A Return To Maine

[Above photo: Kharst pillars in Chiaw Lan, Khao Sok National Park, Thailand ]

16 May 2021

May 10

I awoke at 5:30AM yesterday, packed and ready to leave for the journey to Bangkok. It’s not unlike leaving Beach Island—pack, a boat ride, a car ride, an airplane ride, another car ride, and home. It was laced with a bit of anxiety, since the boat was ½ hour late, the taxi driver hadn’t responded to my emails moving the time back, my flight was cancelled and I had to reschedule one an hour earlier, etc. But it all worked out and I am in the lap of luxury at a sweet boutique hotel, the Riva Surya, in Bangkok with a 10’x12’ covered deck overlooking the Chao Praya, what I have thought of as the Bangkok River.

The river is, again, full of tugs pulling strings of immense barges, orange flag ferry boats, and masses of water hyacinth. Since I am in an older part of town which I have only cursorily explored, after I retrieved my stored luggage from the Siam Heritage Hotel, I wandered about. I bought a new razor from the 7-11. I unwittingly interrupted a woman having her lunch in a barber shop and got a haircut. She’ll be 81 on March 15 but looks 60. We commiserated about ageing.

I thought I really should take a peek at Khao San Road, the center of footloose young backpackers in SE Asia since the late 1970’s. As I was walking towards it, I passed a bakery with croissants in the window. After two more blocks I turned back, entered, and bought a pain chocolat and a cappuccino. There is no eating inside now—-all restaurants, museums, temples, palaces, etc. are locked up tight—so I stood outside and ate and drank. My! I re-entered and bought a croissant. Amazing! Crispy, flaky, buttery outside and damp and chewy inside. As good a croissant as I’ve ever had, and La Farine in Berkeley does them well. For the past four years, “croissant” has meant bread dough baked in the shape of a croissant.

I learned that the owner and head baker was Japanese and was taught by a French baker. “Precision”, said the Thai shopgirl as she swept up. The place is called “Konnichipan”—“Same day bread”.  Worth a stop if you are ever in Bangkok. It made my day.

11 May

As I walked back to my hotel after my pre-flight covid test at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases, the sunny day turned dark gray, thunder and lightening grew louder, and soon I was battling a tropical downpour. I could have grabbed a cab, but I wasn’t cold and I had a small umbrella. I put my phone, camera, and wallet into a plastic bag inside my daypack, which I then held on my shoulder under the umbrella.

The distance was a few miles. It was a new area to me, so I consulted Google Maps a couple of times and followed the klongs (canals) that earned Bangkok the nickname, “the Venice of Asia”. I got soaked but it was a good walk and a warm shower in my hotel followed by tea revived me.

Before getting my covid test, I met with the SE Asian bureau chief for the NY Times, Hannah Beech. Harold knew a friend of her husband and assisted with the connection. She has been writing eloquently about the Myanmar conflict, nee civil war/revolution. She is a smart, fun, warm person who, with her husband and two children, has bought waterfront acreage in Maine for summer holidays. She went to Colby College and her children’s only experience with the US, although they are citizens, has been at summer camp in Maine. They have lived in Beijing and Bangkok all their lives. I don’t think I added much to her fund of knowledge re. the coup; she has numerous sources, staying incognito, within Myanmar.  In an effort to share a good thing, I took her a bag of croissants from Konnichipan. We each had one with our coffee and had lots to talk about.

12 May

I went by the patisserie, again, today before meeting with Matthew Schojan, a Johns Hopkins researcher who left Myanmar in early May with his wife and daughter. He, and a colleague, Cate Lee, have been developing and studying psychosocial interventions for people in ID (Internally Displaced) camps along the Thai-Myanmar border. They have been training a cohort of villagers to deliver basic counselling services, exactly what I was beginning to explore doing. He, also, echoed my enthusiasm for croissants. Ironically, he said that his Filipino-American wife is crazy for good croissants. The things on which you fixate when you cannot get them!

After visiting with him and collecting my negative covid test result, I took a cab (I got smart!) to my neighborhood and dived into the markets around Khao San Road. I was seeking Thai fishermen’s pants and found only one shop that sells them. They are now fashionable for women, I think, as I could only get them in purple and coral colors, which I did. I’ll try to get my 91yo sister to wear them on Beach Island, even though they might test the limits of her comfort zone. They are so comfy.

13 May

I packed meticulously, for me, the evening before flying out. Arising at 3:20AM for an 8:05AM flight, I showered and assembled my 5 pieces of luggage—two heavy suitcases, a large backpack, a day pack, and the long pvc pipe carrying my painting—got them to the lobby and into the taxi I’d arranged to take me to Souvarnabumi International.  It took longer than 3 hours to get through everything when I departed Myanmar, so I left plenty of time.

Since there were virtually no cars, we arrived at the airport by 4:30AM. Check-in for Japan Airlines didn’t even open until 5:30 and I was cleared through everything, waiting to board by 6:45. 6 hours to Tokyo, a lengthy transfer and another 13 hours to Boston. JAL has better food, for my taste, than other international carriers.

I lost my way in the twilight trying to join the I-95, driving through the small, gritty towns north of Boston. It was a cold, damp evening and I unsuccessfully tried to imagine where I wanted to settle. The tropics were screaming, “Come back!”. Eventually, puttering around Lynn at 8:30PM I stopped at a Shell station and asked a woman in the control booth where to turn.  Her boyfriend, I assume, was sitting on a milk crate, keeping her company, and she gestured to him.  He was sweet, from the DR, and gave me perfect directions leading precisely where I wanted to go. I collapsed in bed in a motel in Brunswick at 11:33PM, the same day that I left, 13 May! What a miracle. The early explorers, whalers, and traders would take at least 3-6 months to make the same distance and probably 1/3 never did make it home.

When I wasn’t sleeping or eating on the trip, I was reading Edna O’Brien’s The Country Girls trilogy.  I enjoyed it like I have enjoyed Willa Cather, spare and simple but powerfully evocative writing. Yet what a revolutionary O’Brien was in describing the extremely pinched culture that the Catholic Church dominated in Ireland. The suffering and guilt endured, especially by women, and the sadism inflicted, often by nuns. She describes the widespread devastation wrought by demon rum on family life and finances. Her work was banned there for years, it was such an accurate reflection of the conditions. She infused it all with constant observations of the flowers, trees, and fields that enveloped, comforted, and inspired her in childhood. She used words very differently from the John Updike and John Irving books I’ve just read.  Her truths are remarkably cleanly presented in near-poetic form.

16 May

I am at Ari’s home now. It is a sweet 3 bedroom 1890’s farmstead on 8 acres with numerous large outbuildings. She has painted and furnished it so wonderfully; her aesthetic reveals that she is clearly her mother’s daughter. She has given the house to me for a 10 day quarantine and has moved into Poki’s new cottage, which is stunning, on the property.

I have been surprised by the prices of everything, especially food, and by my intolerance for cold; it gets into the low 40’s at night. I haven’t worn shoes or long pants for over a year.  Ari, however, has been warm and welcoming. I realize how much she has matured over the past 6 years, during which we haven’t had enough contact. She is taller than me; I’ve shrunk an inch or two.

My sleep is returning to normal, although I awaken at 5AM. I hope to visit the island tomorrow. I’ll take Ari’s boat and pull a dingy off the beach when I arrive so I can use the mooring. I want to burn brown-tailed caterpillar nests in the oak (1) and apple (4) trees.  They apparently have hairs that are highly allergenic; carried by the wind, they can cause a terrific rash. They discomfited many there last summer. They are recently widespread in this part of Maine.

The woods are beautiful now. The maples are purple from their new buds. The forsythia is insane, shockingly bright yellow, shouting, “Spring is here! I told you so!” Ari’s peach trees are in full pink blossom, as are apple trees in the neighborhood. There are some bushes with very exuberant purple blossoms; too early for lilacs here. There also is something that I think may be hawthorn, although I am unsure.  When we walked on the beach yesterday, a raft of geese were chattering away in the distance. It is so lovely here as Spring begins to think about Summer.