Alice and Clarissa Travel Blog

Thai people stumble over Clarissa’s name. The clur sound doesn’t exist in thai language and I watch as tongues twist and turn between deep red almost purple lips. So she just introduces herself as Lisa now. Two syllables nice and simple but totally not her. Having everyone around us call her by a different name makes me feel like I’m the only one in the world who truly knows her. And in a way, I think that’s true. We have spent the last year telling each other our life stories, drawing family trees, trading first kiss tales, comparing battle scars, and breaking down the painful habits of our mind to see them with objectivity and forgiveness. Now I am sure we could crush any couple at the newly weds game. Clarissa and I mask our codependency by calling it true-best-friend-love, but we are learning that real love is putting your own oxygen mask on before your child’s, or in our case, your best friend’s. On Saturday, Clarissa started her five day silent retreat alone at a forest temple in Chiang Mai. For the past five days she has lived the life a silent monk, waking at up 4am, not eating past noon, meditating for many hours a day, living without external distractions like books or music. I am astounded by her bravery and curiosity. Meanwhile, I am staying with my friend Ba Bua who actually used to live in northampton and whose late husband is buried at the Bryant cemetery in Cummington. I was the flower girl at Bua’s wedding and she took care of me during the summer, taking me to swim in the Connecticut and to hear evening shows at Tanglewood.

I must confess how uncomfortable I feel writing these blog posts. I find myself questioning whether my experiences and reflections are worth sharing and often times cannot find the words to describe what I am seeing or feeling. But Clarissa reminds me that this blog is really only for each other and our mothers. The two least judgmental forces in the world. And so, I will do what is most comfortable and write to my dear good friend, my second half, my swimming partner.

Dear Lisa,

I have so many mosquito bites-did you take the first aide kit with you because I can’t find it in your backpack. Got a package from my dad today, one of two. It was filled with chocolate eggs and marshmallow peeps and so many individually wrapped hand wipes. Absurd I know but it means he loves me and I felt that. I wish you could see the perfectly round bright red sun rising above the rice fields in the morning and setting behind the great big blue mountains in the evening. The sun is so different from the ones we painted on our foreheads that weekend I secretly drove to Stratton to see you. I know if you were here you could right now you could write something poetic about how the air pollution allows us to look straight at the sun but obstructs our view of the mountains. Everyday I look into the horizon and wonder what’s really there. I wonder what you are thinking, if you have dug yourself into a dark emotional hole or are enjoying the views from the cliffs of self love, I bet it’s both. My days without you are pretty simple. I rise at 5:30 and pray and meditate with Ba Bua, then I water the plants and maybe go for a run. Then we work in the garden for a few hours, Bua wears her funny tin foil hat and the dogs run in circles around us. Then I pack a lunch and head out on the bicycle. You were right, that bike is the best thing in the world. Beautiful and blue with a basket and a bell. Sometimes when I pass temples that have wind chimes or gongs playing-I ring the bell to try to harmonize, it never does. Since all of the roads are flat I feel like I could literally go on forever. I turn down every road I can, sometimes getting completely lost down long dirt paths in the woods. I’ve gotten to know the other cyclists too, the older couple who bicker while biking, the man across the street with one single tooth who is always yelling things at me I cannot hear, and the middle aged America man in his faded blue sweatpants and baseball cap, I never feel the need to say more then just hello. And that my dear is the best part of these bike rides, saying hello to the neighbors. Looking into the eyes of the young girl sitting on the ceramics steps with the hose down her shirt. Waving to the farmers as I sit to sketch the birds in one of many poorly built shacks in the middle of the rice fields. No one ever seems to mind my trespassing. Yesterday I biked all around Maejo University, trying to ease drop on conversations between teenagers and wandering around the green houses full of orchids. Strangely enough, their mascot is the cowboys and their motto is “hard work never kills anyone” I’m starting to think you should scrap the St. Lawrence thing and we should go to a big college somewhere where the sun shines all year round. When it starts to get dark I head back towards the Mae Rin village and try to spot the young teenage boy with a pimpled face and orange robe walking along the road hitting a gong. Ba Bua told me he walks down the street ringing a gong to let the residence know monks will be coming in the morning seeking alms food. They have such an organized system in this town: Every few days they release water from the dam which fills the canal and waters all the fields. On Wednesdays everyone puts their trash bags at the same non-distinct locations on the side of the road for the truck to pick up. Women with their baskets and scissors come here to forage for bamboo shoots and sour red fruits, then we go to their yards for the bitter green leaves and seed pods. Everything about this place is straight out of a Miyazaki movie.

At meditation Ba Bua lights three incense and two small yellow candles. We meditate until the candles burn out which takes about an hour. She will go through four yellow candles everyday for who knows how many years. A thought that terrifies my young and restless mind.

I didn’t get to bike today because it rained. That’s right, it actually rained! So instead I made ginger cookies from fresh ginger I pulled from the ground and listened to three episodes of the Ted radio hour, all of which I’ve already forgotten the contents of. That’s just how it goes. Did it rain where you are today? I bet rain sounds different in a bamboo forest. I miss you terribly but am also grateful for this time alone. I bought us some soy chocolate milk to celebrate your return to the real world and still only sleep on the right side of the bed. And that’s all for now.

Love you as much as the sky,

Your little peanut farmer.

Limericks for Kaethe:

• Kaethe, here are a few limericks for you
• Somethings are old and some things are new
• My limericks are never funny
• I’m writing them quick like a bunny
• But that doesn’t mean my love isn’t true

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• Yai sits to watch TV with her sunglasses on
• She can clean for so long it’s quite the phenomenon
• She eats salty fish
• Carefully cleans every dish
• She has enough expired beauty products to open a salon

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• We made the nuns an apple pear crumble
• I think Clarissa is tired of the way I mumble
• My Thai has improved
• So have my sick dance moves
• We danced hard at a crazy party in the jungle!

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• My favorite activity is to go to the school
• We make having fun the golden rule
• They smile and laugh
• As a act out a giraffe
• They teach me the wonders of looking like a fool

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• Turns out Buddhism is what my life needed
• Though there are still things that get me quite heated
• Like the absence of universal healthcare
• And the rat that ate our underwear
• When it comes to finding happiness within, I’ve somewhat succeeded

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• The minute we both rise we recount our dreams
• A life without Clarissa Is a house without beams
• I am watching her grow
• Like rising bread dough
• When together, we’re just a couple of sardines

I miss you Kaethe!

Yours,

Little Alice

The forest only continues to burn in rings of flames, consumed by butterflies of smokey wings, with bodies holding both light and death. What heavy creatures can move so fast with the wind and be released into the sky upon wish? The purr and cracking of bones cry out and echo against the walls of the valley. The small men of fire lick the bodies of the trees with their charring tongue and leave heat bruises for only the rain to heal.

I am so grateful for the body I walk in on this world, for the feeling of wind and the feeling of ground. I am grateful for the heavy blue mountains that rise in varying shades of a black eye on pale skin at night and rest in humble hunches during the day. Their colors muted by the smoke at dusk. They are a family. To each their own story and together a history told only to the birds that fly between their beings. Known only to the stars as they illuminate their faces in their vibrancy. I stand before them in honor, looking up to them and their wisdom, greater than any human known to me, than any creature as old as water. The blond hair on my body takes sense of them and bristles, the house of my being trembles under their gaze. The stilts that support me are at service to them, if only they knew. The sun has already set and the light draining slowly, blues that melt like warm honey into oranges and then a milky red that stands contrast to the deep ocean of air resting on their backs. Spines mimicked by dry trees of splintering decades. Each color holds their own, stands their ground and yet surrenders to the limitless horizon. If only they could feel the respect I held for them, my blue eyes longing to join them, to fly free of my skull. And yet they do know, because they have given me this gift of vision by dipping me by my toe into their realm long ago. If only in a dream. If only in a space in my mind unconscious to me, to anyone. The gecko in the bathroom knows and he rolls a blue glass marble to me across the white porcelain tile. I hold still and watch, watch him disappear with a whisper heard only by him. A whisper sent down from the mountains.

This day starts off the same as every other day here. Except that today I drink black tea with curdled coconut milk. “It’s not curdled” I tell Alice sitting across from me, “just separated.” Alice drinks the same tea but in a pink mug and without the pale blanket of milk. Her back arches away from the wooden bench behind her as she brings her mouth down to her cup, letting her arms lie long and rested on the table in the new light of day. The steam wisps up into the air like white hair let loose in clear water. Sometimes I think someone is slowly smoking a cigarette when the sun hits right. But today I imagine it as how my mothers hair will look one day, and how it will match the stream let free in the air when she drinks her coffee in the morning, cream no sugar. On special days or at the farmers market it’s a double shot americano and only when it’s in the heart of summer does se want it iced. On those Saturday’s I go to the coffee shop on the corner after we get out first twenty dollar bill so I can return with change for the day ahead. As we sit the tea leaves expand and swell in the water like kale growing under the sun. I like to watch them as Alice steeps hers long into bitterness and then eats them. But today she fishes them out instead, collecting them like a pile of soggy, raked leaves, onto a small dish. I have the feeling she’ll save them again for tomorrow morning, just as she did in the cabin over the fall and winter. The tea bags built up in the bowl which one of us had spun with our hands, the clay taking shape against our palms. The fired pottery was taken home in a blue tub, cushioned with newspaper, to sit with purpose on the windowsill. The windowsill that stood between the dense wood stove and the winter air worthy of stiffening trees with its kiss. But now the thought of snow feels like the fading imprint of teeth on skin, the pulse of blood mending the frosty bite. Here in the land of dust and fire and black snow.

Today Alice and I played cards and ate soup with fish and noodles and lettuces, with sugar and vinegar and chilies.

Today Alice and I sat on the wooden table outside of Yai’s small apartment and looked down from the third floor onto the courtyard.

The courtyard where motionless plastic sits in the form of exercise machines. Where cement benches and tables are filled with teenage boys and families.

Tables covered with food in white containers and plastic bags.

There is broken music playing loudly as the sky escapes behind a purple curtain. The sun looks differently in the city than it does anywhere else.

A fain breeze can be felt, tickling the hanging laundry that covered the walls in bright colors.

The red at the end of a cigarette, in the ink of my pen, on my bug bites and burnt lips.

The blue in the air, on the surface of the water in my thoughts, in the reflection of my eyes in the dusty mirror.

The world is chaos and we seek out the calm.

<3, Clarissa

About to board a train to Chiang Mai to visit Alice’s dear friend Bua. Talk of corona virus is constant but as of now we’re continuing our plan to travel to Vietnam until mid April.

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This week Alice and I are living with three Buddhist nuns in Ban Rai, a small farming community on the outskirts of Erawan National Park. Here, we have a small house to ourselves and are surrounded by leafless trees and farmers burning their fields to ash. We wake up at 4:30am to the sound of a bell and roll out from underneath our mosquito nets to a world untouched by the heat of the sun. Mindfulness and loving-kindness have been big influences on our lives over recent days. We will be here for two weeks and then travel on north.

Maybe I should unstick my head from the magical lands of Rivendell and the Shire and peruse my own adventures here in real light. When the sky is still a hazy purple glow over the red clay earth and out there, on a road somewhere, a friends foot is hitting ground. I close my eyes and think this in the kindest way, because that is what the walls praise me for, the three doors that stand before me, either end open and the middle bound closed with coals of faded-silver wire. It is in this land that we rise early to the howl of dogs and rest (easy or not) under the hum of loose-winged bugs. Perhaps elves are not only faired skinned like moonlight as the pages under my thumbs do claim. I am certain they tred under light foot and on nimble bones but perhaps they posses a darker shade of glowing skin and eyes cunning and brown. Perhaps the palms of their hands and the soles of their feet stand lighter in tone, melting stones as they go. Perhaps I see them with my own two eyes, yet instead of arrows and bows they work with machetes and hoes, out in the scorching sugar cane fields. Their true identities hidden to me under mask and hood and arching limb. And say that the hobbits of Hobbiton are no more foreign to me than are the dogs that doze and play all day. That turn in the dirt, hairy and spoiled, under the wandering afternoon sun. And the wizards, oh the wizards we have some, their aging skin dressed in robes with golden bowls. The monks and nuns that chant and follow in suit the words and wisdoms of the noble one. The great truths they bow to and acquire guidance from within, subtle sorcery I deem true. Black Riders seem to take the swooping form of fruit bats as I listen to them swallow up the blood of the shadow insects. And passing by small houses laid into monstrous stones I catch myself wondering if dwarfs dwelt here once long ago. So let the magic in I say and the unknowns run free. As the day submits into night the smoke of distant lands blends into the underbelly of the sky, disappearing above the thirsty mountain backs. Dusty air crunches between my teeth as I watch the road changing in color with the weather, the weather changing with the seasons, the seasons changing with the world and with the deep mysteries it carries under cloak.

Cotten underwear are hung up on the clothes line, on the clothes line strung between two beams on our front porch, a bridge for the red ants with fat abdomens to cross over and an unstable perch for the pigeons that resides under the tall tin roof over our heads. We sleep here, yes, and quite a good time it has been. The neighbor rat sometimes walks the tight rope over our matching porcelain toilet and sink. The geckos creep silently, friends of friends, up walls towards harsh, sheering lights. And the leaping spiders, I dare say, have nearly laid me in my grave. So this house, fancy it as we do, could not suit a pair better than us two. One calm and one fearful but together a team. A duo, a match, an marvelous dream. One moon and one sun in the heart of a home, what more could the world want than for our shine to be shone?

Take a breath, Clarissa

The nuns make us carry a stick every time we go for a run. The house next door has dogs that bite. Though, I could never actually imagine hitting a dog with a stick, Clarissa tells me it’s more on an intimidation game. So I try to look tough, turning the sugar cane stock in my hand like it’s a baseball bat and I’m about to break a windshield. But the dogs only ever bark and stare with angry eyes. After a hundred meters I leave the stick and start running, clouds of red dust form as my feet hit the dry dirt road. Sometimes I see Clarissa’s foot prints, which are the same as mine since we only have one pair of sneakers and must run at different times. To my left are fields of young tapioca plants and to my right acres and acres of sugar cane. On both sides, beyond the fields are rolling brown mountains, dry, lifeless, destitute of any shades of green. I long for rain. It poured once while we were on the island of Koh Phangan. I was sitting on the back of a motorbike, looking over Clarissa’s shoulder as she drove through curtains of water. Up and down crazy steep hills, hooting our joyous calls of triumph.

So much of this trip has been the people we have met: the hip-hop dancer from Austria, the baby wrapped in a sandy blanket on the beach, the frat boys on the boat who lost their passports and followed us to our hostel, George the truck driver from England who believes permaculture will save the world, the boy with the PornHub T-shirt on the bus, Esther the soon to be yoga guru with admirable ambition and self awareness, and many, many more. But one of my favorites was the taxi boat driver who confided in me about his deep loneliness. He told me that he wanted to move to America, just like my mother, maybe open a restaurant, but he could never get enough money for a plane ticket. He never got the paperwork together for a passport, never found the right woman to go with him and start a family. But he likes his job now, better then working at the hotel, he tells me. No boss. He says foreign people will pay a lot for a taxi boat ride from one beach to another but that it’s really hard to make money these days. He has his own home, a TV to watch the news in the morning, but no one to talk to in the evenings. The creases around his eyes intensify as he whispers that he just wishes he had a companion of similar age to spend time with. He senses my reciprocated sadness and quickly lightens the mood by telling me that he goes out on his boat at the night to look at the stars and the moon and drinks a single beer. As happy as can be. We talk for a while longer about my own dreams and aspirations, I struggle to find the words in Thai. It’s so fascinating what someone is willing to tell a complete stranger who is willing to listen.

And now, at the monastery, I am surrounded by three other strong characters that fill me with admiration. Luang May, the eldest nun who speaks very good English and asks me a lot about my mother. Luang Pi Mae who is laughing constantly, showing her few remaining teeth and is always looking for the cat. Then there is Luang Pi Kae who offered to cut my hair today. I sat on the pristine wooden deck overlooking the light green water of the pond as Luang Pi kae delicately took a sharpe blade to my long dry locks. She told me about her two sons, and her life as a hair dresser before she became a nun. She speaks to me more so than the other volunteers because of her limited English. She releases long spiels about the power of meditation and how to move through the world with awareness instead of worry and I understand very little of it, but I just nod along and take what I can. My hair to now back to the length it was almost a year ago and though I look that same as I did then, I feel completely different. Short hair makes me feel vulnerable in the healthiest of ways, forces me to redefine beauty and femininity, short hair is who I am. One of the best hair cuts I’ve ever had. Second to the ones Clarissa gives me by the river, but cathartic nonetheless.

In the mornings, we meditate from 5-5:45 and then drive this funny old van to the market to collect alms food. So much food. I fill bag after bag with curries, stir-frys, fish, fruit, coconut desserts. Now I understand the true benefit of giving. I walk behind the three barefoot nuns in the dark, their bright orange contrasting well with my purples and grays. The full moon is beautiful I stumble left and right unable to take my eyes off it. In the afternoons we work in the garden, clean the house, teach the kids at the local school, and read profusely. I cannot even begin to talk about the emotional benefits I’ve attained while being here. Then we meditate again in the evening and I rest well.

Today, it did rain. But not water. It rained ashes from the farmers burning the fields. I watched with concentration as Luang Pi Kae cleaned the steps of the temple with the hose, the water black as night trickling down the pure white steps. Good and bad exist together always.

With gratitude,

Alice/Nong Sai

This past week Alice and I have been traveling on many sleeper cars and boats down to the south of Thailand and around the islands. We’ve been to a farm surrounded by white pillars of rubber trees and heavy, brick soil. We’ve been to the calm ocean and the dirty ocean and the restless ocean. We are figuring out this journey piece by piece, grateful for each step.

So many sleeping vessels. Like a canoe gliding aimlessly, silently, down a frost rimmed river. Or a humming train, smooth skinned as a spring snake freshly hatched. So many patient hands. Resting on abdomens slowly consuming and expelling air. Touching dry lips and eyelids as we stand in the easing river. So many to remember on this voyage.

Sometimes watching the golden yolk of the sun rise above the mountainous clouds across the ocean in blistering glory is enough. Sometimes to be moving at the speed of a crawl on a boat with a sleeping friend by your side to an island you will travel to only once in your life is enough. Sometimes smelling cigarettes reminds us that not only is this beautiful world slowly dying but so are we. Man standing sole culprit of both crimes.

If I was to swim to an island and build a house on stilts as my home you would be there right along with me. I can almost smell the drying fish with their exposed ribs open to the sun and sky. Their skin hardening out of water and in the salt air. If the nose of a baby touches my lips I know it would be yours and from afar I would be a second mother to the child. I would will the ocean into a lullaby with the moon as the night light. Both the hum and glow a constant comfort, a second heart beat of guidance.

contently, Clarissa

When we left for Thailand one week ago, my body and backpack boarded that plane, but my mind and spirit were left in the cabin, putting a pot on the stove for tea and hanging up my socks to dry. Stuck in the habitual patterns of everyday. In Wendell Berry’s essay, “Entrance to the Woods” he writes about how when he travels long distances at high speeds there is often a lag between when his body arrives at his destination and when his mind comes to join him, “the faster one goes, the more strain there is on the senses, the more they fail to take in, the more confusion they must tolerate or gloss over-and the longer it takes to bring the mind to a stop in the presence of anything”. Clarissa and I have been in so many planes, cars, buses, and trains that so much of Thailand is just a blur I catch through the window. A few days ago I sat in the back of a crowed pick up truck clutching two watermelons and my white mesh farmers hat as we zoomed through Khao Sok National park. Huge white limestone cliffs covered in lush greenery loomed over us like gods in the sky and I couldn’t catch my breath. I wanted more than anything to jump out and walk, to move at a pace slow enough to see the faces of the Thai people lounging in the shade in front of their homes and hear the calls of tropical birds. But I can’t see everything, just like I can’t write everything in this blog entry. So here are the highlights:

On Saturday, I stood at the head of a small island in the Sok River, like standing at the bow of a ship, watching the greenish brown water part at my feet. I stood tall, powerful, like a “Warrior who brings light” something a new friend recently called me. I was alone, keeping my eyes on the bright red, blue, and yellow dragonflies that fluttered around me. My impulse was to identify them, to assign them a name in English letters. But would I really enjoy them anymore knowing their scientific name? Or did I just want to feel a sense of ownership over the wild unfamiliar natural world. I sat down in the water and noticed that right where my right foot had been there was a small glass marble with a blue swirl inside, covered in brown river scum. It was then that I took a few deep breaths and felt that I had finally arrived in Thailand. Felt my mind rejoin my body and my racing thoughts slow to the gentle pace of the river water. I should have known that siting by a river would sooth my anxieties.

We have found two more marbles at two very lucky and memorable points of this trip. Each finding multiple days and many many miles apart. Maybe there are some bigger forces at work here…

Our week started at my Grandmothers second home in Din Daeng, the place she won’t let go of, my mother’s childhood home. A one room apartment with thick cement walls and floors. There is a balcony with a hot plate and a drain the corner to collect the water the pours from the disconnected pipe below the sink. A small door in the wall with a latch where you throw your trash down a shoot that goes who knows where. But even when the trash door is closed, the smell of trash and suage wafts through the screen door from the street three stories below. Clarissa and I sat on the small table in the hall, watching the kids play in the court yard below and the rats scurry from one hiding place to the next. In the heart of Bangkoks most impoverished parts, Clarissa and I stuck out like sore toes. Every time I watched Yai unlock the three separate locks on the front door and walk into this small apartment plastered with pictures of the king, myself, and baby Melissa, I thought of my mother and how she might have felt at seventeen.

Last Tuesday, we took a sleeper train from Bangkok to Surat Thani to work on an organic farm we found on Workaway. The farm is run by an Italian man who has lived in Thailand for fifteen years but barely speaks any Thai. Probably because the only Thai person who lives on the farm is the woman who does all the cooking and cleaning. I tried to speak with her everyday. Clarissa and I also happened to be the only Americans. It was really nice to work and share meals with people from all over the world. Also, there were two other sets of girls our age doing the exact same thing we were. Reminding me that gap years are almost part of the college curriculum these days. I felt a particular attachment to a wonderful family from France who were planning to start their own permaculture farm in Basque Country. I was kicking myself for not paying more attention in my 9th grade French class. But amazed by the types of communication that do not require words. The farm is in a valley between big mountains and they put me in charge of feeding the chickens!

At one point I was making a new garden bed, digging a coffin sized whole in the ground, surrounded by three shirtless men twice my age commenting on how they didn’t know a seventeen year old girl could work so hard. Of course, that made me only dig harder and wish to burry then all alive. But eventually, I remembered that this trip was not about proving myself, handed over the shovel and collapsed in exhaustion. Being on the farm reminded me of how much I appreciate community but also made me feel slightly uncomfortable in a lot of ways I can’t quite explain. So Clarissa and I left to do some island hopping and sleeping in hostels.

Last night we tried to party by the pool and this morning I borrowed someone’s goggles to see the rainbow fish and sea coral. We’re certainly learning!

I’ll end with an excerpt from my journal:

‘Today, I learned above all, not to stress about who I will become and spend more time learning about who I am now. I do not have to actively construct the story of my life, its happening for me’

Oh, and my toe nail came off! Hit it with a hoe. Heather was so right for making me wear shoes during all those hot days of landscaping.

Thailand is exciting and beautiful and difficult at times. But by far the best part is being here with Clarissa. Everyday she surprises me by being more strong and beautiful than the day before. She can be big or small but regardless is always herself.

Sending love,

Alice

We are writing to you all today perched on a small plastic folding stool decorated with small bears and lemons, purchased from 7-Eleven. Every 7-Eleven in Thailand, as well as all large homes and restaurants, have a pristine tile platform with four spirit houses, several small Buddha statues, flowers, and a photo of the belated king. Fascinating to be in an environment of devout Buddhism.

In the moist morning air of Chaeng Watthana Clarissa sits on the plastic stool by the lush green flowering plants with bright orange and yellow flowers, attempting to mimic the patterns on the leaves in her journal. To her right is the cardboard box that the new toilet my grandmother bought for us came in. On the front side it says “American Standard, comfort clean” then at the very bottom in smaller writing, “Made in Thailand” and between the two I’ve written “Nong Sai loves Grandma” in Thai, copied from google translate. Sai is my Thai name, meaning sand. Here, the only person who calls me Alice is Clarissa. Feels good to go by a different name.

We arrived in Thailand tired and disoriented at 4am, drove 40 minutes to my grandmother’s house in Chaeng Watthana and unloaded the two massive suitcases my mother packed full of gifts, chocolates, shoes, anti-wrinkle cream, hand soap, coach bags, and pistachios. Then we took cold showers and crawled into bed, closing the blinds knowing the sun would be up in a couple hours. I predicted we would be up soon after but alas when I finally rolled over to check the time it was 5pm and we had slept through the whole day. We rushed to put on our clothes and catch the remaining sunlight. We endeavored on our first walk of many, entranced by the birds and plants we had never seen before.

The struggle to adjust continued when we both were up and ready for the day at 4 am the next morning. Clarissa suggests we, “just become morning people.”

So far on this trip, our lives have been quite indulgent. My uncle took us to a condo on the beach in Hua Hin where we sat reading by the pool and drank pineapple smoothies at the night market. Though this pampering makes me uncomfortable I have to realize that sometimes it is okay to let family take care of us. So as we sit on the beach watching the pink sun rise reflect on the turquoise ocean gently rocking the colorful fishing boats and the man with white silk pants ride down the beach on his pure white stallion, I am grateful to my family for allowing us to be here. Grateful to my mother for teaching me the native tongue, and grateful to Clarissa for being someone to laugh with as we float in the warm salty waters of the Gulf of Thailand.

Yesterday we went on a slightly strenuous hike through the mountains and caves of Khoa Sam Rio Yot National Park, waking up our bodies and sweating through all of our clothes. To find out way there, we pulled over to ask directions from the monk with sleeve tattoos smoking a cigarette.

Though we have seen beautiful vistas of white sand beaches and bright orange sunsets, we have also seen people living in intense poverty, dogs on the edge of death by starvation and beaches filled with plastic and styrofoam. A healthy reminder of what it really means to be a human occupying this earth.

“We are so far from Western Mass.” Clarissa reflected as we drove by rice fields scattered with cows and white cranes. Oh how I am so glad to be out of western mass! And as I finish up my section and pass the phone to Clarissa, I realize we are both humming the tune of “Little Boxes” by Melvina Reynolds. I smile, assured that we are not the type to ever get trapped in a little box.

best,

Alice

Day one and the sound of bare feet clicking on the wooden floors, sticky from humidity, has found home in my ears. Everybody moves here, every body is in a state of small, constant motion forward.

There is a deep comfort in knowing that when you lie down to sleep, you will sleep. That you will dream, remembered or not.

The ocean held the water in her hands as well as the sun held the sky in his. As well as the moon held the stars and as well as we hold each other. The sand was the velvet fur of a white tiger, the crumbling shells mimicking snow. The hair-thin, fingertip-sized crab legs scampered up from the tide, seeming to be blown up with the faintest wind. Later on we would watch them from above as they rolled mud balls with them claws, digging out countless holes. The earth moved under their feet and with it came the ocean, like a silk hand against a thousand workers backs. Grateful.

Masks fit faces differently. And if I wanted to give you my underwater goggles I would risk watching your eyes fill up with water as you stared up from beneath the pool at the gecko on the white cement wall, lit up by the light of a bug heavy lamp.

And if I wanted to give you my dentures for a meal I would risk watching the clementine swell and collect in your throat as you attempted to chew but succeeded to swallow.

And if I let you walk around in my shoes for a day I would risk watching your feet blister in an array of bubbling blues while you took stroll after stroll down the cracking street.

I want you to see and feel my heart race all the way up the mountain side, but with you by my side, not as me.

Alice, I want you to know that as a fellow eager mind to take slow and restful and meaningful deep breath. Not every word that leaves the lips of a wise crow sitting on the sagging telephone wire need to be licked clean by the nimble mouth shared by our inner ear and outer brain. I want you to know that as we grow familiar to the lights that surround us we can always adjust and readjust. The gasoline station glare is just as hard for our eyes to dilate to as are the stars as they emerge from the swamp of the sky.

I often see myself on the plate of sticky rice placed on the table. A small, pale body curled up, stuck to itself from the heat and humidity, wishing only to be happily eaten along side the chunks of overly ripe mango.

tenderly, Clarissa

Rose: Ocean, soft sand between toes

Thorn: humidity, everything wrapped in plastic

Bud: gaining more independence, finally being on our own.

My beloved Alice,

It’s the little things in this world that bind us to calmness. The simple act of closing our eyes and trying to sleep. The content stomach after being fed. The small curl of hair that stands tall on the head. The truth that one will never leave them self but also finds comfort in another so dear. The dip of a leaf under heat and rain. The ten toes that prance and rest with the flow of the foot. These are what will follow us Alice, you and I, throughout the world, no matter the ebb and flow. The weightless touch of water and the wrinkles that hug our skin. Our eyes will fall into each others countless times over these next six months and even as we are consumed by the wonders of this large world it will only enhance the details and comforts of our own individual and shared, internal worlds. The balance of our oneness and our independence with rise and fall with the tide of each day. Our gardens flourishing and wilting and growing back stronger everyday. We will discover how every unknown is know and every know unknown. Because the large oceans are made from the mouths of many thousands of ever smaller streams and rivers, easy to grasp. And every trickle of water is an ocean of its own, traveling only to become that of a larger being.

Everyday we build habits that equate to small steps into an ever diverse and unique life. The rivers of our worlds have merged for the moment and as we together choose the path forward it is know that this river may never be so powerful as it is now. I want to be able to accept all that is and build stone by stone. We will create this river of ours with our own two hands, choosing the smooth and the abrasive, the willing and the stubborn, the noisy and the peaceful. There is a balance to everything that we will stumble upon day after day, especially rooted deeply inside ourselves.

I can see the row of your teeth so clearly in my head. The way your gums stand tall as if arches binding mouth to head. Your lips that can be chapped day after day and yet your resilience holds them only to growth.

For now we are side by side. Fingers so tightly intertwined that the numbness is more welcomes than unwanted.

Now let us take a deep breath and hold it while our departure date creeps up around the corner. Let us pack our backpacks and unpack and try to figure out how we can be smart but also accept that we are naive in many ways. Let us watch the blue and golden sky above us while we say goodbye to the snow and welcome the humid land awaiting us on the other side of the world. Let us part from those we love and who love us. But have everyone know and trust that we have each other, and for now, that is enough.

Yours always, Clarissa

With only one week before our departure, it’s hard to believe this trip is going to happen. Almost nine months ago Clarissa and I were walking up a big hill in Sheffield MA, catching up on family and school, reflecting on how far we’ve come from our hilltown childhoods. Upon arriving at the top of the hill we turned around to see a view much bigger than ourselves and decided it was time to take a step into the unknown, to find new struggles elsewhere, and to do it together. Like most teenagers, we longed for a dramatic change of scenery but unlike our peers, we wanted exposure to truths about the world not provided by our institutional educations. I was in the middle of my second semester at Simon’s Rock, tired and frustrated with the isolation I felt on campus but elated by my strengthened sense of curiosity and appreciation for hard work. Clarissa, in her final year at Stratton Mountain School, needed a break between high school and college and having spent ten months in Norway, knew the emotional and intellectual benefits of travel. Though I don’t remember the exact conversation we had atop the mountain, I do remember calling my father later that week and announcing I was going to take a gap year with Clarissa, I never asked for permission but just stated the truth, “Dad, Clarissa and I are going on a trip together.”

We started searching for our travel destinations in a myriad of random places, South America, Scotland, New Zealand. Clarissa wanted to hike in the tropical rainforest and I wanted to herd sheep in the highlands. How we decided on Thailand, Vietnam, Greece, and Spain is still honestly a mystery to me but it feels right in my heart. We get see my family in Thailand, Clarissa’s family in Crete and France and many beautiful places in between. It felt like a good balance between having solid bases with family and friends and exploring new territory on our own. We assign little to no purpose on this trip, there is no goal, no expectations about who we will be or what we will find. We just hope to stay safe, meet some new people, and swim in new rivers and oceans. And maybe just maybe I’ll learn something about myself or my mother or the bonds that keep people together. Just like the view from the top of that mountain, there is no much mystery ahead, so much we see but cannot touch, a vast view we know nothing about. Nervous is an understatement. Clarissa and I have each had stress dreams about packing and planes and missing trains. But we only have one more week of thinking of our trip before we are on a mind-numbingly long plane ride across the world.

We’ve decided to have a blog mostly so that we don’t have to personally update all of the concerned and curious adults in our lives, so that in the future when people ask about our trip we can write down a link and move on. Also, so that we have our own time capsule of adventures to look back on. Clarissa and I will alternate writing weekly. Well, we will try our best to write weekly but no promises, six months is a long time.

Best,
Alice

This summer after a swim in the Westfield.