Initially I refuse to go with Bruce on a motorcycle ride to Phayao to visit DC and Pai —I am staying home in my nice cool house, reading and writing.  He is not going to entice and trick me by saying, “Oh honey, come with me. It’ll be a nice, easy, ride.” Regardless of whether my hubby talks about a “nice, easy ride” on the bicycle or the motorcycle, it is all the same. It is never easy and rarely nice.

First rule of thumb.  Bikers talk trash, and they can never be trusted.  Either they will drop you with great pleasure (cyclist slang for leaving you in the dust) after falsely assuring you that the ride is an easy spin —a mere “recovery” ride —or they will make you suffer immeasurably trying to keep up. 

Bruce is no exception. His speciality is blowing your doors off on steep, nasty, short hills and leap frogging in direct violation of Rule # 38 from www.velominati.com/the-rules. His definition of fun is the kind where your hair sticks to your scalp in a plastered-down, hot oily mess and vehicles blow smelly fumes in your face. Your face glows demonic red from exertion and ghastly pale white from exhaustion all at the same time. Your feet burn. Your clothing sticks to you and your bum chafes. Never mind that you put gobs of Hoo-Ha Ride Glide on your Betty Boo Down There. 

However, because I try my best to refer to Rule #5, “Harden the F___ Up,” in deference to the gods of cycling yore, I acquiesce once again to my dear husband’s siren song. Besides, the clincher is that Pai is taking us on a visit to her home village of Ban Pin, about 33 km south of Phayao. Like a dutiful patient being led to electroshock therapy, I don my full face helmet, leather jacket, boots, and gloves, and climb on the back of the red devil Honda.

The start is relatively pleasant, the morning air deceptively cool. We pass rice field after rice field, lush with recent rains, and ripe for harvesting.

After stopping in Phayao to pick up our friends and have a caffeine fix at Love Station Coffee,

we climb back on the motorcycles and head south. Juxtaposed against mountains to the north and east, the roads gently wind to the small village of Ban Pin.

Not only does Pai’s extended family greet us with coconut drinks from their backyard,

they bring heaps of food for an unexpected and delicious lunch treat.

Yanni, a most engaging chap from Switzerland, was also at the gathering for his weekly English lesson with the village children. Yanni was married to a Thai woman for 11 plus years, but, as the relationship deteriorated, he found solace and distraction in teaching young children, and thus he has stayed in the village after the divorce. Eventually, he knows he will need to leave Thailand as visa requirements become more difficult and complex but until that time, he stays.

One of the students creeps up to my back with a large cricket - I am not sure if the cricket is dead or alive - and chases me around the yard to everyone’s laughter. Then he promptly shoves the cricket in his mouth and swallows it, the legs  of the cricket hanging out of his mouth as he giggles hysterically.

Pai gives me a tour of her childhood home, a Thai wood home with open windows and no screens, a concrete addition, big courtyard, outdoor kitchen under the main house, complete with a noodle shop, abandoned vehicles, satellite dish, TV, dog, chickens, water tank, and drying rice.

We bid our goodbyes and give our best wais. 

Suffice it to say that my dear husband does not listen to DC’s directions on how to return home, and, like a fool, neither do I.  Neither do we ask the king of maps, Dave. As we leave the village, the sun fries us on our left sides, casting long shadows as we pass soi dogs and shops and bicycles, heading northwest. 

​Then, oh no! now the sun's burning up our back sides because we are erroneously going east, which warrants a belated phone call to DC for further directions. Feeling doomed, we schlep south, backtracking with the sun laser-beaming our right sides until we are finally northbound again with the sun spiraling downwards, along with our moods. We arrive home thoroughly baked. What should be a two-hour trip has turned into a Mad Max four-hour odyssey.  By this time, I want to rip off my full face shield helmet, rip my beloved's head off as well, trash my leathers along the road in violation of Rule # 77, and ride naked and screaming down the road. Will I never learn? I guess I should refer myself to Rule # 81 - never talk it up, and as always, Rule # 5.

​After all, we did get home alive, and we owe a debt of gratitude to Pai and her gracious family for a truly wonderful day in the village. Khob khun ka (thank-you). 

Yes, my dear Watson, it is true. All I want for Christmas is a white, twin-size, flat, 400-thread, Egyptian cotton, top sheet. I cannot find any flat, top sheets in Thailand. I thought I had staked out the desired object twice, only to be foiled by deceptive packaging

and my inability to read Thai: first by the department store called “Big C” (K-Mart on permanent blue-light special, topped with fish sauce)

and second by a place called “Koncept” (Ikea but cheaper, across from a place called Makro, or, Costco on MSG).

Setting up house here in northern Thailand is no elementary task, involving trips by bicycle 

 and by tuk tuks. 

 Initially, I outwitted the Thai sensibility by bringing my own queen-size sheet set from the States for my bed, but alas, my suitcase was 49 plus pounds, and could not fit one more thin little mint. Now I am trying to make a comfortable guest bed for the intrepid person who dares to make the journey to the Land Without Top Sheets, but, alas again, not only will you be subject to a mattress harder than the most seasoned Napoleon of crime, but you will also be forced to cover your nakedness with a heavy, nasty thing called a “duvet.” 
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​Whoever came up with this vilest of a thing called a duvet should be forced to spend eternity wrapped in thousands of unwashed, scratchy, smelly, duvets on fire, drug from the cesspools of Bangkok, all while gazing at pictures of mortals resting in blissful repose under cool top sheets of the finest spun cotton. It remains an unsolvable mystery: during my five months investigating Thailand and Laos, I have yet to encounter a hotel or guesthouse bed with a top, flat sheet. I have first hand evidence.

Meanwhile, back at my homestead, I chopped the gathered edges of the ugly green fitted sheet with my scissors, bought at the 20 baht store

and made a sorry-looking top flat sheet

 I think you know my Cheap Charlie husband’s methods by now; nothing more than 20 baht ($0.56 cents) can be spent on anything - other than bikes of course.  

But forgive me, I digress. According to my Western persuasion, the selling of top sheets should be elementary; the Thais sell every thing else under the sun, and the average temperature in Chiang Rai in November is 84 F. Could it be that the impossible is true? That Thais like to be hot?

No, not that kind of fair sex hotness, silly. 

The other hot. The curious incident where even the dogs bear witness to the belief that any temperature below 80 F requires covering with heavy things,

and where chefs seem to enjoy setting themselves on fire.

Therefore, my dear Watson, if you could avail yourself to find clues as to this warped persistence that persons should cover themselves with blankets versus sheets in a land where sweat knows no end, please enlighten me. And send a top sheet, please. That would be most excellent.

Inspiration for this blog taken from: 
http://www.bestofsherlock.com/top-10-sherlock-quotes.htm#impossible

This past weekend Bruce and I rode our Independent Fabrication bikes from Chiang Rai to the pretty lakeside town of Phayao;  68 miles, 3 hours and 45 minutes, on the world’s second most dangerous roads. 

Not to worry, Mom, I felt very safe, as I have my entire time here in Thailand. But, according to the Asian Correspondent (2014, February 25), Thailand’s roads are the second most dangerous in the world in terms of fatalities, and 74% of those accidents involve motorbikes. While in Phayao, I took pictures of the many motorcycles passing by.

 
















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​My observations on bicycling and safety in Thailand:
Gratefully, drivers usually give way to us, and in our five months cycling around Thailand, not one single driver has blasted the horn at us in anger or tried to run us off the road (see exception below). Buddhist zen influence perhaps?  Unlike Florida, on our first day back in the States last year, one man shouted at us in Trump-like fashion from his car, “Get in the bike lane!” (there was none) and another driver blew his horn non-stop because he had to slow for two seconds to pass us. 

Yes, some vehicles do come very close, especially the silver tourist minivans. The drivers of these hit-mobiles are notorious for unsafe driving; they pass on corners, speed recklessly, and force cars and motorcycles off the road.  Speeding to yet another pretty temple? No such law as the “four feet passing” exists here like in Pennsylvania; not that drivers in Pennsylvania pay attention to it anyway.  

In addition, speed laws are rarely enforced, especially at night, in keeping with current, inconsistent enforcement of helmet laws by Thai traffic police.  At the many daytime roadblock checkpoints, police have been known to literally back hand helmet-less riders as punishment or call them “bad” and send them on their way, with or without a  200 baht fine ($5.50 USD). This fine may or may not line someone’s pocket.  Name-calling and sporadic collection of fines appear to have little effect as less than 43% of motorcycle riders regularly wear helmets (Asian Correspondent, 2015, October 4). Graphic roadside billboards showing accident victims split in half freak me out, but appear to have little effect on safety behaviors. 

Driving while drunk has yet to be demonized and the laws apply more to some than to others. For example, in 2012 the Red Bull heir, Vorayuth Yoovidhaya, was charged with drunk driving in a hit-and-run accident in which he killed and dragged a police officer for 200 feet with his Ferrarri before fleeing the scene, but he was never prosecuted. Don’t pick mushrooms illegally in Thailand though: you might get a 15-year prison sentence, as in the 2010 case of Daeng Siris-orn and her husband Udom Siris-orn.

Bike lanes do exist in Thailand, including the recently renovated 23 km. Suvarnabhumi Airport Green Bike Lane, but let’s get real. Most bike lanes are really for food vendors, motorcycles, tour buses, garbage, parked cars, and impromptu roadside beer parties. Although Thailand plans to open the longest bicycle lane in Asia by 2017, in honor of the King’s birthday, one blogger plugged the announcement, “Soon to be the longest food stall in Asia.” This pessimism is logical: one only has to look at the current state of the sidewalks, which are little more than commercial spaces for vendors and pooping grounds for stray dogs.  I for one accept this reality as part of the charm of Thailand (minus the poop): I am happy to find food on every corner. And what an awesome parkour course!
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After my initial horrendous experience riding the streets of Bangkok on only my second day in Bangkok - which included seeing a picture of a dead cyclist on the front page of an Asian newspaper - I have learned to feel comfortable wiggling up to the front of a line of cars - along with the motorcycles - dodging trucks, tuk-tuks (popular 3-wheeled taxi motorcycles), songtaews (small pick-up trucks with 2 rows in the back facing each other to transport passengers), taxis, the omnipresent silver Toyota flat beds, vendors, and any other odd concoction of vehicle, weaving in and out of traffic. Blogger Mr. Pumpy aptly describes Thai traffic as “polite chaos.” 

 No one seems to get upset if someone pulls out in front of them; everyone gives and takes. Very few traffic lights exist, because drivers know how to merge, and more importantly, know how to be forgiving. I may pull out in front of you, but you may also pull out in front of me, and we will all get to our destinations alive. In the meantime, please keep praying, Mom.

​“All things are full of weariness;
a man cannot utter it;
the eye is not satisfied with seeing,
nor the ear filled with hearing.

What has been is what will be,
and what has been done is what will be done,
and there is nothing new under the sun,”  Ecclesiastes Chapter 1 

And so it goes, dear readers, there is nothing new that I, a farm girl from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, can regale you with that you have not heard or seen or read in some similar fashion from yet another wandering soul or narcissistic blogger or selfie-tripping tourist. I can only offer what Polonius in Hamlet knew, “To thine own self be true” and the persistent notion that I must write. 

On the one hand,  I am filled with dread to expose my private self; paralyzed with fear that my ramblings will not be witty or wise or worse, sloppily crafted. Yet, on the other hand, I am driven to expel the rumination(s) that rattle around my brain and settle, like a leaf on the sea, to the page.  So, what shall I write about? Time will tell. 

Yes, I will write about my travels, not in a day to day diary per se, although this may occur if I deem the day interesting enough, but more about themes, about people, about stories, about places, and my observations, however limited by my Western world view. While some posts will occur as a result of being a mere mortal, with the accompanying baggage, most posts will be generated by bicycling in Thailand and Laos and by living in Thailand.  

​There are also stories that need to be told about experiences which have yet to render my penned voice. After visiting the Vientiane museum, Cooperative Orthotic and Prosthetic Enterprise (COPE), and learning of the horrors of America’s secret war on Laos, I was so distressed by my birth nation’s horrific actions on the gentle Laotian people that I stored those memories in a part of my brain that I promised to visit later. For the little boy who perished from a “bombie” (unexploded bomb) while trying to support his family, and for the parents who cry for him, I will tell the story again. 

​No, I cannot promise fantastic pictures from my “not-so-smart” phone camera, nor will I ask you to follow me on Twitter or Instagram. Further, I promise not to stage pictures - unless I forewarn you - and to use only photos taken by myself or my husband. I do ask one thing, for you and for me, the ability to be forever curious: curious about your world, about my world, and the world of others, however many times the same stories have been repeated. My story is yet another nuance, and the hope for a collective solace in our never-ending growing under a jaded sun.

​"If confusion is the first step toward knowledge, I must be a genius," Larry Keisner
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How did we get to where we are today: living in a Thai-style house, surrounded by greens, thatched-roof gazebos, spotted doves, and geckos down a quiet soi (alley) in the city of Chiang Rai, Thailand?
​ It all started when, in my not so distant past as a nurse working in Pennsylvania, USA, I developed a knack for getting fired. First, I got fired from my seven-year job as assistant director of nursing in a large nursing home; the not-for-profit company had been taken over by a for-profit company,  my boss had died, and the new company wanted new blood. Plus, I was told I was “aggressive.” So I took time off to get my graduate degree in nursing leadership and eventually got another job in nursing management. I resigned from that job after a year, then promptly got fired from another job after only a week; I was told I “didn’t fit.” 

Second, disgusted with management politics, I returned to bedside nursing as an oncology nurse in a teaching hospital. Six months later a former employer asked me to come back to nursing home management, but I got fired from that job too after 6 weeks: I was told I “lacked  commitment", despite working and being on call 24/7. Back to the teaching hospital I went, working with cancer patients in their 40’s who frequently told me, “I want more time. I wish I had lived life more, traveled more, been less worried about my job and the small stuff.” Hearing their stories was my “ah hah” moment.

​My last day at work I rode my bicycle 30 miles, worked my 13 hour shift, ate good-bye cake, and off I pedaled into the great unknown. At this point I should mention that my husband is 17 years older than me. As a self-employed electrical contractor, his services were always in demand, and he worked non-stop; in-between biking of course. He wanted to retire, but at home his phone rang constantly with work requests. I realized that if we were going to wait to travel till I reached retirement age, or “until the time is right”  he could be gone, and his dream of retiring to Thailand gone with him (posts on his story to follow: from bad boy to Vietnam to Afghanistan to Iran to a failed marriage, to bankruptcy and back, to cycling and to Thailand). 

Together we made a plan. We purchased our Adventure Cycling Association Maps, bought bicycling touring gear, made our packing lists, and shut down the house. A week after my last day on the job, my husband and I took off on a self-supported cycling trip from Pennsylvania to Florida ( posts to follow), cycling 1800 miles in 23 days. Upon returning home (we flew home for a friend’s wedding), we worked on our apartment buildings for two months, and made preparations for a cycling trip to Southeast Asia.

​First time around, we bicycled in Thailand and Laos and fell in love with Chiang Rai and its people, staying four months (posts from November 2014 to March 2015 to follow). Now we are on our second go-around here in Thailand. The rest is...well, both history and the open road.  

"A bird does not sing because it has an answer, It sings because it has a song," Maya Angelon

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