Bangkok to Chiang Mai

I made the mistake of sleeping 15 hours during the day after 36 hours of travel. In retrospect, it seems both reasonable and simultaneously weak. I woke up at one in the morning, too afraid to get up in my hostel dorm after I was heinously scolded by my bunkmate upon arrival. I waited 6 hours to use the bathroom. Every step I took, every time I unzipped a zipper, opened my locker, I imagined her eyes staring into mine, and her shushing me. Is it a cardinal rule that if one tries to be quiet, they are destined to drop something? I escaped the room, got ready, and learned that my hair senses fear. This time it was my own.

Crossing the street is quite the adventure here. Occasionally saved by the green walker and occasionally forced to walk into oncoming traffic. My Google Maps led me through congested market stalls to get to Song Wat Road, deemed by many to be super cool. I can attest.

I went to the world's 11th-largest mall and realized I also don't have enough money here to shop in those kinds of places. I then took a bus to Lumphini Park, an area graced with pedal boats and Water Monitors. Given the name, I wasn't expecting them to be on land. I almost stepped on one. I got caught in the rain, which, in my short time here, I’ve really grown to like. I returned to my hostel, where I found the aforementioned bunkmate snoring for the 48th hour in a row. I watched the end of Dirty Dancing and psyched myself up to leave again. I heavily considered asking the five closed curtains if they wanted to go to the night market with me, but the high probability that no one would answer made me rethink.

As I was leaving my hostel, I held the door open for someone who made the same two turns as me. As the words had been sitting on the tip of my tongue for quite some time, I decided to ask where she was going. We were both headed to Chinatown’s night market. We made a quick stop to see the sunset over Wat Arun before walking a little too long in the wrong direction. She encouraged me to call my first Grab (Thailand’s Uber), and I’m so sorry, Dad, assured me that my wearing flip-flops would not be an issue on the motorbike. In my defense, I’ve seen people riding side saddle with skirts, monks with no hands, moms with their babies. I trusted her judgment, but I wasn’t sure if I trusted something going exactly as it was supposed to for me. So, I white-knuckled my Grab driver’s shoulders, and with my stomach dropping rollercoaster-style all too consistently, I spent the ride shifting my vision from seeing blurs of neon to focusing on a single person in the sea of market stalls. I left with my limbs intact and a new fixation.

I got to the market, which was huge and busy, and I quickly realized that I had failed to get my new friend’s number. I waited a while and debated leaving, as I felt like I was ill-prepared for an environment like that. Against all odds, she found me. She decided where to sit and, more importantly, how to sit there, as well as what to order. I had my first beer that I've been able to drink without gagging (hello adulthood) and a papaya salad to which I prayed I wasn't allergic. We sat in our tiny stools on the very edge of the road and all felt right with the world. Probably a fat chance that she'll see this, but thank you, Kalyani, for showing me around and encouraging me. I like to create a million reasons as to why I shouldn't do something. Thank you for showing me a few as to why I should, and that goes beyond improper footwear.

I think I was met with reality on day two. Buses not showing when they're supposed to, Google having inaccurate information, me being late, etc. I realized that the cherished good mornings and goodnights are nearly impossible when there's an 11-hour time difference. Conversations blend together, and the mental math of special things I’ve missed feels impossible to grasp.

I’m currently on a 14-hour train ride to the north of Thailand. I'm saddened to report that men here don't understand the concept of personal space either. Let me paint a picture of my surroundings:

My research betrayed me, and I booked the wrong class ticket. Blue reclining seats line the wood paneled train car, every other one's stuffing exposed, and each chair's mechanical gears have been collecting dust since 1922. The windows rattle against the wind and the speed of the train. Two fans rotate on the ceiling. The sun sets, and the train car is quickly swarmed with bugs attracted to the light. I cover my face and my legs in 85-degree heat to keep the mosquitoes off and the gnats from flying up my nose. A man's elbow is in my side, and every twenty seconds, a woman with a wet bucket hits my other one.

Are you picturing it? And more importantly, would you be having a good time? I was easily romanticizing it until the poking. It’s very hard for me to be delusional when I'm being touched. However, the scenery is gorgeous, and I met the sweetest girl waiting to board. She kept me company until her seat was wrongfully stolen and invited me to sit with her when her very fancy sleeper seat was all set up. I was quickly kicked out of first class, but the sentiment was there. I don't know if I can complain for $16, but I’ll try.

Anyways, very grateful to be here. To see new things and meet new people. To have blisters on the bottom of my feet, to be hit with the ice bucket, all of it.