's the MTV Culture in which I was raised - either way, this was an exercise in patience, with myself, and I was flexing.

With a communal dinner every night at The Bananas I was able to get in on that evenings shuttle into town for the Loi Krathong festival where families light lanterns and send them into the river, sometimes with money and often with nail trimmings (don't ask me) to rid themselves of bad mojo. Along with some fellow travelers and a German family with two little girls who were hard not to fall in love with, we were off through the chaos and noise that is a celebration in Thailand.

Wanting to join in on the festivities I purchased my own design to light looking far more like a loaf of bread than the ornate floral arrangements most seem to have selected from the families fastidiously making them river side. I selected a fun offering in the form a turtle with a bright red shell and chocolate chip eyes as as I lit it's candle and incense sticks and sent it down the already polluted water way I hoped with it I sent my bad energy as well.

Sleeping in the silence offers a deep sleep and some strange dreams.

As I adjust to Thai time the hour at which I rise gets later and later and on this particular morning it was almost 8 before I dressed and dined on a single pancake with banana and honey. A coke for breakfast, because calories or health concerns are irrelevant when abroad and I was properly hyped up to go kayaking for the day.

A group of 6 of us from the hostel took a quick bus ride to the local pier to embark on our adventure that morning, which would be a 2+ hour kayak trip around the bay led by a local.

The company was lovely and everyone, with the exception of our guide, spoke English beautifully. Also beautiful was the scenery. Secluded beaches, tall mossy caves and mangroves offering a unique landscape to this breathtaking, if not labor intensive, adventure.

All of the aforementioned items should have been my focus, but from the moment our very young and very petite guide disrobed from the waste up all I could think of was how much I longed to be in a harlequin novel about an older white woman on holiday who gets in touch with her sensuality with the help of a small Thai boy.

Turns out when you kayak in the tropics for a living you become quite lithe, quite sinewy. The sun makes you a dark cinnamony brown and the sticky air leaves a shimmery film of sweat on your body, giving the sun tendons and muscles and movement plateaus off which to happily bounce.

Perverse as it may be. It was beauty.
It was natural AND it was local, so by my estimation it was part of the tour.

Midday we were deposited back at the hostel, this time by sidecar Tuk Tuk. With the rain beginning to leak from the heavens we were left with limited entertainment options: Eat. Yes. Chat and socialize with the brother and sister doctors from Malaysia. Done. Catch up on American television somehow bootlegged onto YouTube. Check.

The sunset had been gorgeous the evening before and with the rain lessening to a drizzle, having broken the thick humidity, I decided to go on a walk.

An evening walk to watch a beautiful sunset and listen to songs that matter

Another communal dinner, family style - this time with curried vegetables and some pleasant conversation with the proprietor and his staff left me contended for several minutes on a row and I chose to savor that.

As the guests decided to take a late night dip to see the bio-luminescent plankton I took a dip, of another kind - to bed.

Sometimes moving slow feels good.
And sometimes that's ok.

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...

Let's Go To The Mall and The Power Of Super Pussy

Bangkok is a city under construction.

Everywhere you turn lady construction worked covered from head to toe in calico burqa uniforms sweat under the south Asian sun clearly spending tax payer money, or maybe just the King's to make Bangkok look like every other commercial center on the planet, with big benign shapeless buildings, paved sidewalks and plenty of 7/11s in order to make sure the aesthetic of the people will soon match that of the ever increasing American landscape.

With globalization in mind, after making a few early morning Skype calls home Sharlene requested that on her last day we visit none other than - the mall.

Travelers and locals alike speak with great affection for the 8-story mammoth known as MBK and featuring 2 movie theatres, a floor of food courts and kiosk upon kiosk where you can haggle over a knock off Louis Vuitton till your heart's content. Not my ideal destination, but an experience nonetheless and something Sharlene seemed interested in.

After an hour or so of perusing she left with a handful of silver bracelets for her girls back home and I had a small blue bag containing two bras that I had yet to sweat stain into oblivion giving both me and my coconuts a new lease on life - or at least a less fragrant one.

Having taken a free government bus, but 15 to e exact to the mall we adeptly caught the 47 over to the Grand Palace however, despite the look and feel of this bus being identical to the last, this one required a fair.

At first I thought it was just another case of white people discrimination but when elderly Asian people boarded and were required to do the same I chalked it up to simply not understanding the system.

Once we arrived at the Grand Palace we were immediately surrounded by a swarm of tourists shifting from one direction to the other in large colorful groups like schools of fish searching for chum.

First thing is first, and food needed to be ingested at the earliest possible moment, so we located a little restaurant amongst the shops on the water that offered mediocre fair and an adorable 2-year old running around barefoot for entertainment.

Feeling sufficiently filled with brown, fried food we made our way to the impressive entrance only to be met with dirty looks and aggressive yelling via bullhorn from a guard insinuating in no uncertain terms that my skirt and tank top made me come across as an Amish street walker and that I would not be allowed entrance in such garish attire. With Sharlene feeling ambivalent about witnessing another dozen temples and me having more time to do as I please we opted to bounce and after some serious haggling with a cab driver who clearly thought I was an idiot - or just a Westerner - we took a 40 baht ride back to Pen Park Place.

After more and more fruitless online searching for nearby yoga studios I succumb to the front desk's recommendation for classes taught above a local cafe and Sharlene and I changed and headed over to inquire. They said class would begin in a few hours and with time to kill we went to get an authentic Thai massage just across Sam Sen Soi.

200 Baht (about 6 American dollars) for an hour foot, neck and shoulder massage seemed reasonable and we quickly changed into patterned hammer pants provided by the parlor and reclined in pleather seats, each with a tiny Asian woman at our feet. Not being terribly familiar with massage, as I have only had 1 in my life, I didn't know what to expect and didn't know how much I could actually allow myself to enjoy it.

So far so good, my feet were cleaned and I was trying to find a zen place. Rubbing my feet was nice and I could almost handle the reflexology pain of sticking a blunt object into various parts of my foot for no foreseeable reason but once my lubbed up toes began to be toe fucked with some long, phallic stick I began to question this age old practice.

Moving up the calves was a nice change of pace but when the woman assigned to me had to use the loo the boss bitch came over and somehow courteously pointed out just how much in need of a shave I was. I know Asian women don't tend to be hairy like the Irish-Italian stallion breed from which I come, but pointing it out seems a bit superfluous. The ladies gathered round to witness my 8 0'clock shadow before interest waned and it was back to pushing, pulling and rubbing my lower extremities.

All seemed fine and dandy once again until some sort of hip reflexor move was made and the tiny doll hands made of soft leather that had been rubbing me for over 30 minutes were dangerously close to my lady regions. It was the gentle grazing of fingers over this most private of areas that made me realize just how long ago they had been grazed as well, adding sadness to my already confusing mix of emotion and discomfort.

Needless to say, when it was all over, she had given it to me rough - and I had liked it.

With yoga still an hour or so off we decided to stroll and I decided to test my navigation skills, aimlessly wandering the streets in a direction that more or less felt like a circle. Sharlene was able to get herself a beautiful pair of silver and turquoise earrings and I was able to stroke my already healthy travel ego with a safe and relatively succinct return to our intended destination.

So - turns out yoga was a bust. Despite the fact that we had confirmed with a Thai woman possessing a very suspect accent earlier the instructor seemed to have left town and now my yoga pants were only functioning as a beautiful, shiny display case for my booty and not for their intended use. The Thai gods do not seem to want to get me in downward dog - and I am a little offended.

With the Pat Pong market opening after dark, and being on Shar's Bangkok Bucket List I got in some much needed WiFi time at the hostel and we decided to fore go showering or changing, having given up on not being sweaty, shiny and frizzy at all possible moments.

A cab driver with 9 fingers and a joke we wouldn't get understand brought us during rush hour to Pat Pong market, located not far from MBK.

We entered the frenetic market and immediately were met with sensory overload. Bootleg Beats by Dre to the left, open air strip joints with lady boys languidly lounging in the foyer to the right. Flashing lights, club music, the smells of grilling meat and rotting fish filling my nostrils yet not deterring my appetite - this is, more or less, what I expected Bangkok to be. Sex tourism at it's best.

Or worst.

It was once we were presented with a half dozen fliers to witness the pussy ping pong show that we began to realize why our driver had been laughing hysterically by taking us to Pat Pong, ping pong. It was all becoming clear.

Never before have I wandered down a side street and seen a half dozen beautiful young men laid out, displaying themselves on the porch of the massage parlor like a Calvin Klein ad, only a pair of blue jeans were most certainly not what was available for purchase behind those shuttered doors.

I love this shit. I live for this shit - seeing a part of life or a subculture that I am not a part of and not particularly educated in. Every white man who passed me was now, in my opinion, a sexual deviant and any woman with a bit too much rouge had to have been packing heat. Mix with with drugs, alcohol and late night hours and I can only imagine what takes place on these slick city streets.

Oasis would provide us our last meal and a lady boy and a boy lady would take our drink and food orders respectively, though my attention was on the balding British man at the bar who had on powder foundation and a hard on for the dude dressed like splinter from the ninja turtles next to him. In my mind he was married to a nice portly woman back in the UK with blue eyes and silver hair. They had 2 children, a boy and a girl who maybe knew Dad was a bit soft, but would never suspect that his 'business trips' landed him here. Yes, this is what I do when I am out to dinner.

Stomach full and appetite for all things unsavory satiated and it was time to procure yet another tuk tuk and take our last ride back to the hostel before Sharlene's 3am departure the following morning.

This particular driver, who happened to resemble all 3 of my uncles at once, drove a hard bargain and I could see by the glint in his eye he respected my hustle as much as I did his so, once we agreed upon a price it was quickly through the breezy darkened streets of Bangkok, back to our beds and when I awake tomorrow - I am, once again, all alone.

Thanks for sharing this experience and popping my tuk tuk cherry, Shar.