One time, he dropped a big bag of frozen fish on my head. It wasn’t intentional, I was playing on the floor by the fridge, and he was rummaging around in the freezer for the fish. He caught the stacked wall of frozen packages before it cascaded out of the cold dark space and buried me, but one big pink, icy chunk of walleye landed on my head. I was probably around 5, maybe younger, because my dad and I still hung out all the time at that point. No school yet. The fish scared me, but didn’t really hurt. It just sort of interrupted my play. But it hurt him.
“Oh,sweetheart! Are you ok? I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to fall out and hit you. Oh, are you ok?”
Sweetheart. This must be serious. Rare for dad to express affection like this, I thought, but with the use of “sweetheart,” I knew he was really moved. He kneeled down and tried to scoop me into his arms, but I was ok, no harm done. And then, as he succeeded in wrapping his strong, tanned arms around me, I lost it. Not because of the pain, but because he had called me “sweetheart.”
“BWaaa….” I’m fine… uwwaa…” I sniffled, letting go of the tears that I didn’t even know were there. This, of course, made him feel even worse.
“Oh Marcella, what can I do?”
It’s been a while since I thought about this incident, this minor memory, but I DO think of it every time I’m at home and digging in the same freezer for frozen fish. The stacked walls of fish, corn, hand-shucked peas makes me think of it. The packages still come sliding out of place, still require a steady hand to extract just one, or an extended arm to keep the whole thing in place. I’m no better at getting just one package out than dad had been twenty years ago. And I’m no better at keeping it together when he offers me something or calls me sweetheart. Especially now, miles from home and playing at being a grownup.
I'd found a moderate level of success here in Chicago, working as communications director for an independent media start-up. But it didn't sing in my heart as I had hoped, so I quit the job in October to focus on writing the book that has been three years (ok, a lifetime) in the making. I tell people it’s a medical comi-tragedy because sometimes I feel uncomfortable saying that it’s a book about me. People look at me, like, “oh, what makes your life so interesting that you think I’d want to read it?” I know that’s what they’re thinking, because a couple of them have said it.
Or, ok with talking about the book, I feel bad for whomever is with me that knows I’m writing the book, because if it’s an old friend, he or she has heard the story of my stroke and recovery a zillion times and knows all about the book and isn’t really all that impressed anymore. Ha, in fact, he or she is probably tired of my self-assured narcissism. Yes, I’m serious. I think I’m great and am sure that it gets old for my friends to have to hear me talk about that to others. An only child, I've been hearing how great I am for the past 25 years. It's now ingrained.
But I digress.
So. I quit my job, knew that the savings I’d been stashing away would carry me through the new year, no problem. And they did. And then I went to Thailand. Still no problem, I pulled the money for the flight out of my savings account and planned on getting by cheaply in a country still friendly with the U.S. dollar. Which was still no problem at first. Halfway through the trip, I’d only spent about $350 when my wallet, passport and other items were lost and dad had to wire me money. A lot of money, as it turns out, was required to get a new passport, immigration stamp and two (yes, 2!) rebooked flights to secure my release from Thailand. But I made it home, much to my parents’ delight.
I, on the otherhand, wasn't sure if I was delighted or defeated or even alive, anymore. I was returning to Chicago, but to what? To whom?
“I missed you,” said dad when we talked on the phone for the first time. “That was all very spooky to me, that stuff. I’m just happy you’re home.”
I had thanked him for bailing me out, as he always has, as he always does. And then today on the phone, I updated him on the progress and success of the job hunt that I’ve been doggedly pursuing since my return last week. I called my mom yesterday, cried, got hung up on, so he called me first thing this morning to make sure I was ok. He still misses me, still wants me to come home.
“You could work for Morie,” he says, when we move past the weather and health and fishing. “His receptionist quit. Call him.”
Morie is my dad’s financial planner. I have a life insurance policy with him too. Last time we talked, it was a heated discussion about why I was going to Thailand and needed some money out of that policy.
“You have no idea what it’s like to almost die at 22, Morie. I’m going to Thailand while I’m young, while I’m able to. I’ll let my money sit in your account if you don’t want to help me. Fine.”
“No, dad… I’ll keep looking here.”
We went on to talk the family, his ex-wife’s continued hassles over my recently dead half-brother; dad’s concerns over whether or not he’s been a good father.
“Dad, you’re a great father. You love us all, you help us all. You do what you can. She’s just bitter and angry and there’s no changing the venom inside of her.”
And then we went back to me.
“Marcella, I want to make sure you have something to keep your mind busy. I’m not going to be around too much longer, and when I’m gone, then there will be nothing. So what the hell. I want you to be happy. I know you’re not doing what you thought you’d be doing by now. If you want to go back to school, I’ll help you…I just.. want you to be happy. I don’t care if you work or not. You know I’ll help you as long as I’m around. But I think if you were doing something, you’d at least feel a little more settled.”
And that’s the heart of the matter. Like the fish on my head, like the conversations we had after I got out of the hospital and spent countless days on the couch opposite my dad’s faded, blue recliner: He feels sorry for me, helpless to remedy the undeserved pain that sometimes comes my way. I’m not the hotshot journalist that we all thought I would be by now, because I don’t trust my broken memory. I’m not even working, f’chrissake, because the stupid seizures that came with the stress of my last job are never going to be as easy to walk away from as that job. And he doesn’t care if I’m even working, is willing to do whatever he can to help his baby and make her life ok, but he can’t even figure out that that is. And neither can she.
And that’s what hurts. Not the unemployment (next step in the book process is editing and rewriting but I want to find a job first), not the stroke stuff anymore, not really. What hurts is that dad wants to help, and can’t. Wants me to come home, but I can't. I have to figure out what I want, here. It’s up to me. Yet in feeling his sorrow and effort to help, I feel more sad and pathetic than I did before. Just like the fish that didn’t hurt and the crocodile tears that flavored it.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
It's all pretend, Part I
March 11
It comes served to us under the neon glow of false morning light.
An all-American breakfast: fruit, sausage, eggs, toast. Shrink-wrapped sustenance with a smile. The perfect orange circles of yolk on the perfect round disks of white next to perfectly square sheets of toast- it looks like plastic food, like toy replicas we played with in kindergarten during "meals" or at Friend's houses, playing "house."
"It looks like the shit you see in windows at restaurants," Kyle says, before I can even comment. He's right, except we're not at a restaurant, hungry gawkers staring in, potential members of the dining elite allowed to feast with mouths and stomachs, not just eyes. And we're not playing "house," either, although the booth we fill reminds me of a 50s era kitchenette. It's a breakfast nook leftover from years gone by, as aged as the rest of our surroundings. And there is no play for us now, not really. Even if it feels that way.
We're on the No. 51 Express train heading north from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. Maybe we'll be able to play there.In the meantime, breakfast has been served under shallow lights as we creep along through countryside that is hilled and treed like that of anyplace U.S.A., not palmed and tropical as I'd imagined Thailand to be.
This is the second eggs and sausage breakfast I've had. More all-American than the breakfasts I eat at home. I didn't fly 23 hours to eat eggs and toast everyday. I don't know what I DID come for; not this.
I didn't come for upset stomachs, traveler's diarrhea, no, but that's to be expected, isn't it? Yes. And after my last meal on the streets, yesterday afternoon, I've got both the upset stomach and riled innards that will probably only mean one thing once I make it to the silver hole in the train's floor that serves as the toilet.
I had eaten several types of yummy, mini doughnuts; lots of varieties of pad Thai, tom yum, chicken dishes, fruit and all manner of noodley dishes and soups off the Bangkok streets. I wanted to immerse myself in culture through the cuisine. So I dug right in, better than homefries and comfort food anyday. But I hadn't tried the meat balls on a stick, all colors and shapes and types. And I'd been craving them. So I balled up and got a selection: chicken, pork, beef. I was leery of them each day because I wasn't sure how long they'd been sitting out in the sun at any given street stall, and my better judgement told me to avoid them. Since I generally ignore my better judgement, I decided to skip it and take a chance on the culinary curiosity before leaving the city.
The beef balls were delicious. Spicy and tender and just smokey enough to cover the heat and decay that had already begun to set in when I purchased them. Dipped in a hot chili paste, they were fine.
The pork balls, white and almost spongy, tasted fine, it was just the consistency that gave me pause. Dipped in the same sauce, they proved edible. Reservations would come later.
I knew with one bite that the chicken balls would be my undoing, that the meat had long since gone home to roost. Eating these will make me sick, I thought to myself, soaking them in the cilantro red sauce they came with. It wasn't until I bit into a piece of feather that I gave up on the spheres of white meat; I didn't want to find the beak or bit of scaly leg piece. All behind me now, the meal on the tiny tray in front of me was my present concentration.
Filling and just barely enough to hold me over for another five or so hours, these small home style breakfasts are good enough to eat, but that's it. Just enough. Walking around and hauling a 25 pound (yes, really) pack in this heat is enough to make one want more than three squares a day. But it was all I had, so I ate it, jumped out of the robin's egg blue booth as often as possible and loaded up on the tea to fill my tummy when done. I'll just pretend that I'm full.
Empty now, our car (No. B) is devoid of all human conversation, all life save Kyle and I. When he's in his seat and not out smoking in the space between cars or talking to someone in the sink area, that is. I sometimes wonder if we're just acting here, just going through the motions, just making it all up as we go along, not sure of the right words or actions or staging.
It comes served to us under the neon glow of false morning light.
An all-American breakfast: fruit, sausage, eggs, toast. Shrink-wrapped sustenance with a smile. The perfect orange circles of yolk on the perfect round disks of white next to perfectly square sheets of toast- it looks like plastic food, like toy replicas we played with in kindergarten during "meals" or at Friend's houses, playing "house."
"It looks like the shit you see in windows at restaurants," Kyle says, before I can even comment. He's right, except we're not at a restaurant, hungry gawkers staring in, potential members of the dining elite allowed to feast with mouths and stomachs, not just eyes. And we're not playing "house," either, although the booth we fill reminds me of a 50s era kitchenette. It's a breakfast nook leftover from years gone by, as aged as the rest of our surroundings. And there is no play for us now, not really. Even if it feels that way.
We're on the No. 51 Express train heading north from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. Maybe we'll be able to play there.In the meantime, breakfast has been served under shallow lights as we creep along through countryside that is hilled and treed like that of anyplace U.S.A., not palmed and tropical as I'd imagined Thailand to be.
This is the second eggs and sausage breakfast I've had. More all-American than the breakfasts I eat at home. I didn't fly 23 hours to eat eggs and toast everyday. I don't know what I DID come for; not this.
I didn't come for upset stomachs, traveler's diarrhea, no, but that's to be expected, isn't it? Yes. And after my last meal on the streets, yesterday afternoon, I've got both the upset stomach and riled innards that will probably only mean one thing once I make it to the silver hole in the train's floor that serves as the toilet.
I had eaten several types of yummy, mini doughnuts; lots of varieties of pad Thai, tom yum, chicken dishes, fruit and all manner of noodley dishes and soups off the Bangkok streets. I wanted to immerse myself in culture through the cuisine. So I dug right in, better than homefries and comfort food anyday. But I hadn't tried the meat balls on a stick, all colors and shapes and types. And I'd been craving them. So I balled up and got a selection: chicken, pork, beef. I was leery of them each day because I wasn't sure how long they'd been sitting out in the sun at any given street stall, and my better judgement told me to avoid them. Since I generally ignore my better judgement, I decided to skip it and take a chance on the culinary curiosity before leaving the city.
The beef balls were delicious. Spicy and tender and just smokey enough to cover the heat and decay that had already begun to set in when I purchased them. Dipped in a hot chili paste, they were fine.
The pork balls, white and almost spongy, tasted fine, it was just the consistency that gave me pause. Dipped in the same sauce, they proved edible. Reservations would come later.
I knew with one bite that the chicken balls would be my undoing, that the meat had long since gone home to roost. Eating these will make me sick, I thought to myself, soaking them in the cilantro red sauce they came with. It wasn't until I bit into a piece of feather that I gave up on the spheres of white meat; I didn't want to find the beak or bit of scaly leg piece. All behind me now, the meal on the tiny tray in front of me was my present concentration.
Filling and just barely enough to hold me over for another five or so hours, these small home style breakfasts are good enough to eat, but that's it. Just enough. Walking around and hauling a 25 pound (yes, really) pack in this heat is enough to make one want more than three squares a day. But it was all I had, so I ate it, jumped out of the robin's egg blue booth as often as possible and loaded up on the tea to fill my tummy when done. I'll just pretend that I'm full.
Empty now, our car (No. B) is devoid of all human conversation, all life save Kyle and I. When he's in his seat and not out smoking in the space between cars or talking to someone in the sink area, that is. I sometimes wonder if we're just acting here, just going through the motions, just making it all up as we go along, not sure of the right words or actions or staging.
Monday, April 7, 2008
BAngKok
March 9
They are eager to serve, happy to help, even more eager and happy to take our money. It is a tourist economy that thrives in this city, and we are at the mercy of its workings.
We have been visiting temples, going to the Grand Palace, visiting the Red Light District, relying on public transport. And it is costing us. Not just our baht, which isn't really a big deal, but our sanity.
On the day we visited the Grand Palace, as we pondered the loop of traffic before us and the absence of all crosswalks, lights and attention paid to pedestrians, a nice young Thai man approached us to help.
"You go down there," he said, pointing quite a few blocks away, toward the glowing gold arches of the King's portrait, " and you will find the crosswalk. But it is far. Where are you going?"
He suggested we take the tuk tuk in front of us, telling us that the Grand Palace was closed for the funerary ceremony of the Princess. This was bad. We had read that many times people will tell tourists that temples or other interesting buildings are closed, to get them to go to another place and spend their money there. The "helpful" guy on the street then gets a cut of whatever we spend at the place. The princess (80+ years old) had indeed died right before we got to the country, but would this really be legit?
"The palace is closed until 3. You go on tour, see other temple, then go to palace later," he assured us.
So, he arranged a good fare for us, told the driver where to take us and blessed us on our way.
Now the thing about the tuk tuk drivers is that they are rather notorious for ripping people off, taking them to shops for a bonus from the shop owner, or taking the customers on a wild goose chase to their destination only after stopping to get gas and asking for more money. We were more than leery of this situation, but not seeing any other good option, we hopped in and held on.
Would we really get to see the Festival of monks he promised us at another temple? Would the drive around the city prove to be beneficial in any way? Would we get to the Grand Palace by 3 only to learn that it had been open all this time? Or would the driver's hairpin turns and sideswipe roadshow leave us eating concrete?
After a few quick calls much too close for comfort, we emerged from a glut of big tour buses and made it to the first temple, where a festival was supposed to be underway.
The thin crowd, the loosely bannered stalls.. it looked like a regular weekend market gone bankrupt. But it was one more wat (temple) to check off our list, and I made a couple of friends, in the purring, snuggly kitties that wouldn't leave me alone. Not a complete bust. And the quick movement of the open-air golf cart-like vehicle made the day's oppressive heat somewhat less thick.
Having brought one of Kyle's shirts along with me (all I had backed were skank tops and tube tops- it's Thailand!), we headed to the Grand Palace. The cutoff capris I was wearing got me a pass straight to the inappropriate clothes room, where I had to rent a skirt (100 baht) and make myself decent for the temple. We headed in and immediately got ourselves good and lost among the ceramic tiles and bright colors of the ancient buildings.
Wat Phra Kaew, which is the actual temple within the compound of the former royal residence, was built in 1782 and is Thailand's most important temple. It is the temple of the Emerald Buddha, and yes, that means there is a green stone Buddha resting within the ornate, tiled walls of the compound. Dark and lovely in his golden surroundings, looking at this Buddha gives one the sense of reverence the Thais have for their religion, culture and history. Each temple is very ornate and most of them are as well-kept as this one, but there's something about a Buddha carefully carved out of emerald that is pretty impressive. Maybe it's my own ties to emeralds, which are also revered and important in Colombia's story.
There's all sorts of stuff to look at within this compound, and by the time I made it out of the temple area I wanted to sit and rest. So I did.
And then I got yelled at.
"No sexy! No sexy!!" The small, professional Thai woman was yelling at me and running as quick as her little heeled feet could carry her. All of the women here wear impossible high heels, even if they are wearing jeans and a ratty old Pepsi tee or selling fruit on the street. It's amazing, and entirely uncomfortable looking. This woman was not selling fruit; she was a security guard and she was PISSED that my skirt had the audacity to flip over my thigh in the breeze and expose a slice of brown flesh.
"No sexy! You leave!"
I quickly covered up the indecency and sat back against the marble flower pot.
"See, ok, ok!" I said. She scowled and waved away the male gun-toting security guard.
"Well, did you go into the Palace yet?" asked Kyle as he sauntered over to me.
"Nope, that guy didn't lie to us. The princess is lying in state in there, so we can't go in. The Thais can. Not us though. "
Thailand is not an equal-opportunity employer. Nor recreational playland. While the Thai people were able to enjoy their dead princess (ugh), we were not allowed anywhere near her. And we had to pay to get in (200 bht), while they get in for free. And Thai boxing, transport, all much cheaper for the natives. I'm not necessarily complaining about this, the baht was 30:1, not too shabby. It's just that this most immediate lesson of Thailand's wheelings and dealings and inner workings would be a lesson we learned (or didn't) over and over again.
As we left the white, concrete wall surrounding the compound, I stopped among the growing crush of people and stripped off the t-shirt. If the crowd was going to crush me and black my eyes in its rush to get inside, I at least wanted to be comfortably uncovered for it. This came back to bite me in the ass (of course) as I leaned against another wall, waiting to photograph a neat statue of white elephants.
The white elephant is also a revered symbol here. They are blessed creatures, gifts from Buddha (heaven?) and when a King was lucky enough to have one, he had to create a special environment for it, keep it out of the sun, bar it from working. This is the home of the term "white elephant," meaning something that drains funds and effort in its upkeep. The statue was a cluster of 3 elephants on hing legs balancing some object, and I wanted to wait for the bus between me and it to move, so I could get a good shot. Waiting for a bus to move and actually getting an unobstructed view of something is an effort in futility though. And a good chance for one of the millions of motorcyclists to check you out.
"Mars, that guy is totally checking you out," pointed out Kyle between his chuckles. "Look at him!" I hadn't been ogled too much at this point (the Thais prefer their women to be as white as possible, means less outdoor work), but he didn't seem to care about the color of my skin as he stopped and stared. Gee, how nice.
If only I had stayed in the skirt and tee.
They are eager to serve, happy to help, even more eager and happy to take our money. It is a tourist economy that thrives in this city, and we are at the mercy of its workings.
We have been visiting temples, going to the Grand Palace, visiting the Red Light District, relying on public transport. And it is costing us. Not just our baht, which isn't really a big deal, but our sanity.
On the day we visited the Grand Palace, as we pondered the loop of traffic before us and the absence of all crosswalks, lights and attention paid to pedestrians, a nice young Thai man approached us to help.
"You go down there," he said, pointing quite a few blocks away, toward the glowing gold arches of the King's portrait, " and you will find the crosswalk. But it is far. Where are you going?"
He suggested we take the tuk tuk in front of us, telling us that the Grand Palace was closed for the funerary ceremony of the Princess. This was bad. We had read that many times people will tell tourists that temples or other interesting buildings are closed, to get them to go to another place and spend their money there. The "helpful" guy on the street then gets a cut of whatever we spend at the place. The princess (80+ years old) had indeed died right before we got to the country, but would this really be legit?
"The palace is closed until 3. You go on tour, see other temple, then go to palace later," he assured us.
So, he arranged a good fare for us, told the driver where to take us and blessed us on our way.
Now the thing about the tuk tuk drivers is that they are rather notorious for ripping people off, taking them to shops for a bonus from the shop owner, or taking the customers on a wild goose chase to their destination only after stopping to get gas and asking for more money. We were more than leery of this situation, but not seeing any other good option, we hopped in and held on.
Would we really get to see the Festival of monks he promised us at another temple? Would the drive around the city prove to be beneficial in any way? Would we get to the Grand Palace by 3 only to learn that it had been open all this time? Or would the driver's hairpin turns and sideswipe roadshow leave us eating concrete?
After a few quick calls much too close for comfort, we emerged from a glut of big tour buses and made it to the first temple, where a festival was supposed to be underway.
The thin crowd, the loosely bannered stalls.. it looked like a regular weekend market gone bankrupt. But it was one more wat (temple) to check off our list, and I made a couple of friends, in the purring, snuggly kitties that wouldn't leave me alone. Not a complete bust. And the quick movement of the open-air golf cart-like vehicle made the day's oppressive heat somewhat less thick.
Having brought one of Kyle's shirts along with me (all I had backed were skank tops and tube tops- it's Thailand!), we headed to the Grand Palace. The cutoff capris I was wearing got me a pass straight to the inappropriate clothes room, where I had to rent a skirt (100 baht) and make myself decent for the temple. We headed in and immediately got ourselves good and lost among the ceramic tiles and bright colors of the ancient buildings.
Wat Phra Kaew, which is the actual temple within the compound of the former royal residence, was built in 1782 and is Thailand's most important temple. It is the temple of the Emerald Buddha, and yes, that means there is a green stone Buddha resting within the ornate, tiled walls of the compound. Dark and lovely in his golden surroundings, looking at this Buddha gives one the sense of reverence the Thais have for their religion, culture and history. Each temple is very ornate and most of them are as well-kept as this one, but there's something about a Buddha carefully carved out of emerald that is pretty impressive. Maybe it's my own ties to emeralds, which are also revered and important in Colombia's story.
There's all sorts of stuff to look at within this compound, and by the time I made it out of the temple area I wanted to sit and rest. So I did.
And then I got yelled at.
"No sexy! No sexy!!" The small, professional Thai woman was yelling at me and running as quick as her little heeled feet could carry her. All of the women here wear impossible high heels, even if they are wearing jeans and a ratty old Pepsi tee or selling fruit on the street. It's amazing, and entirely uncomfortable looking. This woman was not selling fruit; she was a security guard and she was PISSED that my skirt had the audacity to flip over my thigh in the breeze and expose a slice of brown flesh.
"No sexy! You leave!"
I quickly covered up the indecency and sat back against the marble flower pot.
"See, ok, ok!" I said. She scowled and waved away the male gun-toting security guard.
"Well, did you go into the Palace yet?" asked Kyle as he sauntered over to me.
"Nope, that guy didn't lie to us. The princess is lying in state in there, so we can't go in. The Thais can. Not us though. "
Thailand is not an equal-opportunity employer. Nor recreational playland. While the Thai people were able to enjoy their dead princess (ugh), we were not allowed anywhere near her. And we had to pay to get in (200 bht), while they get in for free. And Thai boxing, transport, all much cheaper for the natives. I'm not necessarily complaining about this, the baht was 30:1, not too shabby. It's just that this most immediate lesson of Thailand's wheelings and dealings and inner workings would be a lesson we learned (or didn't) over and over again.
As we left the white, concrete wall surrounding the compound, I stopped among the growing crush of people and stripped off the t-shirt. If the crowd was going to crush me and black my eyes in its rush to get inside, I at least wanted to be comfortably uncovered for it. This came back to bite me in the ass (of course) as I leaned against another wall, waiting to photograph a neat statue of white elephants.
The white elephant is also a revered symbol here. They are blessed creatures, gifts from Buddha (heaven?) and when a King was lucky enough to have one, he had to create a special environment for it, keep it out of the sun, bar it from working. This is the home of the term "white elephant," meaning something that drains funds and effort in its upkeep. The statue was a cluster of 3 elephants on hing legs balancing some object, and I wanted to wait for the bus between me and it to move, so I could get a good shot. Waiting for a bus to move and actually getting an unobstructed view of something is an effort in futility though. And a good chance for one of the millions of motorcyclists to check you out.
"Mars, that guy is totally checking you out," pointed out Kyle between his chuckles. "Look at him!" I hadn't been ogled too much at this point (the Thais prefer their women to be as white as possible, means less outdoor work), but he didn't seem to care about the color of my skin as he stopped and stared. Gee, how nice.
If only I had stayed in the skirt and tee.
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