Writing from Phuket, this Side of Paradise

I feel like I have lived a lifetime since I last wrote an update in the Life and Times of the Coronavirus. Some days, it has felt that an entire Universe has existed inside of that one day. Two weeks and three days ago, I left Shenzhen for Phuket, Thailand. I was hesitant to leave at first, actually. I had settled into such a routine in Shenzhen, and I felt safe and secure in this routine; changing locales felt a bit riskier, at least that was my perception. Originally, for spring break, I was supposed to go to Taiwan for a yoga retreat. When Covid-19 hit, Taiwan closed their borders to China, so Plan A was foiled. I was disappointed, but I decided I would make my own personal yoga retreat in Shenzhen, until I came out a discussion with my therapist having decided to take a chance on a retreat in Thailand, one of the last countries to keep their borders open.

As I reflect on this decision, it feels like the Universe had conspired to make it so from the beginning. The past two weeks have offered space for my heart to open and expand and sigh into beautiful spaces. Before I left Shenzhen, I was worried that I would lose my writer’s flow, and while writing has not been a priority in Phuket, being in a flow state sure has persisted.

The first days in Phuket were spent on the beach. The woman in this photo did not yet know the trajectory of the trip. I have extended my stay twice so far, finding just what I have needed here in Thailand.

My days have been spent practicing yoga in the morning and evening, and in between, spending time with some of the best souls and living in the moments. If you find yourself seeking a place of solace in Southeast Asia, I must highly recommend CC’s Hideaway. The curry is delicious, the smoothies are divine, the yoga is transcendent, and the staff is so, so warm.

For me, what has also been extraordinary about this time is that my anxiety has been kept in check. For anyone, a time of such uncertainty can cause a great deal of stress and anxiety, and understandably so. Somehow, I have leaned into the uncertainty, and it feels that my spirit has used the life I am living at a slower pace to level up. I have seen and felt a great deal of fear around me, and yet I have continued to maintain a state of wellness for myself.

Thailand has been liberating. And that liberation, and the centered feeling I continue to be in touch with, looks a bit like this ...

Slow afternoons have sometimes given way to nights of dancing, followed by swimming in the middle of the night under the light of a full moon.

These folks are such good energy. Looking at this photo, I consider how special it is when you cross paths with the right people at the right time.

I watched a shooting star streak across a corner of the sky as I turned my attention away from the moon for a moment during our moonlit swim. It seems that some of the world has gone daft with the current viral state of affairs; my world, though, floats in a sea of just right moments. I have deep gratitude for what this time and space is allowing me to explore.

This morning, I am preparing for the first yoga practice of the day, and then I will get online to connect with my students. Teaching from Thailand is a bit harder than teaching from Shenzhen, but I will not complain about teaching from paradise. I have been meditating on words that I heard from my first yoga instructor here: More open heart, More happy life.

One of my favorite poets, Rumi, once wrote,

“There’s a morning when presence comes

over your soul. You sing like a rooster

in your earth-colored shape. Your heart

hears and, no longer frantic, begins

to dance.”

Wherever you are, I hope that you find space for deep movement, for peace, and for presence.

Sending lots of love from Thailand,

Jame

In Singapore, fan-girling hard

When I was 11 years old, I won first place for the fifth grade in a school wide writing contest. This landed me a place in an old school white limousine and lunch at TGIFriday's (I think--it could also have been Perkins or Baker's Square). I remember writing in a tiny notebook in my bedroom when I was in grade school, trying to imitate the authors I was reading, creating stories of protagonists and their beautiful horses. In high school, I wrote poetry dripping with angst and emotion. Poetry made its way onto my bedroom walls in sheets (and so many years later permanently onto my arm).

It wasn't until I moved abroad, though, 20 years after that 5th grade award, that I realized how integral writing was, is, to my identity. In the last six and a half years, I find that unless I write regularly, I struggle to process my experiences deeply. I feel a bit lost and detached from myself. I close my eyes to see myself floating in a dark amorphous space that begins to take clearer shape when my fingers finally have time to connect with my keyboard.

So here I find myself today -- as a wild rice chicken casserole bakes in the oven, as Silvie has just knocked over the full garbage, again -- tuning in to myself, and reflecting on meeting an incredible writer in Singapore last weekend.

I first encountered Roxane Gay when a friend forwarded an instagram story to me. The Grammer (like the Tweeter) was talking about the characters in Gay's Difficult Women. I bought the iBook pronto, and found myself immersed in story upon story of women in the midst of tragedy, ambiguity, fear, hope and growth. As international life would have it (that is just slightly cringy -- I hear the privilege in all of this), I was at a conference in Nanjing as I was reading the book. Noting my newfound enamorment (the New Baci Dictionary hits print in June) with Roxane Gay's writing, a couple of friends who live in Singapore told me that Gay would soon be making an appearance in Asia for the Singapore Writer's Festival.

In moments like this, I feel entirely inspired by Mark Twain's words: "Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." I am thus less in touch with what I remember from reading Rich Dad, Poor Dad, the book my own dear dad bought me when I started to have to consider the notion of adulting. (Let's be real -- the sobrinas aren't expecting for there to be any money in my will to do anything more than support the cats.)

So, aYOLOing I went. My dear friend Ceci was present at this moment, and she endorses all things spontaneous -- within seven minutes, I had a hotel and plane ticket to Singapore for the festival, and a ticket for a seat in front of Ms. Roxane Gay.

Gay began her talk by reading an excerpt from her memoir Hunger. Pertaining to pop culture, her memoir will make you consider the frightening impact that shows like Biggest Loser are having on all of us.

As I sat looking up at this queen, I was moved by so many of her words, not just those she was reading from her book, but those that kept echoing truth throughout the auditorium. "You don't have to find your voice. It's already there, you just have to allow yourself to access it," said Gay in her soft but firm voice. As a writer, as a woman, as the me who is working in so many ways to evolve, I found comfort here, a reassurance that I did not have to go rummaging through so many boxes sometimes, yelling "Marco" into an internal void, hoping to hear "Polo" singing back. Gay's words align with my mindfulness practice, with yoga and meditation and coming to see that we already have what we need inside of us; it is about sitting in enough stillness to feel it.

Getting in touch with my own Divine Feminine, it's been a journey, one that will continue until the end of my days, but I have felt that power rising, rising in my breath, rising in my heart, rising in my voice. In a time when Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's We Should All Be Feminists is taught in international classrooms (mine for one!), where Emma Watson becomes the voice of the HeForShe campaign, some are asking about what we are asking for from men. Gay's response: "Just be a fucking feminist, which just means women are people. " Mmmm, yasss, I murmured. I love when we stop mincing words.

At the end of Gay's session, the audience was invited to a book signing outside of the auditorium. I had purchased three of her books before her talk began, Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body, Ayiti and An Untamed State. Employing my greatest efforts to avoid my own greed, I had decided to have Ms. Gay sign Ayiti as it was the only hardcover book that I had purchased. As I approached the table she was seated behind, I smiled shyly and began stammering about how I had come from China to see her, that I had just really discovered her writing. To my surprise, and delight, Ms. Gay looked up at me in her own surprise and said, "You came all the way from China?!" We engaged with one another for a few more moments and then the cameraman asked if he could snap a photo of us. I yammered a yes, looking at Ms. Gay to see what she thought about the question. Somewhere in the internets, friends, this photo exists. I have yet to find this golden picture, but I'll be looking until I do.

After the snap of the photo, I mumbled a few more words of thanks to this incredible human. I walked with legs of Jell-o towards my friend Ana Maria whose mouth was also agape. Best day ever, I said, wearing my biggest grin.

For the past week, I have been immersed in all things Roxane Gay. If somehow this blog makes its way to your computer, Ms. Gay, my most heart-felt congratulations on your engagement. My deepest gratitude for your strength, your writing, your voice.

And, as I close here, now from Shenzhen, I wonder what would happen for each of us, if we heeded some of my favorite words of Ms. Gay's from that sunny day in Singapore: "Open your lives. Open your hearts."

To Ghent We Went ... and Amsterdam too

I first have a request: anyone who has heard of Ghent, raise your hand. I'm squinting through space to count about three hands raised. Mine is among those three hands now, but three weeks ago I thought that Ghent was the name of our street that our hotel was located on in Brussels, thus I booked Mom, Gram and I train tickets from Amsterdam to Brussels. Ghent, though, is not in Brussels, but located about a 30-minute train ride beyond Brussels.

Before I go on about our time in Ghent, and what a fortunate mistake our hotel booking was -- though, of note: Mom said she did not mistakenly book a hotel in Ghent, that she meant to book a hotel in Ghent because she read that Ghent is quaint and cute to which I replied, "Why did you let me buy train tickets to BRUSSELS then?! ... but I digress ... -- I think you must see the way that we traveled to Ghent.

American travelers with their oversized luggage. (It is important to take 10 pairs of shoes, two winter jackets per person, 7 kilos of American snacks -- including Grandma's homemade almond butter cookies -- and 3 purses for a 7 day trip. I am actually not sure if that is what we each packed. But it felt that way.)

After loading all of that luggage on the train ourselves -- we are hella tough but a strapping lad would have been welcome -- even Mom turned to booze. She had been dry her entire 59 years until this day.

Kidding. She didn't actually take the shot. But as you can see Gram was well ready for a cocktail when we finally reached our destination. In Ghent.

When we arrived to our lovely Belgian town -- after having passed through a Brussels that looked a bit rough around the edges -- we were delighted to find an old Medieval city, or, as a resident of the city named it: a very modern city in an old jacket.

Looking back at this scene, I miss the slower pace of small town Europe. Life in Shenzhen seems to moves at light speed; in Ghent a woman can take a bit more time to gaze around and contemplate what it feels like to take a few breaths.

Perhaps one of the best things we did in our cozy host city was to take part in a free walking tour. One of the most fascinating facts we learned from our congenial guide was that Ghent used to be the 2nd largest city in Europe -- from the 12th - 15th centuries. I'm tucking that tidbit away for my next trivia night.

Liam (I think that was our lovely guide's name, but I also have Brahm written in my notes and now I don't know what that means, so maybe this is Brahm) schooled us on so much history here.

Also of historical note: During the middle ages, beer was safer to drink than water, so having your pint at the local watering hole could simply be considered health care. I wonder if I could take this up with my insurance company today?

As an English teacher, I find the etymology of words and phrases quite interesting. As we meandered about the town, Liam (or Brahm) told us where the phrase "stinking rich" stems from. Let's take a moment to make some guesses ... and while you are crafting your response, another scene to take in ...

Graffiti is kept off of most streets and buildings as the city provides space for street art. These are students working on a school project.

So, stinking rich? Well, the wealthier you were, the closer to the alter in the church you were buried, but graves were not closed off properly, thus the flesh would begin to rot and smell up the space. I think I'll stick with being potpourri poor. I believe this phrase was first coined in 2007 when friends would leave flowers at the door of humble, poorly paid teachers.

In addition to being a bit smelly, we also learned of the torture rooms inside of the castle in Ghent. As I have learned about history, there have been eras that have seemed rather appealing. The 1920s, for example ... like, I think I would have loved to have been a flapper. A resident of Medieval Ghent, though? Hard pass.

A Belgian and her Belgian wafel (not considered breakfast food in Belgium, but rather a midday treat).

Il Folletto was our best meal in Ghent. The atmosphere, hospitality and pasta were on point.

Ghent by moonlight. I loved the break from the neon lights in Asia. There was a serenity here.

Three generations of love.

So, that was Ghent. We're glad we went. I did not add up all of the money that we spent. And so, to you I toast tonight, Ghent, with my dark Belgian chocolate in hand. Cheers!

Before we arrived to Ghent, we did spend four days in Amsterdam. Gram is our guest writer for this part of the post today. She spent a bit of time journaling each night, capturing the moments of the day. This is what she has to say ...

Saturday
Interesting hotel. Trying to discover heat. Fans blowing cold air. Need wool socks. 

The Linden Hotel was quaint, with a prime location and offered delicious animal gummies at the front desk. The rooms are quite tiny, but I loved how cozy it felt.

Our room is small for three, but the shower is really nice. We could shower together. 🤔. Our hotel, the Linden, is a quaint hotel located in the center of Old Amsterdam. It is perfect for our needs, as the narrow streets are lined with restaurants, pastry shops, clothing and gift shops, and bars. We are able to walk to most other sites from here. 

Waiting for Jamie to arrive. Anne is napping. Not much sleep on the plane. (Something I wish I would have acquired from my mother is her ability to sleep. For long hours.)

Outlets need converters in order to charge devices. Hoping Jamie will figure it out. (As it turns out, I did not bring my converter, thus failed at being of help here.)

Jamie arrived around 7:00. She was starving. We walked to a restaurant and had a delicious meal. Anne ordered a Dutch dish—mashed carrots, potatoes and onion with a meatball in the center. Dad would have loved it. I had pork tenderloin with pepper gravy, and Jamie had meatballs with salad. (Meatballs with peanut sauce are where it is at.)

Sunday
Slept til 9:00. Showered and hit the streets. Anne and I did a canal tour for an hour. Very informational. The architecture reminded me a bit of Boston. Amsterdam was founded in the 1200’s. That is a long time ago!!! The canals are man made, and many of the buildings were built in the 1600’s. 

Anne and I bummed the streets. Went into a couple shops—high end. Anne tried a pair of boots, but they didn’t have her size. I wanted a sweater, but it was $$$$$$. Not in my budget. We stopped at a pub and sat at the bar. The owner, George, gave us a piece of his pizza. So good. I had wine. 

While Mom and Gram were on the canal and shopping, I was having coffee with Ashley, a fellow Gustie trackster. We hadn't seen each other in 12 years; it was a treat to catch up with her and meet her boyfriend and his sweet daughter who is taking this photo.

In the afternoon, we toured the Anne Frank house. As a taxi driver said to us later that day, “Why would a tourist want to pay to see her house when she isn’t there, and leave depressed?” Good question!!

We dined at an Italian restaurant, but were disappointed. I had lasagna—no meat and no noodles. Different and not what I as looking forward to. Anne had steak, and Jamie ordered a salad and tomato soup. We will do better with selecting restaurants. (Good thing we found our true Italian in Ghent.)

Monday
This was an exciting day. We did a bus and water tour—visiting three provinces of Holland. Our first stop was populated with wind mills. A miller who worked one of the mills showed us how logs are cut into lumber. Other mills in the province are used for making grain and Linseed oil (which I purchased at a shop.) A mill can also mix paint. 

Watching windmills can really sooth a sou.

Oh, the vibrant colors ... this pictures tickles my senses.

We bused to our next stop where we learned how wooden shoes are made. There were hundreds of shoes hanging from the ceiling to dry. They need to dry for three weeks before they can be finished—sanded, polished and decorated. 

The engineering behind these machines was brilliant. We learned that these wooden shoes are worn since it is so wet in Amsterdam, and work outside is made more comfortable if one can wear the wooden shoes which keep out the water.

From there, we boarded a ferry where Jamie and I quickly ordered a beer. I chose the beer of the land—Heineken—Jamie ordered Robuust. 😃 Oh yes, Anne had apple pie. 

At the third province, we learned how cheese is made, and purchased enough to increase the weight of our luggage by a few pounds!!! Oh my 😖. The cheese was delicious, and we couldn’t resist. We ate lunch at one of the restaurants—fish and chips which we shared. Following lunch, Jame and I snacked on pancakes with fresh fruit—covered in chocolate!! We didn’t see the sign, “Don’t fed the birds.” So, the birds were happy. 

Gram did not feed the swans, but I do not have a picture of the full-bellied birds, and this captured a lovely moment of the day.

A final lesson for us on this tour was a demonstration on how waffles were made. These are not like the waffles we make at home, but very thin cookie-like waffles filled with caramel or chocolate. They are good, but we didn’t buy them to take home. They are available at our hotel for our enjoyment. (Gram is writing about Stroopwafels -- check out this page for where to find the best in Amsterdam.)

From here, we boarded our bus and traveled back to Amsterdam. Anne rested, I walked the streets and Jamie found a workout class to attend. 

Just living that sweat life all over the globe. I loved the class at High Studios -- it was Barry's Bootcamp-esque and set me up with those good chemicals. Love me my endorphins.

Jamie chose an amazing restaurant for dinner. The food was excellent!! The cocktails were pretty good too. (Gram is talking about Morgan and Mees. It was Ashley's suggestion and it did not disappoint. It was quite posh.)

Tuesday
We slept in again, then leisurely showered and dressed for another rainy day. We shopped as we walked to see the Red Light District—so I could say we did—then had lunch at a restaurant Gina suggested. We then taxied to the Van Gogh Museum where we spent an enjoyable period of time learning about Vincent’s life and art. 

In the evening, we taxied in the pouring rain to Central Station where we met Jamie’s Gustavus classmate (Ashley) and her male friend. From the station, we boarded a ferry which took us to an area where we had dinner. To get to the restaurant from where the ferry dropped us off, we walked quite a distance—again in the pouring rain. I had no idea what was in store for us when I put on open toe sandals for the evening. That walk required RAIN BOOTS!!! and a raincoat. It rains horizontally here, so an umbrella doesn’t help much. We were wet and cold when we arrived at the restaurant. 

The atmosphere in the restaurant was warm and friendly, and dinner was accompanied and complimented by fun conversation. 

Following dinner, we called a taxi to take us to our hotel. It was late, and we had had a full day.

Wednesday
We are schlepping our heavy luggage and boarding the train to Belgium. Despite the sunny sky, it is once again raining. (And this brings us to the very beginning, a very good place to start ... )

In closing, the trip was picturesque, with a good dose of adventure, and plenty of charm.

At one point, as Gram and Mom were walking down the middle of the street, taking their lives into their own hands, I turned to Gram and said, "We're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. Come up on the sidewalk." It seems, though, that we did land somewhere over the rainbow.

A Sojourn Into the Past

River Rock Coffee, home to delicious eats, bevvies, and perfect space for studying and contemplation.

I am sitting at River Rock Coffee in St. Peter, Minnesota, sipping a sparkling water spiked with ginger and lime. A few crumbs from my tuna melt sandwich have managed to escape my hungry grasp and still lay on the plate in front of me. Gazing at an empty bowl -- which moments ago was filled with lentil curry soup -- I follow the direction of the spoon I placed precariously in the white ceramic and look up to see Erbert's and Gerbert's, my favorite sandwich shop when I studied at Gustavus Adolphus College nearly two decades ago.

I'm tripping today, down Memory Lane. I am thinking about how Freshman year, it was such a novel experience to be able to pick up the land line in the room I shared with Hannah in Rundstrom, and call for delivery. Boney Billy, that was the sandwich du jour, every day, for me. I giggled each time I placed my order for this turkey sandy.

On the way into town, I passed the Dairy Queen where, on a snow day in February, Katie and Jenn and I drove the short distance from campus so that we could stock up on Blizzards and hunker down to binge on Sex in the City as all classes had been canceled. We reasoned that since it was already so cold, we wouldn't get any colder from the ice cream.

Across the street from River Rock Coffee is now Chinatown, a Chinese restaurant. Isn't it ironic, Alanis? This summer, our red-haired, porcelain skinned Natalie, nearly 10 years old, proclaimed "Let's talk about what we'll be doing in 20 years!" to her 3 sisters. Unpredictable I think now. When I sat in this cafe nearly 20 years ago, not in my most wild, random, or far out dreams would I have predicted that I would be a resident of China, inhabiting a city of more than 12 million people after attending college in a town of under 12 thousand.

Stepping onto a worn path

After my lunch, I made my way, slowly, up to campus, stopping at one of the many boutiques that now line South Minnesota Ave, the Main Street of St. Peter. As I perused the clothes and accessories at Generations Boutique, I noticed a pair of earrings nearly identical to ones that I had purchased this spring at a market in Bangkok, Thailand. It's possible, I thought, that they were made by the same hands. It is a small world, after all. I've learned this time and again, as I have traveled so far from home to find connections that bring me right back to my roots.

As I drove closer to Ring Road -- the road that circles all of Gustavus, the road that entreated Anah and I to take many night runs -- I looked for my old house on Walnut Street, notoriously called The Mouse Trap for the many rodents that took up residence with my 4 girlfriends and me. I didn't spot the small rundown house on the first go round, but another drive of the street brought me in front of the small, white abode. As I got out of the car to take a closer peak, I squinted back into the past and heard the squirrels racing in the roof above my head in my bedroom with the slanted ceiling. I remembered putting my glasses on when I would wake up in the morning during the winter time to note that they were fogged up from cold; poor insulation and college girls trying to save a buck equated to teeth-chattering temperatures in our house in January.

Staring at 422 Walnut, I wonder how many generations of squirrels have kept college students company in the years since we graduated.

When I finally stepped foot on campus, I parked near the cafeteria, the place that sealed the deal on my decision to attend Gustavus; a Baci girl's gotta know that the place she is hunkering down for four years serves decent food. A nostalgic ache set into my belly.

I walked through Lund Center, stepping onto the indoor track, where the girls volleyball team was practicing, to reminisce about the hundreds of laps I had run during our indoor track season.

I stepped into Christ Chapel, a serene space with bright light that filters in. I sat down in one of the pews in the back of the chapel and thought about all of the Wednesday services I had attended. I remember feeling a little more calm after a 20-minute service in the midst of harried days of classes and essay writing. On Wednesdays, the service ended with a singing of the Lord's Prayer. It was a melody I had never heard before, and which I cannot conjure today, but I still remember the way it soothed something in my soul. As I stepped back into the bright light of mid-day, words from L.R. Knost returned to me: The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you.

The words lingered as I crossed paths with the Center for International and Cultural Education. This was the office I had burst into at the beginning of my sophomore year, eagerly signing up for a semester abroad to begin my junior year.

A great deal of darkness and light would lace itself through the months leading up to that semester, and during the entire time I studied in Barcelona, as anxiety coursed through my veins -- I had leapt so far outside of my previously established boundaries.

Weaving through the center of campus, looking at the lush greenery, the buildings I recognized, the ones that stood more recently renovated, memories kept materializing before me.

Rundstrom, my Freshman year dormitory. Within the walls of that dorm room, Hannah and I watched a lot of nightly news (nerd-town, USA), spent many hours in Katie's room down the hall, and generally tried to figure out what it meant to pre-adult.

Except for a sparsely attended football game, and an occasional skateboarder, campus was so quiet. I walked through Old Main, which had housed many of my Education courses. My movements rustled and echoed in the hallway, lonely sounds as I thought back to the chatter of the lessons that I had participated in with other future teachers. I was certain then that I would be teaching America's youth, unaware of the international seed germinating inside my belly.

Some time passed as I kept wandering about campus. A visit was not going to feel complete without a run of some sort. I thought that I might find one of the old paths that extends into part of the town behind campus, but my memory failed me. While moments rushed back to me in waves, anything to do with directions has receded into an abyss in my mind.

I settled on a run around Ring Road, this time under the hot, hot afternoon sun rather than the light of the moon. As I jogged past Linnaeus Arboretum, I noted how much more time I would have spent there during college if I had found meditation sooner. I suppose I preferred to stay quietly in the center of things then, rather than explore the outskirts. I decided to step off of Ring Road for a moment and explore the arb more today, so inviting with its many benches nestled into zen spaces. I passed the building where one of my English classes was held and thought back to reading the American Transcendentalists with Don Scheese, or Scheesey as Kel and I endearingly named him. I love the likes of Emerson and Thoreau, but Scheesey, I am only a little sorry to say that what I remember most from that course is the day that Nate Waters somehow connected keg-stands to our reading. As a teacher now, I empathize with your annoyance; as a student then I am still giggling under my breath.

It's been a beautiful day of exploring my old campus haunts, and I am typing again from River Rock Coffee, now sipping an oat milk matcha latte.

And I'm thinking about how much things change. And how much they stay the same.