Today is Valentine’s Day. That wonderful day filled with effusive warmth, love, and joy, emanating in a bright band that hugs the globe jubilantly. For all the snap crackle pop of heart shaped fireworks and squishy cuddliness of inflatable heart creatures, one would think Thailand had simply exploded with pinky love just for the occasion. Today in fact, I had my own unexpected Valentine I met while perusing the aisles, or rather, squirming awkwardly near the register, at 7-11. I pulled up this morning at our campus convenience store ready for a scrumptious breakfast treat. As I waited for the attendant to finish preparing my meal— a rubbery pork burger on a bun with a generous squirt of cheese-like sauce— a slow fear crept over me as my palm pressed itself once and then twice and then three times against the empty inside of my bag. Except exactly 11.5 baht I managed to shake out, I was dead broke. My wallet was nowhere to be found. As I dually explained my lack of purchasing power in Thai and in pantomime, I gingerly backed away from the counter, throwing my hands up in a replica of the gesture I get so often whenever I question store clerks-- a cross between sheer confusion and instinctual flight. So I fled, steaming pork bun sandwich still on the counter, and made quite the show of tearing through my bag outside the store just to confirm for all watching that either I was the insane farang they already suspected me to be or that I really had no money. What? Farang? No money? Impossible. To my chagrin, a student I had never seen before ran out after me and offered to pay for my meal. Refusal was not only inappropriate given her insistence, but impossible given my sudden stammering words of surprise. In the end, wai-ing her excessively to our mutual embarrassment, I left the shop, dignity and pork bun in bag. Oh, my funny Valentine.
But my shopping escapades for the day were far from over. In the afternoon in a local shopping center (thanks to the monetary kindness of a fellow teacher friend),after inquiring as to where to purchase a water bottle, I proceeded to what I can only describe as a towering wall of toddler Sippy cups. After staring dumbstruck for about thirty seconds, I began to scan the gargantuan shelf of pastel and neon plastic hydration devices. Most appeared capable of holding approximately a child’s swallow of any liquid, perhaps meant for the trendy appearance of hydration rather than actual refreshment; I couldn’t tell. There were the requisite Hello Kitty bottles, saucer-sized eyes batting thick curlicued lashes my way; the Pooh bear collection complete with various scenes of the friendly carnivore in a multitude of forest and city landscapes; and of course the bright blue Doraemon section, equipped with feline red collar carrying straps. Steadily losing hope, I migrated down the aisle a bit to a more mature section of flaming flamingo pink and shocking electric yellow bottles (calling to mind the brightly colored and flavored Now-and-Later candies of my youth). But even these bottles had alarming curvaceous shapes, contorted in ways I simply found unreasonable and flip top caps an infant could pop open. Imagining my bag sopping wet and the inability to seize hold of the squirming aqua receptacle, not to mention wanting to call as little attention to my beverage gear as possible, I cringed to think of setting it in the break room fridge beside the other ajarns’ sensible cartoon thermoses, drinkable yogurt chugglers, and fruity flavored juice boxes. So I pressed on further to the Siberian end of the bottle collection to a variety of acceptably sized squat, thin, and equally curvaceous bottles with built-in straws. Considering that these bottles bore only the signature neon colored tops rather than the entirety of the bottle, I snagged the soberest I could manage— a respectable clear bottle with periwinkle top— and started out of the aisle. Thinking better of myself, I returned and nabbed the bottle with charcoal grey top and, grinning in joyous approval at my shopping expertise, made my way to the register.
The last time I’d encountered a similar moral shopping dilemma was in selecting appropriate toilet tissue for my apartment. Mildly overwhelmed, I had come up against the likes of jasmine-scented puffs, your tried and true starchy whites, and satiny swathes with added aloe to name a few. At the time, I managed to escape with a modest cottony blend, heeding my mother’s childhood warnings of the potential complications of overly perfumed puffs in the certain inflammation of the loins. Now some might say that if my toughest daily decisions revolve around drinking gourds and latrine paper, my life clearly must be too easy. In fact, numerous have said as much to me. “You must LOVE living here, life is SO much easier than back in the States.” “Isn’t it great to be in such an exotic place where you just don’t have to think all the time?” “How fantastic is it to have everything you need at your fingertips, no hassle, no worries, no cares?” The last time I checked, I wasn’t taking leisure strolls on elephants in my spare time nor lounging in beach chairs downing plates of pad thai. I leave that to the scads of tourists flocking to the region that do that best. In fact, most of my time is spent back hunched over a pile of essays or arched screeching chalk up and down a massive green slab. While it can be a bit of a joy ride to live in a country where Valentine’s Day is a national holiday (doors adorned with heart-shaped wreaths and lawns bedecked with cardboard cutouts of heart pairs with convenient head holes) and picture-taking is a national sport, it in no way invalidates the authenticity and challenges that living even in a cartooned paradise presents. No I don’t have to hike to the nearest well to fetch water for my bath and no, I do not scavenge for berries before lights out at sunset. I haven’t had dysentery or malaria as of yet(knock on wood), nor have I of late been in a state of physical mortal peril. I feel comfortable walking the streets at night and when I want to travel, I hop on my moto and go. But in no way do any of these realities make my daily reality a joke. Too many times have I heard Chiang Mai isn’t rough enough, isn’t “cultured” enough, isn’t Asia enough. What does that even mean?If rough isn’t nearly killing yourself attempting to drive through monsoons in rainy season; if culture isn’t scaling Doi Suthep and plodding through the mountain towns and villages hidden along its slopes; if Asia isn’t chugging gurgling northern Thai soup, piping hot with chunks of pork blood and fellow colleagues cheering and chanting like it was a kegger, or scarfing down a plate of fermented pork before realizing what a bad idea that was; if none of this is what it means to step out of your cultural bubble and immerse yourself in a world a world away, I truly have no idea what is. Yes, there is a Starbucks and three McDonald’s and perhaps if local food didn't make my glands salivate on a regular basis, I might think to dine there once or twice, but not for the same burgers and fries made to order across the seas, rather for the tunafish pies and thai tea smoothy-floaties so characteristic of those vendors here. Certainly I have Internet access and can download videos on YouTube and songs from iTunes, but my recent playlist has included “Rak Mai Tahng Gan Wayla” from new cinematic favorite “Guan Muen Ho” and music videos of the bands I get hooked on in clubs. My experience may be a bit more urban, Chiang Mai might be a comfortable city, but walking down the street I roam ancient wats erected generations ago by the founders of this fair city; I chat with merchants in the market, trading guava and grins as our daily commerce; I race on my moto to umbrella festivals and flower parades; and when I wake in the morning I breathe the combined funk of exhaust fumes and mountain vapors, mingling in the early dawn before the smog settles.
Just because I don’t come home drained by the very effort of living through the day, doesn’t mean my days in Chiang Mai aren’t every bit as worth living through. In fact, because they infuse me with the will to keep them going, to have stayed in this beautiful city and country for the past two years, I cherish them more than anything. Though equally inspiring and invigorating, I don’t need to walk a dirt road or journal by candlelight for that to be true. As it turns out, truthfully I’d rather hike up my skirts for a squatter in a roadside shack than risk a chafed jasmine-scented derriere any day. It just so happens that in and around Chiang Mai, I can do both.
