OISHI

I am a foodie. This means I have a particular interest in food, at least that is what the dictionary says a foodie is. When I went to Japan to visit my dear friend Mari, whom I met when she studied abroad at UNC, I spent most of my time laughing, catching up, and savoring food. I think during my entire five days there I ate more than I had in the past month. It is a good thing my vacations are short because I think if I spent any more time in countries I might become the size of a beluga whale.

I hope you enjoy my tastebud tour of Japan.

Udon Noodles:

Mari’s mom is one of the greatest cooks in all of Japan. That is what I think at least. She asked me what Japanese dishes I enjoyed and cooked me my favorites every night for dinner.. and she even made Udon noodles for lunch the first day I got there.

Refreshing. These noodles were almost as rejuvenating to my soul as the 50 degree Tokyo air that I could suck down into my lungs as opposed to the 100 degree polluted stuffy Bangkok air I can barely get down my nose.

The noodles are long like spaghetti noodles, but thicker. They swim in a soup with scrambled egg and dried seaweed chips sprinkled on top. I used my thick plastic chopsticks to pick up the noodles and messily slurp, not only one, but TWO bowls! On the side we had some broccoli tempura, sort of like broccoli dipped in a batter and then fried, with some citrus soy sauce. It was the perfect welcome to Mari’s heartwarming home meal.

Japanese Crepes:

I have many happy crepe memories. My dad makes amazing banana crepes, and my friend Christie’s dad always made us fresh fruit crepes whenever I slept over at her house. On a perfect May day in Paris, my dad and I had crepes at an outdoor café while sipping cafe au laits. In Sydney, at Pancake on the Rocks, I had an unforgettable creation called Chocolate Jewels which was crepes made out of chocolate along with chocolate pancakes. In Thailand we go to Crepes and Co. which has a nutella crepe that makes drool drip down my face almost as much as the chocolate that oozes out of it when I stab my fork in it.

And then there is Japan. One day Mari and I went shopping in Harijuku, where I felt like I was in an anime cartoon as I watched hordes of teenagers walking around dressed up in doll clothes and gothic attire. It was here that Mari wanted me to experience the Japanese crepe.

My mouth watered as I looked at the menu with appealing pictures of each choice. Chocolate, banana, brownie, fruit, cream, ice cream, custard…any of these could be rolled up in a crepe and put in a pink paper wrap. I chose raspberries, strawberries, and blueberries with a base of thick, sweet custard.

Mari giggled at me as I ate my crepe, indulging in each custard and crepe covered berry as we squeezed in the midst of the crazy people of Harijuku. Yet another happy crepe memory to add to my list.



Soba

Mari and I had hiked a peaceful trail through the woods of Kamakura, a small town a little outside Tokyo, exploring the shrines and temples on the hill. The trail had stretched on longer than we thought, so by the time we made it back to the center of town we were famished.

Every single restaurant in this little town sold soba. But every restaurant on the tourist-infested avenue was selling it at exorbitant prices, or so Mari said. It felt like we were in a desert dying of hunger. We could see a mirage of soba in the distance, taunting us, but every time we thought we touched it, it scurried away like an elusive elf. Finally after I was going to suggest we give up and eat some more crepes for lunch, Mari found a reasonable place hidden away at the end of the street.

Im not sure if it was because I was so hungry or because it really was, but soba, a cozy warm noodle soup, is amazing. First I mixed some toppings, like sesame seeds, in the broth. Then I picked the buckwheat noodles out with my chopsticks and loaded them on my ladle along with soba kernels, and special tofu and slurped it all together. After scooping every last drop of the soup and smiling contentedly with Mari I decided soba is the best water in any desert.

Okonomiyaki

After watching a traditional Japanese-style play called Kabuki, in which the stars have been trained from an early age to be performers, it was our turn to put on our own show. Not a Kabuki play of course, since only men perform all the roles in Kabuki, and we weren’t wearing excessive amounts of make-up..but instead we had our own Japanese cooking show.

Each table in the artsy small restaurant we went to for lunch had its very own stove-top to cook okonomiyaki, a Japanese style pancake. These pancakes aren’t a maple syrupy sweet breakfast food, but rather a savory lunch-time delight.

First we fried our pork, which was pretty much a large strip of bacon. Then we covered the bacon with a circle of thick batter loaded with our choice of diced cabbage and other veggies. It sizzled for awhile before we used two large metal spatulas to pick it up on each side and flip over the massive pancake which was the size of a small pizza. Then we slathered a sweet dark sauce over our masterpieces with a little brush.

The best part of the show of course was indulging in the piping hot pancake pizza and chatting with Mari about life...ah, I love the rewards that come with food.

Gyoza

As I said, every night Mari’s mom was so kind to cook us oishi (delicious in Japanese) Japanese dinners. We had chicken katsu, one of my favs, which is breaded chicken that is dipped in hot mustard and the same sweet dark sauce that goes on the Japanese pancake. And we even cooked food on the kitchen table one night in a hot pot full of broth with veggies and pork.

But on my last day Mari and I got to help out Mari’s mom with dinner by making gyozas, a Japanese-style ravioli. First I took a small round sheet of dough that her mom bought at the grocery store and placed it in my hand. Then I wet the edge with water so it would seal when I closed it. After that I added little scoops of a pork veggie mixture to the center of each one. I folded up each side and made creases at the top to make sure the meat stayed in.

Then her mom cooked them in a pan on the stove to brown the dough a little and then added some water and covered them to let them steam. Once they were done, we dipped our squishy half-moon creations in a citrus soy sauce mixture and plopped one after another into our hungry mouths.

Of course mine we easy to pick out because they had big bulges of pork and the creases weren’t centered and squished oddly, but I discovered that gyozas taste amazing whether they are perfectly shaped or deformed.

Krispy Kreme

“Oh! I remember you love Krispy Kreme! What is your favorite doughnut from Krispy Kreme?” I thought it was sort of random of Mari to ask me that when she was visiting me in Bangkok the week before I went to Tokyo. But I decided to not think much of it and told her I LOVED original glazed and chocolate.

A few days before I went to Japan one of my friends from work told me excitedly, "They have Krispy Kreme there! Do you think you could bring me back some?" I asked Mari if they really had it there and she said, "No, I’m not sure where your friend heard that. Sorry.." I was disappointed, and thought maybe Mari was confused but decided to brush it off.

The last day in Japan after our filling dinner of gyozas Mari said that we needed dessert. I was pretty full, but of course I do have a second stomach for dessert, so I was excited to see what it was.

When I saw the beautiful white cardboard box in her hands with the red cursive lettering and green outline I was so delighted I think I screamed.

When I bit into the steaming, sweet, melt-in-my-mouth-taste-of-heaven, my eyes were closed and I couldn't stop making exclamations like, wow, so good, yumm...even in the midst of my bite. Mari and her family were in shock at how ecstatic I was. They were like, I thought you would be excited..but not this excited!

So technically Mari did lie to me..but it was all to surprise me with my long-lost food friend from home I never expected to find in Japan. Her sweet thoughtfulness was what made the doughnut taste 10 times better than any I have ever had.

Next Stops

This weekend Im going to Laos to visit one of my friends, Libby, who I did my CELTA course with back in August. Im so excited to taste her good ol' home cooking and discover what Laos cuisine is like!

Then my next venture is Waxhaw! After teaching an intensive six-week SAT boot camp I will fly home on August 2 and be around until August 23 when I fly back to Bangkok for one more year of teaching.

I can't wait to eat my mom's chiliaquiles and eat my dad's banana pancakes :)

...I couldn't upload more pics yet because my connection is slow..but if you want see more go to:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2229701&l=2beb0&id=2701334
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2229702&l=c026c&id=2701334

Waxhaw and Sukhothai

Bangkok. New York. London. Paris. Rome. These big city names stand-alone and don’t need any extra titles dangling behind to give more oomph.

I’m driving down two lane Providence Road forever when I finally come upon the brown metal sign with white lettering, “Welcome to Waxhaw, Home of the Waxhaw Indians.”

Once I cross the railroad tracks and make a right at the one stoplight in town onto Main Street I come upon another sign, “Waxhaw, the birthplace of the 7th president of the United States, Andrew Jackson.” Ironically he was also a forceful proponent of Indian removal. But surprisingly that isn’t mentioned on the sign.

Waxhaw wants to make sure visitors know why they should visit and do this by explaining itself on signs. But most Waxhaw citizens are proud to not be from one of those big-name cities. They enjoy keeping their community cozy and kicking out anything that may interfere with the friendly small-town feel.

Maybe that is why there still isn’t a Wal-Mart in Waxhaw, even though I’m sure the dreaded day is on its way. I can picture the approaching endless debates at town meetings, write-ups all over the Waxhaw Gazette, and newscasters broadcasting interviews of irate citizens on Channel 9, “More traffic, more taxes, less small businesses! NO!”

It seems that every week on the out-skirts of Waxhaw new housing developments pop-up with new shopping centers next-door, slowly inching their way to the heart of the town. But until the cow pasture next to the post office is turned into a parking deck, I’m convinced Waxhaw is still a small-town.

Sukhothai used to be the old capital of Thailand. When I was going to visit my boyfriend Dominic’s hometown, that is the line I told my friends from home who had never heard of it, yet again, adding a title to make a small-town worthy of a visit.

The town reminded me so much of my own Waxhaw. Dominic and I popped around on his friend’s red Honda motorbike to an internet café, 7-11, drink stalls, and restaurants to visit where Dominic’s old friends worked. We even stopped by the video game store where he worked as a teenager. Everyone asked him how his grandma was and what was new. And they all discussed “The Big C.”

The Big C is not a bad word that you shorten by saying The Big C, but it’s a shopping center chain, reminiscent of a Wal-Mart Super center. It has everything you need, and is open even until 11 p.m., so you can get things whenever you want. Wow!

But like there will be in Waxhaw, there was debate about the rise of the bright green sign with red letters spouting Big C on the edge of town. The quaint stores even displayed posters in Thai spouting, “No to the Big C!” But unlike Waxhaw, it came.

The first weekend I went to Sukhothai everyone was discussing the Big C being built. The next month when I went, it had opened. During that visit, everything was Big C. I saw pictures at Dominic’s teacher’s house of the never before seen traffic on the road the day it opened. There wasn’t one person we met who didn’t mention it somehow in the conversation. We also went to it three times in two days.

While wandering the aisles I felt I was in an American superstore again, minus the rice cookers everywhere, the meat sitting unpackaged ready to be picked through and peering at packages of coagulated chicken blood which always looks to me like chocolate mousse. And of course near the checkout we ran into Dominic’s old friends he hadn’t seen since college. I was struck with Waxhawness like crazy.

I know that the small businesses in Sukhothai are stressed out, but I can’t say that it wasn’t nice to sit at Swenson’s (an “American” ice-cream parlor) and eat chocolate ice cream and buy Tupperware and bug spray without having to go to a million different random stores.

But Sukhothai doesn’t just have a Big C. I think as long as the ancient ruins still rise on the horizon and visitors come from afar to visit and leave telling everyone how they just went to Sukhothai,Thailand’s old capital, it will still be a small town.

And that makes me happy. Almost as much as Waxhaw home of the Waxhaw Indians AND the 7th president of the United States makes me happy.

TARGET

target: a person, object, or place selected as the aim of an attack. an objective or result toward which efforts are directed .

It started out so innocently. Nan and Alice, two of my friends from work, and I wanted to go dancing Saturday night at RCA, a popular dance spot. I called them and set up plans to meet them there, and I hailed a bright pink taxi to take me to the strip for 60 baht.

As we neared the brightly lit road, the taxi man kept trying to tell me something in Thai about where he should drop me off. Im working on honing my Thai skills, but they still aren't up to the level of understanding a fast-talking taxi man. So I did my usual smile and nod to whatever he said, pretending like I understood, and was dropped off at a random area of RCA that I hadn't wandered before.

I was not alone though. My sparkly, silver shoes had barely touched the broken pavement when I was taken up into a sea of people. When I write sea, I really do mean a sea. I felt as though I was stuck in a rip tide of the ocean and couldn't swim away no matter how feebly my little arms tried to fight against the powerful waves. I was stuck. Eventually I gave up trying to tread against the tide, and allowed myself to float with the people waves.

Not only was I stuck in a swell that felt as mighty as a stormy sea, but also as I was pulled along I felt as though I was drowning in not just any ocean, but an wintry ice-cold ocean. This is because as I was dragged along, around every two seconds I would get buckets of cold water doused on me, or piercing cold jet streams shot at me. Then in the midst of the water attacks, once the assailants saw my white face, and they would evilly smirk and merrily shriek, "Farang!" and smear white plasterish stuff all over my face. I was helpless, alone, plasterfaced and soaked.

The reason for the water war was not to torture Sherri, but because the second week of April was Songkran, the Thai new year. My typical American celebration of the New Year looks quite different: drinking sparkling grape juice and playing random games to pass the time until midnight when we watch the ball drop in Times Square on TV. The Thai celebration lasts for a few days, and everyone has off of work and are free to have water fights all day and night long. The water symbolizes a way Buddhists bless each other. But the main target of attack are foreigners, hence why everyone rejoiced when they saw my white face in an area where mostly Thais hang out.

So after 45 minutes of drowning in the Thai sea of celebration, frantically calling Nan and Alice on my wet cellphone while the crowd and music are blasting around me, I finally found them. I hugged them, so happy to not be alone, and then it was time for vengeance. We bought some water guns and I saw why Songkran is so fun after squirting and laughing with everyone.

I love how the whole city celebrates and has fun together. My favorite part was riding the sky train at night and seeing hordes of dripping people with disheveled hair and white plaster smeared all over them, holding an array of brightly colored water guns, shivering in the train's A/C, but radiating merriment. It beats grape juice and a silver ball dropping any day..:)

Good to know if you are ever in Thailand during Songkran: Be prepared to get soaked no matter where you are or what you are doing. Going to work, or going to dance, you will get wet, so dress appropriately, and always have a water gun in hand.

Stray Monkeys

Soi dogs always prowl the side roads (sois) of Bangkok, and now I know a few that live near my apartment. There is one who wears a black cage over his mouth, and he reminds me of Hannibal Lecter. At first he freaked me out, but now I just give him a glare if he looks fiesty and keep meandering by. The other one wanders the main busy street at night. He is a beautiful Dalmatian, with some extra colors added to his black and white spots, perhaps by his bored owners who work at one of the food stalls.

Of course dogs aren't the only creatures that wander the streets..there are also skinny cats, plump rats, ginormous cockroaches, and of course elephants. They always freak me out a bit. I will be looking down, focusing so hard on not tripping on the uneven sidewalk, then I will glance up to find a huge elephant standing before me tagging behind his owner..which then of course leads to me clumsily tripping..



And on Monday when I visited Lopburi I found yet another member to add to the menagerie of soi life..monkeys! After a two-hour van ride from Bangkok, my boyfriend Dominic and I stepped out the van to find monkeys begging for food right on the street while others skittered along the electric wires above us. I kept wondering if they were going to poop on us. Heehee..The ones on the sidewalk were like goats, chowing down on anything and everything that happened to be littering the pavement. One even stole Dominic's water bottle and was chomping on the cap, trying to twist it off with his broken yellow teeth. I tried to get near him, but he leapt at me, shooting bullets at me with his fierce eyes, so I decided to leave and give him a little personal space with his water bottle.



The most monkey-infested area we visited was at Prang Sam Yot, which is the ruins of an old Buddhist temple. Lopburi was the old capital of Thailand, even before it was Thailand, over 700 years ago. So there are many old ruins around that have been rebuilt from the olden days.

A cute, pudgy Thai lady was our tour guide to help protect us from the evil, vicious monkeys, and guide us to the cute, tame ones we could pet and feed. For 20 baht I bought two bags of sunflower seeds to feed the small, grey gangly inhabitants of the temple grounds.

The first time I tried to feed one his little fingers grabbed hastily at the seeds in my hand, making me flip out and run away. Heehee...but as we kept touring I calmed down a bit..until the lady let me hold a wooden stick and swing three monkeys on it. It was good fun until a monkey jumped on my back, and gripped onto my purse strap. I screamed and they all fell off the stick, and of course we all started cracking up.




But what freaked me out the most was when I was getting my picture taken next to one, and he decided my sweaty, pulled back hair needed some help. He put his little hands in my hair, and started to pull on my ponytail. I screamed and fled, laughing hard once again.

There was such a wide variety, some had bulging stomachs, others, were skinny and slow, some were fast and springy, but the ones that were the most bizarre were the babies. They looked like E.T. to me, huge ears that enveloped their faces and little bony bodies covered with translucent gray skin. Wow, I think they could be in a new scary animal for some horror flick.

It is fun to see monkeys spice up the street life of Thailand mainly because Buddhists traditionally don't believe in killing animals, hence the soi dogs, and cats..and perhaps cockroaches, and rats too? Whatever the reason, I'm just glad I got to play with some monkeys for a day.

inexplicable

I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that these people were kicked out of their countries. I can’t believe how messed up all their governments are. I can’t believe all the lies the news media feeds us from what is really going on in their homelands. I can’t believe that many of them can NEVER return to their homes, to the places they grew up and became who they are. I can’t believe that most people in the West don’t know and don’t really ever think about them.

I can’t believe how blessed I am to have grown up in America. I can’t believe that if I had grown up in many other countries I would not have the freedoms I have today as a woman in society. I can’t believe it.

To try to help my brain figure it all out, I have to talk it out. Alice and I will talk and talk as we walk out the faded pale blue metal doors with the UNCHR insignia stamped on them.

We walk down the small soi while few kids from the refugee center kick a homemade ball around us. We talk about how astonished we are at the stories we just heard.

We get in the hot-pink taxi and go to the subway pondering what we can do, wondering how they can live like that.

We hop on the subway and zip below the city feeling remorse for them, and guilt sometimes at how much we take for granted.

We climb the steps to the skytrain and slowly we realize that we can’t mull on it forever and now we need to go to a café and maybe type some emails and prep some of our lessons for the week ahead.

Many times I just have all these feelings and wonder what actions I can do to accompany them and solve all the problems of the world that I am hit in the face with every Tuesday afternoon.

Waiting. Waiting for the U.N to make its decision. Waiting for the war to end. Waiting for my husband to get a passport. Waiting for immigration to remember us. Waiting for the police to discover us or to flee before they can. Waiting.

Many people throw this word in the air to describe how they waited 20 minutes in gnawing hunger for their meal until the incompetent waitress brought it. Or they waited at the bus stop in the blustering cold before it finally skidded to a stop before them. Or they waited for the guy or girl they liked to call for hours until he or she remembered their existence.

“Waiting” is an occurrence that comes and goes and soon becomes something someone whines about to her friends over lunch. Yet, for a refugee, this word is used to describe their entire existence. They have entered a waiting room and have been there so long they have just become a part of the decor.

The refugee waiting room that I peek through the window of every week takes place as the Bangkok Refugee Center. Since October, on most Tuesdays, Alice and I spend an hour and a half playing games, pronouncing words in American English, smiling and trying to love kids from Nepal, Sri Lanka, Laos, Cambodia, Congo, and any other conflict torn country.

Alice and I never feel like we do much. We always feel totally unprepared every week and wonder if we really are doing anything to help these kids learn how to pronounce English properly. Are we just wasting their time by being there?

But then I was reminded, how can you waste a refugees time? That is the one thing they have to spare.

When I ask the refugees I meet if they miss their home country, everyone has said yes. A place where their lives were at stake, where the government destroyed their homes, where they lost their family and friends everyday, they miss that place. They want to return home.

When I ask if they like Thailand, the most common reply is no. They don’t like the food, the weather, how expensive everything is. But this is a place where they are free from persecution, from death, from tyranny. But they don’t like it. They want to return home.

When I ask where they are going next their eyes get a little brighter. Maybe Norway, I have a sister who lives there now. Or maybe Canada because Cantonese is the third most common spoken language. Or California. I have an uncle who works at McDonald’s, and he really enjoys it.

But if you had the chance would you rather go home? Yes.

A man from the Congo told me how at home they have perfect weather, not too hot or cold, which is ideal for exploring the huge forests and open areas he misses. Everyone has free electricity and water. I still don’t understand how that works but it is something to do with the government giving electricity and water away to other countries. There are diamonds everywhere. One morning you could find one, take it to someone and get $10,000. He had so many opportunities. He kept repeating, so many opportunities. He misses his family and friends who are still there. Will you ever go back? I hope so, but I don’t know. Where will you go next? I don’t know. I don’t know. I miss home.

To never be able to go home again to your favorite places. To see your favorite people. I don’t really miss America most of the time. But to envision never ever returning again. To never see anyone from my past life. I can’t imagine it.

I’m sure if the refugees came here on their own they would love this place. It is not the place that they don’t like, but it is their situation. Forced to flee a place they never wanted to leave to go somewhere they care nothing about. What a different perspective from people who travel here from all over the world just to see Bangkok. The refugees could care less about the Grand Palace, about having their first taste of real pad thai, about riding an elephant. They want to be home eating their food around their families table even while war rages outside their window. It is amazing how being forced to be somewhere and being there out of your own volition changes your perspective on the place. Wow.

This week after teaching we had lunch with a man from Iran. He told us how he became a Christian in Thailand, but when he was in Iran he hated Islam. He hated how it enforced so many rules on society. You can’t sit in that chair because a woman sat there, you cant wear white socks because that is Westernized fashion, you cant roll up your sleeve and show your skin. You can’t…He was sick of it and of this God that forced people to follow so many rules.

He said many people are like him in Iran, many people dislike the government and the religion, but they can’t do anything about it because if they do they get killed. He said people in Iran love Americans. If I went there they would treat me better than most Iranians get treated. He said when 9/11 happened many people held candlelight vigils and then the army came in and arrested them. He said he news media from Iran tries to show how all Iranians hate Americans but it is all propaganda. I was in shock. I couldn’t believe it.

I have been going to the refugee center for the past months and always want to write something about it, but my words never seem to be enough and I can never get out my ideas of what I really feel and what I really want to say. So I have decided to just write and say something, which is better than saying nothing at all.

So I hope this helps someone understand a little more of what I will never understand.

NO BIG DEAL

Normalcy. Wow. I discovered recently that I’m reaching that state after living in Bangkok for six months. Six months..no way.

The street vendors with an array of food, drinks and fruits used to captivate me. I was like a child in a candy store for the first time. Wanting to try everything, and not knowing where to start, overflowing with curiosity.

Now when I walk past the vendors, the smells of basil, peanut oil, and spices that make my eyes water are like the smell of pajamas I have slept in a few days---familiar and cozy, not startling. Now when I see the different carts I wonder why there isn’t more. Why is it I can only find the coconut ice cream man when I don’t want it, and he is elusive when I do want it?

After experiencing, tasting and searching, I now have favorites… like basil and pork over rice. I adore how it’s spicy flavor stays long after the last bite has passed through my flaming lips. Or green mango dipped in sugar and spice. The fresh taste mixed with the dip gives it zing. Or chayen, iced Chinese tea with sweetened condensed milk, which its dark orange liquid has left its mark many a time on my shirts.

An elephant ambling down the street as I'm eating dinner at an open-air restaurant makes me smile, but not want to frantically whip out my camera to get a picture of the mysterious beast. The gentle but strong creature is now like a cute dog walking with its owner on the street. I think how nice, maybe I can pet it. Then I do and move on.

When I see people bowing randomly on the street because they have passed a Buddhist god of some sort I acknowledge it as much as someone would when they see passer-by wave at a friend. The remnants of Starbucks drinks, sodas, and street food mixed with smoking incense in front of the idols are just another part of the scenery.

Zipping my Skytrain pass over the sensor is so part of my routine that I get it out even when I go on the subway…even though I can’t use it there. Then I casually sit in the bright yellow seats and stare at the tourists flipping maps around, pointing at the signs on the trains, wondering where to get off. But I have now timed my exit perfectly. I know that exactly two seconds after the train stops I can stand and smoothly walk out precisely when the doors open.

Seeing beautiful Thai women with old, geeky farang men everywhere is a sight that used to shock me, but now I just feel anger about the injustice. Now it is hard for me not to assume that every older white man I see is just in this land of freedom to find the companionship and love in a poor Thai women that he couldn’t find back home.

It is no big deal to get a 1,000 baht bill and then immediately search for a 7/11 to buy something like water for 8 baht so I can get change. I know that all the street vendors taxis, and motorcycles would moan and groan and show me they cant give me any change if I were to give them such a large bill.

I am used to sweating, sweating, sweating when I step outside even though it is January. Yet, I still always forget to bring a jacket when I go to cafés and am constantly shivering and then hit with the shock of hotness once I amble outside.

Discovering a bathroom with not only toilet paper, but soap AND paper towels is now like winning the lottery and is new gossip I tell my friends. “No way, we need to go to that restaurant/café more often!”

I forget how KFC in America has biscuits and mac and cheese. Now I get spicy chicken Thai-style on rice, and maybe even the fried sushi roll. Ahh, but once I remember about the biscuits, my mouth does water a bit. =)

I have reached the state of being able to ride side-saddle on a motorcycle taxi while gripping the handle behind the seat and holding my burdensome laptop bag with my other hand, as the wind makes my skirt fly a bit. Squeezing between the cars, buses and taxis while performing my balancing act is not an intense scene from an action movie any longer. The taxi is now my chariot ride to work.


Yes, I did step out of my comfort zone to come here, but now this place is becoming my comfort zone. It is hard because I have never been in a country long enough for this to happen, so I wonder as I become comfortable, what else I will learn in these next months I am here.

Ahh, but one thing that still isn’t normal for me is the Thai language. I feel I have gone backwards instead of forwards at times and wonder if I will ever figure out the puzzle of this sing-song tonal language that no matter how I say a word it never is right. Maybe I should get a tutor. I’m looking into that. I can’t wait until it becomes normal for me to carry on a conversation in Thai and not think twice about it.

Wow, I can’t imagine. But then I couldn’t imagine ever feeling comfortable riding on a motorcycle wearing a skirt…so there is always hope! =)

Preparing Paradise

---i enjoyed getting to know some of the students more and becoming more adjusted to teaching SAT writing after a long 9 days of teaching an intense SAT boot camp..but my soul and body were yearning for a break by the last sunday when we entered into our 4 day holiday...the longest break i have had yet. i have been dreaming to go to ko phi phi ever since i got here. to see the idyllic beach where "the beach" was filmed, snorkel in emerald waters while playing with florescent fish, and of course lay out on the white-washed soft sand by the cool lapping waters..and i got to do it all...and here is a lil excerpt of my time----


Empty as a baseball stadium after the big game ended. The fans are gone, but their remnants are left: ends of hot dogs on the ground, nacho cheese dripping off chairs, and toilet paper decorating the bath-rooms. The workers are the only ones speckled around the seats, cleaning up the mess and preparing for the next big game.

This was Ko Phi Phi, Thailand at 7 a.m. I had arisen early, long before my friends, and was eager to go for a run on the white slip-through-your-toes soft sand, and gaze at the tall, bush covered forest green limestone cliffs gaping over the emerald waters. Ahh, paradise.

I left our wee bungalow and walked across the sandy, brick pathway to the shoreline as the humidity already began to suck the sweat out of me and leave a mark on my turquoise sleeveless shirt.

Stepping on the beach, I realized it wasn’t quite as picturesque as the day before when we had arrived. The sand didn’t look as sparkling amidst the plastic Pepsi bottles, random broken flip-flops, and every few meters an occasional Chang (Thai beer) dark brown glass bottle. And I was the only farang (foreigner) as far as I could see.

Last night I had forgotten for a few hours that tall, stocky people with pale skin and strong accents aren’t the main populace of Thailand. The hordes of farangs from Europe and America in Ko Phi Phi who populate every seaside restaurant, and sunbathe topless on every beach, had brainwashed me into thinking that these creatures are the true natives of Thailand.

But as I dashed down the beach with the sea-breeze grasping my frizzy morning hair, I remembered, “Oh yeah, Thais are the natives of this island, not farangs.”

I was hit with this fact as I ran by the long tail boat taxis. The taxis seemed enchanted and as if they were bobbing in the air because the water was so translucent. The boats were anchored to the shore through long ropes stretched across the sand. Six or seven taxi men were regaling stories in Thai while sitting in a circle around the boats. They were probably discussing how silly farangs are when I dashed by, yet another one to add to their list.

One of them pointed at me, and started to shout something in Thai, which led to everyone else chuckling. I was trying to run even faster to escape their points and stares, pretending I was sprinting the last lap in a 100 meter, when I didn’t see one of the ropes tautly stretched across the sand. I stumbled over it, skidding my knee across the terrain, falling on my face.

Laughter erupted from the Thai men as my cheeks began to look like most every other white person’s face on the island after a day in the sun. I immediately got up without even brushing off my sand smeared legs and ran even faster, now stumbling and leaping over black rocks that stuck out of the ocean, the laugher spurring me on.

No one really wakes up before 9 a.m. in Ko Phi Phi unless they are Thai. And no one ever runs on the beach unless they are a Thai person running away from an Adaman sea monster. And considering those don’t really exist I guess no one runs here and I’m the biggest freak ever. These thoughts were tumbling through my mind as I reached the end of the rocks, around the bend and out of sight from the hecklers. This is when I decided to walk. I was tired of the stares.

But as I walked I discovered I wasn’t the only farang awake on the island and the others were the most amusing stars of the Ko Phi Phi show at 7 a.m.

I meandered past an Italian couple sitting at a table, which would have a perfect spot for a beautiful view of the water and stars at sunset, which is most likely when they had begun sitting there. A night of drinks by the waters edge had transformed their starry eyes into bloodshot red orbs, and their smooth, sweet Italian was now rolling together into indecipherable murmurs.

Later on, I found another couple sprawled on the beach, speaking in English with a thick British accent. The woman was begging the man to tell her “the story.” He said, “That isn’t something one says to a lady at the sunrise of Ko Phi Phi!” She prodded and poked him, much to his delight, pleading for it anyways.

But other than the few drunken farangs, every morning of my stay, I felt like a white, young girl and Thais were the only ones who inhabited Ko Phi Phi.

As I strolled through the quaint alleys in the beach town the only traffic was a few bicycles rattling down the path. Most of the locals I came across would give me a smile that “Thailand--The Land of Smiles” is famous for, and say, “Good Morning! How are you?”

I’m used to the Thais who inhabit Bangkok, who are like the people in most other big cities in the world, they are friendly only when they have to be and tough most other times.


But on this island because of their welcoming greetings, I felt like I was back in the southern America where everyone says, “How y’all doing?” to anyone passing by within a foot’s radius. I guess southern hospitality corresponds not only to America but southern Thailand as well.

Most of the friendly Thais were eating a breakfast of rice soup, chicken and rice, or noodles at rusted tables sitting on faded plastic chairs. They were getting the croissants and jam, and English beans and eggs ready for the rest of the island’s inhabitants. The shopkeepers were listening to Thai radio stations as they put out sarongs, sunscreen, and postcards on their stall fronts. Men from one shop were chatting with their shop neighbors, smiling as the sun pierced their eyes, making the sandy street glow.

The rest of their day is intense for the Thais in which they serve the every whim and wish of the tourist. But at least they have the mornings to themselves, to remind them who they are and to cling to it.

And it turns out I wasn’t the only conscious farang on Ko Phi Phi in the early morning. One day I did find a beach on the other side of the island where freaks like me were running. Of course I joined them because I can’t forget who I am either. And maybe one day those Thai taxi men will try running on the beach and see how refreshing it is. But at least they will know not to trip on the ropes. I’m glad I could give them some tips.