The One-Month Mark

I didn’t fly across the world to eat a Crunchwrap Supreme in a strip mall.

But it happened anyway.

Today marks 30 days since I’ve been in Thailand. I’m on the island of Ko Samui, staying in a hostel situated right down the road from the most traditional-looking mall that I’ve seen in my month here. It contains a Starbucks, a Subway, a Cold Stone Creamery, and of course, a Taco Bell. It has intricately landscaped green spaces next to the escalators and little Christmas trees set up in the main hall. Surrounding the trees, there’s a maze of temporary booths adorned with fake wrapped presents and stocking stuffers. Off of the main hall, I found myself in an Uniqlo, feeling up all of the cashmere-blend sweaters. I then went next door to an H&M, where I looked at a sleeveless mohair top more longingly than I have ever looked at anything in my entire life. I thought about how ridiculous it’d be if I bought it and imagined it taking up a fourth of the space in my backpack. I couldn’t stop thinking about fall, specifically in Philadelphia, for the rest of the day. Orange tree-lined streets and poorly brick-paved sidewalks scattered with leaves. Watching pumpkins decay post-Halloween and seeing fake spider webs coat iron gates for all of November. I’ve been mourning the fact that I missed out on giving candy to trick-or-treaters and sitting on someone’s porch in a weather-inappropriate costume. As I begrudgingly put back the mohair, I tried to remember what it felt like to be cold, and wondered when the last time I put on a sweater was.

It feels absolutely ridiculous to be in such a gorgeous place, strip mall aside, and be dreaming of somewhere else. To be surrounded by the things I sought out to experience and yearn for what’s back home. I cringe at the first sight of something familiar, and at the second, I gravitate towards it. I am a true sucker for nostalgia.

I was on the back of a Grab bike earlier, and I decided to do one of those grounding exercises they tell you to do when you’re having a panic attack. I was fine, but I thought it might help me be more in the moment. Five things you see, four you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, and one you can taste. I saw a few currency exchange booths situated very close to the edge of the major road. I saw a grocery store called “Tops” as well as big fat craters in the street where concrete used to be. I saw cars driving way too slow, and flickering streetlights down tiny side roads that I hoped we wouldn’t turn onto. I felt the handles on the back of the bike. I thought it was strange that it was a solid piece of plastic rather than something you could put your fingers through. I felt my phone in my pocket, making sure that it was still there, and I put one hand on my helmet while using the other to tighten the strap. I pulled until I felt it squeezing my head, and I no longer imagined it falling off during a crash that wouldn’t happen. I heard the bike accelerating, blurbs of conversations from people on the sidewalk, and the occasional horn. I smelled gasoline and cooking oil and attempted to detect ocean air, but failed to do so. I tasted the pulp from the orange juice I just had at the market.

I remembered my wanting to feel cold, and I tried to cement the feeling of hot air on my skin. I thought about how strange it is to experience a November summer and wondered if I would be content living somewhere without seasons. I decided consistency in looking forward to things is important to me, and relying on my environment to let me know to seek change is imperative to my sanity.

A new location every week perfectly aligns with those needs. Things I haven’t seen, touched, heard, smelled, or tasted. Shiny new ventures waiting just around the corner. Inevitable excitement that will not be overshadowed by what I know. There is room for it all, hopefully.