A Diamond in the Rough

“We met at a nightclub,” she admits, head falling into her hands.

“Let’s rearrange the alphabet so that U and I are closer together!” he recalls triumphantly.

“And seven years later!” She holds up her newly adorned ring finger incredulously.

We were returning from a Thai cooking class, packed in the back of a covered flatbed with a crew of culinary colleagues who had been strangers in the morning. The wedding stories began pouring out, building momentum with each uproar of laughter. The honeymooners, in their superbly exaggerated British accents and candid, unashamed account of the nuptials, held back nothing. He painted an image of their wedding photos, flavored by “moonies” revealing the Superman underwear he wore beneath his kilt. She laughed recalling how his Scottish relatives had followed her down the aisle, a poorly timed attempt to slip in unnoticed, arriving late after a night of drinking that had concluded at 6:30 that morning. These two knew how to party.

On October 6^th, 28 years ago, Sheila Connelly and Rick Nawalinski celebrated their own wedding. Though kiltless, there were bagpipes, and it was one for the ages. There are many things I’ve come to realize while abroad – how much I appreciate hot showers, seatbelts, and reliable electricity, how exceptional my education has been, how lucky I am to have been encouraged in athletics as a young girl – but chief among this laundry list is how precious it is to have two parents. I’m not sure why it took a year abroad to fully grasp that, but I finally have a firm handle and I’m holding on tight. Sufficient gratitude for my parents feels impossible to convey, especially here.

“What’s your favorite food?” a wool-capped munchkin asks me thoughtfully.

“Blueberries,” I reply intently.

“Mine’s momos. What’s your favorite color?”

“Yellow.”

“Hm,” she processes my answer. “Mine’s sky blue...and green. Do you have a mother?"

“Yes.”

“And a father?”

“Yes.”

“I just have a mother. Are there mountains in your village?”

At Jhamtse Gatsal, a children’s community in a remote corner of northeast India, the blessing of two parents who love each other and love me has come into sharp focus. Each of the kids, from toddlers to teens, was brought here out of dire necessity. Many have single parents. Some have none. I have two. And a newfound, deep-seated understanding of the preciousness of that reality.

This haven is a diamond in an expansive rough. After arrival  in Guwahati is a five hour drive to Tezpur. And that’s the easy part.  The next leg is a 17 hour drive along switchbacks through the mountains. Four girls packed across three seats, we left before sunrise and arrived long after sunset. Exceptionally long and exceptionally beautiful, the drive was a painstaking roller coaster ride through Arunachal Pradesh towards Bhutan. Along the treacherous roads, we passed Border Roads Organization signs emblazoned with “BRO” and witty slogans like, “Better Mr. Late than Late Mr.” Seasoned drivers must pass these signs littering the rocky route, "BRO. Be Gentle On My Curves,” thinking, “More like, ‘the funds for the repair of these pothole-ridden roads are pocketed against your curves’...” The man power behind BRO is not man power at all. It’s girl power. It’s women crushing rocks with sledge hammers. It’s humbling.

Though arriving in the dark of night, the shining faces of the students and staff provided the brightest of welcomes. Lobsang, the monk behind the mission, placed a brilliantly white scarf around my neck and enveloped me in a bear hug. A chorus of, “good evening madam!” followed me the whole way to the dining hall, where a cup of hot chai capped a day that felt like a dream. I slipped effortlessly into genuine dreams the moment my head hit the pillow.

In the morning, after a breakfast of buttered and honeyed roti prepared and served by a kitchen staff that revolutionized my idea of graciousness, Lobsang gave us a tour of their mountaintop campus and a glimpse into the philosophy of the place. Jhamtse Gatsal translates to “garden of love and compassion”. Kids are planted here after being uprooted from destructive family environments. They are nurtured and they thrive. Lobsang noted that as with seeds, where water, sunlight, and fresh mountain air help them to grow strong but cannot determine their kind or color, so with children. Care and compassion allow them to grow as they are. It was a refreshing perspective having grown up watching too many daises being pressed into rose molds and getting mangled in the process.

The hilltop home to the school buildings is framed by Tibetan prayer flags, symbolic of the community’s benevolent prayers being carried off to the world on the wind, a whimsical idea that struck a chord deep within me. Every school day began in prayer, the students chanting in Bhoti. The Indian national anthem followed, sung in Hindi. Then the kids headed to class, chatting in their native Mompa, toting English textbooks. Language, like the mountains framing this scenic sanctuary, never ceases to amaze me. Neither do quad-lingual six-year-olds. Three different languages, each with a different character system, plus one, Mompa, that is unwritten. It’s staggering that they can make sense of it all. These baby geniuses have had me laughing since the moment I arrived. There’s nothing as grounding as the perspective of a child. They’ve brought me back to the girl who used to think she could see atoms when rays of sunlight caught dust particles midair.

In the afternoon, on my final day at Jhamtse, I descended a ridge along the feet of the colossal Himalayas, a path that once bore the steps of religious pilgrims. I snapped pictures with a wrist newly garlanded in a sleeve of handmade multicolored yarn bracelets. What I captured was the image of four Tribe athletes walking before me. Solid footsteps to follow in. We reached an overhang and rested, high above the valley, as the sun sank back toward the mountaintops. We talked about good reads, Christmas movies, and educational systems as the river raged, almost inaudibly, far below us. I felt like a speck up there, but a speck in a really powerful position. I am one on a planet of billions, but I have opportunities and resources that have placed me on the mountaintop. It is an astonishing blessing and grave responsibility to use that power wisely.

To the two who brought this speck into existence, happy anniversary. Thanks for supporting this wild flower in her wild ride. Sending love and appreciation on the winds of southeast Asia.

See ya in five days.

The veiw from above

Brittany and I had a fabulous final night in Bangkok. We donned dresses, hopped a cab and an elevator to a rooftop restaurant overlooking the city, talked about future adventures and uncertanties over cocktails and cuisine. Capped by a jar of Nutella, it was an evening of indulgence.

Then we went to Kolkata.

Kolkata, formerly "Calcutta", fits my preconceived notions of India, almost as if its inhabitants are trying to prove that the assumptions are correct. The intensity of the city is overwhelming. The honking is incessant, the traffic erratic. Rickshaws are a legitimate form of transportation. Plump, peaceful cows share space with with gaunt, grimy men. Exotic and toxic scents rise with the sun. Sidewalks are showers and stoves, bedrooms and barbershops, playgrounds and pastures.The meat displayed by roadside butchers is enough to make Ronald McDonald go vegetarian. Blowtorches blaze and shopkeepers shout. This place is just raw. And exploding with people. People unlike Thais. Here, I think, you learn to trample so as not to be trampled. Women wear beautiful saris, elaborate gold jewelry, and expressions hardened by years of hardship. Men bathe in communal bathes and relieve themselves in exposed urinals, the waste flowing out to the street beside the curb. I saw a man laying along one of these filthy streams, motionless, eyes open and glazed, blood trickling from somewhere beneath his head. While traveling, I love to hear people's "stories", in a romantic sort of way - where they come from, how they got here, where they dream to go next. But I didn't want to know this man's story - where he came from, how he got there, if he dared to dream. I didn't know if I could bear the weight of his story. The remnants of colonialism - crumbling classic architecture, retro rusty taxis, chipping hand-painted signs - hint at what the city once was, and expose the helplessness that must have been felt by those who watched it fade. It's like nowhere I've ever seen, nowhere I could have imagined.

Fresh off a year in a Buddhist country, I watched men erect monuments to the Hindu goddess Durga as Islamic prayers echoed through loudspeakers on my way to the Mother House of the Missionaries of Charity, founded by Mother Teresa. Heading to Mass at five something in the morning, two volunteers walked ahead of me, chatting. They approached a man sleeping on the sidewalk, only a small gap between his heels and the curb. Without a break in conversation, the girls passed over him, one slipping through the gap, the other stepping over the man's shins. A young Indian man reached the man at the same time but from the opposite direction. He paused for a moment as the girls passed over, then rounded the man's heels in their wake. There are limits to the stretch of human dignity and in Kolkata, it seems, casually stepping over a man who struggles each day to see the next is one of them.

Minutes later we walked silently into a chapel full of Sisters of the Missionaries of Charity, wrapped in those characteristic blue-trimmed saris. They are emmissaries of love in this chaotic city. Their work feels like purifying the Ganges one cup at a time, pouring the cleansed back into the contaminated and watching it dissipate. It is selfless and often thankless. They carry on Mother Teresa's legacy, but without the notoriety and recognition. They do small things with great love. Things like laundry.

Each morning after Mass and a breakfast of bananas, bread and chai, Brit and I boarded a bus to Daya Dan, a Missionaries of Charity home for dozens of children with mental and physical disabilities. We arrived, climbed the stairs to a rooftop quite unlike the one in Bangkok, and began sorting laundry under the blue Kolkata sky. Surprisingly, it became our haven. Above the noise and disorder, we got to be productive and we got to be together. We spoke profoundly and chatted light-heartedly, touching on social issues to be inherited by our generation and reminiscing about the glory days of college. We laughed remembering how we'd griped about laundry at school. "I want to go to Swem, but I have so much laundry to do." Oh, the agony! But I never really had laundry to do. I had clothes to put in a machine and a button to push. It wasn't until this week, atop a roof, stomping sheets in a bucketful of soapy water and disinfectant, that I had ever really done laundry. Sheets that would be rinsed, wrung, hung, and folded, then soiled again and returned to the roof. This was real laundry. This was endless laundry.

We leave Kolkata in the morning. This place has chewed me up and spit me out, challenging me in ways that felt unwelcome at first, but essential with time. The world is wild and endlessly interesting, but not always in a fascinating or beautiful way. There are places sliding backwards as the world progresses around them, places that have tasted development then deteriorated to squalor, places that are tough to see and important to see. Places like Kolkata.

Those who've come before

A sea of rice fields sprawl out before us. A man works diligently, repeatedly thrashing a bundle of stalks into the ground, each impact releasing more of the kernels that hold Asia's wheat. He's a provider in the purest sense of the word. The rice that he's harvesting is not for sale. It's for his family. Ideally it will last them through the first eight months of the upcoming year. He labors in a valley cradled by mountains that emerge like natural skyscrapers, shards of earth so steep that they don't seem passable from below. But they are and we make our way toward them. I'm flanked by Brittany Lane and Anna Kayes. Dense trees replace the open valley air, butterflies flit gracefully around our ankles, mocking our impending struggle in the kindest of ways, and we begin to climb. The path is rocky and steep, but also lush, and beautiful in the way only nature can be. Our guide falls back, curiously allowing me to take the lead. I follow the beaten track up the mountainside. A clay-colored trail pressed into the ancient rocks, it's a path used many times by those who came before me. And those who came before me were remarkable examples of the human spirit. They were Lao farmers. The same people I'd seen toiling in the valley below. They came barefoot with bags of rice on their backs. Forty kilograms for the women, sixty for the men. An unthinkable feat. Young, healthy and unburdened, we walked for almost an hour, up and over, and it felt more like rock climbing than hiking. The thought of their efforts consumed my mind, trying to grasp the mental fortitude it would take to make that trek four times in a single day. I followed their footsteps down the backside of the mountain to the primary school at its base, past a gaggle of single-shoes boys launching their sandals toward a pile of rubber bands. I smiled at their resourcefulness and imagination, but continued onward, nipping at the heels of those elusive human spirits. There are days, moments, like these, that seem impossible to forget. The sheer magnitude of my fortune seems too grand to ever lose sight of. But the vision of those farmers from that mountainside perspective inevitably fades, as does the sense of marvel as those who have come before me. But for now, I'm hot on their trail, following those spirits out of their homeland, back to Thailand and on to India, inspired by their strength, drive to provide and will to survive. 

Who Runs the World? Girls.

To say that I’m good at soccer would be a bold face lie. But Anna’s really good at soccer. I mean really good. They asked her to start a girls’ team here and I jumped on the bandwagon. I’ll admit I’m a groupie, but I’ll take what I can get. And what I can get are the M1’s, equivalent to U.S. seventh graders. Anywhere from 5 to 15 of them show up from 4:30 to 5:30 after school Monday through Thursday. They come equipped with either comically oversized jerseys or their school uniforms, plus cleats, school shoes, or no shoes at all. “Ooh” plays goalie most of the time and lays along the goal line in a model pose when she’s not getting any action. We have a special mid-air double-high-five routine that we do whenever our team scores a goal. “Noi” is adorable and spastic. I’ve recently discovered that she has a budding relationship with one of the M1 soccer boys who always tries to crash our practice. She comes every day without fail. “Nong” is a gem, but took a while to open up. She was quiet and passive at first, but has blossomed into the bubbly, steady, skillful kid that I now know her as. “Naam” gets back on defense with the consistency of a trained professional. She’s kind, soft-spoken, and wonderful. “Lim” is a powerhouse and a total sass. One time she ran full speed into the fence at the end of the futsal court trying to save a ball from going over the end line. I like her style. “Bee 1” kicked my bare shin so hard on day one of practice that it was bruised for a week. She kicked a ball at my face on day two. She’s tenacious. She brings a bag of Pepsi to practice every day and ties it to my water bottle before grabbing a ball and heading out to the field. Once the Pepsi’s gone, I’ll inevitably hear, “Teacher?” across the field as she holds up my brimming bottle. She has a face you can’t say no to. “Bee 2” is a total giggle monster. She’s constantly colliding with people and bursting into hysterics at the pile-ups that result. “Na” screams more often than she speaks. Somehow she spends half the time sitting in the middle of field and puts half the goals in the back of the net. “Gahn” is incredibly athletic, wiry and speedy with a shot like a laser beam. She’s also a total hot dog. She can’t stay on her feet for more than two minutes. One day after practice, she set up four balls in a line and started doing footwork through them, totally unprompted, most likely an inspiration from the boys’ drills that had been going on alongside our field earlier. I watched her dance her way through the balls, thinking back to days that I’d griped my way through those same drills in college, unable to fully grasp what a privilege it was to be competing at that level, to be training as an athlete. I’ll never be pushed that hard again. Gahn will most likely never be pushed that hard. Ever. That was a tough pill to swallow, one I’m still trying to stomach. These girls are the core of our football club. And I’m the ring leader: under-qualified and overly enthusiastic. I make teams, declare water breaks, shag balls and go with the flow. It’s a dream.

Last week we had midterms so I figured practice would be cancelled for the week, at least for the girly goon squad. I was so wrong. The students got dismissed early, so instead of 4:30-5:30, we practiced from 3:00 until whenever the girls got picked up, which ended up being around 6:00. Gives you a glimpse into the strenuousness of exams in Thailand. On Wednesday I hit the futsal court with five girls and eight balls. The court’s located directly adjacent to the school dump, where stray dogs roam and piles of smoking trash leave a haze overhead. Wednesday was rainy, not in the typical torrential kind of way, but drizzly and wonderfully refreshing. A gaggle of M1 boys graced us with their presence for the first hour, dominating the game with the kind of foot skills that come only from growing up in a nation so enamored with the world’s game. They are a blast to play with. They see lanes, make runs, shout “Teacher!” and play like experienced athletes in the unintimidating forms of little boys. Just before 4:00, their coach pulled them away from our lighthearted pick-up game to get down to business. And then there were six.

Two hours of barefoot 3 v 3 futsal ensued. Two hours of bliss. There was so much laughter, so many break aways, massive puddles, and pure fun. Noi kept score diligently. We ended up somewhere around 27-29. I’m not sure who won, but you can imagine how many mid-air double-high-fives Ooh and I performed. I think that was the day we perfected our technique. Midway through “practice,” Dao, the lone M4 among the M1’s, went for water. I was instructed by the remaining girls to sit out until she returned to keep the teams even. I obliged. Dao returned with a mini can of Coke for me, two bottles of water and six lollipops. I politely declined the Coke, miming “drink,” then “run,” then “puke,” but took the lollipop appreciatively. Nong put a straw in one of the two communal water bottles and extended it toward me. I took a sip and passed it around. Once we were all appropriately hydrated, the game continued, communication slightly hindered by the lollipops in each of our mouths. Our practice started before the boys’ and ended after. The girls walked me home a little after 6:00, Nong lugging the massive bag of balls to save me the trouble. I love coming home sweaty and smelly, coated in the clay-like dirt that lies beneath our patchy grass field. This day, hair soaked in rain, feet raw from hours on the blacktop, I reveled in the oncoming soreness and current contentment as the girls said goodbye and headed back toward school.

Athletics are powerful. They can bring people together in unique and intense ways. They yield fellowship, build character, demand respect. To slip a jersey over my head, to squat a bar across my shoulders, to will myself down and back one more time, to sink into a frigid ice bath, to embrace a teammate in ecstatic celebration, to share headphones on the bus, to hear the click of turfs upon the sidewalk, to tape the blisters, ice the bruises, bear the pain – every moment was a gift, but only now do I have the perspective to fully grasp that. The opportunities for girls to pursue athletics in the States are matchless. Most girls in Thailand dance and sing. They wear dresses and are beautiful. The soccer field is largely reserved for the boys. But no longer at Banharnjamsaiwittaya 1. Our ragtag girls team is proving that to be athletic and to be feminine are not mutually exclusive. I’ve traded my hockey stick for a soccer ball, my honed skills for utter clumsiness, a brand new turf for 30 square yards of unkempt grass, accomplished teammates for spastic middle schoolers, and an inadvertent air of entitlement for an overwhelming appreciation of women’s athletics. Fair trade.

Noi, Bee 2, Dao, & Teacher Kelsey

To the world you might be one person...

So back to that time I plunged into the Andaman Sea off a long tail boat, free of the restraints of time and gravity. I entered the other worldly realm of Nemo.  Though I was told that the reef sustained serious damage in the 2004 tsunami, I found myself once again marveling at the beauty of creation. Coral formations like monstrous ship-wrecked cerebellums were swarmed by flashy fish with coloring so garish it made me wonder how they fit into Darwin’s scheme. My snorkel mask, used by countless tourists before me, was mildly leaky. Every few minutes I assumed sea otter position, floating on my back, avoiding the eight-inch needles of the pin cushion-like sea urchins below me, gulping life-sustaining breaths of balmy island air, and repositioning my mask. On my third or fourth repetition of this routine, I spotted the beckoning wave of our veteran guide. I made my way to the side of the boat where he handed me a new mask and snorkel, which I guessed were his own, to save me from an afternoon of intermittent struggle. I accepted gratefully and stretched the new mask over my face as a fellow snorkeler boasted of an exciting encounter.  I swam back out among the coral, view unobstructed, breath clear and easy, hoping to stumble upon the mysterious creature claimed to have been seen out among the formations. My determined pursuit quickly faded to aimless exploration, until I again caught the beckoning wave of our guide in my periphery, this time from below the surface. Using my faulty mask, propelled by flipper-less feet, he moved forward with the ease of a native and I followed closely and curiously behind.  He dipped under the restrictive buoyed rope and I followed, defying my irrational fear of sharks in the invincible presence of a local. Moments later, he pointed to the creature he’d located with radar-like ease. I feigned my recognition of his finding, unable to spot it among the forest of coral but not wanting to spoil his efforts. Seeing right through my bizarre attempt to be polite, he wiggled his foot in the direction he’d just indicated and out popped the ugliest living thing I’ve ever seen: a moray eel. It was awesome. Scraggly teeth and beady eyes, I could hardly believe my own. Our guide smiled behind his snorkel, recognizing that this time I’d actually seen the mini monster, my face registering some blend of horror and elation. Mission accomplished, he swam back toward the boat he’d abandoned, pointing out a beautiful starfish wiggling its way across the sand as he went. I doubt he’ll ever know how much his efforts meant to me, both sharing his snorkel and leading me to that nasty treasure. He was an amazing guide, start to finish. Laid back, thoughtful, humble, and cheerful. He was the kind of guy that lights up the world, doing what he loves and sharing it with others. Sure he’s not a world leader, but he meant the world to me that day. There’s nothing cooler than people living their passion. Be who you are and do what you love, and you’ll shape the world, or at least someone in it.

Stairway to Heaven

In true southeast Asian style, we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. The silhouette of massive Mount Agung, Bali’s highest peak, was shrouded in the dark of night. It was one AM. Adrenaline pumping, face beaming under the beam of a headlamp, literally dancing in the moonlight listening to Dancing in the Moonlight with fellow Downingtowner Zach Fahrenholtz, we set off. The four hour climb that followed began up an oversized stone staircase which led to a wooded path which deteriorated into a narrow rocky trail which spit us out on the open face of the mountain with still farther to ascend. Ninety nine percent of the climb, I focused on my sneakers, tediously putting one foot in front of the other and willing my clumsy self to charge onward and upward, without tumbling backward and downward. The one percent during which we got to rest our bodies and feast our eyes was worth its weight in rupiah. The night lights of Bali were sprawled out below us, an earthly constellation separated from the magnificent heavens above. I hadn't known that such incredible visibility existed anywhere on earth. Falling stars played across the static sky, the cloudy Milky Way arched overhead like an enormous translucent brush stroke, a satellite stuck to its trajectory, moving too quickly for comprehension. I got to thinking that the means might be as good as the end.

Then I got to the end. Atop Mount Agung, at the edge of its mammoth central crater, we waited for sunrise. The horizon, a rainbow rising from the edge of the earth, arced gently before us. It seems hardly possible that this occurs every morning, a daily masterpiece available for those able-bodied, adventurous, and blessed enough to seek it. An hour of shivery anticipation preceded the dawn. Eventually that glowing orb peaked above the skyline, growing fuller as the minutes past and the shutters clicked. Just a speck before this spectacular view, I was appropriately humbled. I think even Alexander the Great would have reconsidered his moniker had he ever found himself on Mount Agung at sunrise.

The sunrise was as magnificent as the descent was tortuous; painstakingly slow, muscles perpetually tense, trying in vain to prevent the jolting slips and stumbles. Our guide led the way, having had my once-in-a-lifetime experience an untold number of times in his lifetime. He was virtually mute in his inability to speak English and astoundingly graceful in his ability to navigate the rocky terrain with ease. It was as though he was descending this clear cut staircase that was invisible to the untrained eye. I could see the steps so clearly as he led the way, but only for a moment after his feet left them. If I followed closely and carefully enough, I could descend the staircase too. But if my eyes left those steps unmemorized, they melded back into the treacherous ambiguity. During one of our crucial breaks, a wordless conversation had me extending my Zune to this Balinese trailblazer. Naturally, I selected my most “American” music, placing my Zune in the palm of his hand with the “COUNTRY” playlist on shuffle. He plugged the ear buds in, smiled, and handed me his walking stick. Whether it was a gesture of appreciation or the reassurance of collateral I’ll never know, but I accepted, smiled back and we both proceeded with a little more pep in our step. The walking stick was like an extra large magic wand. My confidence soared as my fall frequency plummeted. The benefit of having a third point of contact was well beyond my expectations. Zune in hand, he bounced along ahead, as adroit as ever, jammin’ to Taylor, Toby and the rest of the gang. Right on his heels, trying to keep an eye on that fickle invisible stairway, I reflected on how I’d lost the wonder in electronic devices. I no longer marveled at the fact that this palm-sized, intricately engineered hodge podge of metal holds 2976 songs for me to enjoy whenever and wherever I feel like it. That’s incredibly cool. I hope the ingenuity of humanity is something that I’ll cease to take for granted and I know the miracle of that sunrise is something I’ll never forget.

My Anna's

I have known two extraordinary Anna’s in my lifetime. One is an old friend, the other an old soul. I’ve spent years with one of these Anna’s, but only a brief, brilliant afternoon with the other. One carried me through four years at William and Mary, the other, across hills and valleys in the Thai jungle. Both are mammals, though one is significantly larger than the other. Both are beautiful. One was born and raised in Thailand, the other has just arrived. One is Anna Kayes and the other is Anna the elephant.

Seated on the massive neck of the latter Anna, unrestrained, feet tucked behind her gigantic floppy ears, I wound through the jungle on the island of Koh Chang. It was December, hot and sunny.  I bounced back and forth comically as her colossal legs shifted rhythmically beneath me. Her leathery skin was thick, etched with a lifetime of wrinkles, covered in bristly hair, and nothing like I had imagined it would be. Traversing rocky terrain with the grace of a mammoth ballerina, I was awed by the ease of Anna’s movement under the burden of four full-grown humans. She led us down a winding stream and carried our quartet to the pond that would be our pool. Minutes later, beyond my wildest dreams, I found myself cradled in the curve of Anna’s trunk as she reared upward before plunging into the warm murky water below. Panic would have been a more evolutionary emotion, but only amusement and amazement coursed through my soul as I plummeted into this extreme version of a dunk tank. I resurfaced, grinning goofily and Anna eased her way to the surface too. Her slow, gentle movement threw my spastic treading into stark relief as I scrambled to regain my position on her strong broad back. Elephants are astounding. Packaged in the body of a beast, these creatures, whose ancestors must have put some serious strain on the Ark, somehow embody elegance, poise, and sheer strength. Aboard and elated, I flattened myself against Anna’s tough skin and prickly hair and tried my best to freeze time.

But time charged on. Flash forward five months and I’m seated on an open air bus with wind blowing through my hair, rice fields whizzing by, and none other than Anna Kayes seated across from me. She’s fresh off a flight from India and I’ve finally allowed my heart to believe that she’s not a mirage. Beyond my wildest dreams, my college housemate has become my Thai roommate. She’s ginning softly, lost in thought. Backpacks at our feet, Thais to our sides, we make eye contact and beam. “Me too,” I say, to affirm our joint realization that we are two of the luckiest girls on the planet. Human Anna, my palindromic pal, is the same backward and forward. No matter which way you look at her, from across the Sunken Gardens or along the streets of Bangkok, she’s Anna. She sees the best in people, against common sense and preconceived notions. She spreads laughter like a plague of joy. She’s recklessly, refreshingly friendly. The borders of my comfort zone are ever-expanding in her presence.

One evening after scarfing food at our local haunt, lovingly dubbed “Corner Noods,” we passed a series of neon lights leading to who knows where. Anna being Anna encouraged me to divert our drive home and follow the lights. Like two moths to a flame, one hesitant, one hopeful, we sought treasure at the end of this roadside rainbow. The lights guided us to the beginnings of a local fair, nothing out of the ordinary, except the two goofy foreigners driving a motorcycle through the joint. It was a quick diversion, virtually effortless, and I thought back to my needless hesitation. We had the time, so why not be curious and adventurous, rather than practical and set?  As we rerouted back home, I reflected,

“Anna, I’m glad you're here. I think you're going to help me to be more spontaneous.”

“Thanks” she replied, “I think you're going to help me to think things through.”

We are two absolute goons. Living together in Thailand. What we’ll learn from each other and this world I can only imagine, but I have a feeling it will be of pachydermic proportions.

Stop and Smell the Orchids

Time. Isn’t it odd how we all have the same amount of it each day, yet some of us seem to have so much more of it than others? Thais have time. Time to eat, time to wait, time to chat, time to chill. It’s all in abundance somehow, which has me wondering if their twenty four hours and my two dozen are really the same.

My sense of time has been turned inside out and upside down since arriving in Thailand, shaking out any ideas of pace or punctuality that governed my previous life. In America, the train to 30th Street arrived in Exton at 7:08 AM. It was late an aggravating one in ten times. In Thailand, the van comes to Donchedi whenever it gets to Donchedi. My timing is perfect a glorious one in ten times. How’s that for an outlook one-eighty? I used to anticipate timeliness and resent delays. Now I expect randomness and relish rare precision. Looking at life through this new lens, I’ve found that where delays abound, so does time. The inevitable time lost to that fickle van in Donchedi is a chance for me to get some sun on my face and the roundabout ride that follows is a perfect opportunity to study some Thai. I’m learning to bask in the shine of that often overlooked silver lining, where I hadn’t even noticed a glimmer before.

At William and Mary, five minutes early was on time, and on time was late. Actually arrive late and the lecture’s started, the bus is gone, the meeting’s commenced, and you’re in trouble. At BanharnJamsaiWittaya 1, five minutes late is early, and ten minutes late is still early. I catch myself questioning the motives of students who show up only five minutes late to class. Shouldn’t you be lounging outside? Trimming your bangs? Eating a meal? Is this an ambush? If time is money, then we’re “making it rain” at school on a daily basis. Schedules are suggestions and punctuality is just not a priority. Meandering is the norm. It’s certainly taken some getting used to, but the more time I spend among these time-less folk, the more the hurried, hassled pace of 30th Street Station starts to seem abnormal.

This laid-back lifestyle is epitomized in Thailand’s famed southern islands. Days of the week are irrelevant. The tide tells the time. In March, I kicked off my summer vacation with a trip to the south, spending a few blissful days exploring the Ko Tarutao Marine National Park. One morning I hopped on a long tail boat with the aforementioned Californian bro, and headed out among the constellation of islands for a day of snorkeling. After a 20 minute ride, the hum of the motor filling my ears and gratitude filling my heart, we approached a pristine island that looked like something out of Jurassic Park. Flippers on and goggles ready, we hobbled over to our veteran guide to see how long we’d be staying at this spot, the first of five. “What time should we come back?” I asked through a mouthful of snorkel. I received a non-committal shrug in response. Brow furrowed, I offered, “Like an hour?” Another non-committal shrug and a giant grin told me without words, “whenever you feel like it!” I laughed to myself and plunged overboard, free of the restraints of time and gravity.

Only days before I embarked on the trip that would lead me to Tarutao, I had the opportunity to tour an orchid nursery at the home of a former Banharn teacher. Bringing up the rear of the pack of Thais that was our English language department, I snaked through row after row of orchids of all varieties and stages of development. The gracious owner acted as our tour guide, and though I appeared to be listening intently, I was totally lost in thought, her speedy Thai zooming in one ear and out the other. I was caught up in the raw beauty of the blossoms, wishing desperately that my mom’s footsteps were crunching along in the gravel beside mine, knowing she’d have a deeper appreciation for the magnificent nursery. I was also noticing that as we wandered, no one checked their watches, sighed impatiently, or seemed preoccupied by the inescapable list of “better things” they could be doing with the time. They were fully present, admiring the flowers, snapping peace sign pics, just enjoying the epic scenery. My coordinator, a teeny, adorable, laugh-out-loud hilarious woman, who takes care of me at all costs, knelt to examine beads of dew, fluid pillows scattered atop a bed of moss, a beautiful detail that could have been so easily overlooked in this massive nursery bursting with life. I’d been asked earlier in the week to explain an English idiom. “What does it mean to stop and smell the roses?” Exactly this, I realized. To take a hiatus from the hurry and haste, to kneel and notice the beauty that exists below your feet, alongside the path.

This American girl has been shocked to discover that there are greater things than efficiency and worse things than wasted time.  Immersing myself in Thai Time has stretched the limits of my patience, flexibility and sanity, making space for the possibility of a pace other than high-speed efficiency. It does seem to be true that time flies when you're having fun, so, much to the chagrin of my 82-year-old, Flyer fanatic grandmother, I’m sticking around for another 6 months. Why, you ask? I’ll respond with a non-committal shrug and a giant grin. Because it’s Thailand.

Once upon a time...

Once upon a time, I was a Division I athlete. I pumped iron, ran sprints, and played tough. Unfortunately, the fairy tale ending, “And she lived athletically ever after,” has evaded me. I would most certainly collapse under the weight I used to squat. I only sprint to escape the jaws of stray dogs. I experience the thrill of victory when my students pronounce the “s” at the end of a plural word. Times have changed.

The time is 2:30, Thursday afternoon. I’m used to hearing “Teacha! Teacha!” as I walk around campus, but I heard a particularly intent beckoning from a few students and looked up to see them gesturing for me to come closer. I approached and was redirected to the gym teacher, Pi Ma, who had interesting news for me. “Teacher. You run Saturday five kilomet. Meet here 6:30 morning. Tell Chinese teacher, June. Stay. I bring you shirts.” As I waited for her to return with the race gear, I counted on one hand the number of times I’ve run since arriving in Thailand. This was going to be interesting.

Saturday morning came in the blink of an eye. Butterflies raging, I laced up my sneakers and secured my bib. Given the choice between the numbers 0329 and 0330, June chose the former. Nine is an auspicious number in Thailand, and apparently in China too. I liked the symmetry of 0330 anyway. Plus, three times three is nine so I was counting on some subtle luck to kick in. I was definitely going to need it.  June and I warmed up by jogging for thirty seconds in the direction of the school gate. Turning the corner to a sea of students, my initial reaction was to run. Not toward the finish line, but back home. The realization that my UT running shorts were outrageously short for Thai social standards sparked a minor panic attack. Luckily, June was able to quell my anxiety and I reluctantly surrendered to the madness that would characterize the morning. After a useless attempt to stretch my shorts to some level of modesty, I scurried toward the sign-in table and endured the customary stares. Twenty minutes and forty seven pictures later, we made our way to the starting line. The teachers assembled behind a large banner for one last photo op, all of the students behind us, raring to go. Out of nowhere, Pi Ma yelled, “Go!” and the charge began. Trapped between the banner in front of me and the stampede behind me, I exploded with laughter at the absurdity of my current situation. Untangling ourselves from the mob, June and I fled to the outer edge of the pack and watched as the bulk of the students tore past us at full speed. “Slow and steady,” I told her, burying the fear that maybe this race was actually a 500 rather than a 5K. Sure enough, the kids began dropping like flies. It was classic tortoise and the hare. June and I moseyed along, not sprinting, but not stopping either. Whenever the boys would catch a glimpse of us closing in on them, they’d kick it into the next gear, temporarily avoiding the embarrassment of being overtaken by the foreign girl teachers. At one point, two boys approached on a moped, camera phone pointed my way, capturing the sweaty splendor of my endeavor. I flashed the customary double peace sign, hoping in vain that they were taking a snapshot rather than a video. Start to finish, the race was ridiculous. To top it off, thirty minutes after that chaotic start, finishing first among the female competitors was yours truly, Kelsey Nawalinski. I was treated like a bionic woman after a performance that would have had me plunked in my coach’s office, re-evaluating my future as an athlete. I received a lukewarm juice box of strawberry milk and a mayonnaise-filled, pork-topped bread roll to help me refuel post-race. In the wake of my victory, the boy who finished first overall has taken up the habit of shouting, “Champions!!” arms lifted Rocky-style over his head, every time he sees me at school. I’ve now realized that the most impressive feat was finding a way to identify myself as more of an oddball.

Our students and long distance running just seem to be like oil and water. Give them a soccer ball, however, and it’s like seating Mozart at a baby grand. Asking them to run three miles is more like handing him a paintbrush. But we all have our strengths and that’s the beauty of humanity. Another brilliant man, good ol’ Einstein, recognized that, “everybody is a genius, but if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.” When it comes to long distance, my students are like fish out of water, but ask them to belt out some karaoke, bend it like Beckham, or whip up some killer Thai food, and they’ll do it swimmingly. 

I'm not sure if "30.21 MIN" means .21 minutes or 21 seconds, but either way, its impressive.

Embracing Yi Sib Saam

In high school I was a partner in a hypothetical ice cream shop, brainchild of Meghan Price, called 22 Scoops 4 U. I’m going to cut to the chase, save face, and blow past the lunacy of that statement. The significance is in the number. From my stint as a pseudo-entrepreneur, my love affair with the number twenty two has blossomed. I’d go on to bear the number on my hockey jersey for four years at William & Mary. I’d set my alarm for 7:22. I’d beam if I pulled deli number 22. I’d treasure a receipt for $22.22. My devotion to the number seems to have been returned to me in some sort of karmic way throughout my 22nd year of life. The 365 days that separated last February 5th from last Sunday were extraordinary. Begun by bashing a glitter-filled Spongebob piñata, those days exploded with joy and laughter. They saw my first alumni tournament, my last Blowout, and my only college graduation. A legendary Beach Week in Myrtle followed by a precious road trip throughout  Texas, countless train rides to Philly, a blissful week in Avalon, an unexpected but rewarding return to Villa, a half marathon in VB, then a lengthy flight to Bangkok. Naturally, on arrival in Suvarnabhumi airport, I retrieved my suitcase from the 22nd baggage carousel. The first full day I spent here was October 22nd. The first number ingrained in my head in Thai? Yi sib saung, of course, as I was often asked to provide my age in Thai. The days I called myself a twenty two year-old were too good to be true.

So as the final hours of my Golden Age dwindled, I was ushered into a new year of life in the typical, delightfully unconventional style that is becoming the norm for any Western celebrations I've experienced here. I sat sprawled out on the wooden-planked floor of a guest house in the ancient Thai capital of Ayutthaya, surrounded by new friends who seemed like old friends. When the clock struck twelve, we tore ourselves away from the outrageously talented foosball player displaying his skills on the only English television channel available. Chris and Vi, the man with The Rules and the girl with the lens, demanded a lowering of the lights and emerged with an unthinkable delicacy: ice cream cake. The candles were illuminated not by flames, but by a strategically positioned cell phone glare. The song was sung, my wish was made, the candles were “extinguished,” and the cake was demolished. No table, no plates, just a collection of spoons, forks, and hungry, dairy-deprived amigos. I guess it was kind of Thai in that communal consumption sort of way. Also in the sincerity and smiles of the people surrounding me.

The next morning, I left behind a magical year and stepped out into the mystery of the next. I squinted and smiled under the morning sun and classic clear blue Thai sky. After a hearty birthday greeting from the owner of our guest house, wishing me good luck today, this year, and always, our motorbike gang departed for the ruins of an ancient temple, Wat Chaiwatthanaram. We made a quick pit stop for breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. We ordered our food in Thai and devoured it soon after, seated snugly on rickety stone benches. With full bellies and youthful exuberance, our caravan continued on to our destination. Ayutthaya exists in this incredible state, simultaneously modern and ancient. Massive brick temples, long ago sites of sacred Buddhist rituals, overlook multitudes of 711’s, which garner a religious devotion of their own. After a morning of exploration, we bade adieu and I hopped on a van back to Suphan. It was a typical day-in-the-life. The greatest gifts were in the details.

On the train to Ayutthaya, we were playing musical headphones, picking songs for each other and inventing games utilizing the noise cancelling quality of my headset. I was the current victim and Vi said, “watch this,” to Chris, hit play on Your Love is My Drug by Ke$ha, and they both laughed as my eyes lit up and my arms launched into their reflexive robotic dance moves. After the ecstasy of the beloved tune wore off, I was struck by the fact that Vi has already come to know this little nuance of my personality. What a gift it is to have dear friends like that here. Or anywhere.

My next door neighbors, June and Bixia, are from China. They’re two-thirds of the make-believe family we’ve created. Mother Bixia does the cooking. Father June does the dishes. I’m the helpless child who eats the food and gets in trouble. I love them and dread the day, two weeks from today, that they’ll return home. When I returned “home” to Suphan from Ayutthaya, to my empty apartment, mountain of laundry that still hadn't washed itself, and sobering stacks of ungraded midterms, I was saved by a prompt knock at the door, two smiling faces, and two precious gifts. From June, a little gold ring adorned with a tiny bulky camera, just like my Nikon. From Bixia, a brand new Tupperware to save the leftovers of the many dishes she’s taught me to cook. Exceedingly thoughtful presents from the strangers who have become my family. What a gift it is to share my time here with them, to receive their cultural perspective, cooking tips, and dependable company.

At my belated Monday night birthday dinner with the English department, I was admiring a fellow teacher’s new floral wallet, which she had recently purchased in Chiang Mai. Moments later, she pulled another from her purse and presented it to me, a spontaneous sacrifice to celebrate my special day. I pulled out the travel-worn neon pink and cheetah print duct tape contraption that was currently serving as my wallet and everyone laughed at the timeliness of Kate’s random act of kindness. She also joked in Thai that hers had cost ninety baht while mine had cost ninety nine baht, so the gesture was exceptionally generous. What a gift it is to begin to understand this once-cryptic language and to literally receive more than she had kept for herself. This Thai ideal of radical generosity becomes more sensible the longer I’m immersed in it. That is a gift beyond compare.

So now I’m yi sib saam. Twenty three. And I’m happy to report that rather than clinging to the glory days, I’m whole-heartedly embracing my twenty third year. So much so that I’ve decided to make some New Age Resolutions. And I mean that literally, not in a holistic or esoteric kind of way. I’m ready to grow up a little, welcome my new age with open arms. I want to learn more Thai.  What I’ve picked up through cultural osmosis is not enough. I have a newfound drive to unlock the meaning behind these puzzling sounds and tones. I want to be more involved in the local Donchedi community. I love it here. These people have given me a job, a broader perspective, an opportunity to grow and solid discounts on vegetables. I hope I can reciprocate some of their kindness, or at least express my deep gratitude for their hospitality. I want to give more to my students. They’re awesome and hilarious. They appreciate life and I appreciate them. They’re my top priority here and I hope my actions always reflect that. In this coming year, I want to struggle and laugh, work hard and play hard, gain knowledge and give it, be poured out and poured into, and love and be loved. I’m too far down the road less travelled to turn back now, so I’m moving forward, content with not knowing what lies ahead.

ERIC: The Man, The Myth, The Legend

Eric must have been an all-star teacher. I’m talking as Gandhi is to India, as Oprah is to talk shows, as Chanel is to my mother, Eric seems to have been to Baharn 1. He’s a legend. I can tell because his name is everywhere. I’m a mildly competitive individual, so naturally as the new kid on the block, looking to make a splash in my teaching debut, I engaged in an unspoken, metaphorical teaching competition with this Eric character. Unfortunately, I was playing 1 v 1 teacher-ball against the Michael Jordan of ESL. “Welcome to ERIC!” reads a huge, beautiful banner in our foreign language office. There wasn’t a banner for my arrival, but if there had been, I’m sure it would be displayed as prominently. I’m guessing Eric was the first Western teacher at Banharn. And maybe he was quite a catch for a rural public school, with extensive teaching experience or an excessive fortune, perhaps? Maybe he used a negligible portion of that fortune to purchase a boat load of English language resources for the school. After all, most of the workbooks and textbooks that clutter our office are emblazoned with his name, shouting my ineptitude to no end. He was probably exceptionally pale and abnormally tall, making him devilishly handsome by default. As I spun this story of the enigmatic Eric, my patience for him dwindled.

One fateful morning, I found a binder of worksheets on my desk. Eric’s name sneered up at me from the spine. Just before the exasperated question, “who is this Eric!?” escaped my lips, I got my answer. The front of the binder revealed my opponent’s identity. ERIC: English Resource and Information Center. Eric’s not a person. He’s a place. My confusion cleared and my cheeks flushed. I’d been losing a one-sided competition to an acronym. For weeks.

I too often slip into these silly competitions. Eric, of all people, taught me that. Our society makes it so easy to compare and compete. Class rank, GPA, goals scored, dollars saved, degrees earned, miles travelled, BBMs received, football players befriended, real estate purchased, Facebook friends acquired. Some of it’s legitimate and some of it’s ludicrous. We have been created for things greater than these. Not just to be a number in the world. I forgot that. And it had me feeling inferior to an acronym for far too long. Eric will always be out there. Smarter, richer, and more popular than I am, but that’s okay. I wish him the best and return to my pursuit of greater things with renewed focus.  I still wince inwardly when I catch a glimpse of Eric’s omnipresent name, not because he’s creaming me in the Teacher Olympics, but because he reminds me of my own tendency to strive for victory, rather than excellence. I’m learning though, so ERIC has found a way, in only four letters, to impart some wisdom after all. He’s a master of brevity.

The Rules

Sarah-Graham Turtletaub is a conversational genius. I’ve never met someone so adept at getting strangers to pour their hearts out in a matter of minutes. The secret to her success? Ask questions. Meaningful questions. Ones with answers that give you a glimpse into who someone really is. My current favorite is, “if you could do anything for a living, what would you do? Don’t be practical, don’t be shy, just dream big.” On January 1st of this new year, my friend Vi beat me to the punch and asked our lovable, ragtag group of friends, “what’s your dream job?” The answers that followed were fantastic. Sunk low in a colorful beach chair on the shore of a tiny island south of Bangkok, I listened to seven people give raw, honest responses to a question that really requires you to bare a piece of your soul. Vulnerability is necessary and optimism is key. Among the tremendous answers, from a Californian bro with an internal Rosetta Stone and an outlook eerily similar to my brother Ian’s, was the idea of using his connection and appreciation for nature combined with his knack for picking up foreign language to lead wilderness excursions in the States for international visitors. Brilliant. The South African, rugby-playing bloke who sat to my left sipping a Chang would love to apply his fine arts degree at a place like Pixar. An oxymoron that makes perfect sense. Is that a paradox? People are just continually surprising me here, with their wealth of life experience and diversity of passions. Every conversation seems to serve as a reminder that you really don’t know anything about anyone. You can be so certain that you have someone figured out and then they throw this curveball about their vision for the future and you're back to square one, which is usually where you belong anyway, I guess. From square one, I know that the Brit that rounded out this circle of comrades is from Manchester. He’s an avid United fan. I am constantly laughing in his presence and he lives by two rules.

Rule Number One: Its only paper.

Rule Number Two: It’s not where you are, but who you're with.

He’s mostly joking when he demands our adherence to these laws, but I so often find wisdom in his silliness. Money is only paper, but it can be traded for greater things. A ticket to Thailand, a meal for a monk, an education, or a beachside feast with a bunch of dreamers. Because it’s not where you are, but who you're with. I sat down to lunch that day with seven goofballs I’d met at orientation, traded some paper for some grub, and stood up an hour later with a National Geographic photographer, a professor of industrial engineering, an employee of the National Basketball Association, a cross-cultural wildlife excursion guide, a student ambassador at a Thai university, a writer for a comedy series, and one of the creative minds behind Pixar. Not too shabby.