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.