Day 23 / January 15, 2011

I can feel the inklings of my adventure coming to and end. It’s like watching the last fifteen minutes of a good movie. All the bad guys are gone, the mortgage to the ranch has been paid, everyone who was meant to cry has cried and the only thing left to do is ride off into the sunset. That to will come Thursday, this is so like me to get ahead of myself and start thinking of leaving Chiang Mai four days early. I can tell it’s time to move on. I no longer have the desire to go sight seeing. I’ve visited more Buddhist temples than most westerners see in a lifetime. I’ve walked and hobbled through every market during the day and night and purchased more useless things than I hope to admit. I made friends with waitresses, reception staff, bartenders and monks. I rode in every type of transportation available in Thailand and I’ve run out of good music. I’ve lost one hearing aid, the rubber nose protector on my sunglasses and turned my mini portable speaker system into toast by dropping the main speaker onto the hard concrete ground next to the swimming pool. That’s a sure sign its time to move on.

            It’s time close up some loose ends. I never made it to the nice women’s house that invited me for dinner last Friday. Upon reflection, I thought it was a polite invitation but lacking honest desire. YO, the young postgraduate and I had dinner a couple of times but our ages truly came between us. My fault not hers. I lose all desire to be in the company of a young woman, or anyone else for that matter once the sun passes the yardarm. No matter where we were, or the setting, or topic of conversation, I wanted to be in my hotel room punching away at the computer board keys, reading a little of Paul Theroux and going to bed. I believe there are two categories that all great writers can be placed, those that keep the action flowing and the reader is forever kept on the tips of his or hers toes, and those that put you to sleep after two pages. There is a place in my heart for both.

I will see YO tonight. See left a notebook under my motor scooter seat and asked if I was interested in going on a night safari with her. She really is a sweetheart. She knows I can’t walk very far. The night safari is a train driven ride through the Chiang Mai zoo at 7:30. I’ll try to stay awake.

My writing routine of waking up at 5:00 am takes its toll on my energy level about fourteen hours later. This is not a complaint, but a realization that after sixty, sun rises are more interesting to me than sun sets. I am happy with that. I am more encouraged by the human souls that walk the streets at dawn then those seeking the electronic booming sounds and Karaoke machines howling at the moon. I have enjoyed discovering my alter ego that pops up in my erotic adventures from time to time.

I do have a few reflections of Thailand to share. Thailand has very little debris on the streets or sides of there roads. There is no major effort or advertising campaign to thank for this. The people are simply proud of who they are and where they live. The natural environment is important to them and they don’t feel they need to conquer it. There are no beggars or street people. No one I asked could explain this or tell me why this was. Since they had no reference as to what a street person is, it was difficult to communicate that a wealthy country like the United States has this problem. The closest thing to a street person in Thailand is a monk, and they are considered sacred. They do not ask for money only food and that is done only once during the early morning hours and they are polite and neatly dressed in orange robes. The people that give alms feel good about doing so, and the gesture enriches their lives. The medical system here may not have every million dollar spiffy diagnostic machine known to man but it does offer personal, courteous, and caring physicians. I would rather be hit by a Mack truck then die in an American hospital, but I would feel truly privileged to see any of the Thai physicians I have met at my bedside before death. President Obama would do our country a great service to visit and spend some time in Thailand and try to figure out why the smiles of the Thai population are so contagious.

*  *  *

            Most people laugh at there own jokes because the jokes themselves aren’t very funny. I admit I’m guilty. I spent the last two days howling at the stupidity of the screenplay I wrote thinking it was the funniest thing since Woody Allen wrote Annie Hall. Since no one commented I assume I am alone in this regard. Today I will lie at poolside, read, and work on my tan. I miss my bed but I don’t miss Las Vegas.  I have found a love in riding motor scooters that brings me back to the time of feeling like an eagle on a mountain bike. Vegas is not the place for a motor scooter. The Hummers, pick-up trucks, and super-sized SUV’s would spit me out like dust. I miss making my own bed in the morning and reading the morning paper with a cold bowl of cereal and a banana. My acupuncturist strongly disagrees with the monk that suggested a change in my diet. She said mushrooms and bananas are good for me, the monk doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Let the monk stick to universal oneness and Karma dealing and leave the dietary advice to the doctors, a partial quote from Dr. Rungant. Like anywhere else in the world it’s hard to get two professionals to agree on anything. I miss calling my friends and it not being special. I miss Sunday morning country and western music on DirecTV, and pizza and football in the afternoon. I miss my cat Moony, but there’s not much I can do about that.

             

Day 21 / January 15, 2011 / Group Therapy Part II

Scene:            The ladies are pulled apart, with Tom¹ doing most of the work. Tom² isn’t quite sure what part of the two women is safe for him to touch. His non-violence is appreciated but he has little effect on the action. Tom¹ grabs Sandy around her arms. A difficult feat considering Sandy is moving them with lightning speed, punching and clawing at Cindy like at cat in heat.

                        Sandy gets manhandled and thrown back into her chair. Larry is staring at her smiling. She is most sexy like this, with her lungs pumping for oxygen and her nostrils flared open like a wild mare.

                        Cindy is quiet and thankful that Tom¹ was there to break up the very one-sided fight. It lasted as long as Mohammad Ali’s bout against Jerry Quarry.

Larry:            Larry has now regained control and stopped choking.

                        “I don’t think that was a very fair or accurate of a statement Cindy. First of all, I didn’t hit on you; you hit on me. You invited me to your apartment under the pretense that you needed an architectural critique on the color of curtains.”

Cindy:            “You did too hit on me. You touched my ass, and then everywhere else after that. What do you call that, if not hitting?”

Larry:            “I was only trying to keep you from falling off the ladder. Your ass was the largest appealing thing to grab. After that you fell on top of me, then I just kept on grabing things trying to escape.”

Cindy:            “Your tongue did quite a bit of grabbing as I recall.”

Tom²                  This conversation did nothing to calm Sandy down. Tom said, “Are you addicted to sex, Larry? – Please, spare us the details and just admit it. You’ll never be cured if you remain in denial.

Sandy:            Looking at Larry, and still red as a succulent cherry sitting atop of a Shirley Temple, “Don’t fucking even look at me. I don’t ever want to talk to you again.”

Larry:            ”We don’t talk much anyway, we just fuck.” 

Now looking at Tom¹. “No I am not addicted to sex, I may abuse sex from time to time but I cannot honestly say I’m addicted to sex. Addiction is a non-voluntary compulsion or dependence. That would be like saying I’m addicted to air. I like breathing air from time to time, one could say I breath air regularly, one, might go as far as suggesting I abuse air. That doesn’t mean I’m addicted to air.”

Tom¹            “You’re a fucking moron Larry. You’re addicted to everything. You have a compulsory physiological disorder. You consume anything that is put in front of you. You can’t ride a bike without wanting to be Lance Armstrong. You can’t play chess without wanting to beat Boris Spassky. You can’t take a fucking aspirin without finishing the entire bottle within two days. You are addicted to air you fucking jerk, admit it!”

Sandy:            “Calm down Tom, he’s not that bad. He as a bottle of Vitamin C in his kitchen cabinet that has lasted him two months.”

Cindy:            “How do you know what’s in his kitchen cabinets?”

Tom²                  “Enough Cindy, you better shut up while you still can?”

Larry:            “Me, me, me, me … enough about me, what about your problems Tom?” Now facing Tom¹ with the intention of changing the topic and keeping the girls out of it.

                        “You fucking over age recipient of the perpetual Kindergarten achievement award for pot smoking.” If you would spend one day without toking on a joint you might be able to get a job, or at least get up in the morning and wash your underwear.”

Tom¹:            “Why are you on my case? Ok, so I smoke pot everyday. So does Willie Nelson and it hasn’t done him any harm.”

Tom²:            “You don’t know Willie Nelson. It might have done him a great deal of harm. He might have actually been able to sing if he never smoked pot.”

Sandy:            “Who is Willie Nelson?”

Cindy:            “He’s John Denver with red hair and talent, you slut. If you had any brain cells left you would know that. How long have you been clean anyway? You know you’re not suppose to come to these therapy sessions if you’re still using.”

Sandy:            “I’m clean. I haven’t used in over a week. But that was at a party, I didn’t buy any. Do we have to count that?”

Tom¹:            Yes that gets counted. I thought you were going to quit?”

Sandy:            “I tried, but I met this really cute guy at a party last week, so I kind of gave in.” She said this with her beautiful sexy shy smile that reminded me of Meg Ryan in “When Harry met Sally”.

Larry:            “Who did you meet at a party. It wasn’t that jerk Bert that I saw you with last weekend, was it?”

Cindy:            “You’re jealous, you sex monster.”

Tom²:            “Can we go home now? I for one would like to say how therapeutic these sessions are for me.”

Tom¹:            Get’s up from his chair and thanks everyone for coming. “I guess, we’ll see you again next week, I’m going to wash my underwear now. Thanks Larry.”

Everyone walks out the door with Cindy leading, Sandy following, and Larry and Tom² not far behind.

Tom² speeds up to catch Cindy from behind.

Tom²:            “What color curtains did you buy? I once took a class in interior design as an elective in undergraduate school.”

Cindy:            “Really! Would you like to see them?”

Larry:            Putting his arm around Sandy. “You look really hot when you get mad. Wanna go get a drink?”

The End.

Day 20 / January 14, 2011 / Group Therapy

Note:             This is my first attempt at writing a screenplay. I have no reference material in regard to how this is suppose to be done, but who cares? It is complete fiction and I woke up this morning [without looking at the mirror] and said to myself write a screenplay.

Setting:            A small apartment, like one that might be leased by a graduate student in a college town. A few dining room chairs are placed randomly about with an ugly overstuffed brown couch against the wall and a large side chair that clashes to the side. The furniture is brought together to form a semi-circle in which to hold an impromptu meeting.

Tom¹                  There are two Tom’s in this story. Tom¹ looks like an overweight graduate student that should have completed his college education about fifteen years ago. His heritage is Scottish. His hair is thinning and has a thick brown reddish beard to compensate. He is wearing an outdated sweater vest over a white shirt with plastic collar buttons. He smokes.

                        There are five people in the room. Tom¹ is sitting in a chair and facing Cindy.           

“That isn’t fair. You’re not suppose single out one person and target them like that”.

Cindy:            A young very attractive women in her late twenties. She has rich brown eyes and brown hair. She adds red tint to her hair to give it an auburn tone. The added hair coloring works well. She is wearing a low cut navy blue dress and red framed lightly tinted sunglasses. Her make-up is minimal, as she doesn’t need much. She has on long round earrings and a few dangling silver bracelets to match. Her breasts are ample but not large. Her best feature is her long legs that are wrapped beneath her. She is sitting comfortably on the couch.

                        “Larry asked for it. We are all supposed to be honest and straightforward with each other here. He spent last night at my house and came on to me. Didn’t you Larry? I can’t say I minded, but I want to know if this is serious? I mean are you looking to get married?

Larry:            A thirty-five year old successful and emotionally confused male. His hair is dusty blond and long. He is more cute than handsome. He dresses three pegs below what the image of his profession would normally demand. Today he has on jeans torn at the knees, white sneakers and a T-shirt. The T-shirt reads Drink until you Puke. He does this because he thinks he can get away with it – and he does.

                        He had just taken a sip of a chilled glass of Pepsi and spits out a mouthful chocking after hearing those words. The Pepsi blends nicely into Tom’s old soiled carpet -- no one moves to wipe anything up.

                        “Not anymore”.

                        Larry throws words out like darts, choosing the fewest and right combinations to do the most damage. They hit home because they’re usually accurate.           

Sandy:            The only other women in the room and the most beautiful. She is a dirty blond with natural red highlights. Her eyes are gray and large. Her lips are full. She is wearing no makeup or underwear. Her breasts are smaller than Cindy’s and the tips of her nipples came be seen through her white blouse. Her sneakers have been thrown to the floor and her feet are bare. She is nestled in a large side chair to the left of Larry.

                        She faces Larry with shock on her face and anger in her voice. She has been sleeping with Larry for the last month – no one in the room knew that.

                        “You hit on that psychotic bitch, you asshole?            

Larry:            To shocked to speak. His month is open with Pepsi dribbling from the sides. He is trying to stop from choking.

Tom²                  Tom is taller than Larry by a couple of inches. He has a clean long face with no distinguishing features. He is not handsome or ugly. Tom could rob a bank and no one would be able to describe him five minutes later. He dresses and looks like everybody else. Today he is wearing a brown shirt and blue tie – not that anyone noticed.

                        Tom is sitting to the right of Cindy, and secretly wishing he were the one that spent the night at Cindy’s house. He has known Cindy for three months. They are currently in the same psychology class together. G89.1016 -- A perspective of the psychoanalytic and humanistic traits of social learning. Tom has never had the courage to approach Cindy.

                        Tom doesn’t usually laugh. He laughs now.

                        “This is getting very personal, guys. We are supposed to be discussing addictions, not Larry’s personal sex life”.

Cindy:            “That is one of his addictions,” she quickly retorts. Who are you calling a psychotic bitch – you cocaine whore? You’ll fuck anything that walks for a few lines of blow”.

Sandy:            Is now on her feet and coming after Cindy to punch her lights out. Larry wisely keeps his distance and leaves both of the Tom’s to break up the catfight, that if left to continue would leave Cindy hairless and blind.

The fifth chair is empty and says the most.

To be continued … by popular demand.

                       

                       

            

Day 19 / January 12, 2011 The Lime Green, Red Haired, Freckled Face Monster

It had to happen sooner or later. This is the part in therapy when I must acknowledge the worst of my own fears. I have come a long way to get to this juncture. Toxins no longer pass through my body, I have not swallowed one prescribed pharmaceutical in any shape or color, nor have I consumed any alcohol in the last sixty days. How do I feel? Physically I feel great, my body has been cleansed, my back problems will be addressed when I return to the states, and I feel confident that I will over come that issue as well. I am strong and fearless -- a proud warrior carrying the humility of life’s experiences in a small weather-beaten satchel. Emotionally, it’s another matter. I have one large obstacle that I must overcome. In my mind I see the image of an old fashion time bomb made from one pound cylindrical tubes of dynamite strapped together complete with a hand held detonator ready to explode at any minute.

When will the lime green, red haired, freckled-faced monster rise again to sabotage my life? I picture it living under a rock in one of the dark corners of my mind. I can’t rightly say I’m afraid of this monster; in fact I use to know the monster very well. The monster was once my friend and we had many good times together. Like all things, time passes, and the monster and I have changed over the years. I am no longer sure exactly what is lurking under that rock any more – whether it’s the monster or the shadow of the monster. In either case it is terribly frightening.

            There was a time, not long ago, that I had no fear of this monster. In fact, I wished it would return on many occasions. I did everything I could to locate it. I would gravitate to the places I thought I might find it. I would make sure I would go out in public on full moons or during other auspicious dates looking for signs that the lime green red haired freckled faced monster had left a mark. I even once tried witchcraft and voodoo when I was lonely and happened to be in the French Quarter after Mardi Gras. I don’t imagine I would ever see the monster in Las Vegas. Vegas is not the place that would attract this type of creature – to superficial. This monster goes right for the wholesome core, everything that is good in the world is a potential host, then without a second thought, with a lightning spin of its lizard head it will rip your heart out and suck up every once of blood with a long serpentine tongue. After only one encounter I would wake up in the loneliness of my bed with my temples screaming from electrical shocks and my throat harboring the lingering taste of poisonous venom. I would tremble from severe dehydration and it would take days before I could move to feed myself or get a simple glass of water.

            This reoccurring nightmare started on an innocent Sunday afternoon in 1978. It was a beautiful spring day in Houston. I had just finished the Sunday papers; I was young, fresh and alive with the spirit of a shooting star. My architectural practice was soaring; I had captured some of the largest developers during the oil boom in Texas. I had money, a fast car and the sexual charm of ignorance. The truth was; I was a mere mullet in a vast sea begging to be taken.

            I telephoned the lime green, red haired, freckled face monster at 2:00 that Sunday afternoon. I knew that 2:00 was probably not the best time to call someone for a date – but that’s the way I did things then, without much thought or protocol.

            “Charlie, hi, it’s me Larry, would you like to go out for a drink?”

“You’re kidding, it’s 2:00 in the afternoon.”

“So what, we’ll drink until the sun goes down, I know the perfect bar to watch the sunset. If we get there now we’ll get a good seat”.

“Are you some kind of connoisseur of sunsets?” She asked with playful sexy laughter.

In spite of my ridiculous timing or my bad line, she went out with me anyway. We met at a place called Ninfa’s in the old part of town, tucked away on Navigation. You can’t see the sunset from Ninfa’s, but neither of us cared and it was never mentioned. We drank pitchers of Margaritas until the cows came home. We could hardly walk out the door by the time the sun started going down but we somehow managed to get to my car.

            “Can you drive like this, she asked?”

            “Don’t worry, where alcohol is concerned, I have perfect control.”

“Perfect control?”

             “Four margarita’s just brings me up to feeling normal, I can drive, don’t be concerned at all”.

“You had six, I had four,” she laughed.

            There wasn’t much to talk about. We were both drunk and happy. Life was a ball of tightly woven rubber bands just waiting to be unraveled and bounced around the room for pleasure. I started unraveling her rubber bands, one at a time beginning with the red cowboy boots, then the lime green summer dress, and followed lastly with her white silk blouse. She wore no underwear or makeup. Her hair was red and curly and dropped to her shoulders. The freckles on her breasts matched the ones on her face. Charlie was just the right amount of overweight – which made her voluptuous and I couldn’t help but give her the nickname, Chuck.

            That’s the monster – I can’t get rid of that image and the desire to find someone to get drunk with at 2:00 in the afternoon. Then I want to spent the rest of the night making love and laughing and talking about dumb stuff like what’s your favorite donut and where do the stars go to hide in the daytime.

            As long as I have that memory I’ll always want to go back to that special place in my mind where life was simple and fun and sexy, and love was weighed by the sticky stuff that’s gets wiped all over each others bodies and tastes like the nectar of the Gods.

Day 18 / January 11, 2011

I was sitting in the hotel lobby leafing through The Happy Isles of Oceania when one of the hotel staff invited me to assist in making merit in the morning. It was most likely because they know I’m up before 6:00 am and have a reputation – I’m the insomnia writer that continually asks for coffee regardless of the hour, day or night.

Whether consciously or subconsciously a good portion of this adventure was to allow me, the accidental Buddhist, to connect to my spiritual roots. Allow me this opportunity to provide some background regarding making merit before today’s narrative.

            Making merit means doing good things in Buddhism and it is extensively believed and practiced by the people of Thailand. The concept can be boiled down to an old Thai proverb, “If you do good, you will receive good, if you do evil you will receive evil”. Simple enough, karma represents the evaluation of all events that take place on a day-to-day basis in a person’s life.

            One of the ways to make merit is to offer alms. Monks are forbidden to hoard food or to cook. Therefore alms are an essential daily routine in a monk’s life. Alms consist of food prepared and offered by the general populace and given to the men in orange each morning. Having good karma is very important to any Buddhist, though as I have found out, there is an escape clause. Karma comes in time-release capsules. The accumulation of karma, both good and bad, takes place over the course of ones life and there is no guarantee when it will be returned. It may be come back immediately, or it may not return until a future lifetime.

I think of it as a chess rating. If you win your rating goes up, if you lose your rating goes down, but all in all there are a finite number of rating points in the system, it’s only the distribution that changes. Like energy, and chess points, karma cannot be created or destroyed.

I was ready at 6:30 am, out in front of the hotel waiting for the monks to walk by. The hotel offers alms every Thursday and this morning they set up a table with five baskets of food neatly arranged for the offering. This isn’t a buffet; there is a systematic ritual that must be followed. Once a monk is seen, the food is held to one’s forehead and the word “Nimon” is spoken. The monk/s will then step in front of you, not to close, and open the lid to his wooden bowl. I was then to place the food, in the specific order of rice, savory, fruit, and water into the bowl. Flowers and incenses were also on the table and would be placed on the metal cover of the bowl. The monk would then give a blessing. At that time I could, if I wanted, pour water on the ground. That represented my opportunity to share my merits with someone else. That could be a person that has passed away or a friend or family member that is living, including myself. Since I don’t know exactly how many karma points I would get from doing this, I suppose this is done on a percentage basis. Ten for me, ten for Roger, ten for me, ten for Michael -- you get the picture. It’s kind of like Christmas shopping without going to the mall. It’s important to note that monks walk barefoot so I am suppose to remove my shoes before making this offering. Otherwise it would suggest that I was in a higher place than the monk, a Thai faux pas.

            I am now sitting in front of the table directly outside the entrance to the hotel and it’s still dark. A fine white linen tablecloth formalizes the setting and the baskets of food are decorated with long thin purple flowers. No one from the hotel is there to insure the ritual is done correctly. Alone, with full command of the goodies, I notice one monk toting his bowl with a clear plastic bag of food over his shoulder, proudly displaying his collection of swag. I let him walk by. Five minutes pass and I see two more young monks in orange robes also collecting alms. I look around for help -- help! Then another two monks walk by. I haven’t done a thing, I’m still waiting for someone from the hotel to assist me, knowing if left to my own accord I would probably blow this big time and wind up in monk purgatory.

            Finally at 7:00 am someone from the hotel comes to my aid, though by this time I have already missed five monks. I think to myself, this is like going fishing, the monks don’t wear watches so you have to be there when they go by – and we missed five. What happens now? The hotel receptionist explains the subtleties  – “We must wait for three monks together”. I’m really getting confused now. What about the one or two monks that walked by, they had bowls and they looked hungry. What is so special about waiting for three monks? No one speaks enough English to give me a satisfactory answer. Fifteen minutes go by and I don’t see any more monks. I do see the sanitation truck coming; surely those guys get hungry as well. We have all this food; do we get karma points for feeding the garbage men?

            I am told the monks we are waiting for will be coming from a specific temple, and from a specific direction. This is now making more sense. It appears this is not food for just any monk, but more like an adopt-your-favorite Wat offering. When three specific monks come from a specific temple then we can give away the food, and not a second before? Hum, I liked my idea better, first come, first serve -- the early monk gets the worm. Not very socialistic I suppose. Two monks are now walking toward me, knowingly, from the correct direction. Only two, what am I suppose to do now, I was told three monks would be coming. I wasn’t about to pass up my opportunity and assumed one monk must have called in sick.

            I look around, I am again alone. The hotel staff is busy at other tasks; apparently this is not a big deal for them and I’ll have to handle these two monks myself. I say hello to the young men in orange that appear no older than eighteen. I begin the dialog by apologizing. “I don’t know how to do this”. My apology is the replacement for the word Nimon that I have already forgotten. I’m too nervous to remember the order that the food is to be served. Thankfully, one of the monks speaks English and instructs me in placing the food in his bowl. Then I notice my flip-flops are still on --- I apologize again. We’re standing on the cold earth and I begin thinking this is beginning to take the form of a marriage – there sure are a lot of apologies taking place.

I’m saved by the hotel staff and everyone seems to be doing fine except me. I’m confused and frustrated. The older monk blesses me, which I thought was a good sign. It was in a foreign language so who really knows what he was saying. He could have been asking for last week’s football scores for all I know. His sidekick stood there, as quiet as a Buddhist mouse. At this point I can’t tell whether I’ve gained, lost, or drew on Karma points, and I was to nervous to accurately divide any up with friends or family. I’ll do a better job next week – I promise. If the hotel staff disappears to find better things to do, I personally think the garbage men deserve a little something as well.

Day 17 / January 10, 2011

Today was my last acupuncture treatment and it occurred this morning at 9:00 am. I told the doctor that I couldn’t tell if the treatments were doing anything positive at all. She understood, and said that my nerves could be to far damage to respond to acupuncture.  Today was her last shot for credibility and Dr. Rungrat knew that. She got aggressive with the needles and really went after it. I almost jumped out of my skin when the first penetration punctured my buttocks. The following six needles didn’t get any less painful and she turned up the volume on the electric current. A monk offering last rites would not have been surprising to see pop up at my bedside. As usual the first fifteen minutes were agony. I’m in pain lying on my side and I can’t adjust my body to see if another position would be any better. The two nurses standing next to me stopped giggling. Thirty minutes later I scraped myself off the table, my eyeballs felt swollen and boiled and my hip and lower back did not want to budge. Dr. Rungrat suggested I rest today, no Pilates. If I think these treatments are helping me, I should come back tomorrow and schedule appointments for Wednesday, Friday and Monday. If not, she was sorry, and said she did everything she could, I might need an operation after all. There was only one word that ran through my brain, Yuck.

            The Power House Gym was on the way out of town so I stopped by and cancelled my Pilates appointment. Then I kept heading northwest out of town. It was an overcast day with scattered intermittent showers. I thought it would be a good day to find the Pong Deud Hot Springs and soak my body, relax, and reflect on my physical condition. According to the map the hot springs was about ninety kilometers outside of Chiang Mai with a couple of lakes, the town of Mae Malai, and the Mae Ta Man elephant ranch spaced nicely as distractions along on the way.

Meanwhile, my social life may be perking up. I secretly knew a shinny blue set of wheels and the Beach Boys signing away in my imagination would do the trick. A women named YO contacted me via the DateinAsia dating site. I mention only her because out of the dozen daily emails I get she was the only one that I considered meeting. Mostly, I’m bombarded by a tsunami of Pilipino women that jam the airways selecting me as the warm soul they will extract from loneliness if I would release them from the bonds off poverty. The Beach Boy’s gave way to Bobby -- It ain’t me babe, it ain’t me you’re looking for.

            YO seemed like a nice safe distraction. YO is a thirty-two year old graduate student form the University of Chiang Mai with a Masters degree in Agriculture. There was not one sexy thing about her photograph. She was more of the brainy nerdy type, with a figure like the Liberty bell. She had broad shoulders a narrow waist and big hips, like so many northern Thai women, the product of a thousand years of genes working in the rice fields. But something sounded interesting about her and attracted me. Emily Deatherage would be especially proud. After my last breakup with Lydia, her advice was I should date fat women. This is as close as you’re going to get Emily. Besides, this could be a chance of a lifetime, I couldn’t imagine going another day without an in depth discussion of, The art and science of seed perching in Chiang Mai County beginning in the early 1900’s.           

In addition to YO, I had a very nice mature women offer to take me to dinner this Friday. I’d tell you her name but I don’t know it. She works across the street from the hotel in a small shop with a sign that reads, Thai Message School. It’s also where I drop off my laundry and got a haircut last week. My future date is a bit of a clown with fine bronze skin, and the physical presence of a seasoned athlete. I noticed her finely shaped buttocks on more than one occasion. She started a teasing game when she saw me getting on my Honda for the first time and offered to change her business to a driving school, because I needed one. Since I arrived at Chiang Mai she has stood me up on two message appointments and lost my laundry once. I must have really left an impression. Last night she apologized profusely in front of another employee about forgetting my message again. I gave her a hard time, and hit her with the ultimate, below the female belt, blow. I suggested that maybe she was getting old and losing her mind. She immediately offered another girl, a better masseuse, she admitted, if I would wait ten minutes. No way, I responded – just find my Fruit of the Looms and I’ll be on my way. This was all communicated with smiles, broken English and laughter.

            It must have been the sarcastic remarks that won her heart, because she said she was leaving for Bangkok to visit her daughter until Friday but wanted to make it up to me. How about a home cooked dinner next Friday? I reluctantly confirmed, indicating one condition --- I only like Thai food – what were you planning to make?

* * *

As long as there are mountains and jungles there is hope, I thought to myself as my little Honda headed northwest through the drizzling rain. The drive out of town was on a congested divided highway, two lanes in each direction with a side shoulder for bicycles and motorbikes. The exhaust fumes were deadly and my eyes began inching, my throat stung with a poisonous venom. My left turn onto route 1095 at Mai Malai was the reprieve I was looking for – it turned into a narrow paved road with a high center crown and no striping. There wasn’t any traffic to speak of and the narrow asphalt road twisted into the heart of the jungle like the ferns and vines at the base of the adjacent trees. Everything here seemed to grow and flourish easily with nothing being cut or grazed. The high chirping squawks of the birds sang in a broken harmony of freedom. Water was abundant in streams and gullies. This is exactly what I was looking for -- scooting to a place I’ve never been with all my possessions on my back and feeling free. My gloomy mood lifted and I no longer gave my back problems a second thought. I felt a lightness of spirit, I felt stronger – and once again like Slaughter House 5, I regressed back in time to my youth. When I was younger I’d be doing this on my bike with fifty pounds of panniers and a map thirty days old stained from beer and coffee. But alas, this Honda isn’t bad.

            I broke for lunch at a small nameless restaurant on the side of the road. I’m amazed at the quality of the food and the inexpensive prices. I had my standard fare of wide noodles, associated vegetables, pork, curry and soybean, along with an orange soda that I seem to gravitate too in third world countries, for a total price of 50 baht.

            I never made it to the hot springs; I kept getting distracted at little footpaths that popped out of the jungle wall. I would stop and follow for one hundred meters or so into the jungle and find a spot to sit and think. Just for the adventure of it. It reminded me of a place and a time so long ago – when I would walk along a footpath so narrow your elbows would brush against the ferns and old boughs, where mankind had yet to exist. Within fifteen minutes the sun came out with a powerful blaze – brighter than anything I ever remembered and with it came a profound reassuring lift of my spirit.

Day 16 / January 9, 2001

I wasn’t sure I was making the right choice when I crossed the street and rented a new Honda Elite motor scooter. Then something magical happened. The moment I straddled the seat and began to drive off, an old Beach Boy classic from the distant past started echoing in my brain. First gear -- its alright, second gear – lean right, third gear -- hang on tight … faster …

            I suppose it’s true, I have no idea how old I am. My mind flashes back and forth in time like Kurt Vonnagut’s, Slaughterhouse Five. Two hours ago I was feeling nineteen, riding a motor scooter complete with a magical Beach Boy’s soundtrack and now I’m sixty-two plugging away at my Apple keyboard trying to put the experience in context. Back to the narrative – I had to find a bookstore to buy a map so I’d have some idea of where I’d be scooting too. I remembered walking passed a small used bookstore called Gecko Books on Wednesday, it was somewhere in the inner city. Why not try and find it, I thought? What a perfectly dumb way to learn how to ride a scooter, head right for the worse traffic in the heart of the city, mix with the locals, smile at the pretty girls on motorbikes waiting for the light to change at intersections, try not to make an utter fool of yourself, and as Nike says, just do it.

            I finally figured out this town and learned the local traffic regulations at the same time. Drive on the wrong side of the street. A double yellow line indicates the best places to make U-turns. Traffic Lights exist to slow down other people, and the flashing red lights at busy corners – I have no idea what they’re for because everyone seems to ignore them.

            The inner city is surrounded by a moat or cannel as the locals call it. It’s in the shape of a square and has a one-way street that runs along each side. Hundreds of years ago the moat was dug directly in front of a high brick wall used to defend the city from attacking mongrels. The only remains of the wall are located at the four corners. The moat remains intact without the alligators or what ever else they had swimming in it at the time. A dozen or so stone gates with arches bisect the moat and connect the inner city to the outside world. How do I know this? I rode around it five times trying to figure out how to escape before I realized I was going in square circles.

            Overnight I’ve been transformed from the accidental tourist to a world traveler. Paul Theroux once said, “A tourist knows where they’re going; a traveler only knows where they’ve been”. Deep in thought and lost in mind I find the road I’m looking for and begin my climb upward -- toward the lingering clouds hovering at the top like a wet blanket ready to destroy this beautiful day. I scoot pass the University of Chiang Mai, the hospital and the city zoo. Engraving them to memory for the university and the zoo might make for an interesting side trip. The road narrows and traffic dissolves to only a few Sorng-taa-ou’s that appear to be transporting monks to the Wat Lok Molee at the top of the mountain. This is a famous tourist attraction because it is one of the very few forest wats that exist. The Wat Lok Molee is an old temple dating back to the 1300’s. The sixth Lanna King of the Mengrai Dynasty invited a group of ten monks from Burma to practice and teach Buddhism in his kingdom. He built this wat for them. I wish I had friends like that.

About four kilometers later I take a side road on impulse after noticing a sign that reads Mon Thaa Than Falls. This entire climb reminds me of Flagstaff Mountain as I pass mountain bikers in colorful riding apparel. The temperature drops considerably and I realize I should have brought along some warmer clothes. On the dirt road in front of me the early morning haze begins to lift like translucent skeletons returning to their graves -- I continue to climb.

It didn’t take long, about five seconds after mounting this scooter that I realized I should have done this a week ago. I feel alive, living in the moment; this is no hallucination, my body and mind are finally in harmony. This is no different than riding a bicycle except I don’t have to pedal.

            I’m gathering my thoughts and writing this post in my bathing suit while enjoying my poolside curry. My adventure is over for the day. I stopped on the way back and paid a second visit to the rental shop, negotiating a weekly rate of 150 baht a day. I plan to keep the scooter until I leave on the twentieth. Serendipity, how I love a word that dances, I knew there was a reason I brought my cycling helmet, sunglasses and riding gloves on this trip.

Over the next week my boundaries will expand to the neighboring countryside and beyond. The elephant is not only loose but also running amok with a frivolous determination of a giggling teenager on the last day of school. Now, where did I put Anna’s telephone number?