Thoughts at my 20th High School Reunion

Earlier this year I attended my 20th high school reunion in the town of Marblehead, Massachusetts. Prior to the event, I was asked by the organizers if I would be willing to give a speech. After a moment of reluctance, I accepted the invitation and decided to take it on as a challenge. Although the crowd was split between several rooms, and many of my former classmates were more focused on talking than listening, here are the thoughts I shared on this auspicious occasion.
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Back in 1987, I wanted to give the speech at our graduation. But in the competition to decide who would be the speaker, I was beaten out by Eric Van Dusen (otherwise known as “Dooz” or “Repo”). Eric won the privilege by submitting the best speech but was told by Augie Miller that he needed to remove the Haile Selassi quotation from the Bob Marley song “War”, which was apparently too inflammatory for the occasion. In a moment of greatness, Dooz agreed to take out the quote and then proceeded to give his original unedited speech. He was followed by a speech from Senator Kerry, who as some may remember was mistakenly introduced by Marcia Sweeney as Senator John Kennedy.

So I guess this is delayed gratification for me. But it’s 20 years later and this is not the same speech that I would have given in 1987. For that, we can all be thankful.

Let’s also remember that this is the 20th anniversary of our senior prom, a highlight of our shared high school experience. To properly remember that night in all of its splendor, we’ve set up breathalyzers for everyone to use and have asked Deb Loomis and some uniformed Marblehead Police Officers to search everyone’s bags for contraband. And for those of us who plan to stay up all night partying after the reunion (or just driving around all night looking for a party, as I did after the prom), we’ll be meeting for breakfast at the Driftwood around 7am. First round of coffee is on me.

Although I lived in Marblehead for less than a decade, this town is my home. I am proud to be a Header and honored to be a part of the powerful living history of this place. Specifically, I am proud to know that my town is the birthplace of the American Navy, no matter what the townies in Beverly believe. I am proud that my elementary school was named after a man who was Vice President of the United States and inspired the term Gerrymander – a word often mispronounced by those not from Marblehead. I am fascinated by the creepy and dark quotes written on the ancient tombstones at Old Burial Hill. And I am eager to introduce outsiders to the delicious Barnacle clam chowder, even though I once learned that that it’s made from canned stock. I still think it’s delicious. Because of these virtues and many others, my grandfather makes visitors promise to never tell others about the wonders of Marblehead. It’s true, he swears them to secrecy, even though he now lives in Swampscott. Unfortunately, it hasn’t been a totally successful strategy for preserving the town’s anonymity.

At a High School reunion, it is tempting to believe that we are seen by others as the person we were back in high school. That we are still defined by our old social status, by our adolescent personalities, or by some antics we pulled in a moment or greatness, or weakness. For some, this is comforting. For others, it’s agonizing. But 20 years is a long time. And the one thing the years should teach us is that change is the one constant throughout life. Changes in circumstances, in our relationships, in our hairstyles, in our careers, in our dreams. Everyone here understands that these changes – along with the successes, sacrifices, disappointments and joys – they have caused us to become different people. None of us is the same as we were back in 1987. Except for Kim Indresano who is -- strangely enough -- exactly the same. But I’m pretty confident everyone else here has changed.

We’re now approaching our…early midlife period. Time is passing, and the pace is accelerating. I know it’s trite to say, but life is short. And I think we only get one time around, although I’m definitely open to other possibilities. So rather than just dwelling on how we’ve changed over the last two decades, I’d like to talk about what comes next. How will we continue to evolve over the next twenty years?

Pretend, for a moment, that each of us is at a crossroads. Tonight. That we all must choose our paths forward without any consideration for the circumstances in our current lives. What passions would you pursue? What skills would you develop? What grand plans would you concoct, even if they might seem foolish? What crazy dreams would you try to realize? What do you want your job, family, community, and world, to look like?

Now consider applying those intentions to your life as it actually exists today. We all have constraints on our ability to adjust our circumstances, and perhaps no significant course correction is appropriate for most of us. But we should all recognize that the future is not predictable, and that the choices we have yet to make will determine the rest of our lives.

Here’s my advice to the class of 1987 at our 20th reunion -- be intentional about your future but don’t be too attached to achieving specific results, because the journey only really makes sense in hindsight. Commit to a process of lifelong growth, always challenge yourself, be unreasonable, take worthwhile risks – especially if they seem scary, and never get too comfortable. Look within your heart for guidance, indulge your intuition, and trust your gut. Embrace creative forms of self-expression even if others may think it’s weird. Assume that it’s a good sign if you discover more questions, and have fewer answers. Keep in mind that there is no destination – we’re all climbing a mountain that has no top. And remember the words of John Lennon who said that “life is what happens when you’re busy making plans.”

That’s my advice, for what it’s worth. I offer these thoughts at our 20th reunion in the hopes that when we come back here for our next reunion, we can all share our aspirations for the next 20 years.

With that, it’s time to get on with the socializing. So let us raise our glasses and toast together -- ”to all of us”.

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Playing with fire, trying to avoid burns

I've been spending much of my free time these past months practicing the fine art of fire spinning. It's a strange cultural underworld filled with loving (although freaky) people who bond over the intense euphoria which occurs when flaming balls fly within inches of exposed skin. My recent professional debut involved a performance in front of hundreds of appreciative viewers at the 2005 Fire Arts Festival. It was a profoundly exciting experience. But the ultimate performance opportunity lies just ahead at Burning Man. I'm preparing to spin at the ritual burning of the Man in front of thousands of spectators -- a shot at greatness on the world's largest fire stage.

My fire spinning photo gallery has been updated to include a slew of new images, so check it out. Also, I was recently inspired to write this verse of fire prose:

Twirling flames, escaping burns
This is my fate, with every spin I learn
The truth of the flow, through shifting planes
The chafing of leather, until no fuel remains

A song is also under development. Stay tuned.

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Musical recording is a spiritual tonic

I've always wanted to have a home music studio. Over the years I periodically dabbled in music recording, starting as an adolescent using my father's old headphones as a microphone (which actually works) and singing onto one channel of the cassette tape while Crosby, Stills, and Nash performed on the other. When played back on "mono", it sounded like I was in the studio with the band, adding my own not-quite-perfect vocal harmony to the already rich mix. In college, I got a chance to experiment with a state of the art 4-track system and had great fun laying down multiple vocal and instrument tracks. I found the master tape from that session a few years ago and managed to convert it to digital format through a somewhat painstaking process. The final song, Julia Dream by Pink Floyd, can be downloaded here.

There are, of course, many recordings of the Intangibles. The vast majority are captured on simple cassette tapes. We never really sat down "in the studio" to work out songs, which made perfect sense since we only played covers and lived for the thrill and fear of live performance. A compilation of selected Intangibles songs can be accessed on this site

Times have changed. I recently acquired the key components of a home studio setup and now am able to produce high quality music at home. It's fairly amazing how much one can do with a laptop computer and a few pieces of relatively inexpensive hardware like the DigiDesign Mbox (see photo) which comes with a powerful software package called Pro Tools. I took the plunge, turned a corner of my living space into the official studio zone, and have been slowly discovering this universe by recording various bits of music as time permits.

I am offering three experiments for public consumption at this time. The first, created last night when I found myself unexpectedly free due to social plans gone awry, is the classic Dear Prudence. I just started layering harmonies on top of the root melody, added some digital effects, and was surprised at how full the final cut sounds. The next two are collaborations. Back in November, a couple of old friends (Jack Thorpe and Justin Burroughs) were in from out-of-town and we spent a Sunday morning jamming and recording. Everything was fully improvised with lyrics invented in real-time and only one take permitted per tune. Somewhat memorable cuts are arbitrarily titled 72 hours ago and sunday jam. These tracks feature me on rhythm guitar and vocals, Justin playing lead guitar, and Jack alternating between percussion and vocals.

After spending a bit more time learing the software and hardware, I plan to record all my original songs and will release them to the few willing to listen. Stay tuned for future updates on this very site.

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Thailand photos

Photos from my recent trip to Thailand are now ready for viewing. See if you can match the images with the stories chronicled in my blog.

On another related topic, I've also added some new fire spinning photos taken during a session this past weekend in West Oakland.

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Welcoming the next generation

My sister (a.k.a. "Becca Freed") has become a mother. Say hello to Maya Ruth Nelson, the newest member of my family and the first of the next generation. She was born this past Saturday in the midst of the winter storm with my father, Laurie, and the kids camped out overnight in the hospital waiting room. Everyone is healthy.

Within minutes of emerging from the womb, Maya began speaking, proclaiming that this would be her last rebirth and that she would attain nirvana in this life. We are still pondering the meaning of these statements.

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The Final Stretch in Paradise

The final posting from my recent trip to Thailand

At the conclusion of the last travelog, I left the Khao Sok National Park and made my way to the Gulf of Thailand and a string of islands off the Eastern Coast. After the rapid traveling pace established during the first 11 days of the journey, my arrival on the island of Ko Pha Ngan heralded the commencement of an intensive relaxation phase. This island, infamous for hosting raging "full moon" parties and generally serving as a world-renowned backpacker destination spot, has been on my travel agenda for many years. Finally, I would find out whether the actual place was worth the hype, and whether the company of other backpackers would seem like an imposition or a welcome relief.

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Upon disembarking from the ferry at the Thong Sala ferry pier, I am captured by one of the Thai women who storm the dock clutching signs imprinted with the word “taxi”. She forcefully grabs my arm and walks me directly to a waiting pickup truck with a roof and seats mounted on the bed. Within minutes, our truck rolls towards the city of Haad Rin carrying myself, a few locals, and a Finnish family consisting of a couple in their 30s (Sammy and Lisa) and their gorgeous fair-skinned blond-haired 5-year old daughter named Hrronnia (or something like that) who receives stares and smiles from every Thai within visual range.

En route to our destination, Sammy explains that they have just left the city of Phuket after barely escaped being killed by the tsunami. Sammy and Hrronnia were playing on the beach, watching the first two waves gently swamp the coastline when another Finnish man ran up to them and screamed, in Finnish, for them to immediately “get the fuck out of here.” Sammy grabbed Hrronnia, jumped into a nearby truck, and rode it for about a kilometer. Less than a minute later, the giant tsunami wave struck that beach killing hundreds, if not thousands, and destroying every structure within 500-600 meters of the coastline. Sammy and Hrronnia escaped the wave, found Lisa (who was studying at a diving school away from the danger zone), and then realized that their bungalow had been flattened and all their possessions were gone. They stayed in Phuket for another week helping the owners of their bungalow to begin the process of cleaning up and volunteered at the hospital translating for other Finnish travelers receiving medical treatment, many of whom were suffering from shock and needed to be reassured in their own language that the medicine was safe. After a week of assisting, they headed to Ko Pha Ngan for some quiet vacation time before returning to Phuket to provide help and tourist money to the local economy. In retelling this fantastic story, Sammy seems calm and detached. Lisa is a bit more agitated but both agree that they feel lucky to be alive.

The Finns and I discover that we have the same destination in mind – the beach of Haad Thian which can only be accessed either by hiking for 60-90 minutes on an arduous jungle path or by boat. After the taxi ride dumps us in Haad Rin, we jump in a narrow, wooden longtail boat and ride for 30 minutes to the East and North around several points of land before sliding onto the beach of Haad Thian. It takes some diligent searching, but I ultimately find an available bungalow perched at the top of a ridge separating Haad Thian and the neighboring beach of Why Nam. It is at sufficient elevation to remain safe from any tsunami wave, a fact that seems relevant given the recent tragedy. For 200 Baht ($5) per night, I get a small wooden structure with an attached cement bathroom sporting a Western-style toilet (as compared with the squatting version common in Asia), a bed with mosquito netting, electric lights that work when electricity is provided (several hours each evening), and several large windows that face onto a porch. I later discover that fellow inhabitants of this bungalow include a very large frog who feels at home in the bathroom, a number of yellow gekko lizards stuck to various walls and ceilings, and some exotic spiders with eyes that emit a reflective yellow glow under a flashlight.

From the porch, I can look out onto the ocean and feel cool breezes on my skin at almost any hour. I put down my bag, immediately take a cold shower, and realize that this moment marks my arrival in paradise. Over the next week, and beyond, I succumb to the seductive power of these alluring beaches. At the end of Haad Thian is "the Sanctuary", a retreat and wellness spa offering bungalows, a vegetarian restaurant, massages, an herbal sauna, body treatments, yoga, meditation, and a special area for cleansing and colonics. A few other restaurants and bars are situated around these beaches consisting of traditional open wooden structures offering a mixture of Western and Thai food, thatched roofs (but no walls), small tables ringed by either chairs or throw pillows, and ambient electronic music. Most bungalows get electricity for a number of evening hours, but there are frequent disruptions of these micro-grids, particularly during rainstorms, and few places remain powered after midnight. At times, the electric current surges and lights get extremely bright or, as happened one evening in my bungalow, burn out completely.

The crowd in this place is primarily Europeans in their 20s, 30s and 40s with some families along with single travelers looking for tranquility, escape, and a far more mellow scene than can be found in island towns that cater to raging 20-year olds looking for endless all-night rave parties. These are the more progressive, seasoned and interesting travelers. I feel at home almost instantly.

I initially plan to stay only 5 days before heading to the nearby island of Ko Tao. But Haad Thian emits a powerful gravitational force that causes days to blend into each other and makes it difficult to contemplate leaving. The effect is hypnotic and turns ambitious adventure backpackers into blissed out slackers who pass time reading, staring at the waves pounding the sand, meandering aimlessly, swimming, and ordering up another round of mango shakes and spring rolls. Men sport sarongs and bare chests, women are topless on the beach, and everyone says hello when passing each other on the crisscrossing dirt paths. This is a place where people deeply unwind and get stuck for quite awhile. Having visited many beaches and bungalows in different parts of the globe, I immediately recognize this scene as special and rare. By the time I finally leave, I have spent a total of 10 nights in this oasis.

Almost immediately upon arrival, I begin making friends with a large number of other travelers from all other the world. The crowd includes many British, Irish, Dutch, Germans, other Northern Europeans, Australians, and a few Americans. It is an community of alternative and new age types who are friendly and open, and most have come here to retreat, relax and heal. I meet Aleric (a construction worker and party organizer in London who claims to be a British diplomat’s son and serves as an important social networking force on the beach), Stephanie (a Swiss fitness instructor in search of quiet healing time and some English language tips), Florien (an Austrian masseuse with sparkling energy who came to take an intensive course in Aryuvedic Yoga massage and allows me to listen to audio recordings of his improvised meditative chanting), Henry and Hellena (an American/Lithuanian fire performance couple here for six months as a break between circus arts performance tours in Australia), Rob (an accomplished and mesmerizing British fire and circus performer on a multi-year tour of the globe), Joan (a 23-year old Irish fire spinner with infectious exuberance who has been on the road since the age of 18), Mara (a Dutch woman who says she can’t come visit the US so long as George Bush is President), and Kat (a New Zealand fire spinner, juggler, and free-spirited veteran backpacker making her way around the world on an extended trip).

In addition, my friend Rachel from San Francisco meets me at the Sanctuary within an hour of my arrival. She is on an year-long round-the-world journey and needed a place to hang out while waiting for her boyfriend to fly into Singapore. We had arranged to connect at this place and her appearance right on cue confirms that the cosmic energy is properly aligning in my favor. A few days later, my friend Jack (originally from Berkeley but now living in Shanghai, China) shows up to join the crew. Towards the end of the trip, Deb and Thomas (from San Francisco) make their way to this beach and complete the California posse.

Once connected to this community, each walk down the beach involves many conversations with increasingly familiar faces. Days of hiking, swimming, and lazing about seamlessly turn into nights filled with eating, dancing, drinking, and, of course, fire dancing. Discussions focus on traveling, spirituality, cultural differences, and relationships. Few people talk about their jobs, and when I respond to such questions and explain my career others seem genuinely surprised. From the reactions, I surmise that lawyers aren’t supposed to come to places like this or to engage in silly pursuits like fire spinning, a performance art I’ve been learning for a few months – check out these photos to see me in action prior to this trip.

Within a day of arrival, I locate two groups of fire spinners and begin organizing practice and performance sessions. After taking lessons in San Francisco for the past months, I am ready to learn from others and swap techniques. On the advice of Henry, I take a boat trip back to Haad Rin and acquire 20 liters of kerosene (the fuel of choice for spinning fire) to be shared with the others and lug it back to our beach. Local bars host our sessions and we spend hours twirling fire, admiring impressive feats of skill, talking about equipment, telling stories, and watching instant videos of our dancing captured by digital cameras. One day I take a lesson from Rob. Although he discourages me from taking fire spinning lessons as a general matter, he is happy to offer me (for a fee) a private class that proves very helpful. I also meet his current girlfriend Joan, a wanderer who does not see herself ever settling down in one place for any length of time. Although I am tempted to exclaim that, based on my experience, her antipathy towards living a more conventional life is likely to change with age, I bite my tongue and accept her inspirational youthful idealism. And she is an excellent fire spinner from whom I am able to learn some new moves. I practice my spinning techniques throughout these 10 days, making new friends along the way, teaching novices some basics, and focusing on developing new skills and comfort with this discipline. My fingers become blistered from intensive repetitions. One night I burn myself for the first time thanks to some borrowed fire ropes with no handles. The experience serves as my unofficial initiation into the fire performance community.

Six days into my stay, Jack and I plan to leave for the Island of Ko Tao to pursue scuba diving adventures. We manage to catch a boat to the town of Haad Rin but, due to our slow pace (a.k.a. “Island time”), miss the last ferry of the day to Ko Tao. It throws our plans for a bit of a loop, but a banana milkshake, a plate of pad thai and some curry helps us to regain perspective and settle on an alternative strategy. We decide to stay on Ko Pha Ngan for the remaining days but arrange to go out on two separate scuba diving trips. That night, we stay in Haad Rin in a bungalow located on at the edge of the beach on a large rock with incredible views of the whole area. This beach hosts the “full moon parties” that are the stuff of legend in backpacker circles. Jack and I walk around surveying a landscape of clubs fronting on the beach, each blaring out dance music that merges with techno or electronic beats from the next establishment into a discordant thumping sonic mess wafting out in all directions. Travelers in their early 20s stumble around carrying “buckets” containing a mixture of coca-cola, thai whiskey or rum, and red bull – a recipe for becoming simultaneously wasted and wired. Instead of joining this drunken brigade, we get foot massages, decide that one night here is enough, and make plans to return to Haad Thian the next day.

Our diving trip the next day confirms that some higher power intends to prevent us from making the journey to Ko Tao. We dive at an exposed rock formation in-between the two islands, battered by large swells, and find near-zero visibility once down under the surface. It is like being in an underwater sandstorm, and I lose all sense of direction and bearing fairly quickly. Pressing my mask close to the coral at a depth of 10 meters, I catch glimpses of anemones and schools of colorful fish, but the experience is frustrating. The weather this time of year strongly favors diving conditions on the other coast of Thailand, the one hit by the tsunami, while this side is typically plagued with poor conditions until the spring. Jack and I agree that more diving would be pointless.

On the boat, the supervising dive master tells us his tale of barely escaping the tsunami while working at his dive shop in the city of Krabi. He went outside once the first waves hit, then saw the big wave on the horizon and was urged to run inland, which he did as fast as he could. In the end, only his feet were wet. He explains that swirling debris (wood, concrete, metal) made the rushing waters extremely dangerous and led to many injuries and deaths. I sit in stunned silence listening to this recounting from a man who faced the killer wave and successfully ran away. Another traveler on the boat tells of a guy who ran down a hotel hallway in Phuket banging on doors to wake his companions and urging them to flee but failed to rouse one friend who was then killed when the wave hit.

Although we feel insulated from danger on Ko Pha Ngan, one evening brings home the impermanence of existence and the fact that tragedy lurks everywhere. An older man named Paul who recently moved to Haad Thian to retire falls off a treacherous path into a ravine and dies. The travelers hold a wake for him, which involves a drumming contingent, a fire, some random chanting and dancing. People sit in a circle, one point of which is a small altar consisting of a flower wreath, a photo of Paul, and some memorabilia. Jack makes maracas by filling empty water bottles with small rocks from the beach, and we both shake them to complement the other drums driving the core beats. I never met Paul, and neither had many of the people at the wake, but the event is solemn and spiritual. I feel that we are also mourning the deaths of those travelers who were swept away by the tragedy on the other coast. A similar group of travelers were probably beating drums on the beaches of Ko Phi Phi the night before the wave flattened their bungalows and stole their lives. In realizing the fragility of existence, I am deeply humbled and can only stare out at the sea in silent contemplation.

In a development that only heightens this sensation, Aleric bursts into the circle and dramatically announces that a Thai man was just bitten by a cobra (of which there are many on the island) and had been rushed off to Haad Rin for emergency medical treatment. We are all warned to watch carefully when walking the paths to avoid any accidental run-ins, and search parties are dispatched to try and locate the offending snake. It is never found. Later that evening, I am traversing the paths back to my bungalow with a few others, all of us scanning the ground with our flashlights looking for cobras, when one person mentions that 10% of all injuries in Thailand are caused by falling coconuts. We turn our attention away from the snake survey, raise our heads, and observe that we are surrounded by towering coconut palms, any one of which could drop a lethal projectile onto our heads at any moment. For awhile, I feel very vulnerable but decide that certain risks are beyond my control and just let go of the fear.

But these risks are worth the rewards. Throughout my stay, I visit the spa for multiple massages, a facial, an aloe/cucumber body wrap, and an herbal sauna. My primary masseuse, Wandee, has strong hands and a deft touch that takes me to the edge of pain and pleasure. I drink honey/ginger/lemon tea on a bamboo deck before and after these treatments. Jack and I take yoga classes from Sabrina, an American who grew up close to Boston (Easton and Waltham), and work on twisting ourselves into various shapes including the cobra pose (which now takes on new meaning). I go hiking through the jungle one day by myself, marvel at the views, sing out loud, and feel very free. These experiences leave me tempted to cast aside attachments to home, cut the cord, and just melt into this landscape. I ponder this possibility for awhile, but then remember that my life at home is fulfilling and meaningful. Fantasies of fleeing into the global traveling ether quickly give way to an alternative vision of the future -- experiencing the best of both worlds by relishing life at home and remaining committed to taking extended trips on a regular basis. So I begin to contemplate my next journey to an exotic destination. India beckons. As does South America.

My last night on Haad Thian is memorable. Jack and I share a final dinner then head to the weekly party at “Guy’s Bar”, the sole club on the beach that hosts rave-like events. Everyone I’ve met throughout my stay shows up, we spin fire for hours, dance to techno and trance music, drink Thai whiskey, and both bond and say our farewells. I collect email addresses and stay up partying until 5am, at which point I retreat to the beach and sit in the sand for awhile, listening to the waves and looking up at the stars. I sleep in a hammock for a few hours before the time of departure arrives.

Jack and I meet on Why Nam beach for breakfast at 10:30am, but it quickly becomes apparent that our first order of business is to catch the next longtail boat to Haad Rin or risk missing our 2:30pm ferry from Haad Rin to the nearby island of Ko Samui, which would also cause us to miss our 5:00pm flight to Bangkok. The surf is ferocious and we begin to worry about whether the longtails will be able to approach the beach or if it may be too dangerous to make the trip. I begin to believe that the spirit of this beach will not let us leave and does not want the ferry to run, that it may not be possible to depart, that we are fated to remain in this place forever.

The first longtail takes only 6 passengers and I am stopped en route to the boat, backpack over my head to avoid the ocean spray, and told to turn back. We wait for another boat. Eventually, a second vessel is ready to accept passengers, but it is anchored some distance from the shore to avoid being smashed by the waves into the beach. My backpack is carried on the head of a Thai boat helper who treads carefully through chest-deep water. I pray for him not to be destabilized by the current and drop my bag. Luckily, he makes it and my bag is stowed away. Passengers board by making a run through the waves and leaping onto the ladder at the back of the boat. I make a quick dash and haul myself aboard. The lower half of my body is completely soaked. Once everyone is seated on long planks, the engine is fired up and we begin the journey. At this point, the captain informs everyone that the price for this trip has gone up (from $2.50 to close to $4.00) due to the dangerous conditions. One traveler begins to complain but the rest of us are too consumed with staying alive to raise serious objections. The surf is intensely hazardous with 6-10 foot swells that make the boat to pitch and tumble. One wave hitting us at the wrong angle could cause the vessel to capsize. Everyone is a bit nervous. I feel alive and focus on the rolling of the boat and the spray hitting my face and chest. The driver is cautious and skillful, allowing us to survive and make it to Haad Rin. Upon arriving at the dock, Jack leads a chorus of “hip, hip, hooray” to honor the boat driver and we all burst into applause. The Thais working on the boat are unaffected and seem confused by this display of acknowledgement.

From Haad Rin, Jack and I get on another ferry to Ko Samui, board a plane to Bangkok, and hang out in a desolate open air market near the airport eating greasy food and watching locals jump on motorcycle taxis bound for unknown destinations. Then we part ways, and I catch an 11pm flight to Tokyo. I sleep the entire ride and wake only when we touchdown. Once off the plane, I cruise through customs, change money and stash my bag at the airport. Intending to make the most of my 8+ hour layover, I take the next express train into Tokyo and end up 90 minutes later in the Shinjuku district. It is raining, cold, and windy, but I don’t care. This is my first time in Japan, and I am high on the fresh buzz that comes from being in a new country. I walk around for three hours trying to absorb the atmosphere and culture, and processing any interesting visual impressions. The area is clean, filled with modern shops, and covered with neon signs stacked vertically on practically every building. Uniformed salespeople stand in front of stores and, like cheerleaders, exhort passersby to examine their fine quality goods. I stop for sushi and manage to croak out one of the few Japanese words in my vocabulary – wasabi. Then I go for a bowl of noodle soup which, without me asking, is served with an omelet, rice and cold tea. Few people seem to notice me or respond to the fact that I am a foreigner. Practically noone I interact with speaks any English.

After 3 hours, I get on another train to the airport and make my flight with only minutes to spare. Ten hours later, I arrive in Los Angeles, dash to board another plane to Oakland, and then take the train back to my apartment. Once at home, I realize that it has been 41 hours since boarding the longtail boat on Why Nam beach.

Although my trip is over, I remain blanketed by a relaxed glow and feel somehow different. The experience leaves me a bit wiser, with more perspective on the things that matter, and in awe of the vastness of our planet. I vow to return to the road soon in search of new adventures but am content to focus on the next phase of life here in California for now. My travel addiction has been temporarily sated, but the cravings will soon return. After responding to emails, reading my mail, and digging out at work, I will begin to contemplate the timing and scope of my next voyage. There are so many countries and cultures I have yet to explore.

The next journey awaits.

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Heading south

The fourth of five postings from my recent trip to Thailand

My New Year's turned out to be quite relaxed and understated. I spent the day on an adventure through the Kaeng Krachan National Park (chronicled in my last story) and passed the night walking the beaches of the seaside city of Chaam. I chose Chaam as my destination for two reasons -- first, because it was reported to be a favorite of Thai tourists, and second, because there is a well-known Thai restaurant in Berkeley of the same name. Even though my expectations were minimal, Chaam proved underwhelming. The beach was scenic and clean but the strip of hotels, bars, and restaurants facing the water were uninspiring, not particularly busy, and the area lacked a feeling of excitement that should characterize the New Year.

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I stayed at a hotel owned by a Dutch man and his Thai wife. This hotel was recommended by the Lonely Planet primarily because the owners had saved a pregnant Elephant that was being rented out for tourist showcases by purchasing it and sending the animal to a preserve in northern Thailand. My room was clean, fairly spacious and cheap (200 Baht, or $5). While checking in, I tell the owner that my desire to stay at his hotel is based on the fact that he saved the elephant and he seems pleased. Then the owner and I speak of the tsunami. He tells me that the earthquake, or an immediate aftershock, was felt in Chaam but locals didn't realize the source or actual magnitude. Eight of his former guests called subsequently to let him know that they were safe. Four others never made contact, and he is worried about their fate. He says that the hotel owners in Phuket hope to rebuild in the next 4 months. Within six months, it may be impossible to tell that the tsunami ever hit many of these areas.

After this sobering conversation, I walk down the beach and observe small groups of Thai youths building fires and singing songs. There are displays of low-grade fireworks, fountains of sparks, and some middle-aged tourists firing glowing balls out of roman candles. On one stretch of beach, people are launching cylindrical balloons with attached fire sticks suspended just below an opening at the bottom. The fire heats the air inside the balloon, causing it to rise into the sky. I remember these devices from my last trip to Thailand and marvel as the points of light drift over the sea and off into the horizon.

Further down the beach, I come across a fenced-off outdoors space in front of a high-end hotel hosting a formal dinner. There are several hundred guests, more than half of whom are middle-aged farangs (foreigners). The tables are elaborately decorated and each chair is covered with a reflective silver satin cloth. It is both ostentatious and gaudy. At the edge of the dining area, and directly facing the street, is a stage on which a theatrical performance is in progress. I stop to watch for awhile. A Thai announcer wearing a suit, and speaking perfect English accented with a showbusiness tone, introduces two young Thai men wearing only pants and boxing gloves. The announcer first explains that this next sketch will provide comic relief, just to set the mood, then identifies one of the Thai performers as "the African" and the other as "the Thai national champion." They will be competing in a Muay Thai kickboxing match for some fictious prestigious championship. What follows is a bizarre slapstick routine involving the two boxers, who intermittently kick and punch each other and then parade around the stage in a triumphant manner, and a number of supporting "actors" who play the roles of referee and assistants. After each "round" of the fight, the boxers retreat to their corners and the supporting actors provide counsel, give massages and generally ham it up for the audience. At one point, there is a multi-person fracas that results in several performers tumbling off the stage and into the crowd. The announcer provides a running commentary in a folksy tone and the boxers go to great lengths to both display their fighting skills and look extremely silly. I survey the audience and cannot find a single person laughing at any point during the performance. Everyone looks terminally bored. I can only imagine how much the guests have paid for the pleasure of attending this painful and embarrassing event, and soon am overwhelmed with shame and continue my journey through the streets of Chaam. I finally fall asleep on a beach chair shortly after midnight.

My trip to the south the next day involves a bout of intense transit by motorcycle, bus, train and taxi that ends in the majestic Khao Sok National Park only 30 miles from the West coast that was hit by the tsunami. Since my long train ride to the southern city of Surat Thani arrives after the last bus has departed for the National Park, I am forced to charter a taxi for the 110 km ride. Just before leaving, I use an ATM to get some insurance cash but am stymied when the machine completely dies just as it is about to spit out the cash. Luckily, it also ejects my card. I look around and notice that the electricity has gone out in the entire neighborhood, hope that my transaction was not the cause, and remind myself to be thankful for the reliability of our electric system at home (OFFICIAL CAVEAT -- California regulators should be advised that the utilities in our state can, and should, do better in providing reliable electric service with the funds received from their customers).

The taxi, a late-model Mercedes with leather seats and a spotless interior, is driven by a man named Thon. He is from Surat Thani, has two children, and speaks a modest amount of English. We chat about life in Thailand, housing prices in his area ($15,000 for a 2 BR starter home and $25,000 for a luxury spread), and the tsunami. While driving towards the West, we pass many convoys of vehicles carrying relief workers and supplies away from the devastated areas. Thon tells me that, since there is no place to stay overnight in that zone, these workers return every night to Surat Thani for sleeping before returning the next day. It is a grim reminder, and my first direct sighting, of the huge consequences created by the killer waves.

After 90 minutes, we arrive at a strip of bungalow places just outside the gates of the National Park. Many seem empty. I peruse a few then finally settle on a thatched bungalow on stilts with an attached (and very clean) bathroom for 200 Baht/night ($5). The manager of this place, a Thai named Lek, offers to hook me into a two-day tour of the park leaving the next morning. I readily accept without too many questions, just happy to know that the following days will involve exploration of the park with a guide and some random backpackers who are likely to be along for the ride.

The tour begins the next morning. I am one of seven travelers in a group consisting of a Polish couple who live in London (Vlodk and Camille), a Dutch/Colombian couple (Miriam and Serge), two Australian sisters (Annette and Linda), and myself. It seems like the dynamic could be positive in the early hours as we ride in a truck (I am outside on the bed) towards a giant reservoir. At the reservoir, we jump in a narrow, long wooden boat with a car engine mounted on the back transom that is attached to a propeller through an extended axle. Over the next hour, the boat drives us at high speed across a reservoir that is ringed by dramatic hills blanketed in tropical jungle and sharp limestone cliffs. The reservoir was created about 25 years ago and is now 80 meters (~250 feet) deep in most parts. Apparently, many villages previously located in the valleys were displaced as part of the project.

I don't spend time dwelling on their fate, instead choosing to admire the scenery and feel the tropical wind on my face as our boat slices through the water. At the end of the journey, we arrive at an encampment of bungalows floating at the edge of a sheltered cove. It is a somewhat surreal scene -- the bungalows are connected to each other by a floating walkway that leads to a floating restaurant/bar/dock area. I am assigned a small bungalow with two beds, mosquito netting, a window, a porch overlooking the water, and very small doorways perfectly designed to hit my head with each entrance and exit.

After lunch, our guide (named Bom) takes us on a jungle hike that leads to a cave. We enter the cave and spend the next 45 minutes traversing interior tunnels. In the larger caverns, thousands of half-sleeping bats dangle upside-down from the ceilings. We come across very large frogs, strange and indescribable bugs, large crystalline rock formations, and then end up navigating a raging river. This last part involves swimming through deep water while holding onto a rope for guidance. The Polish guy (Vlodk) tries to scale the rocks whenever possible to avoid the water. He apparently sees it as an interesting challenge.

After emerging from the other side of the cave, we hike back to the boat and return to our floating base. A few of us go swimming. The water is very warm, feels quite clean, and has a "soft" quality noted by Vlodk. At first I suspect the use of the word "soft" is due to imperfect English vocabulary, but then realize that it is an appropriate descriptor, perhaps because of the trace bits of algae or some other mineral properties. Once swimming is over, our guide (and the workers at the floating restaurant) serve many different plates of food for dinner (curries, soups, fish, vegetables, rice, and a selection of fruits). I try to buy a round of beers for the assembled travelers to foster group bonding but no one takes me up on my offer. This is a bad sign. There is some discussion of travelling itineraries, where each person lives, and the relative costs of various countries. It is all fairly uninteresting. The one interesting conversation involves the Polish couple telling their tale of being on a live-aboard dive trip off the Similan Islands when the tsunami hit. Their boat captain received word by radio that the waves were en route, ordered everyone out of the water, and moved the boat to deeper waters. When the tsunami passed their location, 90 minutes later, they didn't feel anything at all. They were forced to wait for two days before coming into any port and only then did they realize the scope of the devastation. The fact that the captain received advance notice sparks a discussion of whether world governments knew of the tsunami and deliberately withheld this information from most of the areas that would be hit. Some in the group quickly accept this theory and assume it is part of some larger conspiracy, but it sounds awfully farfetched and I cannot understand how any government would deliberately refuse to provide warnings that would save thousands of lives. The conversation ends somewhat abruptly.

Once dinner has finished, Bom takes us out on a night boat ride to look for animals. Despite the powerful searchlight, and the guide's knowledge of the area, we do not come upon anything of interest. The other travelers seem annoyed, but I don't care at all. I am just happy to be in this beautiful park, in motion, and on the water. Once we return, everyone turns in early except for me. I sit on the dock for awhile staring at the stars, which are magnificient, clear and overpowering. Early the next morning we go for another boat ride and see a some langurs (cross between a monkey and a gibbon), gibbons, hornbills (a very distinctive bird), and a wild chicken. The primates are all far off in the trees, but that doesn't stop the other travelers from aiming their cameras and clicking away furiously to take photographs that will show these animals as mere specks in the frames. I have thrown away many such photos, and keep my camera in its case during these long distance encounters. Our group is joined by a few others on this morning trip, including a Thai guy from the city of Krabi who speaks great English. When I tell him my city of origin, he remarks that San Francisco has a reputation for excellent parties and asks if I have ever gone to Burning Man.

The rest of the day involves more boat riding, a hike to the top of a "mountain" that affords panoramic views of the surrounding areas, and swimming at the base of limestone cliffs that open into little coves and provide fun opportunities to climb the rocks and then jump off. Although I have plenty of social energy, others in our group prefer to be quiet. At first I wonder whether it's possible for me to change the dynamic, and attempt to initiate sequential conversations with each of the subgroups. But it turns out to be no use, and I ultimately give up on bonding and instead treat the remainder of the day as an opportunity to meditate on the jungle, the water, the sky, and the sun.

Later in the day, our boat returns to the starting point, we disembark, and are ferried back to the National park entrance. Once there, Bom gives me a coca leaf and says goodbye. I check into the same bungalow, chew on the leaf for awhile, then bring my practice fire spinning rigs and glowing frisbee down to the restaurant attached to my bungalow. Once I begin to play with the lighted toys, the Thai women working at the restaurant come out and want to join in. So I give them each a practice fire spinning rig (having brought several with me) and they excitedly spin and twirl the chains with delight. Then three small children appear and demand a piece of the action. So I get out the frisbee, turn on the internal LED (which causes the entire platter to glow blue), and teach the kids how to throw a disc. The two boys, Bom and Bay-oo, have probably never played with a frisbee, but it takes them less than five minutes to develop fairly decent throwing skills. The kids and the women are laughing hysterically as they hurl the disc at each other, and a little girl has picked up one of my fire rigs and is swinging it wildly around her head. A German guy comes over and joins the crew. It is a great bonding moment, far better than anything that occurred on my journey the past two days. We play together for about an hour before disbursing.

The next morning I wake up fairly early and begin my journey to the islands. It involves a two-hour minibus ride, wandering in the city of Surat Thani for an hour, another 90 minute bus ride, a 2-hour ferry trip, a 30-minute ride in the back of a truck, then a final 30-minute boat taxi to the beach of Had Thian on the island of Ko Pha Ngan.

My story of life on these idyllic beaches will be told in the next installment.

Click here for the entire story...

The Wandering Begins

The third of five postings from my recent trip to Thailand

Last night was spent walking around the relatively quiet city of Petchaburi to get a feel for this somewhat out-of-the way place. My walk included a great visit to an outdoor night market for dinner where I exchanged many smiles with Thais and even had one vendor offer me a free hunk of coconut custard. It proved to be possible, but not that easy, to sleep in my crappy hotel room next to a major bridge. There were mosquitoes to contend with throughout the night hours and plenty of loud street noises beginning at around 5 or 6am. Nevertheless, I managed to wake up rested and ready to explore the nearby national park of Kaeng Krachan.

(the story continues on the next page....)

At breakfast, I ask about renting a motorcycle. The owner, a charismatic women in her 50s or 60s dressed entirely in black, begins to discourage me from going to the park today (saying that it would be crowded with Thais on holiday) and warns me of the dangers of driving a motorcycle in the midst of New Year's traffic. A European man sitting at the next table echoes her concerns and remarks that he personally knows several tourists who had been hit by trucks during their motorcycle escapades. Although it had been my plan to zip down to the park on a bike, their pleas move me to reconsider.

So I trudge out of the guesthouse with my pack and head towards the area of town where one can find public transport to the park. After asking around, I find the right "bus" to my destination. In fact, this "bus" is a Chinese truck with a roof mounted over the bed and fitted with benches running down either side. I have ridden in such vehicles on previous trips to Asia, and often they are packed full of locals and cargo. Luckily, this time there are only a half-dozen passengers and no serious cargo. Across from me are two middle-class young Thais off on a trip to the park, one of whom is a professional translator (Japanese to Thai) who also happens to speak decent English. So we chat for awhile during the trip, and she translates anything of note uttered by the driver.

Our ride to the park takes awhile, primarily because there are many stops en route and a few extended periods of waiting for other passengers to show up. During these stops, I get out to stretch and walk around. Locals take note and I get plenty of great double-takes and stares. We finally arrive at the park entrance almost 1.5 hours later. I am ready to explore this jewel of the national park system, but am surprised to learn from a ranger that there are no hiking trails nearby, that the next ranger station (which supposedly provided access to hiking trails) was 20km distant, and that the only sensible way to see the park is with a private vehicle. I feel a challenge coming on and wish that I had rented that motorcycle rather than being scared off by the hotel proprietor. The ranger agrees to hold my backpack at the headquarters and, after helping me fill out the obligatory form (including a $5 entrance fee), tells me to make friends and find someone who could drive me into the park.

It has been many years since my last hitchiking experience. But necessity drives me to desperation as I stand by the edge of the parking lot and try to wave down vehicles headed in the right direction. The first few stop, and I try to request a ride, but in each case no one in the car speaks English and the driver is absolutely stumped by my pitch. Despite pointing to the map and showing my desired destination, I am unsuccessful at getting any traction or agreement. Driver after driver looks at the map, scrutinizes the symbols, says aloud the name of my destination, discusses with other members of their group, and then finally just gives up. I thank each one and then proceed to flag down the next target.

Finally I find a pickup truck with willing drivers. They are dressed in military fatigues and are headed to the special forces training camp located near the park entrance. This ride lasts only a few minutes, at which point they drop me at an intersection, apologize for not being able to drive me all the way to my destination, then take off. I will have to be persistent.

I ask several locals hanging out at the intersection which direction to take to get to the ranger station. They point to the left, and so I begin walking in that direction, knowing that another ride would be needed to get me there. About ten minutes into my walk, a truck passes and stops at my hail. This driver is also confused by my request, but tells me to get into the cab with him, his wife, their dog, and a load of freshly picked bak choy. We speed off in air conditioned bliss for awhile, then he pulls into a driveway, apologizes to me, and begins to speak with the residents of the house, all of whom are sitting outside hanging out. It quickly becomes apparent that he is asking these people about my desired destination, getting advice from them about directions. The advice is given, and the driver reaches into the back and hands over several bak choy to the man as thanks. Then we resume our journey. While his wife toys with her cell phone, the driver asks me a few questions in halting English. Our conversation is labored, but he manages to convey the fact that he is a farmer and lives in this area. About 10 minutes later, we come to a stop at a roadside stand. The driver again asks locals for assistance on my behalf. He cannot take me any further, and begins to draw a map for me as his wife puts together a bag of snacks for me. As I prepare to tackle the next leg, which he insists is 20-30km, he reconsiders and negotiates with a young boy to drive me the remaining distance on a motorcycle. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out money to pay the boy. This is too much, so I insist that he should not be paying for my transportation. I am absolutely stunned by the sense of responsibility this man has assumed for my well-being. I thank him with a big bow and he gets back into the truck and drives away.

The boy starts up his motorcycle and I mount the back, balancing carefully as we cruise down the road, which soon turns to dirt, and then ultimately back to paved before reaching the park entrance. The ride is liberating, especially since neither of us are wearing helmets, and I feel so blessed to have been lucky so far on this day. We arrive at the ranger station that has been my avowed destination, I pay the boy 60 baht ($1.50) for the ride, and I approach the uniformed park rangers standing behind a gate. They check my ticket, stamp it, and motion for me to enter. I ask about the nature trail that the first ranger had described. These rangers, none of whom appears to speak any English, all shrug and indicate that no such trail exists. They point to a place on the map that is 15km distant, and let me know that I can walk on the road but won't find any trails until that point. The news is disturbing, since I felt close to victory in this quest, but I am determined to succeed and begin walking.

A few minutes later, I flag down another passing pickup truck. This truck, occupied by a family obviously intending on a weekend of camping, agrees to take me to the campsite and makes room in the pickup bed for me. I jump in and the journey continues. We drive for about 20 minutes through lush forests and take in views of dramatic hills and cliffs. Then we come upon a broken truck on the side of the road and pull over to offer help. The driver of this other truck has the hood open and is inspecting the engine for clues to its failure. All the men in my truck gather around the hood and try to diagnose the problem. They all decide that the key is more water in the radiator, and one man gently removes the cover causing steam to release and spray everwhere. They grab some of their own water and start pouring it into the overheated radiator, which results in more hot steam being created and spewing out with great force. I have two bottles of water and am loath to part with either, but given the generosity that has been shown thus far, I hand over one bottle and the fluid promptly disappears into the radiator. But more liquid is needed. A passing truck is flagged down and more water appears from strangers eager to help. It goes into the radiator and steam continues to vent. A giant bottle is summoned from one car and finally the radiator is filled to the satisfaction of the assembled. The driver gets into the front seat and turns the ignition, but the truck will not start. Our efforts have failed. The assembled men appear unfazed, give up, return to their vehicles and we continue towards the campsite.

I am thrown around in the back of the truck but hold on long enough to survive until getting to the campsite, where I dismount and thank them for their help. Now I have finally arrived. But where? The campsite is packed with Thais who have set up tents, unloaded vast amounts of food, and are getting ready to party. I cruise the scene, get some pretty interesting stares, and then find the "nature trail". It is 3pm and I give myself an hour to hike before trying to find my way back to the park headquarters. The nature trail winds through dense jungle and I manage to see several cool primates, possibly gibbons, in the trees above munching on leaves. But the trail dumps me into a riverbed that quickly leads back to the camping area, and I realize that further exploration will be difficult. It is closing in on 4pm, so I return to the road and begin to walk back towards the entrance, which is 15km distant, hoping to hitch another ride.

The walk is serene but marked by some trepidation. I realize that I am unprotected in a wild area, have a very long walk in front of me, and may find it impossible to catch a ride of any sort. I pass by a sign that reads "Leopard habitat" and get the chills. I imagine myself confronting a hungry leopard in this remote stretch of road, and try to understand what would be the appropriate response. I find a walking stick and plan to use it as a weapon in case of emergency. The walk continues and the sun starts to sink lower. I pass a sign that reads "wild animal salt lick" but see nothing of interest. Several beautiful and strange birds float overhead. I have walked 6km (with 9km remaining) when a noise from behind me catches my attention. It is a vehicle. I wave my arms as it approaches. The car stops, and it contains two westerners -- a woman and her teen-aged son. They first agree to drive me to the park gate but we soon discover that they are drivng down the coast and will pass my desired stopping point for the evening, the coastal town of Chaam. They are Russians from Moscow on vacation in Thailand, and we manage to have a good conversation in English. They offer to take me all the way to Chaam, and I realize that my luck is indeed good. En route we discuss traveling, life in Russia, and the son's love for reggae music. I score points by immediately identifying the reggae CD he puts in the stereo (Burning Spear). Both of them are drinking beers and the driver also smokes constantly. After some time, I get the impression that she is actually drunk, but this fact doesn't really concern me. Close to Chaam, I feel something warm beneath my butt and realize that she has accidentally tossed a lighted cigarette into the back seat and it became lodged under my butt. I move the cigarette, put it out, and note the burn mark on the back of my pants. It is a small price to pay for this miraculous ride.

They drop me off on the beach, and within minutes I have found a cheap, clean, and comfortable hotel room at the guest house run by a Dutch man and his Thai wife. We talk about the tsunami and then I take the shower that has been on my mind all day.

Now I'm off to check out New Year's Eve festivities. Tomorrow I will catch a morning train to Khao Sok, a national park further south and within proximity to the devastated areas. Reports on the internet indicate that the park is completely safe and not effected by the tragedy. Then I will head to the islands of Ko Pha Ngan and Ko Tao.

Every day is an adventure.

Click here for the entire story...

A travel report from Thailand that offers no perspective on the tsunami

The second of five postings from my recent trip to Thailand

I have now been in Thailand for a mere 96 hours, but it feels like a lot longer. This place is familiar to me despite the fact that my only previous trip occurred five years ago. My life is much different this time around, and the introduction of a major global disaster certainly changes the atmosphere. But you may be surprised to hear that life in Thailand, outside of the areas directly hit by the tsunami, goes on without much evidence of the tragedy. Flags are flying at half mast and televisions show endless shots of the waves thrashing buildings. In Bangkok, Thai students congregated in the backpacker ghetto (Kao San Road) to sing songs, burn candles, and collect monetary donations. And televisions everywhere show endless loops of the video clips from Phuket and other places hit by the waves. But apart from these indicators, the impact on daily life seems relatively modest. At least in the areas I've been traveling through.

(the story continues on the next page....)

So my first-hand exposure to the disaster and its horrors is practically non-existent. I have yet to meet any backpackers returning from that zone of the country. But that may change in the next few days as I go south towards the epicenter of the tragedy. Don't worry, I am not planning on visiting the actual locations of the devastation.

Today I left Bangkok after several days of intense urban adventures. My time in Bangkok involved visits to many beautiful and glittering Buddhist temples, wandering the labrynth of tangled streets on foot, trying out the brand new subway system (very clean and fast), cruising through markets, getting therapeutic massages (including one from the famous Wat Pho massage school and another Swedish/Thai variant from a high-end spa), and eating everything being cooked up on the streetcorners that looked (and smelled) appealing. I also spent one day with Natalie (the ex-wife of my current Berkeley landlord) who took me out for lunch -- and introduced me to the delicacy of pork tendon -- then to her family home where I presented them with gifts (a bottle of Johnny Walker Black for the grandmother and a kilo of Toblerone chocolate for the rest of them) while we watched the latest news of the tragedy on CNN. That evening, Natalie and her boyfriend Gon drove me to a city one hour south of Bangkok for a seafood feast (lobster, prawns, calamari, oysters and other fish) that left me stuffed, grateful and exhausted.

Despite the abundance of opportunities to explore Bangkok, I felt the need to leave the city and head out towards new destinations in the south, an area I barely explored during my last visit. So this morning I woke up at 6:30am and caught a taxi to the train station just in time to grab a cappuccino and a fried corn cake before boarding a train towards the south. Almost three hours later, I arrived in the city of Petchaburi. This is not a typical tourist destination. As evidence of this fact, I offer the following anecdote -- when purchasing my ticket two days ago at the train station, a middle-aged Thai woman approached and offered help (which was totally unnecessary), asking if I was trying to get to Chiang Mai (a major tourist destination in the north). After I told her my intention to visit Petchaburi, her polite smile turned into a quizzical frown and she slowly backed away in utter confusion. Her _expression was truly priceless and made me feel good about going somewhere slightly off the beaten path.

The train ride was comfortable and easy. I was the only farang (foreigner) on the train, but noone really paid much attention to me. Our train car had three attendants who punched tickets, served food (sweet cakes) and beverages (tea), and distributed little golden bells to everyone while wishing us a happy new year. I started working on a song about the need to cease craving in order to end suffering -- it's intended to be a buddhism-inspired piece and could develop into something quite interesting. But I have crafted many inspired but partially-written songs, so my expectations for this one remain limited.

After getting off the train, I marched into the center of town toting my backpack and navigating using the map in the Lonely Planet guidebook. My sense of direction turned out to be "spot on" as the British say, and within minuted I had landed at the hotel marked in my guidebook as the best amongst a small number of options. The hotel is a wooden structure abutting the river and a very busy bridge in the center of town. My room is extremely sparse -- just a hard bed and a rack for hanging clothes. The price is tough to beat (140 baht or ~$3.50) but I expect to have difficulty getting a good night's sleep due to noise and mosquitoes. At least that's what the German couple I met in the attached restaurant explained. This couple, Uwe and Bianca, have been cruising through Thailand in a rented car, were originally planning to visit islands in the south that were thrashed by the tsunami, and are currently headed towards some remote areas on the Thai-Myanmar border just for kicks. We had a nice chat in the restaurant that broke into dead silence when I wryly remarked that George Bush has identified the evildoing tsunami, will be bombing it into submission, and will no longer allow freedom-loving nations to be terrorized by these heinous natural forces. My humor tends to be a bit dry, so they paused and asked with much trepidation if I am a fan of George Bush. I let a few beats pass before responding with an extended tirade about the 51% of Americans who are complete fucking morons and then offered a mea culpa about the election. They were very gratified and thanked me profusely for being opposed to Bush.

After settling into my tiny room, I rented a bicycle from the hotel owner and set out to explore the city and its Wats (temple complexes). The first Wats were almost completely deserted, so I had some quality private time with giant shining Buddhas housed in ornate and shining teak temples. The atmosphere was serene and uplifting, and I did my best to enter a semi-meditative state.

While biking to the next temple, I pass by a schoolyard and hear Thai dance music blaring from the speakers while young children swirl around in a central open space, dancing and jumping to the beats. I stop and stand by the fence to observe. As the kids notice me, a few start waving just to see my reaction. I wave back. They smile, and I return the smile. Soon others are trying their luck with getting me to respond to their gestures. I oblige each time and they are obviously thrilled and titilated by the experience. Then the teachers call them to sit in a group in front of a stage that is covered with wrapped presents. These are probably New Year's gifts that will soon be handed out. Even while seated, several little children start waving to me and yelling "hello". I continue waving, broadcasting a big and open smile, and then decide it's time to move along. The experience fills me with contentment.

At the third wat, which I enter by accident, there is a strange noise eminating from the main structure so I peddle closer, get off my bike, and approach the building. A small crowd has gathered outside and I can hear the sounds of chanting from within. I peek in through the doors and see about 20 monks clothed in saffron robes chanting in unison while seated in front of a giant Buddha. The people outside, who looked like typical Thais, urge me to take a photo of the event, but I feel uncomfortable snapping away during what is obviously a religious ceremony. Instead, I remove my shoes and enter the temple. Sitting at the back with my legs folded behind me and my feet pointing towards the wall (pointing one's feet at the Buddha is the ultimate faux pas), I press my palms together just like the old women to my left and allow myself to feel the chanting penetrate my body. The rhythm is consistent and the melody doesn't change much for about 10 minutes. Then suddenly it ends and I see one monk take a sip from a bottle of 7-up, a sign that the formal portion of the ceremony is over.

The old women sitting on the floor approach me and offer a flower and some sticks of incense. I accept, knowing that these were donations that I am expected to pass along to the monks. We exit the building and wait on line to place the flowers and incense in a pouch held by a young monk. When my turn arrives, I carefully offer my tokens and do a quick wai (bow) to show respect. As I walk away a young boy comes over, grabs my hand, and leads me to two old women seated by the temple entrance. One of them takes my hand and both smile broadly, exposing near-toothless mouths. I return the smile. They start peppering me with questions in Thai, but the language gap leaves us in a difficult position. A few younger women in our vicinity step up and ask about my nationality. This was apparently the question posed by the old women. After telling her of my origins, I ask what else the old women were saying. The young woman says that the old woman likes me. I feel affirmed that my personal energy and manner has engendered such a response.

Then the young woman asks if I will be going to Phuket. I assume this is a joke, given the tsunami, so I answer no and the assembled locals all laugh. The young woman tells me that she and her friends are going to Phuket in the next few days, which sounds like a continuation of the joke. I press her on it, and she explains that one of them has a place to stay and that everything is fine there now, so she really will be headed to Phuket for vacation. She punctuates the explanation with a nervous giggle. I am stunned given the news reports about the lack of basic infrastructure, sanitation, and water. But she's completely serious.

We move on to other topics and I ask her to tell the old women that I am an American Buddhist. This concept proves too difficult for me to communicate, so I drop it and we move to the photo session, which involves pictures of me with the jovial old women and then me with the unsmiling monk. Then the group disperses, I head to my bike, and begin to peddle out of the complex. As I pass, one of the old women shouts to me and points at another younger woman nearby. I suspect that she is telling me that this woman is single and offering to serve as a matchmaker. I just smile, wave, and ride away into the city.

After visiting another gourgeous temple housing a magnificent golden Buddha, I ride to the base of some nearby hills, the tops of which hold a series of temples, spires and impressive structures. This is a tourist destination, and there is a cable car that takes visitors to the top of the hill. As I get into the cable car, the attendant points to my can of coca cola and says the word "monkey" to indicate that I've got to be careful not to lose my drink to an aggressive non-human primate. I immediately notice that the area is swarming with Macaque monkeys, one of which sits only feet away from me and rides the cable car for awhile before jumping into the forest. The temples at the top are quite magical and offer views of the surrounding countryside which is quite flat. I sit in a small temple at the highest point, look up at a Buddha statute, and ask for spiritual and life guidance. Before the Buddha can answer, a French tourist pokes his head into the temple, breaking the tranquility and stymying my quest for enlightenment. For now.

It's 6pm and I may cruise the night markets to see what looks tasty before walking the streets and seeing what random interactions transpire. Tomorrow I plan to rent a motorcycle, drive to a national park, hike for several hours, return to Petchaburi, drop off the motorcyle, and then catch transport to the coastal city of Chaam for New Year's. After the dawn of 2005, I intend to go deeper into the south and spend two nights at the Khao Sok national park, which is relatively near the coastal areas that were hit by the tsunami. I've already checked with the tourist authorities, and they say everything is fine at the park. So it isn't dangerous to visit, but I may finally encounter some people who witnessed the disaster. Then I still intend to visit Ko Pha Ngan and Ko Tao, islands off the Eastern Coast that were untouched by the waves. Tourists are now re-routing their trips to avoid the East and may end up on these islands as a substitute. It's hard to tell what's really going on from this vantage point.

I hope it isn't weird to hear of my exploits in the midst of tragedy. But sometimes the best thing to do is carry on. Everyone around me is just going about their normal routines, and so my traveling plans will continue. There isn't much I can do apart from avoiding the hard-hit areas, donating both money and blood, and spending my money with local businesses to keep the tourist-dependant economy alive. I will make a blood donation in the next day or two and will continue to give money at each opportunity.

That's the story from my view of this part of the world. It may not jibe with the news on CNN which paints a portrait of tourists fleeing Thailand in droves. The travel scene in Thailand continues, and it will take more than this earthquake to stop people from making the pilgrimage to this special place.

More as it develops...

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I was nowhere near the tsunami

The first of five postings from my recent trip to Thailand

I hadn't expected to find so many anxious email messages when logging into my account today, but news of the tsunami appears to have freaked out those who love me. No need to worry. After 36 hours of transit, I arrived in Bangkok last night and spent the remainder of the evening enjoying some green curry and a walk through the backpacker ghetto. Today I meandered through the Grand Palace and Wat Pho -- two tremendously inspirational temple complexes. Between meditating amongst the endless Buddhas and my first body-twisting massage with hot steaming herbs, I have already settled into the travelling mentality.

Based on what I've read, the tsunami did serious damage to the islands off the Western coast of Thailand. It had always been my plan to visit the Islands off the Eastern coast, although the American traveler I met during my 8 hour layover in Guangzhou airport kept urging me to go stay in a bungalow on Ko Phi Phi, which turns out to be one of the worst hit places. Am I being sent some sort of sign?

I have plenty to relate about the marathon journey, and my initial experiences in Bangkok, but those can wait for another time.

Direct your prayers towards those who need the help.

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Wargasm

Inspired by watching Fox News cover the Iraq war in the early days of the conflict

The warplay begins. The general waxes about the bravery of our troops, expressing indignant outrage that the enemy is not following our rules of war. Have they no respect for the rules of war, he cries? They refuse to confront us on the battlefield, instead choosing to hide and deceive. They are dishonorable thugs, animals, savages who have no respect for international law. Why won’t they come out into the open, march in formation, and stand at attention while we slaughter them? That would be the honorable thing to do, wouldn’t it?

The freshly scrubbed commentator nods vigorously, as his eyes narrow and his tightly clenched face becomes flushed. Why don’t those protesters get a job, he says, or volunteer at a senior center? And how much is it costing to keep those police busy arresting them? Wouldn’t that money be better spent to feed the homeless?

Let’s talk about the weapons, they say – those precision-guided bombs, the hellfire missiles, the graceful helicopters of death. A marvel of technological progress. A testament to American superiority. Delivering divine vengeance to those who defy God’s will. For America, you see, is the Lord’s messenger.

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I am watching from my living room, feeling warmth flow from the television screen. It bathes me in reassurance, stroking me, telling me that everything is going to be better, that our cause is just, that suffering will be eliminated. The hungry will be fed. The poor will have work. Oppression will cease. Flowers will bloom. Let go, and believe in the cause.

And for a moment, I almost let go, seduced by the warjob.

The field reporter announces another victory through jerky imagery from somewhere deep inside enemy territory. We are pounding their positions, he says, to stop these cowards from murdering our soldiers. Back to the studio, he says. And in the studio, the commentator raises his eyebrow and shouts at the camera, celebrating this good news from the front. His breathing becomes heavy. As he finishes another ode to our glorious warriors and their holy crusade, I can hear a muffled moan and see a slight jerk in his neck. I realize that he is having a wargasm. As his ecstasy reaches a frenzied peak, the image cuts to tanks firing, bombs bursting, and planes launching. The release of ordinance is extended and impressive. It concludes with a shot of a man in uniform, resting silently next to the American flag, holding a small baby in his arms.

I am left shocked and awed by this episode of wargy. I can only feel darkness, death and disconnect. Perhaps I am just suffering from a case of wartime dysfunction. Treatment with patriotic viagra may be necessary.

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My toast at Rebecca's wedding

Rebecca and I share a unique bond.

We lost our mother at an early age. Our father did a heroic job as a single parent over the subsequent years until Laurie entered our lives. During this time, we were what they used to call “latch key” children. This meant that we helped to raise each other when no one else was around. By that I mean that we looked after each other. And by that I mean that we would beat up on each other. Actually, I did most of the beating up. Ah, but I digress…

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Today, I look around this room and feel the spirit of our mother here with us. And I know that she would be so proud of the woman you’ve become – warm, loving, compassionate, committed to making the world a better place, extremely sarcastic and a very powerful positive force in the universe. Perhaps a bit too powerful.

And she would be thrilled to know your life partner. Jeff is a truly thoughtful and sensitive human being. A bit less sarcastic than Rebecca, but I see that they share parallel world views, make each other laugh, are able to share life’s simple joys and support each other through the difficult times. Their love for each other is strong, transparent and infectious.

I am now in the unfamiliar situation of welcoming a new brother to our family. But as I look around this room, I realize that this union – so to speak -- expands our family well beyond the addition of one more seat at the holiday dinner table. Through this marriage, we have become related to another wing of the movement – a family I am just beginning to know. The enlargement of our family, and the organizing opportunity it represents, is a new and wonderful experience. So I want to welcome the Nelsons and the Kleins to the family of the Freedmans and the Millmans. May we all work together in peace to fight the forces of evil, win justice for workers and troubled youths, and make the world a place where people of all types in all nations can raise their glasses together and drink great wine.

I think of our mother on this glorious day and take comfort in the fact that she is here. Because she lives through us. And her spirit is with us today.

With that, I raise a glass and offer a toast to the future of our families, to Rebecca and Jeff and to the wonderful life that now becomes a reality for them and for all of us.

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The era that was -- the S Street house story

We found the original S Street lease for the house in the dining room credenza while rooting around one afternoon. Dated sometime in 1976, it apparently marked the actual beginning of S Street's conversion to group house status. Throughout my time in DC, I met individuals who had lived in the S Street house at some point in their lives. A colleague at another environmental group (whom I saw frequently at coalition meetings) described a set of adventures centered around his stay at the house sometime during the 1980s. The scene sounded familiar. One Sunday morning, a few people stopped at our steps while we were hanging out drinking coffee and asked if we were still constituted as a group house. They had lived at S street in the late 1970s and told tales of the crew who inhabited the place in the early days. I remember their references to a guy who freaked out after the meltdown of Three Mile Island in 1979 and hurredly decided to pack up all his belongings and leave town. There are doubtless many other stories we'll never know.

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Contrary to Eric's claim, I was not the first occupant of our generation. That honor goes to Kate. Back in early 1993, I had just moved to DC and was living with Bill Parsons at his apartment on Capitol Hill. From my bedroom, I could look into the back of the Public Citizen office and see the copier room. Although Bill was a great roommate, the apartment lacked a certain amount of charm and was short on space. And watching my coworkers copy activist packets from my bedroom turned out to be pretty demoralizing.

So Eric and I decided to team up and find a house. Through some weird set of events, we ended up meeting with Kate one night at a bar near Dupont. After testing out our likely compatibility, we decided to look for houses together.

Our search did not go so well at first. One house just above U Street was beautiful (with an amazing roof deck) but just too expensive. After failing to find anything suitable, each of us branched out on our own a bit. I interviewed at a group house on U Street where all the applicants were seated next to one another across from the existing house residents. The lead resident introduced himself, announced in an unsubtle fashion that he had attended Yale, and then proceeded to interrogate each of the applicants in turn. When I mentioned an interest in going to law school within several years, he asked me which law schools I was considering. At that point, I knew this group was not for me.

One day Kate called Eric and I to tell us that she had accepted an offer to move into this house on S Street. She apologized for abandoning us but mentioned that additional rooms might be opening up in that house in the future. Eric and I became somewhat demoralized. Well, actually it was Eric who got anxious about our prospects. I maintained my optimism in spite of Eric's pessimism. This should come as no surprise to anyone.

Shortly thereafter, Kate called to tell me that several rooms were opening up at the S street house. I went over to take a look. My first reaction was not positive. The house seemed very dingy (even worse than most can remember). All the curtains were drawn, the kitchen hadn't been painted in a decade, the backyard was completely overgrown and the common areas were littered with random items like an exercise bike and various boxes. The basement was filled with piles of unmarked boxes and criss-crossing lines that were strung up for drying clothes. The dryer had broken some time ago and apparently noone had been willing to contact the landlord to ask for a replacement. So laundry was hung throughout the dank basement leaving only a few narrow routes for movement that led from the stairs to the washing machine.

Noone in the house seemed to communicate with one another. The old residents (Barry, Regina, Susan, and ??) had little interaction, never cooked together, had not held one party in the place and seemed anxious to leave. Despite these bad signs, I decided to take the plunge. Within months, the entire compliment of old residents turned over. The new group included me, Winick, Kate, Sleepy and Josh. It was truly the dawning of a new era.

Over time, the house began to take shape. We spent an entire weekend repainting the kitchen. The bluish/purple trim was based on the hue of a bowl in the cabinet that folks liked. Although motivation was strong at first, we never really finished the job and ended up stopping work entirely before finishing the cabinets in the pantry. Cleaning up the yard took more time. And the basement was an endless project. I called Dr. Evans pretty soon after moving in and found him quite willing to purchase a new clothes dryer. Months later, Eric and Bridget (a new housemate) began the process of digging through the basement boxes and clearing out space. The basement contained more than a decade's worth of abandoned possessions from former house residents. We also managed to recycle four or five massive 1950's-vintage air conditioners including one the size of a medium-sized refrigerator that sat in the dining room window. Part of the basement project involved cleaning out the small room next to the oil tank. Eric and I put up posters and decided that it would become our practice area. This concept was, however, fatally flawed since it was never our habit to actually rehearse on a regular basis. So the room fell into disrepair and gradually became a resting place for the never-ending piles of boxes and half-cannibalized bicycles. As we worked our way through organizing the rest of the house, we found other bizarre items including the mysterious shotgun in the third floor closet.

The first coffeehaus was held sometime in the middle of 1993. Someone had a friend in this band which went by the name "Schwaa" (and used a script 'e' as their logo/icon), so we asked them to come and play at a party. They set up their PA system in the dining room. In-between sets, Eric and I made a frantic dash for the single microphone before the crowds dispersed and had our first public performance at the S Street house. The next coffeehaus, held in the newly-cleaned basement, marked the beginning of the modern coffeehaus era. The basement still stunk but our efforts to create ambiance (read: burning incense and candles) seemed to distract guests from the nastiness that was just below the surface.

The raging parties also became a staple of life at the house. Sleepy seemed to have endless numbers of soccer friends who would overwhelm any gathering and push us into the realm of "Full Party Mode" years before Gergen arrived on the scene. There were also many dinner parties, sunday brunches, and a stream of out-of-town guests crashing in one of the two empty rooms. We hosted a series of "tuesday night frisbee dinners" which involved 20-30 twenty-something DC activist types that began with a group cooking experience and would culminate in a bike ride to the White House and a game of night frisbee on the Ellipse. The house was very much alive, well and the center of an active social hub.

S Street also served as the command center for the Group House Alliance. Marcellene and I held meetings in the basement and dining room for the small cadre of activists committed to stopping the efforts of conservative homeowners to place limits on group houses throughout DC. I clearly remember the night that Frank Smith, our DC Council member, came to S Street to confront a mob of group house residents who lived in his district. Prior to arriving, Smith was listed as a cosponsor of the offending legislation. After sizing up the political opposition of the 50+ assembled group house residents (many of whom worked for political advocacy groups), he stood in our dining room and proclaimed his deep commitment to opposing this heinous bill. After repeatedly invoking the spirit of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Smith announced that he would remove his name from the list of cosponsors to the cheers of the packed house. Later in the campaign, we held another well-attended meeting with a different councilmember in the living room and witnessed a similar instantaneous conversion.

The rotating inhabitants of S Street provided for some bizarre episodes. One fairly scary subletter, Evan (a college acquaintance of Josh), freaked out everyone else in the house. There was an aura of deep-seated evil lurking around him. His ongoing lack of sensitivity to anyone else's needs was typified one Halloween night. My family was in town spending the weekend staying in my room. Evan slept next door in the 2nd floor middle room and had a Swedish au pair girlfriend who would moan loudly whenever they had sex. Cognizant of this fact, I pleaded with Evan to refrain and stay quiet for the one night my parents were sleeping in my room. He agreed and said not to worry. As Marcellene and I were settling off to sleep in the 2nd floor guestroom that evening, the familiar moans began with their usual volume. When I sheepishly apologized to my family the next morning, my step-mother said that they found it quite amusing and was happy that Evan's girlfriend was so orgasmic.

And, of course, there was Laura and the cats. Those sweet little cats. Who managed to make the basement even more foul than before. Devils in disguise. Enemies of Blue. Tyrants. These cats left their mark on the house. But apart from their episodes of escape and destruction, they actually seemed to fit in fairly well.

Throughout my tenure, I was determined to invite some of my friends to live in the house. Peter dutifully waited until Eric's room became available and then made his move. And when Laura left, Peter and I schemed to invite Susie into the clan. I remember calling Susie in Turkmenistan and asking, over an echoing phone connection, whether she was willing to move in upon her return. She hesitated a minute before committing to a house sight unseen. We stressed the large spaces, good location and cheap rent. Having few other options at the time, she relented and accepted our offer.

Perhaps my fondest memories are of the numerous camping trips taken together. The first outing involved a three-day canoeing trip down the Potomac river. Although my original idea of the group being naked for the duration never fully panned out, the chance to float down a river and drink beer for several days turned out to be a great bonding experience. Subsequent trips to Assateague island, and the strange romances sparked during a particularly fateful storm, became an integral part of the S Street lore.

Leaving the S Street house was very hard. I packed all my stuff into a rented truck, cleaned out the closets and waved goodbye to a very wonderful part of my life. As I drove north and passed into Maryland, tears welled up in my eyes. I mourned for the loss of those early post-college years, for the break from a supportive and loving community, and for leaving the largest bedroom I would ever inhabit for my entire life.

I look back on those days with a mixture of nostalgia and satisfaction. Now that the era is formally ending, with a loss of direct connection between the original group and those who inhabit the house today, I feel the sense of loss anew.

May the tradition continue.

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Remembering Grandma Betty

I delivered this eulogy at the funeral of my grandmother Betty Litel

I stand here today to remember Betty for her strengths, achievements and contributions to others. It is easy for us to focus on the painful process of aging that robbed her of vitality and clarity in these last few years, but I choose to talk about her as she was during the years of my youth. Because her story is an amazing one that should remind us all of how lucky we are today and instruct us in how to face and overcome the unpredictable challenges that life deals.

When I think about Betty’s life and try to understand her contribution to the world, I realize that she was a person deeply committed to the welfare of others, devoted to her family, and selfless in her love. In my early years, I knew her simply as a woman who loved me and would treat me like a king during our yearly visits to Florida. I remember that each visit was full of fun activities that became family traditions. I will never forget all the trips to the Rascal House deli, the trips to the Beach, the continuous food onslaught and the community of friends that Betty and Al developed during their time in Florida.

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When I think of these vacations, I visualize the knishes, mundle bread, toll house cookies and luxeon kugle that were standard fare. I can remember the exact spot in their front closet where the toys were stored for Rebecca and I to play with during the visits. I can see Papa Al sitting at the card table or standing with a pool cue in his hand. And I will never forget the musical variety shows in the Recreation building. Especially the time when a performer, eager to ingratiate herself with the all-Jewish crowd, finished a rendition of a traditional Jewish song and then announced “not bad for a shicker, eh?”. The crowd went wild with laugher while the performer stared out at the crowd in confusion – Papa and Grandma couldn’t stop talking about it for days.

As I grew older, the annual visits became a staple of our school vacation and I became more familiar with Betty as a person. I realized that she was a remarkably non-judgemental individual and had few preconceived ideas of how I should live my life. Her famous saying, “If it makes you happy”, communicated a willingness to accept the fact that changes occurring in the world during her life would likely lead her grandchildren down a different path than the one she had chosen. I always felt totally supported by Betty and knew that she would judge my progress based upon my personal happiness rather than by comparing it to the choices she had made.

What makes Betty’s love, tolerance and devotion remarkable is that her childhood was marked by struggle, suffering and rejection. I can only imagine the adversity that she overcame in her early years. Her own mother died young and her father left for America while she was still a small child. Being raised by her own grandmother, she persevered despite the personal and political turmoil that was ongoing. Remember that Betty was a young child when Russia was racked by civil war and revolution. She told me once about witnessing acts of rape and cruelty by marauding soldiers passing through her village. Fortunately, she was too young to be of interest to them at the time.

When she arrived in the United States at the age of 16, after what must have been an extremely arduous boat ride across the ocean, her whole life changed. She could not speak any English, was extremely overweight, and had few skills that would allow her to make a living. Her father, unrecognizable given the long time that had passed, had remarried and given birth to several children. She went to live with them but found that her new step-mother treated her with cruelty and contempt. Betty told me that her step-mother would not accommodate her dietary needs that would help her to lose weight, refused to do her laundry, and looked upon her as an outcast. Although her father, a fruit peddler by trade, seemed a kind man, it was the step-mother who ran the household. The poisoned atmosphere forced Betty to leave home quickly. She went to live with cousins who treated her with love and kindness. Betty learned English quickly and found employment doing piecework sewing. It must have been a difficult life. But she managed to survive and even found time for fun. Betty told me that during the summers she would rent a beach house with several friends in Nantasket. It was there that she literally bumped into her future husband on the beach. Al was quickly smitten by her charm and soon they were married.

I tell Betty’s story because I think it is important to remember the incredible challenges that she overcame. Coming from a warm and loving family, and having had all the opportunities one could desire, I cannot imagine how I would react and find it amazing that she was able to embrace the joy of life rather than dwell on the injustices that she suffered. I never knew about her early years until the last decade. She never talked about it unless asked. It was just the way she was – as my father often said, Betty was never a complainer.

The death of my mother was devastating to her. As it was for all of us. But Betty took it the hardest. I won’t dwell on this subject because it only serves to reopen our old wounds. But I bring it up to remind myself, as one of two remaining descendants, that Betty spent her final years dedicated to the well-being of her husband, and then later her grandchildren. She told Rebecca and I that we were all she had in the world. It was a hard thing to hear as a teenager. It is easier to understand and accept now.

I want to remember Betty’s legacy as one of compassion, selflessness, commitment to others and unconditional love. That is how she touched me and this is how I will describe her to my children and grandchildren. When asked, I will tell them that Betty was a truly great woman who was dealt unthinkable challenges and experienced terrible tragedy. Yet despite her losses, she approached life with love rather than hate and was able to look forward rather than dwell on the past. She serves as an inspiration to us all and an example of unswerving dedication to the well-being of our family.

I know that we all will deeply miss her. I hope that in death she can find that peace that has been denied during these past few painful years.

Amen.

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