I can think of no better example than yesterday. It started with a 4 a.m. alarm and a 5 a.m. trip to Warorot Market, a place whose early morning colors and flavors are appreciated only by locals and a few bleary-eyed foreigners with cameras in hand. My friend and I were classified by the latter. After a few hours, we had expended our energy and parted ways. The rest of the day yielded to whatever happened along. I had no loyalty, whatsoever.
A two-hour Thai massage downtown led me to justify a meal at my favorite Chiang Mai restaurant due to my proximity. I caught a songtao to the city gate, and when I stepped into the back cab, there was a young Buddhist monk sitting opposite me, barefoot with a shaved head and dressed in a bright orange tunic. Some monks keep to themselves, but he was one with a quick smile and an immediate question. “Where are you from?” he grinned, his youthful curiosity making him look even younger than I first believed. I answered, “America,” and then countered with the same question. “Vietnam,” he said, “but I live here now. My father is Vietnam and my mother is Chiang Mai.” We continued our conversation until he jumped out of the back to continue his barefoot walk to the temple grounds.
There were no more small tables left open by the time I arrived at the restaurant, so I was seated at a larger table occupied by a couple who seemed to be around 10 years my senior. I made the move into conversation -- after all, we were sharing eating space and condiments. Once they found out that I teach in China, they told with me that they, too, are returning there. They will both be in language school in Sichuan. People who do what we do and why we do it have an internal ability to recognize each other, and we unspeakingly knew that we were family at that table. We finished our meals with reciprocated blessings toward each other.
As I counted out my bills at the counter, I spoke with the Israeli lady who owns the restaurant. She knows exactly when we (ELIC) show up every year; she counts on it. Her English is ribboned with a Middle Eastern accent, and I love how she shrugs her shoulders when she talks. She wants to retire soon and move back to Jerusalem; she says that she’s tired. I asked if that would mean the end of her place in Chiang Mai. She assured me that her partner would keep it open and running.
As I walked out to the busy street, I caught a songtao back to my hotel. A few stops later, the driver picked up two Asian men with greying hair. I glanced over at them and could tell that they weren’t Thai: too formally dressed. They weren’t Chinese, either: their voices were quieter. I looked at their waistlines and figured that by the severity of how high they had pulled their trousers, they were Japanese. And I was right. Their English was very basic, so I kept it simple. “What city in Japan? Tokyo?” I asked. “No, Nagoya,” said the more proficient of the two. My eyes lit up. “I lived in Nagoya!” Their eyes widened and they replied with the standard, “Ohhhhwwww?” which rises in pitch and is undoubtedly Japanese. We traded some brief sentences about the former company that employed me there, and they recognized the name immediately. They even knew the small city of Handa in which I had worked.
The songtao dropped me off, first, so I said farewell to them in Japanese and returned to my room. Once reclined in the bed, my body released itself to the retro effects of such an early morning coupled with a Thai massage in which my muscles were pulled in directions that wouldn’t register on a compass. As I drifted off to sleep, I remembered that the night prior, I had asked for moments in which to be a good ambassador of my faith. Despite a day that guaranteed little companionship, my request was answered through unexpected appointments with a host of strangers.
