Turning 23

   Two days after my folks arrived, I celebrated a most perfect birthday. 
   Turning 23 has all sort of whimsical connotations in my mind. My current situation speaks to the luck of this life-year and I know that the coming months will only make this more obvious. I’ll be wrapping up a year living abroad, returning to my dream of a graduate program, creating a new home for myself in Alabama, and returning to the company of my love. On an introspective level, I feel much more comfortable and assured of myself than I ever have. There is no question as to my path: I know what I want and I know I have the ability to get there. I might not have every, itsy-bitsy component of my journey plotted out but I trust my instincts and my sensibilities to do what needs to be done. I am past the vanity and insecurities of my teenage-dom, am over the OCD nervosa of my college years, and am utterly content. I recognize that I still have an immense amount to learn on a personal and professional level but I also accept myself for who I am at this very moment. I know that graduate school will be taxing but I am confident that I will be able to balance my workload with the people and activities that bring me joy. Only good things lay ahead in my 23rd year and, if my good fortune ends, I’m prepared to deal with any sorrow which might come my way.
   I rang in this new year with my wonderful parents. Still jet-lagged and fresh off the plane, they tolerated my insistence on a traditional Bhuddhist birthday blessing at a local temple and then whisked me downtown to treat me to an incredible Sunday Brunch at the Royal Orchid Sheraton on the Chao Phraya River. This was no ordinary brunch.... freshly made to order smoothies were free-flowing, a woodfire pizza oven doled out deliciousness, raw oysters were endless, dim sum overflowed out of steam baskets, thai delicacies sat next to western classics, and the dessert bar was a room all to itself. To say I entered food-induced bliss would be obvious. The waitstaff even constructed a star-bedecked, chocolate-covered, Thai kanome encircled, and candle topped torte and sang the Thai Happy Birthday song to me. I would have NEVER treated myself to such an indulgence but it was so much fun to enjoy one of the famous Sunday Brunch locales that Bangkok is famous for. 
    After loosening our pants and taking a brief rest, we headed to RedSky, my favorite skybar, to celebrate over cocktails with my Mercer compadres. I was surrounded by 12 people whom I adored while looking over a city with which I have fallen in love... pure, nostalgic bliss. 
    We later dined on a chocolate extreme Dairy Queen (thank you, Globalization!) cake and watched a full, blood moon rise. Life at 23 started off so sweetly. 

Calvinist Clean Gone Awry

       There I sat, hyperventilating on my apartment floor, half-laughing, half-sobbing wondering what my life was coming to. I had broken into a cold sweat. My foot pulsed with pain and a swollen bruise was quickly appearing just above my knee. My eyesight sporadically narrowed down to tunnel-vision and I could feel my heart pounding at my temples. Shit, shit, shit, shit. Calm the hell down, Kate. 

      I had been cleaning my apartment, an endeavor I undertake briefly a couple times a week to keep myself sane and clutter-free. This time was special though... in 48 hours my mother was going to be here. Such a visit elicits a very special cleaning regiment that I have dubbed ‘Calvinist Clean’. You see, I have a weird tick about my mother being in my personal space. I assume that she is going to judge me. I bank on the fact that it will never be tidy enough, never be decorated properly, never live up to her expectations. The truth is, as she has told me time and time again, this is all a figment of my imagination. None the less, I go into a cleaning frenzy so intense that I have been known to pull a cleaning all-nighter on the eve of her visits. I am a reasonably tidy person to begin with but there is just something about my mother visiting that makes me go OCD in a heartbeat and a half. So, in preparation of her arrival to Bangkok, I was bound and determined to make my apartment sparkle. 

      I was standing tip-toe on a wooden shelf in my closet, dusting the top of my bureau (I envisioned my mother in white gloves checking this usually unseen area for dust bits) when I slipped. Unfortunately, my ever-present grace made this slip particularly nasty. Somehow I managed to cut the fleshy pad of my left big-toe on the blunt wooden corner.... a feat I am still trying to understand the physics of. I yelp, gasped, did the absurd ‘I hurt myself’ dance and bounded into the shower to assess the damage. I knew I was cut, I just didn’t know how severely. 

      Before I go any further I should also explain that I have a complicated relationship with my own blood, it serves as a symbolic extension of my own mortality. I can’t handle it. Place me in front of an accident victim or bedside in an operating room... no problemo. Give me a paper cut and I get queasy. It is uncontrollable and it seems to be getting worse as I age.  

      So, there I was, standing in the pouring shower fully clothed, assessing the cut’s severity by watching burgundy tinted water pour out of the wound. *Bam* Next thing I knew I was on the floor having, presumably, fainted and fallen face first to the tile. Fabulous. I realized how panicked I was but there was nothing I could do to stop it. I found it hilarious I was being so ridiculous but, at the same time, I was irrationally terrified my foot would never stop bleeding and I would leave my apartment in a body bag (where there is panic irrationality runs rampant, no?). I began to laugh breathlessly and sob all at once. It was 3:15 in the afternoon, 3:15 in the morning in the States. All my Mercer friends were at work and, frankly, I’d made enough of a fool out of myself in normal day-day life... they didn’t need to see me like this. If I called my folks they too would think I was dying. So, I decided to call upon the most comforting and rational person I know... Jimmy. 

      I wheezed as I dialed his cell phone via Skype. This was getting out of hand. I could barely talk. A sleepy voice answered and all I could do was wail. Immediately he went into EagleScout mode. Asking all the right questions, reminding me to breathe, assessing the damage from 10,000 miles away. Almost instantaneously I began to calm down. After a long conversation punctuated by a few more good cries he convinced me that I needed to head to the hospital. His reasoning was spot-on: I didn’t have anything to clean the wound with, I clearly could not be trusted with doing it myself, and I probably needed a shot of antibiotics to stave off infection. I cushioned my toe in a comically huge bundle of a torn t-shirt and limped to a taxi. 

      I am fortunate that I live within sight of the oldest private, non religiously affiliated hospital in Bangkok, Vichaiyut. After a 5 minute drive, I was greeted at the taxi bay by a doorman who opened the taxi door for me, looked at my puffy eyes and silly toe, and offered his shoulder to help me to the reception desk. I tried to explain my situation in Thai, an effort that quickly resorted to pantomine and ended by me accepting language defeat and asking for a translator. I was directed to the ‘Emergency Wing’. If the overly-helpful doorman seemed cushy, this so called ER was beyond luxurious. Three nurses saw me coming. One directed me to a couch, the other grabbed a bowl of cool jasmine water to wash my hands and face, and the one with the best English began speaking to me prefacing everything with ‘Madame’. I explained my wound, my insurance situation, my non-regular patient status, and my Visa status. She said I would need to do some paperwork... I waited for the stack of never-ended medical exam sheets. Instead, I got a half-sheet of paper that asked for my name, my allergies, my current medications, and my ailment. 

     After the 2 seconds it took to fill this out, I was weighed and my temperature read. I then got something so rare in the US healthcare system I am not sure it exists... ‘I’m sorry Madame, our Emergency doctor is with an accident trauma victim, it might be a 10 minute wait. Usually we have two doctors but today we are short staffed’ I must have looked at her like she was crazy... I had a cut toe and she was apologizing to me (apologizing!) for a shorter wait than I would get it I had an appointment in the States. ‘Mai pen rai’ I replied, ‘The accident victim needs the doctor more than me.’ Five minutes passed and they brought me into a modern operating room where classical music was playing. They asked me to lay on the table, tucked a thick, fuzzy blanket around me, and tenderly took my fumbled bandage job off my toe. The nurses were empathetic and made me feel like less of a doofus for coming to the ER for what I thought was such a silly injury. The doctor came in, shook my hand, exchanged niceties, and took a look at my foot. He too was appalled at how I managed such a wound under the described circumstances. He apologized when he had to squeeze it to assess the depth. I winced and whimpered. ‘You cut to the bone’, he said, ‘you’re lucky you can feel it. I would have expected nerve damage.’ Greeaaat. Just wonderful. ‘I’ll need to give you some stitches.’ I nearly jumped off the table. 

The room started to spin.

I protested, reminding him that I just wanted it thoroughly cleaned. 

I feebly argued.

I lost. 

      Before I knew it I was squeezing a nurses hand as he administered a healthy shot of numbing meds. After a few firm thwacks of his thumb that I was blissfully unaware of, he set to sewing me up. 7 stitches in total. He complimented my bravery... a joke considering I am such a baby... then talked to me about home-care and stitch removal. All in all, it took about 15 minutes. 

      I left in a wheelchair and was wheeled to the on-site pharmacy where I was given oral antibiotics and heavy-duty tylenol. Then, I went to the payment window. Having a father who has his fair share of health issues, I knew the bill might not be pretty. I took a deep breath, prepared myself for the worst, and reminded myself that not getting stitches would have led to near certain infection. The kind lady on the other side explained that my US government insurance wasn’t accepted but gave me a run down of how to apply for a reimbursement. She asked if I could pay me total that day though I was still unsure of how much it was. I said I could as long as I could use a credit card. She handed me the bill: 2800 baht, approximately $94 USD. I asked her if it was complete. She walked me through the doctors fee, the cost of the stitch kit, the cost of my meds, the hospital fee and the taxes.     

      Sure enough... I was floored. It was 30 minutes after I had entered the place. I was given world-class care in a comfortable and nurturing environment. An MD stitched me up and dedicated a full 15 minutes of his time to me. I got all my prescribed medication instantly and on site. They were only charging me $94??!! I handed her cash, for which I got another 5% discount.  Another apology spewed forth... this time about my visit being expensive. She seemed embarrassed she couldn’t take my Fulbright insurance and explained that Vichaiyut was one of the pricier hospitals in Bangkok. It took me great restraint to keep a straight face. 

      If only she knew what such a foray would cost in the States. I visited an emergency room (my first time ever) in November of 2009 and the bill was $800. I was given fluids and a chest x-ray. I saw a doctor for 60 seconds who expertly determined I wasn’t going to die. This cost did not include the ambulance ride which rang in, before insurance, at a whooping $2000 because they had to administer ‘life-saving-care’... better known as hooking me up to an EKG. Such cost seems unfathomable after my experience here.

      To add insult to the injury, as I was being wheeled out to the taxi bay the lady whom I had just settled my bill with came running after me waving a 100 baht note. I didn’t remember needing change and was a bit confused. She breathlessly explained that the hospital fee included roundtrip taxi fare if you didn’t require an ambulance. Really, Thailand? You put the American healthcare system to shame.

      And, for your viewing pleasure, a few action shots from my Calvinist Cleaning injury:

   The first two images were taken via Blackberry while I was on the sewing table... the last in my apartment, after my return home. Did injury stop me from my agenda? Heck no! That very night I went out for HappyHour with friends, visited the flower market and had a lovely, limping time. I tolerated the stitches for a week before removing them myself... no time for return hospital visits when my folks were around. We were on a Type-A schedule!!!! Hear more about that in the next post!

The Constant Adventure of Bangkok Public Transportation

      I’ve been driving since I was 12 or so.  How, might you ask, did I start so young? As an only child of protective/terrified parents they did what made the most sense... they gave me ample practice time behind the wheel before releasing me into the world of driving permits and unsupervised vehicle operation. My mother would allow me to drive her on errand runs, weekly jaunts into N.Ga, and wherever else she thought would offer me good driving practice. At the time I thought it was SO RAD and, in retrospect, it was an extraordinarily wise way for her to be there for the inevitable new driver screw-ups. I credit her with a (nearly) flawless driving record and my confidence behind the wheel. Living rurally throughout high school drive times were long, roads were treacherous, and too many of my classmates live’s were abbreviated because they made newbie errors on unforgiving roads. Mom clearly knew best.
      All this being said, I’ve spent the last 7ish year relying solely on myself for transport. I’ve always preferred to be ‘the driver’ with my group of friends and I genuinely enjoy driving. I’ve embarked on road-trips for no reason and, if particularly upset/bored/stressed, will often jump in the car for a spin around the neighborhood with the windows down and music blaring. 
      I haven’t driven for 6 months and it is dually bizarre and empowering. I’ve relied on public transportation, taxis, rides from friends and my own two feet to get around. It is a testament to the Thai Public Transport system that I have done all this cheaply, safely, and efficiently. Bangkok traffic is gnarly. 
      I use the SkyTrain to zip across town on evenings and weekends, high above the kilometer long traffic jams on Sukhimvit and Silom. The trains are frequent, every 5 mins or so, and may or may not be packed sardine style.The people-jammed cars are always eerily quiet unless there are a group of American’s on board... in which case their entire, boisterous conversation rings throughout the length of the train. A highlight of the BTS are the omnipresent BTS police, men in skintight uniforms wielding whistles and stern looks for anyone who crosses the yellow line or dives through the closing doors. Each one has their own separate whistling style. Some are whistle-happy, unleashing a shrill tone at every conceivable opportunity. Others reserve their chides for true offenders. One particularly conversational policeman at Sanam Pao has a jovial greeting for each farang who walks off the train. 
      My commute to work is not on the SkyTrain line but I am fortunate that the municipal bus system is convenient and cheap. I hop on a bus (#44 or #67) that may or may not be air-conditioned and, occasionally, has bus pets... namely squirrels or mice that reside in a cage bolted to the gear box and loved-on by the driver. Sound bizarre? It is SO very Bangkok. I love it. I’ve reached a level of fuzzy familiarity with many of the bus attendants and drivers. Because I get off at one of the largest public hospitals (right next to my university) and am usually dressed in professional wear, they assume I am a physician or physician in training. They address me as ‘Doctor’, a title which I have tirelessly tried to lose without much success. The bus never fails to be interesting. Fellow riders can be entertaining, my own actions embarrassingly clumsy, or the sights from the window particularly engaging... it all depends on the day.
      As much as I would like to say I have sworn off motorcycle taxis after the harrowing accident I witnessed, I haven’t. Car taxis are great for cross-city, late-night commutes but nothing beats the back of a motorcycle when I need to get somewhere quickly. When I say traffic here is terrible, I am doing it great favors. Between the hours of 7am-10am and 3:30pm-6:30pm many roads are hopelessly gridlocked. Motorcycle taxi men deftly weave in and out of traffic and can get me places in 5-10 minutes that it would take an hour or more otherwise. They are cheap, thrilling and offer a nice, breezy retreat from pounding the pavement. The taxi men are usually very kind and surprisingly careful. While weaving through traffic via motorcycle would be disastrous Stateside (can you imagine how pissed off Atlanta drivers would be if someone dared to beat them to their exit?), Bangkok drivers are hyper aware of their surroundings and are accustomed to looking for brazen pedestrians and zippy motorcycles. Its just part of the normal traffic scene here. All this praise was a lame attempt to justify my use of them to my mother. Maybe it worked? Doubtful. 
Finding transport and navigating the city is a daily adventure that can be dually exciting and frustrating. I look forward to having my car again but, for now, view my daily commutes and outings as constant adventures. Life is never boring here. 

Thai Massage

     I get a weekly 2 hour Thai massage that costs me $13 including a 30% tip. (Start the hate mail now, I fully appreciate how completely unreal that is.) I’ve been seeing the same lady, Dteeng, since I moved into my apartment. She. Is. Incredible. Each week she shows my body who is boss. She seeks out my knotted muscles and pummels them into submission. She pretzels my body to lengthen my muscles and stretch out every last ligament. She pops my toes, cracks my hands, and gives me a forehead massage so divine I am temporarily without my usual creases (soon to be wrinkles). If someone told me she had divine powers I would believe them. She is that fantastic.
     Thai massage is much different than the Americanized Swedish massage that is standard back home. In fact, there is very little they have in common save for the name. Massage here is a hybrid of guided yoga and deep tissue massage . There is no nudity, instead you change into more modest and easier to manipulate clothing (thai fisherman pants and a scrubs top). There is no moisturizing of the skin. You lay on the floor, on a dense mattress pad, instead of a specialized table. The masseuse uses hands, elbows, feet, knees, and whatever other body parts are convenient to manipulate your body and really dig in. There are times where they might be standing on you or you might have your head in their lap. And, often, the full experience is equal parts painful and pleasurable.
     Thai massage follows a pretty standard sequence of maneuvers. My lady always begins with a brief blood circulation cut-off to my legs by pinching the main blood supply vessels, up near my hips, for a minute or so. She accomplishes this by balancing in the plank position at the ideal point to accomplish a stop in circulation. The whooshing of warm blood back into my tingling, cool limbs offers instant relaxation... sounds odd but it is really neat when done right.  She then works on each leg individually, hitting pressure points and pulling/stretching them across my body. After legs, she moves to hands/arms. The same blood vessel pinching technique is used to begin. She then goes from palms to fingers, to wrists and up to the shoulder on each side. She then asks me to turn onto my side, into a sleeping position. She stretches my glutes and digs into them, often enough to make me winch. Some pretty intense chest and back opening stretches follow and I switch sides for the repeat. I then turn onto my stomach. She has learned that I have a surprisingly solid back and is not shy about really working out any kinks I might have. She then proceeds to do more pressure point work on my calves and the back of my knees and pops/loosens my ankles by pushing my legs, crossed, into the base of my spine. The grand finale comes when she seats herself behind me and asks me to lay in a pillow in her lap. Pressure points on my face and scalp are massaged in sequence. (This part is usually my favorite... a good face massage is pure bliss for me) She balances me out my sitting me in a cross legged position, pulling up my arms to lengthen my spine, then literally rolling backwards... pulling me along with her for the final, satisfying spinal pop.
      I usually try to drink a substantial amount of water after a massage because many Thais claim that the ‘toxins’ that are released during such an endeavor can cause illness. I’m not sure that this has any scientific credence (I remain highly doubtful) but it is a nice way to do a mini detox/flush while I am in the mindset of body care.
      I am a pretty limber person but I can say, hands down, that getting a regular Thai massage has loosened up hamstrings and back muscles that were holding years worth of tension. I’m a stress induced tensor... I grit my teeth, furrow my brow, and knot up my back at the first sign of physical or mental distress. I am now more keen to catch these habits as I am doing them and feel as though my body exists in a state of relaxation more frequently than before I moved here. Maybe its the culture, maybe its the Thai massage. Who knows. For now, I am thanking my lucky stars for the availability of such pampering and trying not to think about the day I return to the land of expensive, soft-handed massages. I’ll take a beating by Dteeng over that any day.

It Never Gets Easier

     I’m the type of person who gets misty eyed watching Folgers commercials. I’ve cried audibly while sitting in a movie theatre. I get teary eyed at the most mundane and simple of things. It’s a little silly but I’ve always tried to spin it as a positive.... At least I am not some cut-throat, jaded, coldhearted person who is desensitized to situations where one should be upset. Right?  I understand that I probably shouldn’t be so moved by a 30second video hawking coffee but I’m okay with shedding a tear when I witness injustice, suffering or heartbreak on the big screen or in the real world. 
     Now, put this in context in Bangkok. On any given day, I walk by people, their faces muddied with street filth, their clothes in tatters, who are begging for change. Sometimes it is a woman swaddling a baby. Sometimes it is an armless person, holding the change cup between their teeth. Sometimes it is a blind person, a speaker/boombox strung around their neck, microphone in hand who is shuffling down a bustling sidewalk singing for tips. On the train it might be a man on a roller cart, pulling himself down the aisle, his legs missing just below his hips. The other night it was man missing all his limbs, about my age, who had one of the most beautiful smiles I have ever seen. I am not exaggerating when I say these people are everywhere. I counted them once on a random morning on my commute to work. 9. 9 people in various states of poverty, disability, and despair. 9 people in my tiny sliver of the city that I tread in 20 minutes to get to work. I can only imagine how many there are in total.
     This whole story is complicated by the half-knowledge that many of these people are being exploited by underground gang that puts them on the street to beg in exchange for a guarantee of meager daily food and a place to sleep that is not a sidewalk. It is well known that many of the woman with babies may not actually be mothers but are just using the child as a pawn to garner more money. Every written word of advice states to avoid giving to these people because, by doing so, you ‘buy in’ to and perpetuate the cycle of their exploitation. It is the biggest catch-22, no-win situation. 
     To say it is heart wrenching would be an injustice. In my first weeks, I had to wear my sunglasses to hide brimming eyes when I passed these people. I would find myself clumsily drying my cheeks several times a day. I made a promise to myself that I would not give them money but, if particularly upset, I would buy a bit of street food for them. I told myself that as time went by it would get easier. 
     It hasn’t and, 6 months in, I realize it won’t. I’ve managed to train myself to look at them less. I’ve found a route to work that involves a different bus stop and an unnecessary street crossing to limit my commute encounters to 2 or 3. But, if I make the mistake of even thinking about their plight for a millisecond, I cry. 
    And, really, I’m happy I do. I hope I never become immune to human suffering. It seems that so many of humanity’s problems would be solved if more people acted with humanity. Now, if only I could turn these tears into a solution... 

My Love Affair with Street Food

      I adore Thai street food. Love it. LOVE it. Eat it every single day and, if I don’t, miss it like crazy. I never get sick of sitting down on a faded plastic stool, often with questionable carry-capacity, scooting up to a metal card table, and chowing down on freshly prepared deliciousness. It will never get old and I can guarantee that it will be something that I mourn losing before I leave. 
  For many Westerners, street food is a bit iffy. Ordering food from a cart displaying is various raw wares and eating such food whilst sitting on the sidewalk is not something that 1st world citizens do with any frequency. Questions of sanitation are probably to first to pop up. Then there is the worry about what precisely one is eating. Fair enough. I get the initial apprehension. But, if you are going to come to Thailand (or any of Southeast Asia, India, Central/South America, or China....all places where street food is king) it is a tourist crime not to indulge in street food on multiple occasions. Get over the sanitation bit. I would rather see the person (and the hand) that is cooking my dinner than have them cloaked behind a kitchen door.  No, the food cart might not make an ‘A’ on a US health department scorecard but I doubt my kitchen in the States would do much better. Furthermore, Thais eat street food everyday themselves. If there were some hidden sanitation crisis I guarantee that street carts wouldn’t be frequented by families day after day. Not every country bathes in hand sanitizer. You’ll live. Promise. 
  The really delightful thing about street food is its variance. You won’t see a measuring cup or spoon-set. Instead, you’ll watch a street-chef prepare a meal from scratch, in minutes, from memory. Amazing in and of itself. Recipes vary by vendor, by street, by province, by region. For instance, in Bangkok, the som-tom makers understand my tender (by thai-standards) palate with regard to spice quotient... They understand my ‘pheed nit noy na ka’ to mean 1-2 chiles at maximum. But outside of Bangkok? In the heart of Issaan ‘pheed nit noy na ka’ seems to translate to: ‘I’d like to feel my tongue again, if it takes a day or two thats okay, just so long as it is not permanently in fire’. Not that I am complaining... I think that eating locally, on the street, in the proverbial gastronomic trenches is that quickest and easiest way to immerse myself in the particularities of a place. Where else can I get a literal taste of local culture while people watching, finding out the local gossip, and breathing in the sights/sounds/smells of an area? All this and the knowledge that I am supporting local people and eating (mostly) local agricultural products... Never have I ever been so satisfied with a meal on so many levels.

New Years and My Resolutions

I recognize that this is a full month late. I've been busy with with and a whirlwind visit from my folks. Just now starting to post backlogged posts. Bear with me na ka.

      I celebrated the arrival of 2011 with a couple hundred thousand of Bangkok’s finest folks in the CentralWorld plaza. Lucky for me, my Mercer colleagues had the forethought and patience to reserve a table for our group at a beer garden so that we didn’t have to play crowd sardines as 2010 rolled away. To say that our table wasn’t crowded would be generous but we had seats, easy-access to beer, and a bit more space than those standing in the crowds. It was well worth it. We grooved (er, winced) to the tunes of a Thai rock band whose power ballads were an interesting departure from my folksy preferences. Let’s just say I won’t be first (or last) in line if they go on tour. 
       All that aside, the company was stellar and, really, what more could you ask for in NYE? Even with the power ballads and cramped seating all I could do was smile. I sipped my beer, reveled at the masses, and made a grand fool of myself as we counted down to 2011... hooting, hollering, and white-girl dancing galore. Just as the clock struck midnight, all craziness broke loose. First it was a mist. Then it was a downpour. Before we knew it the entire area was engaged in a full-blown Chang beer fight. I’d like to think that everyone got as soaked as we were but, to be fair, I do believe our group, as the only farang in sight, were targeted by festive/care-free thais. I didn’t mind from the start, but there were a few in our group who got understandably peeved to be doused with beer. I chalked it up to a necessary and utterly-memorable way to ring in my first Bangkok new years and flung water and beer right back at them. I’m sure I was a sight to behold, especially when I continued, damp with beer, onto our favorite dancing haunt. The next morning I woke up, counted my lucky stars for fabulous friends and guardian angels, and nursed my first (and hopefully last) Chang-over of my time here. Whew, what a night.


Its taken me a few days of introspection but I have come up with a few resolutions/goals for 2011:
1. Be gentle with myself. A line from Desidrata, also known as my mantra, and good advice on physical, emotional, bodily, spiritual, professional, and personal levels. Noted and striving for.
2. Meditate everyday... even if I can only squeeze in 10 minutes. I feel better, think better, and am happier if I do.
3. Chew my food more thoroughly. Eating with Thais has made me realize that I am a virtual food vacuum. I can inhale a plate of food in the time it takes them to chew their first two bites. Not healthy, not smart, and probably a good habit to break. 


Here's to a joyous, adventure filled year overflowing with love, love, love.