Prague. A beautiful, magical city that instantly whisks visitors into a world of old and new merged together. Where palaces and modern life smash together in the most beautifully chaotic way.
The city first took its hold on me in 2002, when I spent time there during my month-long European experience. In the dead of winter, I wandered the streets of the city, being left breathless at the moments I was being caressed with. The little instances where I felt like I was in an entirely other world. The eye-opening experiences I was being treated to.
In 2010, when I returned, it was more of the same. Except this time, it was May and the sun shone down and the grass glowed an electric green as crowds came out en masse for May Day.
Blue skies overhead, I set out to explore the city. To get lost. To wander down alleyways, in search of nuggets of culture I had missed the time before.
It is one of the only cities in Europe I have returned to more than once — and for good reason. There is a charm here, the colors, the shops, and, of course, the views.
“You’re my best friend,” he says to me in a drunken slur on New Year’s Eve. “Really, you are.”
I stand there, with the red brick stupa glowing gold in the night. What do I say?
“Really? I don’t think so.”
Never an easy thing to admit to someone whom you thought was one of your closest friends. And, certainly never the thing to admit to the person who is saying how they feel about you.
But, the truth is this — I’m no one’s best friend here. I don’t have a best friend here. I’m lucky to have a small core of people whom I love and adore, but if you took me out of the equation in their lives, it would be a minimal loss.
Why?
Because that is the way friendships as an expat in Chiang Mai go.
People come. People go. People swear up and down they will be friends with you forever. Then, they pack their bags and head to a far off land and you have fleeting conversations courtesy of Facebook Messenger. Moments of seeing their faces thanks to Skype or FaceTime or whatever-the-app-of-the-day is.
It used to really bother me. Like, devastate me, when people left. People I had grown so accustomed to having in my life. People I thought I could not not have in my life.
But, you know what? I can. I do. Sure, it takes a few days to get over the initial sting of changing a routine, of knowing I can’t pick up the phone and call them because their SIM card is now a different country code, but I move on. And, so do they.
Friendships here are odd. There is a community I have found here. A community of people of all ages, with all different desires, doing all different things. I used to love it. I used to relish nights spent having cheap beer in the sticky night air. And then, I fell out of love with it.
Why?
It’s a rat race of a different sort. Expats in Chiang Mai (and yes, I am being quite sweeping and general) are clawing for something. They just don’t know what. Some come here to teach. Some come here to be digital nomads. Some come here because their lives were shit where they used to live and they need something — anything — to give their lives some sort of meaning. To fill some sort of void, even though they aren’t sure what that void is.
Up until now, I have rolled over. I have played the part of a submissive dog and let anyone come and scratch my belly because it felt better than curling up alone. I’ve sacrificed what I have wanted because others did not want it. In a city that is as charming as it is toxic, I have skipped moments, things I have desired, because others did not feel the same pulse, the same electricity, the same things calling to them that were calling to me.
I have been taken advantage of. I have been used. I was that shitty tattered doormat, that person in an abusive relationship that kept coming back for more. And, it is all my fault.
“D, I don’t like it when friends take advantage of you,” my friend says to me across the bar.
I stop sipping my Leo and look at him.
“What do you mean?” I ask, because I am blind.
“We are all friends, and to treat you like that, to blow you off … that isn’t the way you treat people.”
I freeze.
When he says I am being taken advantage of and I don’t deserve it, it hurts more than I imagine.
Friends don’t do that. Friends … real friends … no matter where in the world they are … don’t treat you like you don’t matter. That you are expendable. And yet, here I am, sitting in Chiang Mai, thinking I have so many close friends, and they aren’t really. We are all in this together, only it is every man/woman for his or herself.
So, today starts something new. Today starts boundaries. To not just rolling over and letting people treat me like I don’t matter. That what I want isn’t as important as what they want.
It isn’t easy, but it is about not being complacent. It’s about getting out of my comfort zone. And, that is totally ok with me.
Disclaimer: To my expat friends reading this, this is not an attack on you. If you are reading this, then you know me well enough to know I love you with all of my heart.
Twinkling lights adorning homes. Nativity scenes. Malls overloaded with garland, Santa and merriment.
That’s how I recall the holiday season in America. Nothing short of sensory overload to the tune of “Jingle Bells.”
But, the holidays in Chiang Mai? It’s an entirely different story.
There’s no snow. There’s no Santa. And, there’s definitely not a sense of an impending holiday season where we can expect to deck the halls. In fact, the only semi-holiday thing I am gifted with is a cold front that chills my jungle blood.
It’s almost easy to forget it is the holiday season, except for the barrage of Facebook posts filling my feed, displaying photos of families smiling, Christmas trees, food (oh, the food), and the seasonal sentiments.
This year as an expat in Thailand, the holiday season was hard for me. Sure, I don’t celebrate Christmas, but oddly enough, it was the one thing I craved this year. To be with family. To see homes decked out in blinking, colorful lights. To walk through a mall under an assault of commercial holiday cheer.
Thanksgiving
“I miss you,” I say over Skype to my parents, shrouded in darkness Thanksgiving Eve in Delaware. Here, it’s Thanksgiving, and there is nothing to honor it. I am at work, not with my family, for the first time ever. I don’t expect to be as emotional about it as I am, but something that Thanksgiving morning pinched me.
I want to be home. I want to be snuggled on a couch, watching football, scarfing down green bean casserole and pumpkin pie. I want to wake up to and see the bare trees and the rays of the cold winter sun jutting through. I want that comfort.
I wipe the tears from my eyes because suddenly, I am crying. I am longing for a hug from my parents. For them to just be in a room with me, instead of half-way around the world.
When I disconnect, I walk back into the office and try to shake the lonely that has wrapped its gray tentacles around me. I remind myself tonight I am getting together with friends for sushi and then going to see a movie.
“I’m starting a new tradition,” I had proudly announced to my potpourri of expat friends earlier in the month. “I can’t be with my family for Thanksgiving, so I’m starting something new with my family here.”
The best laid plans.
People get sick. People bail. Quickly, it’s me and a Leo sitting outside at a bar watching the tuk tuks putter by and the stray dogs bound up and down the pocked street.
This is not how I imagined Thanksgiving to be.
A friend comes and joins my gloom and I convince him to meet me and another friend at the movies. At least I can have a little bit of America tonight. We head to see “Catching Fire” and for a brief moment, I feel like I am back in the States, enjoying a movie.
The next week, I head to the western supermarket to buy some stuffing … just to give me a quick Thanksgiving fix. Of course, it’s terrible and I shovel two spoonfuls in my mouth before announcing it a bust and trading it for a glass of red wine with friends.
Then, Christmas happens.
Falalalala
I return from work one day to find my patio has a new addition — a strand of Christmas lights draped across the windows. Set against the jungle setting, it gives me that little tinge of home and delights me more than I expect.
Christmas lights! In Chiang Mai! Joy to the world!
Just to have that little strand of color, that little flash of America, on my patio instantly makes me feel more at home. Suddenly, Christmas is about celebrating life here. It is about accepting I am not with my family, my old friends, but with a new and beautiful life. Unlike Thanksgiving, I tell Lonely to fuck off and go Christmas Crazy.
Yes, as a Jew. Who has never once celebrated Christmas.
The week before Christmas, I turn on my Apple TV and put on a Christmas mix courtesy of iTunes Radio. I listen to it for hours as I sit outside and type. I don’t know what has gotten into me, but it makes me so stupidly happy.
I’ve got Christmas Fever and now I want to infect everyone with my special little virus.
It gets bad. Like, real bad.
The days before Christmas, all I can sing are Christmas songs. I have a stupid holiday smile on my face and an “I love you, man” attitude. Towards everyone. I decide Christmas Eve is all about the Eggnog. And Christmas? Hell, it’s a party with my closest at my friend’s establishment, Little Bar, on Loi Kroh.
On Christmas Eve, I invite over some Americans and we all sit outside, sipping eggnog as Christmas music blasts from my television. On Christmas morning, I call my best friend in Vegas. Every Christmas in Vegas was spent at his house, with his family. When he picks up the FaceTime call and I see him in a car with his family, the tears start again. But, it isn’t because I am sad. It is because I am happy. I’m happy to have those memories. I’m happy to see his face, his family’s faces. I miss them, but I don’t miss that life. And, when I hang up the phone, I linger over that thought.
At night, I head to Little Bar and party. All of the ladyboys and ladies on the street have donned their best and sexiest Santa and elf attire. Barbecues sprout up on the uneven sidewalks. Carols fill the crisp night air.
It’s a Thailand Christmas.
And, I love it.
While I did learn I can’t do Thanksgiving as an expat next year, I can certainly do Christmas. It’s now my second favorite holiday, thanks to friends and my life in Chiang Mai. Even as an expat, I can get some good ol’ American cheer.
Well, for starters, I don’t spend every day with them. I’m not that lucky. I get up to Elephant Nature Park about once a week or so. When I am there, I am normally escorting people through the park, working with the staff to show them the gorgeous herd of 36 elephants.
And, I take a lot (and I mean A LOT) of photos.
Back to the question: what’s it like?
Amazing. Incredible. Awe-inspiring. Beautiful. Peaceful. I could go on, but instead, I would rather show you.
To make it super easy, I compiled a list of my favorite photos I’ve taken and shared on Instagram for your enjoyment. I hope you can get a sense for the happiness of the elephants at ENP and can consider responsible tourism options should you find yourself in my neck of the woods.
For more elephant Instagram goodness, be sure to follow the eles (and me) on my Instagram.
#1. Mintra, Yin Dee and Malai Tong
This is my all-time favorite photo. I love it because it shows a family unit that wasn’t a family until the birth of Yin Dee. The son of Mintra, this little guy is special, mostly because experts at the park didn’t think Mintra would ever be able to give birth to a calf, thanks to her injuries from her previous life. Once he was born, Malai Tong, a victim of a land mine, joined the little herd and is now one of his aunties.
Born in late October 2012 (I was there for his birth, which was greeted by trumpets, trunk slaps and elephant chatter), Navann spent his beginning months in a special enclosure to ensure his safety until he got big enough to get out and run around the park. During his time with his mom, Sri Prae (another land mine victim), he was photographed pretty much all of the time. I loved taking his picture. He would always play games with the photographers, hamming it up. Navann would spot someone taking a photo, let out a little grunt from his trunk, and then bound towards the lens.
Following a long journey from the Surin province in Thailand, Lucky’s first steps to freedom at ENP treated her to an introduction with the family herd. The former circus elephant showed no shyness and immediately got comfortable with the park’s largest group of elephants. Here, she gets to know Chang Yim, who, at 4-1/2-years-old is quite the cheeky boy.
Speaking of the naughty boy, whenever I am near Chang Yim, I always look for a barrier between us. This afternoon, I was standing on the platform when he came by for some snacks. It’s the first (and only) time I have ever fed him.
Mintra, who recently gave birth to Yin Dee, likes to have a good time. One of the most social at the park (and, apparently, who I would be if I was an elephant), we came upon her one day when she was playing with a rope. For about 10 minutes, she would throw it on her body and tug at it. Finally, she lost interest and went back to the company of her best friend, the crotchety Jampaa.
Medo was one of the first elephants I fell in love with when I volunteered with ENP in Sept. 2011. Her story broke my heart. She had broken her ankle in illegal logging, and then her back was broken when a bull aggressively mounted her in forced breeding. It took Lek five months to rescue this 30-year-old girl. On this day, I was with her and some VIP guests as she crunched down on some watermelon. There is nothing sweeter than the sound of an elephant chomping on a snack.
Most times I go to the park, I am fortunate enough to get out in the field and be a part of the family herd. These afternoons are some of my most favorite memories of my life. Being able to sit with them and watch them as they enjoy their freedom is so uplifting. It makes me so very grateful for the life I have in Thailand.
The darling of the park, Faa Mai, is one of the sweetest and most gentle elephants. She has spent an extraordinary amount of time with Lek and the two have formed a gorgeous relationship of mother/daughter. Faa Mai loves to put Lek under her front legs and stick her trunk up to Lek’s face to talk with her. It truly is one of the most surreal and gorgeous things to see Lek and Faa Mai together. In this photo, Faa Mai’s sister, Tong Jann, joined in the love fest.
Thanks to recent donations, the park was able to purchase some additional land across the street from the main area. It is jungle, and elephants are taken up here regularly. Here, Medo, made the trek up the hill to spend some time in the leafy wilderness.
For more elephant photos like this, and photos of my life in Chiang Mai and travels, be sure to follow along on Instagram. And for more elephant goodness, check out Save Elephant Foundation’s Facebook page. Trust me. It’s packed with more pachyderm awesome than you could imagine.
The morning market by my house changes in November. Once the days shrink and the night comes on early, the warm clothes come out. Racks and racks of used jackets, knit caps, scarves, pants and more replace the skirts and dresses which hang during the hot months in Chiang Mai. Technically, there are four seasons here if you count warm, hot, scorching and rain. Although the rainy season is warm. And the winter is “warm” but it really depends on who you ask.
Most mornings as I walk to work, I shake my head, confused at why the winter clothes have come out since … well … the winter I had last year wasn’t really winter to me at all.
Enter December 2013.
Not pictured: the obscene wet cold.
It’s a rainy, chilly Sunday. In America, it would be the kind of Sunday where I want to tuck into a dimly lit bar, sip on a spicy Bloody Mary and watch some American football. But, in Chiang Mai, it is the perfect sort of day to sip hot tea, work under an awning as the rain splashes down in full force, and get some work done.
Only, the chilly air has dug into my skin. It’s tapped on my bones. I sit at the little wooden table with my friend, trying to let the hot tea warm me from the inside out.
“Last winter, I don’t remember being cold,” I say to no one in particular.
I remember it so clearly. In the mornings, I’d walk to work in short sleeves and jeans, relishing the autumn-like temperatures and clear blue skies with sun beating down on me without causing a sweat to erupt. I’d laugh softly when I saw locals bundled like an impending snow storm was coming.
It was warm. It bordered on hot for me.
But now?
Oh, karma.
Now, I’m one of those bundled people. I walk to work clad in a sweater, a scarf, a knit cap pulled down to keep my ears warm.
The worst part?
It’s a balmy 60 degrees in the morning.
I get what I deserve for laughing last year.
‘Cause you know what? Now, I’m one of them. I’ve got the thin, jungle blood. I’ve survived the excruciating hot months from mid-February to May. I’ve played through rainy season and the humid air. And now? I’m freezing.
I swear, it feels like 0!
We get a cold front in the middle of December that drops the temps even lower. In one day, the thermometer dips a whopping 8 degrees Celsius. Whopping. Biting wind. Nights that chill to the bone. My Facebook feed is overtaken by expats and locals lamenting about the temperatures. It’s cold for us locals.
You can actually tell those who have lived through at least one winter in Chiang Mai and aren’t Thai. They look like me. Covered, head-to-toe to stay warm and not get frostbite … even though there is no chance of that.
The tourists, they’re a different breed. They are likely coming from cold climates (except those Aussies and Kiwis) and are love-love-loving the “warm” weather. They walk around in tank tops, shorts, flip flops. The girls wear their hair up because its hot. They sit outside, scantily clad at Thaepae Gate, under the great ball of sun. I scratch my head … try to recall my cold-but-not-cold self last year. The happiness that filled me to not sweat in the winter. To walk and breathe in the crisp air. My first winter was heavenly. So is this one, but now it’s just heavenly chilly.
“Give them a year here,” I think to myself. “They’ll freeze, too.”
Then, I go home, turn the water in my shower on slow so it can heat up, and let the scalding water rush over me to rid myself of the cold. There are no heaters here, so I cuddle up into some PJs, place my cats strategically next to me on the bed and snuggle deep under the covers.
But, in true D fashion, I try to rebel against my newfound jungle blood just a little. I keep the windows open. And thank my lucky stars I get to have this cold weather. Summer is coming soon … and I know that once the temps begin to rise, I will long for this cold.
“Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes/Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear/ Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes/How do you measure, measure a year?”
— RENT, Jonathan Larson
How do you measure a year?
This year, it was all about defining moments as an expat in Thailand. Moments that changed my life, moments that forever altered my heart, moments that impacted me so greatly they caused me to ache in ways I never thought possible.
It goes beyond measuring things in cups of coffee, sunsets, stolen glances, secret kisses … it is so much more than that.
In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes, anything is possible. Everything is possible.
These are the moments that will always be remembered for the impact they had on me in 2013. Some good, some bad, some heart-breaking, but always, always making me the person I am so proud to be today.
1. Everyday is New Year’s Eve. Especially New Year’s Eve.
Any good story starts with New Year’s Eve. As a friend constantly reminds me, in Chiang Mai, everyday is New Year’s Eve, so what better way to begin with saying New Year’s Eve — the real New Year’s Eve — changed everything.
It starts as most NYE’s start, over dinner and drinks. My friend, Megan, is in town to visit me, and we head off to Loi Kroh to grab dinner. As lights twinkle and reminders of New Year’s Eve surround us everywhere we turn on the crowded street, we enjoy dinner and then drinks. My friend, Aaron, joins us and then, after dinner, we head to a bar owned by two Americans.
I’m not a New Year’s fan, so the idea of going out on the night where everything is placed on how much fun you have/how much you drink/who you kiss, makes my stomach turn. But, I’ve got a friend in town, and Aaron wants us to check out the bar, so we go.
I walk in, and it is empty, save for two Americans — the owners. In the dimly lit scarlet bar, the three of us begin to down the white liquor when I meet Ron and Hollywood. They are both from America and have just opened The Playhouse. And, other than Aaron, they are the first American guys I have met in Chiang Mai. I instantly like them both, and while I am there, I spend most of my time with Ron, chatting away about life in Thailand and life in America, and how glad we are we both came here.
He’s pretty awesome.
And, even though we leave the bar, I don’t forget about The Playhouse. There’s something in the back of my head that tells me Ron and Hollywood will both become important people in my life. Even if they don’t know it yet.
I lay in bed the night before we are due to leave for Phnom Penh, feverish, shaky, praying to some higher power that I don’t have dengue. In the morning, I call my boss and tell her I’m not sure if I can make the trip. But, inside, I am devastated. It’s an elephant rescue. Two elephants being rescued, and not going crushes me.
“I will come,” I explain, “but if I start to feel worse, I am going to fly back to Chiang Mai. I don’t want to get hospitalized in Cambodia.”
I make the trip, fortunately, and am treated to the most magical eight days of my life.
The journey starts out hard — we land in Phnom Penh and the next morning embark on a day-long drive, where, under the cloak of darkness, we meet up with another team of volunteers who have driven the two elephant trucks into a tiny town along the Mekong. The next morning, we awake early to go to a village in Ratanakiri to take the first elephant from her life of trekking.
We spend the day with the children of the village, playing with them, giving them clothing, watching in awe as they watch us in awe. With so little, these children’s live seem so filled with laughter.
When its time to load the first elephant into the truck, Lauren, a volunteer who I had met the night before, leans into me and whispers, “This is the worst part, they don’t always want to get in the truck.”
But, this elephant? She does. Tempted with bananas, she walks right onto the truck from the pile of dirt. Done.
That night, our team visits the other village with the second elephant we are rescuing. In front of a fire, and sitting on mats covering the earth, with chickens and pigs hovering besides knobby stilts supporting the huts, we dine on home-cooked food as the owners of the elephant swap tales of life. Even though I understand nothing of what they are saying, simply being there, in this little village where a radio provides entertainment and most huts don’t have electricity, I am moved.
In the morning, we are up before the roosters and begin our journey to the sanctuary outside of Siem Reap.
We drive down dirt highways through the interior of the country. Along the roadside, children run from their huts and wave at us and the elephants. We speed through areas of trouble. I ride atop the truck at times, sitting with one of the elephants and Lauren. As the sun begins to set and the fires from the jungle burning around us begin to fill my lungs, I opt to get back in the van.
When we arrive to the sanctuary around 9 p.m., seeing the elephants take their first steps to freedom touches me. Lauren and I hang back, arms wrapped around each others shoulders. Smiling. Yeah, it was entirely worth it.
Less than a month later, we are back out on the road. This time, it is to rescue Lucky, a circus elephant in need of retirement. At nearly 30, she has been the star of a circus in Surin almost her entire life. She is blind from the spotlights shining in her eyes. We head out to rescue her from Chiang Mai, packing 10 volunteers into a van and driving through the night, stopping at the Cambodian border in the morning, and then arrive to Surin in the mid-afternoon.
We are there for less than two hours. Then, Lucky is loaded onto the truck — again, she goes in without a thought — and we head back to Chiang Mai. My co-worker, Mindy, and I hop onto the truck early in the morning to sit with her. Above us, the stars twinkle. Next to us, Lucky eats her corn stalks, softly emitting a “crunch crunch.”
As the sky begins to lighten, we can see a storm ahead. Mindy and I ignore it … until it starts to pour. Then, soaked to the bone, we get back in the van until lunch. On the last leg to Elephant Nature Park, Lek, Mindy and I climb back up the truck and are with Lucky as we drive into the park.
I watch with tears in my eyes from my perch a top the truck as she takes her first steps to freedom and meets the family herd for the first time.
4. Myanmar
It’s actually very difficult for me to write about my time in Myanmar. Not because the words fail me, but because there are stories I just can’t share. I can say this — I was in Myanmar for a week. I met amazing, beautiful locals. I visited the gorgeous Shwedagon Pagoda. I got to be so very close to the royal white elephants. I saw jungles. I explored the Yangon Zoo. And, I left Myanmar feeling absolutely drained, depressed and exhausted in every sense of the word. While I can’t say much, just know it is one of those trips that will stay with me forever.
5. Getting a home
“James’ dad,” Wendy heaves into the phone between cries, “he’s passed.”
The death of my friend’s father catapults my life from one of an open book at Smith Residence to one of far more privacy. In a rush to leave, there are no loose ends tied, and a few weeks later, I get a phone call from Mary, who, along with her husband, are the landlords of said house.
“Wendy said you were interested in renting the house,” she explains over the phone. “You want to come and look at it?”
I’m sitting at a local restaurant having a beer with Paula.
“What do I do?” I ask, torn between having the comfortable life at Smith versus being on my own.
She opens her blue eyes wide.
“I think you should do it!”
The next day, Paula and I walk the quick minute down the street from Smith and tour the house. It’s bigger than the condo I lived in when I lived in Vegas, but not nearly as modern. There are no glass windows. There are gaps between the “sky light” and the ceiling. The kitchen is a sink, a refrigerator and a microwave. The burners are out on the patio.
“Yes,” I say to Mary and John while standing in the teak upstairs. “I will take it.”
A few nights later, I stand on the wooden stairs of my new house and take it all in. The patio. The living room. The kitchen. The bedroom. The guest room. They’re mine. All mine.
It gets even better when I bring home a cute little black and white cat, Penelope, from the office, and a month later, get to take the cat I rescued my first few days here, Lucky, home.
I haven’t felt this grown-up in a long time. And, the icing on the cake? It’s my house in Thailand. For the first time in a long time, everything seems to have fallen into perfect place. Until the perfect burns up along with the mountains during burning season.
A week after I move into my house, I have a house-warming party. The first guests are Paula and my co-workers, Adam, Ter and Lily. We sit on the benches on my patio, sipping rice wine — Adam’s favorite. At some point in the night, we’ve all had a bit to drink, and Adam decides he needs to leave. I give him a hug goodbye and thank him for coming. He leaves his shoes behind.
And, I never see him alive again.
A few days later, I walk into the office when my boss, Lek, stands up and looks at me.
“Adam died.”
I freeze.
No. No. No way.
“What?”
“He died, Diana.”
I sit down in a tattered black chair in front of her desk and bury my head in my hands.
“How?”
“He had an infection and it killed him.”
I just saw him. He was just at my house. His shoes … his shoes are sitting in front of my door.
She comes up behind me and hugs me.
Adam’s death is the first death of a friend in my life. It is the first time I have known what it is like to grieve for someone who isn’t family, but might as well be. Adam is my first friend in Thailand. The first person I can talk to about living here. And now, he’s gone.
I walk through the day as a zombie. And, when I’m not a zombie, I am a wailing, sobbing mess.
This goes on for days. Tears. Smiles. Memories of Adam. I don’t live in a world of sad, but I don’t heal as well as I should either.
There are a few things Chiang Mai is known for, one of which is Songkran, or the Thai New Year. For four days, the city is soaked. Literally. Everyone sheds their work faces and puts on huge, enormous smiles as they delight in soaking people with buckets of icy water. It’s a party, and everyone in the city is invited.
We end up camping out at The Playhouse (remember New Year’s Eve? Well, since then Ron, Hollywood and I have become good friends and spend a lot of time together). For days, we dump buckets on people, squirt them with PVC pipes-turned-water weapons. We even hop in a truck and drive around the moat, soaking other trucks and people on the sidelines.
It’s a blissful party and for a few days, all is right with the world as we live in a constant state of being drenched and reliving our youth.
8. The dating game
As a western girl, it is ridiculously hard to meet western guys that actually1) want a western girl; and 2) are here more than a few nights. So, when I meet a traveler who is cute, funny, charming, of course, I live it up. And, then there is a guy in town whose company I enjoy … until he leaves a few months later.
It reinvigorates me. Gives me a little sparkle of hope that, yes, I can play in this dating game.
But, once I take a look around at the environment I am in, I lose interest. Again. Maybe … it’s ok to just be single and not set deadlines? Slowly, I start to let go of the life I imagined I would have at this point. You know, being married with kids. ‘Cause, let’s be real. This is Thailand. And that just isn’t happening for me here. I embrace it and come to terms with the new life I am living, resetting all of those imaginary goals and deadlines.
9. Realizing I’m destructable
Photo courtesy Deanslife via Flickr Creative Commons
So, events 6, 7 and 8 all take place over the span of two weeks. Hey, life moves fast here as an expat in Chiang Mai. It is the middle of April, just after Songkran, when I finally come to terms with Adam’s death. And, finally come to terms with my own mortality.
After the evening service for his funeral, I go to see Ron at Playhouse. Suddenly, I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I need to lay down. Then, I need to stand up. I need to puke. I need to cry. I need to freak out.
I have two anxiety attacks over the span of two hours. I’ve never had one in my life, so I think I am dying. Hysterical, I go to Smith and ask the doctor who owns the place, hand tightly gripping Paula’s hand, if I am having a heart attack. If I am going to die like Adam died. He assures me I am fine, tells me to take a Xanax. I do, and in 10 minutes, I have regained composure and am more drugged than anything else.
Paula sleeps on my couch that night because I no longer trust myself.
For months, I teeter on the edge, a little voice in the back of my mind always wondering if I am going to die, or have a panic attack and think I am dying. It is a totally shitty way to live, but I learn to make adjustments.
I (temporarily) cut out caffeine. I pop Xanax (without abusing it, promise). I try to get to the root of my problems, which are a lot deeper than just Adam’s death. I enlist my friend to start a round of acupuncture with me, and slowly, the heart racing subsides. Slowly, my stability returns.
10. A summer of friends
It’s July 13, 2013. I’m standing outside of Owen’s Restaurant, looking up at the sky as a barbecue smokes next to me. Inside are Ron, Hollywood, Katie and Andrew. Four of my closest friends here. We’re celebrating my one-year anniversary of being an expat.
I stand there feeling ridiculously blessed. These people, the longest of whom I have only known since New Year’s Eve, have become such a permanent fixture in my life. We spend all of our time together. I’ve learned to lean on them when I have troubles, and cannot imagine my life in Chiang Mai without them in it. We, along with Ae, and Beam, adventure to Sri Lanna together. We share nights at Smith and my house laughing over Sangsom. We have breakfast, lunch and dinner together.
Only, a little more than two weeks later, like most friends in Chiang Mai, they are all leaving. Hollywood is going south for some time, Katie and Andrew are going to Australia to find work, and Ron is going to Israel.
Me? I’m staying here.
The day they leave, I lay in bed and cry. For weeks, my eyes linger on the road we all used to walk down together. I sit at Ae’s bar and remember all of the good times we had there. I’m caught in this fog of ghosts, reliving the moments of the year that made me the most happy.
I’m like an annoying lost puppy who can’t find her way home. I sink. Deep. Hard. Horribly.
11. Israel
I was meant to see Ron in Israel, but you know the saying “the best laid plans …” so, yeah. Instead, I spend most of my time alone, caught deep in that eternal mind fuck I loathe/love. It’s terrible/amazing. It’s the first time in years I’ve had my passport stamped for something other than work, and I don’t even appreciate it. I’m that big of an asshole.
I wander through the early morning in Tel Aviv, eyes open, trying desperately to grasp some new perspective on life. To regain that spark I had when I first arrived in Thailand. To remember to count my blessings. To love what I have. But, I’m so beaten. I’m so worn down by life the past five months. Alone, in Israel, I feel even more alone. I feel guilty for not living up my time there, but know I have to go through the funk to have the fun.
I cry when I get on the airplane and fly over the Mediterranean, over Europe. I cry for the life I had in America, the life I had in Europe, the life I had in Thailand before everyone left.
Yeah, I’m in full-scale self-pity disgustingness. I know it. I try to fight it. But, I’m headed to my Tara — my parent’s home — to get a grip.
12. Home
No words are truer to me than “home is where the heart is.” Since I first left home, Mom always equated my love for home to Scarlett O’Hara and her Tara. Only, this time, home isn’t the home I grew up in. I said “goodbye” to that home after Thanksgiving 2012. Now, they’ve retired and moved to Lewes, Delaware, just outside my childhood vacation spot of Rehoboth Beach.
Over a week, I cry, I laugh, I try to make sense of my life and what I want. Because, to be quite honest, I have no fucking clue. Do I want to stay in Thailand? Do I want to go home? Do I want to travel? Do I want to try living in Europe? There is the pull of elephants and Lek in Thailand, but still …
No. Fucking. Clue.
But, there is something to be said for hugs from Mom and Dad. They reassure me, even when I’m at my worst. For most of my time at home, I cry, to be honest. Being in America is hard for me for so many reasons. It reminds me of the sacrifices I make being an expat. The things I leave behind. But, it also reminds me of the things I have in Chiang Mai, even though I am too depressed to see those things clearly at the time.
The last day — the day before I head to Vegas to reconnect with my former Vegas life — I go to Pennsylvania to see my grandfather. After being in and out of the hospital for months, he is now in a nursing home and aging quickly. We sit together in the little visiting area, as he complains about the food and recounts the same stories my parents have heard over and over again.
It’s the first time I look at him and see an old man, and it guts me. When it is time to say goodbye, I rest my hand on his bony shoulder and hold him. To this day, I remember what that felt like, and even writing this makes me tear up.
I turn back to see him one last time, covered in a blue blanket, and then leave the home and board my flight to Vegas.
13. Turning 34
I’m in Chiang Mai for about two weeks before my birthday. The night before I turn 34, I am with Beam at a bar, enjoying some gourmet beer (it does exist in Chiang Mai, it is just super pricey). We sit together and I open up to Beam about my fears of being alone forever, my fear of death, my fear of not being able to find the happiness I had when I arrived to Thailand.
“D, you have to realize, you are absolutely perfect just the way you are,” he says to me, smiling. “You can be happy, you just have to let yourself.”
His words stick in my head. I remember being with the shaman in Utah almost two years ago, and how that changed me. And now, his words, they resonate. Perhaps it is because I am just so tired of living in a constant state of unhappy, but really, I think it is because his words finally give me permission to be happy again. To accept exactly who I am, quirks and all.
I. Am. Perfect. Just as I am.
The next day is my birthday, and I give myself the greatest present I could ever give myself — I am honest. I admit my weaknesses. I admit my feelings. I admit I can be happy, it is just a matter of changing my perspective.
Surrounded by new friends and old, we sit together at Smith as I wipe the tears from my eyes and decide it is time to get back to me, and to relish the moments I have in my life — the good and the bad. It’s the best night I’ve had in a long time. Sure, I remember the friends who aren’t there, but then I open my eyes and see all of the friends who are there. All of the people who care about me, and who I am so madly in love with. Justlikethat, my life seems to be back on course.
When my grandfather dies nine days later, it hurts. But, instead of letting it destroy me, I open myself up to the love around me — and there is so much love around me — and I celebrate his life and I celebrate my own.
So, yes, 2013 was one hell of a year. It was fulfilling, heartbreaking, eye-opening … but in the end, I learned the most valuable lesson of all: to love myself. To honor myself. And, if it took all of these moments to figure it out, that’s fine. I wouldn’t trade any of them for the world.
I measure this year through these moments. Moments, where regardless of pain, there was always love somewhere in the mix. So, yeah. I guess I am kind of like Larson and “Rent.” I measure in love.
How do you measure yours?
May 2014 be a blessed year for all of you. Love. With your eyes open. Wide.
This post is dedicated to all those I love, especially Andi and Arnie Edelman, my brother Mike, the memories of my grandfather Louis Lindenbaum and my friend Adam Bromley, Lek Chailert, Darrick Thomson, my Chiang Mai crew/family (you all know who you are), my friends in America, and the countless animals who have invaded my heart.
Street art in Tel Aviv is alive and well — something I learned recently on my tour with Mekomy and the start-up’s founder, Gilad Uziley.
What I learned on the tour is that the street art scene in Tel Aviv, while it flourishes in the warehouse neighborhood of Florentin, extends well beyond this mostly rundown, hipster area and can actually be seen all over town. It is just a matter of where you look.
Florentin
Considered hipster/bohemian, Florentin is the place to immerse yourself in the street art culture in Tel Aviv.
Located in the southern part of the city, the area is a hodge-podge of industrial and residential with the in-the-know crowd frequenting the area for its nightlife scene. Regentrification in the 90s saw a flux of the younger crowd moving in, and today there’s a span of people who call this area home.
It’s a mix of rich and not-rich. A meshing of ideas … all under one neighborhood.
For me, I’m completely taken by the art flanking the walls, the dumpsters, the doors and beyond.
Florentin’s street art tells a story.
It explains the the issues with the city, personal problems, creative solutions, cries for love, and more.
It merges local artists with visiting artists to create collaborative works of art.
It uses mediums aside from just paint, like string.
There is Dede, whose work can be identified by Band-Aids.
Eggplant Kid who paints (you guessed it) eggplants.
Adi Sened who creates these little box people.
Dioz, with his abstract take on life.
And so, so many more.
Tel Aviv Bus Station
And then, there is Tel Aviv’s Bus Station.
Filled with vendors and quite run-down on most floors, the top floor is literally a work of art now, thanks to Mati Ale and his vision for bringing street art to the forefront of the locals and visitors. This floor treats passengers to a who’s who of street artists from Tel Aviv and beyond.
After walking through Florentin and then hitting the bus station, I love being able to recognize some of the artists whose work I have already seen in the gritty real world.
Around town
And, then my eyes are open.
As I walk around town, I can’t help but notice the street art everywhere I turn. The Band-Aids, the Hebrew prose, the little box people.
Am I in love with the street art scene in Tel Aviv? Yes, I think so.
For more information on taking your own street art tour, be sure to check out Mekomy’s Facebook page.
Editor’s Note: My street art tour was courtesy of Mekomy, however all opinions are my own. If you have questions regarding this, please read my disclosure policy.
Gilad Uziely, the founder of Mekomy, picks me up on his motorbike, producing a cushiony helmet for me to wear as we zip along the Mediterranean and head towards Old Jaffa.
It’s a hot day, and the wind hitting my face is welcome as we zoom down the smooth road and towards the ancient city.
He’s got quite the afternoon lined up for me — first we’re exploring Old Jaffa, then going to grab hummus at Ali Karavan, which is apparently the best in the country (please order the triple, which treats tastebuds to hummus, flu and masabacha — trust me), then we’re off on a street art tour with one of the city’s most popular artists, Dioz, then to end the day, we’re visiting a new street art exhibition at the Tel Aviv bus station.
Mekomy is Gilad and his wife’s vision after serving as travel agents. When the two were always asked for their suggestions, Gilad saw an opportunity to bring together the curious travelers with the local experts and the start-up was born. Today, his company operates in a few cities and by the end of 2014, he hopes to have experts and tours offered in five cities in Europe and Israel. Guests can select from three tours given by locals: art, culinary and photography.
For me, I find the best way to get to know a city and its subcultures is to check out the street art. In Berlin, I fell in love with the art scene and since then, whenever I can get an opportunity to see the more gritty, creative side of a city, I jump for the chance.
The beginning: Jaffa
We start in Jaffa, where the summer heat leaves us beading with sweat and we dip into air conditioned buildings to cool off for brief moments before winding our way through the old, historic city.
The oldest part of Tel Aviv, Jaffa immediately summons recollections of Europe with its slippery, tiny pathways meandering up hills to secret nooks and crannies. We wander through the ancient port city, climbing the stairs to the top and breathing in the stunning view of the Mediterranean caressing the shore below before Gilad begins to point out street art as we descend towards our lunch break.
A look at an artist’s life
After dining at Ali Karavan, we hop back on Gilad’s bike and drive to the start of our tour — the famous street artist, Dioz’s, house. Located in a run down building with a tiny church below, I enter his home and am blown away.
It’s the most eclectic, artsy place I have ever stepped foot in. There are works of art everywhere, from traditional paintings hung on walls to unique sculptures.
To my delight, there is even a cat.
Dioz is tall and rather soft-spoken for one of the city’s most popular street artists. He offers me a water before he takes us on the tour of his flat, which includes an expansive patio/roof.
Standing on the roof of the building, Dioz extends a finger towards the city.
“There, that is one of my latest works,” he says. I follow the direction of his finger to a painting adorning a wall.
It’s really cool.
Then, the three of us are off.
Hitting the streets
Glass crunching underfoot, we explore the mostly warehouse area of Florentin that has emerged as the scene for street art. Tucked between posh and sky scrapers and more rundown areas, it’s easy to see why this neighborhood has emerged as the place for street art. It is where worlds collide and the artists can have the liberty to create on the blank walls of warehouses.
But, even the bars and shops here embrace the art. Metal shudders aren’t just metal here, they are art.
He and Gilad stop me every few feet to explain the art I am looking at, to show me collaborations between other street artists in the area and work done by people from all over the world.
I’m a sucker for street art and here — in this little Tel Aviv neighborhood just off-the-beaten-path from the tourist trek — I have stepped into a treasure trove of glorious work that is nearly on part with street art in places like Berlin.
Where street art gets main streamed
After we explore in the afternoon heat, it’s back on Gilad’s bike and over to the Tel Aviv bus station where his friend, Mati Ale, has done something incredibly special — he has transformed a bland and sterile bus station into one of the largest collaborations of street art I have ever witnessed. (Hurry, it’s only on exhibition for a year!)
The entire departures floor is covered in works from some of the best in the country. Abstract, surreal, whimsical works flood my eyes as they dart everywhere, searching for something I may have missed on first glance.
It’s a long day, and by late afternoon the heat begins to take its toll. Gilad whips me back through the rush hour traffic and drops me back at Artplus. Tired. Happy. And a memory filled with amazing street art.
Want more street art? Check out this week’s Escape for a full photo essay of the awesome.
Editor’s Note: My street art tour was courtesy of Mekomy, however all opinions are my own. If you have questions regarding this, please read my disclosure policy.
The US territory of Puerto Rico is a fascinating place to visit: It’s got folklore, bio-luminescent plankton, great diving spots and a unique cuisine. But whatever initially lures you to the island be sure to charge the battery on your camera. With scenic overlooks through winding mountains roads, rushing waterfalls and beaches in every direction Puerto Rico is one of the most photogenic islands in the Caribbean.
From the Plane
Even before landing in Puerto Rico the island shows its photogenic self. In fact, the entire plane ride from southern Florida to the San Juan airport lends itself nicely to stunning views. So be sure to request a window seat on the right side of the plane keeping in mind that the wing can get in your way of taking unobstructed photographs. From the perfect seat you can get great areal shots of Puerto Rican coastline.
Puerto Rico coast from the plane
Las Croabas
Just north of the city of Fajardo in northeast Puerto Rico lies the beach community of Las Croabas. This isn’t just any beach, however as it is surrounded by mangroves and a short kayak ride will take you to see the bio-luminescent plankton in the bay. It is also home to very delicious authentic mofongo, a traditional Puerto Rico dish. Due to much activity on the water, Las Croabas is the perfect place to get multi-layered pictures, with birds on the beach in the foreground, a small harbor with boats in the middle ground and the ocean and if you’re lucky even the moon in the background, creating the perfect postcard shot!
Las Croabas, Puerto Rico
Ponce Beach
Located at the very south of the main island just off of Route 10, Ponce Beach looks out over the Caribbean Sea. In addition to its soft sand, the water is a beautiful shade of blue, very clear and sparkles in the sun. Sprinkled along the shore are small mangrove trees making Ponce Beach the perfect place to capture a serene beach scene. It may be hard to actual take pictures here though as you may find yourself compelled to put down the camera and just relax on the beach.
Ponce Beach, Puerto Rico
El Yunque Peak
What better place to get panoramic pictures than from the top of a mountain! El Yunque Mountain is located in El Yunque National Park about 50 minutes outside of the capital of San Juan. To reach the peak, park your car at the Palo Colorado Information Center and follow the trail marked Pico El Yunque. About two hours later you will be rewarded with watching fog roll over the mountains draped with lush green rain forest all set to the backdrop of the sea and Vieques Island in the distance.
View from the peak of El Yunque
Ruta Panoramica
A short 1 hour drive north of Ponce routes 128 and 129 are appropriately named Ruta Panoramica (Panoramic Route). These two roads will lead you on windy roads through the jungle filled mountains with scenic lookouts at almost every turn. Be sure to add more time to your trip to allow for pulling over and snapping shots of valleys and mountain ranges in every direction.
Gorgeous vista along Ruta PanoramicaViewpoint along Ruta Panoramica
From the San Juan Fort
The San Juan Fort is strategically placed on a hill overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, making it an excellent vantage point for taking photographs of the vast ocean and the coastline. Although I’m sure the architects of this historic fort did not have picture taking in mind, the lookout points once used for military reasons, can easily be re-purposed for photographers.
View of the fort from San Juan
Have you been to Puerto Rico or is it on your bucket list?
Since I’ve lived in Thailand, I haven’t traveled much for pleasure. Yes, I’ve experienced Sri Lanka and safaris, Myanmar and the deep jungle and Cambodia and an elephant rescue for work, but the pleasure thing has been somewhat absent in my life (minus jaunts to Koh Samui and Bali).
I wake up early on my second day in Israel.
Too early.
Artplus hasn’t even started its breakfast buffet yet. So, I do something I haven’t done in years. I grab my headphones, pop them in my ears, put on music, arm myself with my camera and go on an exploration as the sun rises.
There is something incredibly romantic about waking up when the city begins to turn off its lights and greet the sun.
It’s me and Tel Aviv as I stroll down Ben Yehuda and head to the beach.
As I wander along the brick path with the Mediterranean at my side, my heart starts to thump again. The doubt I’ve had about the direction of my life rolls out with the tide.
Being solo in Tel Aviv and having the morning to myself takes me back to my long-term travel, when I was anonymous.
I could be anyone in the world, and damnit, I was ME, and so very content with that.
As the sun creeps into the blue sky, I am re-energized, awoken.
The little nuances of the city, the flyers littering a sidewalk, an old man sitting and staring out into the world from a bench, a dog running alongside his owner for a morning workout … it all opens my eyes to something I have missed for so long: traveling.
I walk and snap photos of the little things that catch my eye.
And so it goes until the hunger pangs and need for coffee (the best coffee I have had in ages) trumps.
But, as I walk back to my hotel, one thing is for certain: that travel addict that had kept quiet for so long has emerged and is now banging down the doors.
D Travels 'Round 