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.