That expression just took on a whole new meaning

Good morning, Blogosphere!

For those of you who have been following (high five to you!), you know that I am currently living and working on a farm in Suan Phung. The past few days on the farm have been both interesting and challenging. I have enjoyed getting to know the people around this area and it has been fun to work so closely with so many animals. During my time here, I have also learned several important lessons. In accordance with the widely-accepted standard Rule of Threes, I shall share three of them with you. 

Lesson 1: Pigs are pigs. 

Growing up, I've often heard the expressions you eat like a pig, you sleep like a pig, and you're such a pig. Before this week, I would have chuckled casually at those insults and placed them in the same category of digs as the very elementary you're a dumb butt and your face is stupid. BUT NOW. I can see the true level of offense that is meant with those expressions. Not a joke. When you see and hear a pig eat or sleep, those expressions all take on a whole new meaning. It is truly, truly disgusting. I will never again use the aforementioned insults lightly.. I will only use them heavily and deliberately on the occasions that I really want to hurt you.

(Lulu being disgusting)

At the farm, we currently have one pig. Her name is Lulu and she is a hard-core vegetarian. She is also a supreme escape artist. In the four days that I have been here, she has escaped from her pig pen twice. Do the math-- that's one escape for every two days. Impressive for a stupid smart pig, eh? And also, for those of you who are thinking to yourselves, well, if this pig keeps escaping from her pen, why don't you guys fix the fence?, I say this to you: we do keep fixing it, but every time we wire up one break in the fence, she manages to Houdini her way out of a new one. Today's escape was her most impressive stunt yet, since she somehow managed to wriggle her fat ass out of a small gap in the fencing above her water bowl that was so small it was barely a gap at all. Whenever Lulu escapes from her pen, Arnon's (he owns the animals on the farm and he is amazing and he likes to sing) greatest concern is that she might get hit by a car while trying to cross the street. For the rest of us on the farm, our worst worry is what will happen to us when it's time to catch her to return her to her pen. If you have never participated in the art of catching a pig before, you cannot ever even know. It is a horrific endeavor involving nets, biceps, writhing dirty pink flesh, and the most horrendous screeches and wails you will ever hear. When we had to catch Lulu yesterday, I felt the way that all of the wizards and witches standing in the Gryffindor common room did when Harry Potter first opened the golden egg on dry land during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Once Arnon had Lulu tangled in a net, she erupted in the loudest most gut-wrenching squeals, screaming bloody slaughterhouse and twisting her body around in an exorcism-style twirl. It took three people and many half hours to catch her.

Lesson 2: The mosquitoes always win. 

It doesn't even matter what you do. As humans, we so often foolishly tell ourselves that we stand a chance in this war against mosquitoes. That's why so many of us continue to spend money on bug spray, mosquito repellent, mosquito bracelets, mosquito nets, mosquito coils, mosquito incense, and mosquito candles. Once the sun begins to set each day, we hurry to change into long sleeved shirts and long pants and socks and close-toed shoes. But I can assure you that all of these battle preparations are in vain. The reasons for this are three-fold. Firstly, people always think that sundown marks the beginning of the war against the mosquitoes, but the truth is that while you were running around in the blazing sun in your tank top and shorts during the day, the enemy has already launched their first attacks and you're already losing by the time you reach for your long trousers. Secondly, in the game of numbers, the odds are truly never in your favour; you're you, and mosquitoes are trillions at all times. Thirdly, their battle strategy is infinitely better than yours. I mean, I don’t actually know what their strategy is, but yours is to slap yourself repeatedly all over your body, so..

Lesson 3: The Biblical imagery of sheep and their shepherd really does illustrate something important.

Having grown up attending church, I am familiar with the many passages in the Bible that talk about sheep and their shepherd. I was never confused by the comparison that was made between sheep and their shepherd, and people and Jesus. But while working on this farm, I have witnessed for the first time something pretty incredible about sheep. On my very first morning here, I, along with the other volunteers climbed the fence into the sheep pen to brush and wash them. The three of us had been brushing the animals for about twenty minutes when Arnon joined us. As Arnon neared the pen, he yelled out a greeting to us, and the sheep immediately rushed towards him in an excited frenzy of bleats and jumps. My immediate thought in that moment was Wow, sheep really do know their shepherd's voice. John 10:2-5 says 

The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep listen to his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes on ahead of them, and his sheep follow him because they know his voice. But they will never follow a stranger; in fact, they will run away from him because they do not recognize a stranger's voice.

Arnon let the sheep out of their pen for a few hours that morning to let them graze in the nearby fields. Early in the afternoon, he asked the volunteers to herd the sheep back into their pen. We struggled with the task immensely. The flock traveled closely together, and whenever we tried to get near one of them, they would all dart away together. After several minutes of non-progression, Arnon picked up a staff, walked towards us and quickly led them home. He laughed as he closed the gate of the pen behind the last sheep and said, "I don't know why it always seems like only I can do this." I thought to myself, it's because you're the shepherd. 

I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. (John 10:11 NIV)

The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. (Psalm 23:1-4 NIV)  

After a few days here, I can now also attest to the truth of the rest of these verses. Arnon really does know every sheep by name. He really would lay down his life for his sheep. He really does guide them with his staff. He sleeps with them when one is sick. And he really does make sure that every last sheep is brought home.

(The sheep out for the day)

Seeing a good shepherd in action is truly refreshing to my soul. So often I struggle with understanding God's love for me. I sometimes feel that his love is a distant, generic one, and that while he cares about me, he couldn't really, really care about me since he has so many others to worry about as well. But now, the significance of Jesus calling himself my shepherd and calling me his sheep is becoming clearer. To witness the intimacy between a shepherd and his flock reassures me that Jesus keeps so near to me. Close enough to be able to tell when I'm not feeling well, and close enough to fend off any attackers before they destroy me. And he speaks to me constantly so that I can better learn and recognize his voice. With his voice he leads me and comforts me. I am one of many sheep, but I am not just one. The distance that Jesus would go to bring me home still amazes me and I am thankful for this particular lesson as it serves as a reminder of my Abba Father's great love for his people.

Love,
-bcl.

Animal farm

Dear Blogosphere,

The third leg of my trip to Thailand has arrived. I am currently sitting on a small picnic table underneath a straw hut in Chat-Pa-Wai, a small town in the subdistrict of Suan Phung in the province of Ratchaburi. I am on A FARM. For those of you who have been demanding greater details about my happenings here thus far, I figured that this is as good a place to begin as any.

My first week in Thailand was spent in Bangkok in the Siam neighborhood. The second week was spent in Chiang Mai with friends for the Loi Krathong and Yi Peng festivals. If you ask nicely, I will tell you more about what happened during that time. If you ask really nicely, I may even show you pictures.

This past Monday, one of my new friends and I took a bus from Chiang Mai to Bangkok. It was an overnight bus, and we were scheduled to arrive in Bangkok at 7 am on Tuesday. But because the driver drove like a maniac, in the pitch black of 4:55 am, we found ourselves standing in the middle of Khao San Road surrounded by other sleepy passengers from our bus and loads of luggage heaped around the curb. A few other travelers and I stumbled into a 24 hour McDonalds and unfolded some maps. We spent a few hours trying to figure out where we were, how to get to where we needed to get, and sharing travel stories and tips while we waited for the sun to rise over the streets of Bangkok.

Once the rest of the city caught up with the day, we parted ways. I took a taxi back to Siam Journey guesthouse to grab lunch with Gio. I took a few hours to just rest in their air-conditioned common area, draw a cartoon (see previous post), and chat with some other guests. In the evening I left to catch a mini bus from Victory Monument to Chat Pa Wai. The ride itself lasted around two and a half hours, and the only notable occurrence was that we stopped at a "gas station," I think.. to fill up.. on something, I think. We pulled up in front of some sort of pump, and this lady popped the hood (the hood!) of our van to do the fill-up. My dad called me during this car ride as well, and we had a hilarious conversation about zip lining and small towns with no internet. I miss my family.

Once I arrived in Chat Pa Wai at the bus stop-- and by bus stop I mean designated crack in the sidewalk--- I called Arnon, the owner of the farm, who then sent a tiny pick-up truck to retrieve me. I met Piriam (Arnon's friend) and the other two volunteers on the farm, Erica and Phoebe. On the way to the farm, we also passed some friendly neighbors, who peeked their heads excitedly into the car window and exchanged enthused Thai greetings with Piriam. Once I arrived at the farm, the first thing that I noticed was how stunningly dark it was. Oh man, I really am on a farm was my first thought. I immediately felt nervous about this volunteer commitment. I felt nervous because I suddenly realized how far away I was from everything and everyone else, I couldn't understand what the few people on the farm were saying, and at that moment I became strangely aware of how dirty eating and showering on a farm really could be. But most of all, I was nervous because I noticed that on our car ride from the "bus stop" to the farm, we did not pass a single 7-eleven. That is the ultimate indication of non-civilization.

Upon my arrival, the volunteers and Arnon helped me unload my bags from the truck and showed me to the volunteer quarters, a small building connected to the back of what appears to be an old bar and concert venue. Dust lined the old wooden counters and the small handful of foggy wine glasses that still sat silently along the shelves. The rest of the furniture in the space had been shoved to the edges of the room; old benches, tables and couches holding each other in a strange hug of sorts.

We walked back into our bedroom, and I was pleased to see a large, clean room with several beds and a nice shiny floor. The room smelled like bug spray, and I could hear a leaky faucet splashing against the floor from behind another door which I presumed to be the bathrooms. But overall, it was a pleasant place.

Once I put my bags down, we were brought back outside for dinner. As I neared the large kitchen hut, I noticed a few people huddled together closely studying an object that laid on the ground between them. I got closer, closer, closer. And then this happened.

Python!

I immediately sent the photo to my family along with the caption: "I have arrived at the farm!"

I enjoyed a beautifully simple, yet delicious dinner that Piriam had prepared for us with the other volunteers. Then they showed me where to do dishes and how to navigate around the many huts, teepees, buildings, fences, and trees scattered around the farm. I also got to meet a few of the farm's dogs. Exhausted from the preceding 24 hours of traveling with my heavy bags, I opted to shower after dinner and go to sleep. It was 9 pm.

I took a shower using a shower head that sprayed the most narrow stream of water ever, flooded the bathroom a little bit, and crawled into bed. I did a little bit of writing and went to bed listening to the sounds of Arnon and the few other volunteers talking, laughing and playing guitar on the roof of a gorgeous orange cabana of sorts that stood just a few short steps away.

This farm is friendly. The people are pretty amazing. It already feels familiar. I am learning things. I am already eaten by mosquitoes.

- bcl.

This is all the time

Hello Blogosphere!

There are a certain few things that people always tell me I must do when I am visiting Southeast Asia. They are as follows:

1. Eat good, cheap food
2. Buy awesome, cheap things
3. Get good, cheap massage

Based on some of my reflecting this past week, I must say that I am unoriginal and I am stupid.

Want to know how I know? Because of this. It has happened five times already..

(I have been in Thailand for nearly two weeks now, and I have paid money for two Thai massages.)

BUT! In my defense, for my last massage, I thought that if I tried something different, I may enjoy myself more. I asked for a 60-minute head-shoulder-back massage from a massage parlor in Chiang Mai (instead of a full-body massage). The end results were as follows:

B: I would like a head-shoulder-back massage, please.
M: Yes, okay.
B: Will you please be gentle?
M: Yes, okay.
B: Why are you massaging my foot? I asked for a head-shoulder-back massage.
M: Yes, okay.
B: But you're still massaging my leg. And you're pressing too hard! Please, softly! And remember, not my foot. I asked for--
M: Yes, okay.
B: You are massaging my butt.
M: Yes, okay.
B: Oww! Can you massage more softly?
M: Yes, okay.
B: Arggghhhhh.
M: Hahahahahhahaha.
B: I actually would just like to relax. Could you just rub my back gently or something?
M: Yes, okay.
B: Ahhhhhooowwww!
M: Hehehehehehehe.
B: Um, excuse me. I think it's been like, 45 minutes. Do you think you can move onto my back, shoulder, and head now?
M: Sorry, no.

Love,
bcl.

The ultimate guessing game

My dear Blogosphere,

I am a lover of words.

I appreciate good usage of language. I like good writing, good conversation, and good literature.

Or at least that is what I would have told you a week ago.

This past week of being in Thailand has been strange for me for an assortment of reasons. I've eaten so many new foods (served on sticks or in bags), I've become fast friends with people from all over the world in the shortest amount of time in the history of the formation of friendships, and I've visited many new markets and monuments that I have never had the pleasure of experiencing before. But the strangest-- and saddest-- reason thus far is the new development in my relationship with words and with language that I see taking place before my very eyes.

I feel that very few things are more important in this world than good communication. I think the proper usage of language is imperative to expressing ideas, gaining and sharing knowledge, and developing relationships. I do truly believe in the power of the pen; I've seen it in action! In fact, that's how my love affair with words began so many years ago. I was so amazed at what one can accomplish using only language. That someone can make me feel this way with his or her words; that someone can change my mind or start a war. That even though a picture is worth a thousand words, not enough people acknowledge the magic that takes place when a picture is painted using only a thousand words.

Ever since the initial seduction, my relationship with words has grown steadily. Hand in hand we have walked, crossing over from one adventure to the next and documenting the journey together. During this past week, however, I have discovered something new about this life partner that I have come to know so well. He speaks another language.

In fact, apparently, he speaks many more languages than the ones we have always spoken to each other in.

As I have made my way around Bangkok this week, he has started to stray from me. He leaves me standing alone for minutes (even hours) at a time while he talks and laughs with the locals. I have never known such isolation. I walk up and down and up and down the streets by myself, squinting at street signs and feeling dizzy from the Thai heat and loud buzz of words that I don't recognize. Illiteracy is crippling. My inability to communicate with anyone in this place both frustrates and scares me. Am I on this street on the map or that one? Is she trying to rip me off? Is he hitting on me? Was that a friendly offer to help or a request for sex? Was I supposed to turn left back there? Because I turned right.. I think. Is this chicken or rabbit? He told me this wasn't going to be spicy! How could I owe this much for such a short cab ride? The tea I ordered looks suspiciously like 7-Up. So, I'm still 2 minutes away from my hostel.. or was that 2 miles? Am I seriously lost again? I'm pretty sure that I am. 

Yesterday, I was trudging slowly through the very hot, crowded Pratunam Market when I stopped to look at some denim shorts in a stall. I looked around at the different prices hanging along the wall, trying to make sense of the numbers and small Thai symbols. Is it 80 baht for one pair, and 120 baht for three pairs; or is is 120 baht for one pair, and 80 baht a pair if you buy three pairs? My eyes shifted uncomfortably back and forth between all the different signs in the small tent when suddenly, the shop owner stuttered in a choppy, broken English, "Where you from? You can't read? Don't know how to read? Are you from farm?"

I am not from a farm. As a matter of fact, I grew up in the U.S.A. and I graduated from a very well-known University. Back home, I am also an exceptional reader.

But I am not at home. I am in Thailand. And in Thailand, I am fully illiterate. I can't read, write, or even speak the language. I replaced the pair of shorts I was examining slowly onto its rack, turned, and walked out of the tent as the shop owner muttered something to or about me under his breath. He was either making fun of me, feeling sad for me, or angry that I didn't make a purchase. I might have spent more time trying to figure out which of the three it was if I wasn't too busy thinking about how powerless I suddenly felt without words at my side. And how much like a monkey I felt, communicating with the humans around me using only hand gestures and nods and shakes of my head. Every decision here takes the form of a guessing game; sometimes I win, and sometimes I lose.

(Subway sign that may or may not read, "RUN. If you do not hurry,

you will absolutely get run over by the people behind you. Slower

walkers have been known to die at this BTS station. Authorities

will not tolerate slow walkers")

(I saw this Thai sign in between two massage chairs at

a mall in Chiang Mai. It probably either says "For skinny

people only," or "No Photographs please")

(Billboard that may either be an advertisement for happy 

children, for saving the trees by saving paper, or for the 

celebration of small red and white buses)

English and Chinese do not help me here. This world is so much bigger than the one that I have known, and I trust that it's only to get bigger from here on out.

For the first time ever,

Illiterate,
bcl.

The hostel accent

Siam Journey Guesthouse is the name of the hostel that I have been staying in here in Bangkok for the past few days. The hostel itself is pretty neat-- both in reference to level of cleanliness as well as cool factor. It's got colorful furniture, chalkboard walls, and a cozy living area where the hostel guests can all hang out, watch movies, surf the web, and enjoy good conversation.

And when I say good conversation, I mean good conversation.

What makes a good conversation? If you say that passion, intensity, conviction, open-mindedness, wisdom, humor, engagement, and interest in topic are important contributors to creating an interesting, lively discussion, I think you'd be correct, but I also think that you'd be missing the most awesome one of all: The Accent.

YOU GUYS.

There have been countless moments already where I have walked into the common area to find it loudly buzzing with different conversations taking place around the room. Quiet whispers in this corner, loud laughter in that one, an energetic debate taking place on that orange couch. The symphony of accents present on that soundtrack is one of the coolest things I have ever heard. I am calling it the hostel accent. 

The hostel accent is derived from the intonations, vocabulary, and cultural awareness of the different languages from around the globe. It is also a strange, yet impressive evidence of the limitless abilities of the gut, throat, tongue, lips, saliva, abdomen, and trachea of the human race. (Seriously, if one needs more proof that God created man to be superior to all other creatures, you need only to listen to a Polish man speak his accented English using only noises produced from somewhere so deep within his body that American scientists don't even have a name for it yet (In Polish, I believe that part of the body is called the grunthrtergh)). I so wish that I could sit here with a tape recorder so that I can capture and share this magical track with everyone who has never had the pleasure of experiencing this show live.

In fact, I would make an entire CD. Yes. I would name the band "Hostel" (unless there is already a band named Hostel, which there probably is), and I would be the producer. 

Here are the lyrics of an actual conversation that I heard taking place in the common room yesterday (or, Track 4: "Tattoo stranger")

Alex: Giovanni, what is that a tattoo of on your arm there?
Giovanni: Oh, well, it's kind of a joke. When I first moved... my mom told me that she didn't care what I did but she kept telling me that I could never get a tattoo. So, of course, I got one. But I thought that if I was going to fucking tattoo my own body, then I wanted it to be for her somehow.

Leon: I saw the best tattoo today! I saw this huge guy near the train station that had a huge tattoo of his face on his bicep.

Jenny: His bicep?
Tomas: Yes! I saw it, too. It looked just like him!
Jef: That's weird as fuck, man.
Matt: I want to meet this guy.

But what it really sounded like was--

German: Jze-o-vanni, vut eez dat a tuhtoo of ohn yure arm dere?
Texan: Oh, wull, it's kinda a joke. When ah first moved... my mama told me that she didn't care what ah did but she kept tellin me that ah coul never get a tattoo. So, uh-coarse, ah got one. But ah thought that if ah was going to fuckin tattoo my own body, then ah want'dit to be fer her somehow.

Brazilian: I saw da bez tatto today! I saw dis huge guy near da train station dat had a huge tattoo of his face on his bicep.

Australian: Hiss bye-sep?

Polish: Yees! I saw eet, too. Eet lewked jzust lyke heem!

English: Wha, thaut's werd as fok, mon.
Welsh: I'um quite keen ta meet this goy.

Hahahaha.

Luff,
bcl.

Superman Syndrome

Blogosphere,

So it turns out that Superman Syndrome is a real thing after all. Like so many other unfortunate youths, I, too, once thought myself invincible. And though I don't think I would have actually said this aloud, deep, deep down, I have spent the last several years silently reassuring myself time and time again, "But that can't happen to me."

When my friends and family heard that I was going to Thailand, they all responded with a chorus of oohs and ahhs and "I'm so jealous!"s. But they also warned me about the dangers of traveling alone with so many valuables on me. "B, you really need to be careful there! Don't keep all of your money in one place, okay? Try to keep your important documents locked up in a safe. Don't leave your belongings out and about. Get one of those special straps that you wear underneath your clothes to keep your passport in. Don't leave your things unattended, okay?" And even though I always responded to such concerns with enthusiastic nods and promises to do or not do all of those things that they told me to do or not do, on the inside, I let myself succumb to the comforting lull of "Don't worry, it won't happen to you..."

And now, of course, only two days into my trip, I find myself embarrassed, shaken up, and so, so wrong.

As with so many unfortunate incidents, I responded first with disbelief, followed by anger at my perpetrator, and then lastly, anger and disappointment in myself. I turned the event around in my head over and over again, replaying my every move, every word. I revisited the final moment I can remember before the theft and retraced my steps carefully.

B: (comes out of the first shower stall)
A: (comes out of second shower stall)
B: Hey, do you think it'll be okay for me to leave my stuff out here on the bathroom counter like this?
A: Mmm.. I think so..
B: Yeah, you're probably right.

How could I have gone so wrong? Why did I think that that would be okay?

I'm not sure I can confidently answer those questions even now, but I do know one thing. I will never, ever again see my two TSA-approved 3 fluid-ounce travel sized shampoo or conditioner ever again! The pesky thief left no clue, and I have no idea how to begin the search and rescue. I thought about contacting the authorities, but apparently, the policemen in Thailand are far too understaffed to respond to this type of report. So that's it, then. They are gone. My two perfectly small bottled shampoo and conditioner, which I spent a painstaking five to ten minutes carefully selecting from Meijer. Aside from the loss of such good-smelling and nourishing hair cleansers, I am also aggressively aware of the fact that those five minutes have now become an official waste of my time (and Felix's, who had to wait patiently with me in Meijer and hold my shopping basket while I carefully made my way down the travel aisle, unscrewing the cap of every brand of shampoo, sniffing each open bottle deeply).

As shocking as this event is to me, I feel that it was really important for me to document and share my experience with all of you right away and to implore you to stop thinking that you're invincible or that you're immune to horrible accidents and unfortunate incidents because your travel-ready soaps, too, are never really safe.

R.I.P., little guys.

Hahahahahaaaa!

Wiser,
- bcl.

Snakes on a Plane

Dear Blogosphere,

DTW Detroit International Airport

Good morning from Bangkok, Thailand!

If you're reading this, I'm assuming that it's because you're either my friend (or family) who cares about me and my well-being. (If you are not either, then you should probably leave because this is weird). And because you're all caring friends and family, I feel like most of you are concerned about similar things and would therefore want to ask similar questions about my travels. In an attempt to address as many of your collective concerns at once as possible, I have decided to provide you all with the following transcript of what I think is the conversation that you're all dying to have with me. I will be playing both roles in the following interview, of course. 

Me: Hey! I just wanted to let you know that I've arrived safely in Bangkok. 

You: Yay, so exciting! How was the flight?

Me: Fine. The first flight was great, the second one was like, not that great, but it's fine. I'm here in Thailand now!

You: Aww, wait, why? What happened?

Me: Ha, so you know the movie, Snakes on a Plane?

You: What..? 

Me: Yep, pretty much. 

You: Hold on, wait. What? 

Me: Okay, just kidding. There were no snakes on the plane. Nor was there any Samuel L. Jackson. But I did faint on the flight from Tokyo to Bangkok, and it was so lame. I wanted to actually title this blog post "Faints on a Plane" at first, but then I thought that no one would automatically make the connection that "Faints on a Plane" rhymes with "Snakes on a Plane"-- because honestly, who would do that-- and would therefore nullify my cleverness. I probably could have cleared the whole thing up if I had just titled it "Bithiah Faints on a Plane" but then I realized that that's not cool at all. Not even a little bit cool.

You: What? You fainted on the plane? What happened?

Me: Exactly that.

You: So you just...

Me: Yeah, the second flight was rough. I just remember that I was really pretty tired and uncomfortable for that whole 7-hour flight. I think I was just exhausted-- I hadn't slept in like, 24 hours at this point-- and maybe a bit dehydrated and dizzy from the overhead light. I was sitting in between two strangers, so I couldn't sleep very well. There was this very nice middle-aged man to my right and a very nice little old lady to my left. At one point, I was sleeping and then I suddenly jolted awake with a dizzy spell of sorts. I opened my eyes and saw everything spinning fiercely and I had the hugest desire to throw up. I didn't want to vomit on the people next to me, so I tapped the little old lady and told her I needed to get out. I might as well have hurled all over her since she did not escape unscathed from the incident anyway.. I stumbled out into the aisle and I'm pretty sure I stepped on her foot. I think I was trying to go to the bathroom but then I must have ended up falling into that small weird little hallway thing next to it. And then! IT WAS JUST LIKE A MOVIE. Things were kind of blurry and everyone's voices quietly distant-sounding. I could hear this little flight attendant asking me if I was okay and then her yelling for a "doctor on board? Is there a doctor on board? Please!" and then people were standing over me and they were kind of blurry and they asked me all these questions. They took my pulse, told me I was sweaty, and made me drink orange juice. I remember feeling really embarrassed and that this was funny. And I also remember feeling strangely aware and upset about the fact that I was lying on a super dirty floor. But, at least this whole thing ended up being one of those 'woo-hoo-humanity!' moments since so many strangers really demonstrated kindness that night. People offered to switch seats with me, asked after me, and kept trying to bring me things that would help me feel better. Very sweet. 

You: Have you made any friends yet?

Me: Yes! I've made like, seven friends! Actually, you can't really call them that since most of us will never see each other again. But if you're interested, I have met: nice seatmate professor lady; tiny little Hong Kong lady who could only speak Cantonese; Thai woman who wants to buy me things and tell me secrets and who keeps calling me "sweetie" and "hun"; man from Syracuse; Canadian nurse; American doctor; and old man who took note of my Michigan sweater and told me that even though he's an Ohio-State alum, he thought Michigan was a very, very, very good school.

You: That's great! So what are you doing now?

Me: Well, I arrived at the hostel close to 1 AM yesterday, brushed my teeth and crawled into bed. I think I slept fairly well. I am about to meet with one of the owners in a little bit to chat more about what I'm doing with them today. I'll let you know when I know. 

You: Alright, cool. Yeah, just keep me posted on everything!

Me: Okay! Oh and also, it is SO HOT here. I'm so hot.

Me: Oh, and one more thing! At the Narita-Tokyo airport, their bathrooms.. have those BUTT WASH TOILETS. Ahahahahaaaa!

love,

bcl.

The things I'll miss

Dear Blogosphere,

I'm leaving tomorrow morning for Thailand. (I know, I know. We can talk more about that later). But right now, I am sitting here in my home in Detroit, doing some last-minute packing, transferring music onto my Zen, and thinking about the things that I'll miss about home while I'm away.

You all know how I feel about lists, so here I go!

The things I'll miss:
- my Keurig machine
- my guitar
- my callouses
- Mercury Burger
- my keyboard
- stick shift
- credit cards
- scarves
- Oliver
- grape jelly
- blocks of cheddar cheese
- Tuesday nights
- Thanksgiving

There were more items on my list, too, but I've decided to leave them off since the majority of said items are different foods.. Ha, let's be honest.

- bcl.