Iris, umm, Fired

I didn’t come to Thailand with delusions of grandeur. I didn’t come here to get rich or to become famous. I was just another girl trying to make my way through the world, daring to go beyond the confines of my own backyard. I’ve been brave, yes, and I take pride in that more than any other.

Teaching has been something I dabbled with for the past year or so. There were the unsuccessful forays into corporate training and the unfinished professional education course. It was something I always wanted to do, but it never came naturally to me the way writing always has, so when I was offered a teaching job in Thailand for the first time, I left my comfortable office job and took the challenge. I knew I had a lot to learn but I was determined to succeed. With the constant assurance and encouragement of the person who hired me, I believed that, given time, I would become a great teacher. Everyone around me kept telling me to take it slow, that I’ll get used to it in time. How was I supposed to know that time will be cruelly taken away from me? I never really had a chance.

For the past couple of weeks or so, my blogs have endured an upsurge of criticism. What used to be two obscure little websites with barely 15 visitors per day suddenly gained immense popularity – and not in a good way. Along with my loyal readership of good friends and family, strangers have found their way into my little sanctuary, strangers who dare to judge and hate somebody who have never done them or anybody wrong. I have suffered the indignity of being labeled some very choice words from the English language, but I didn’t care. After all, to each his own, right? These are my blogs. I can write anything that I want on it and anybody can comment as he/she sees fit. That’s how the free world supposedly works.

Imagine my surprise when last night I received a rather cruel email (didn’t even bother with the courtesy of calling) from my employer terminating me from the school after a week of labor because of an article I wrote days before I got the teaching job. My lifestyle apparently does not conform to the acceptable teacher’s way of living (if there’s such a thing). They were afraid that at some point I’d start writing about the school and tarnish its precious and rather inexistent reputation, and I wasn’t a good enough teacher.

For one thing, why would I write about a school? Who wants to read about some stuffy private school in Phahon Yothin Soi 37? The thought of writing such a piece is enough to bring me to a kind of stupor. For another, I was not aware that teachers were not allowed to have private lives. If they were worried that students will come across my blogs at some point, they’re gravely mistaken. The Thais are so ingrained in their own culture that they really can’t be bothered to read 2 obscure English blogs from an unknown person. They spend their time reading Thai comic books and perusing websites in Thai, for crying out loud. Honestly, most Thais don’t exactly exert extra effort (The 4 E’s were not intentional.) to make English a part of their lives. Why do you think we’re here teaching English in the first place? And as for my capability as a teacher, I made it clear right from the start that I was virtually inexperienced in the field of education and have had no proper training, but I was told by the person who hired me that with my language skills, I can do it and I will be given enough time to adjust and prove my worth. I wasn’t even made to do a teaching demo, he just hired me outright. Looking back, a teaching demo could’ve saved everybody a lot of grief.

Though these were the surface reasons given for my immediate termination, reading between the lines of the fateful email suggests otherwise. The person who hired me is a farang. I believe he and his friends took the article I wrote as a personal attack on farangs. That is simply unfair. The piece was written about one person and one person only. I have nothing against farangs. Heck, most of the friends I’ve made in Thailand are farangs. I find most of them intelligent and interesting. Conversation is never dull, which has always been something that I valued. The world is a huge place and I believe people from different races and cultures have a lot to learn from each other. When I wrote: “Honestly, is there still a farang in Bangkok who isn’t just out to dip his wick in as many Asian crevices as he can?” it was meant to be a question (question mark, duh!) and not a generalization (as my boss labeled it on his email). It most certainly isn’t a concrete statement saying that all farangs are scum because they’re not. Though I may not have met many, I know there are still some good guys out there. And contrary to what most of my detractors believe, I am not here to have sexual relations with every farang in Thailand. I date, I have fun, and if I feel its right, I consent to sex, which is not often at all.

The double standard is appalling. They say the world has come a long way from the middle ages, but to be honest, it hasn’t. When a man sleeps around, he’s a bachelor or a playboy, but if a woman does the same thing, she’s a slut, a whore. If I was a man, I would be having my hand shaken and my back patted right now. I am, however, a woman, so having casual sex makes me a pariah. And as if being a woman is not bad enough, I also happen to be Asian, which puts me in the lowest possible minority. I have been insulted in the worst possible way, and though I’ve been encouraged to reveal the school’s name and the person behind all this, I will not sink to the same pathetic level of disrespect that they have shown me because I, at least, know how to respect without judgment the choices that other people make to live their lives. That alone makes me worth ten of them put together.

But I will say this to a Ben Thomas (the person who sent my boss the links to my blog via email) and Aussie Jake: It is people like you who will never amount to anything and I pity your sad, sorry existence. I also want to say something to Melody, the jackass Aussie’s girlfriend, who supposedly discovered my blog. So we come from the same city. You’re possibly my age and probably feeling just as lost as most single girls our age are, but really, why do you put up with your pig of a boyfriend? Look at how he and his friends treat Southeast Asian women in general. You deserve better than this chauvinistic Neanderthal. We all do. And that’s what I’m here to advocate.

The piece I wrote was meant to be quirky and funny, the way most of my pieces are. It’s just too bad that some people are too backwards to realize that. I will not shut down my blogs. That will be like asking me to cut off my limbs. I will, however, protect my posts, my babies from those who wish me ill. Some of my pieces, especially those that are sexual in nature, will be password-protected and may only be accessed by a select few. To request for a password, email me at irisgodd3ss at yahoo dot com and I’ll decide if you’re worthy to enter my private domain. It kills me to have to do this but this is for survival’s sake. I made the mistake of speaking out and baring my soul in a place where people are not ready for it. But no, Iris and Wander Girl are not going anywhere.

So here I am in this foreign land with no job, no prospects, and very little money. I have a choice. I could cower, get on the first flight home, and expect my mommy to fix everything for me. Or I could lick my wounds, gather my thoughts, and keep on fighting until all hope is lost. I know I will never forgive myself if I admitted defeat and went home now. Things are looking bleak, but as long as I still have a single baht to my name, I’m not going anywhere. I may have been beaten, but I will not lose.

I may not be a particularly good teacher but by God, I can write. If I ever doubted that before, all this fuss has just confirmed that I can be a very powerful writer if I want to be. And yes, I want to be. Thank you for the comments, nasty or otherwise. Thank you for getting me fired. And most of all, thank you for finally giving clarity to what it is that I’m supposed to be doing with my life.

Dating in Bangkok 101: How To Tell If The Seemingly Boyfriend Material Farang You Are Dating Is Not, In Fact, Boyfriend Material

For almost 2 weeks now, I’ve been seeing someone. Being a semi-normal single girl, I did spend the requisite few minutes thinking of the possibilities – in this case, a hell of a lot longer than my usual 5 minutes. This guy is so amazingly likeable that I permitted myself a full hour and a half of inane daydreaming. Thankfully, my jaded and slightly cynical self intervened before I started thinking of white lace, table centerpieces, and carnations.

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. I could usually tell within 5 minutes what a man wants from me, but this one was particularly tricky. The man in question is sweet, smart, attentive, funny, and seems to be made of the same stuff that good boyfriends are often made of. Manifestations of the horny male caveman genome were not immediately evident. After three dinners and much scrutiny, however, I was able to discover that my promising new find might not be as promising as he seemed. This is an account of my findings, not necessarily in order of severity.

1. What’s on his CD player? Don’t get me wrong. Though it’s not my personal preference, I have nothing against house or techno music, or anybody who likes them, for that matter. It is my experience, however, that men who like them are usually up to no good. The man is obviously a party animal, or a clubber, or whatever it is they call people who frequent clubs nowadays. (Damn, I’m getting old.) This kind of man, farang or otherwise, deliberately puts himself in close proximity to drunk, scantily clad, gyrating women on a regular basis, and this being Bangkok, he will, more often than not, take one home with him. That is, after he calls you to say good night. To give him a little credit though, at least he’s not lying when he says he’s going to bed. Cross your fingers and hope he changes the sheets afterwards.

2. Strawberries. Be warned. I will be thinking aloud mostly at this point. We went to the night market in Lumphini Park on our first date. I was laughing at the outrageous t-shirt prints when he suggested I look for a t-shirt that says “one-night strawberry”. Apparently, the Thai phrase for one night stand literally translates to that. I heard the first of many warning bells in my head but I decided to file that information away for future reference. Days later, lying in bed half-asleep after we had sex for the first time, I tentatively probed for the first hint of where the whole thing was going. The response I got? ”There are still plenty of strawberries in that box, yes?” I still have absolutely no idea what that meant. The closest I could come up with was that I’m no one-night strawberry. I’m several-nights strawberry, or at least, until my box runs out of strawberries. I’m not entirely sure when and how that could happen. Another thing worthy of mention but may not be relevant to this article is the fact that he actually orders strawberry milkshakes. I always thought only 12-year-old girls drank strawberry milkshakes. Mental note: I must try to bring up the strawberry discussion while he’s sipping his milkshake. Maybe it’ll make more sense.

3. The unanswered phone calls. I have long since put my days of riffling through a man’s mobile phone behind me. (Yes, I used to do that, shoot me.) It’s hard to ignore the mobile phone, however, when it’s sitting right in front of you. He has one of those fancy phones that’s also some sort of GPS navigation device, so he puts it on a nifty little holder on the dashboard, right where it can’t escape my 20/20 vision no matter how hard I try. There is always somebody calling Mr. Popular. Sometimes he picks up. Most of the time he doesn’t. For a while, I thought it might be because he didn’t want to be rude, but I’ve told him countless of times that it’s perfectly okay if he took the calls. I’ve noticed that the calls he picks up were either from his buddies (I can tell from the guy banter) or from work. He won’t pick up calls from Aof or Apple, both probably Thai girls, judging from the frequency of the phone calls. Seriously, these Thai girls can’t get a clue. They’d call about 15 times and send angry and almost incoherent “Why you not answer me?” messages in between. I pretend not to notice, and it’s amusing because he actually believes it. I once brought it up out of nowhere and he visibly panicked. He then told me the sad story about Apple, a Thai one night strawberry who he claims to have repeatedly told to go away. Right.

4. The screensaver. Still on the subject of the prominently displayed mobile phone on the dashboard. As fancy as it was, the GPS navigation thing once conked out in the middle of a long drive. He cursed, restarted the offending gadget, and there in its full glory was his wallpaper literally smiling at me – a picture of a wide open vagina up close. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to burst out laughing. Flustered, he explained that it was a picture he downloaded off the Internet. It’s funny how this guy thinks I’d buy everything he said like I was born yesterday.

5. Mood lighting and music. His apartment is nothing out of the ordinary. It’s a typical bachelor’s pad – a little messy, a little smelly, and very basic. He does, however, own an extraordinary number of lamps that just screams sex. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the setup. He even played music while we were doing the deed. Not house or techno, mind you, but much, much worse. It was one of those instrumental, electronica ones that movies use in scenes where the heroine is doing something domestic, like washing the dishes or gardening. At least, he was too busy to see the expression on my face.

6. The candy-colored toothbrushes. Apart from the fact that he keeps his plates and cutlery in it, his bathroom looks completely normal. Or so I thought. I took a shower the morning after and I had to climb into the tub. It was elevated so I got to see the bathroom from an entirely new vantage point. There is a shelf high up above the sink that only he could probably reach, being 6’6” and all. The shelf had a water glass with 4 pink and purple toothbrushes in it. It’s quite tacky. How could he tell which toothbrush belongs to whom? I figured he had them tagged or something. One thing’s for sure, I’m glad I take my own toothbrush everywhere. At least, my tartar is my own. Enough said.

7. The condom wrappers. In this day and age, nobody should have sex without a condom, especially in Bangkok. Though condoms are revered and venerated enough, the condom wrapper is possibly one of the most neglected and unappreciated things in history. Once opened and the lovely surprise inside extracted, condom wrappers suffer the indignity of being discarded like the rubbish that they are. The morning after, I was looking for my red patent-leather stilettos that have seemed to run off without me. I was on all fours, looking under the bed when I found them – not just my shoes, but 4 discarded condom wrappers looking all sad and forlorn and gathering dust. “Why’s that a big deal?” you may ask. Well, so far, we’ve only used up two condoms, so unless he’s been blowing them up into balloons, you get the picture. It’s tacky, really. If you’re going to screw around, you might as well clean up after yourself. However, let’s give the man another credit for practicing safe sex.

8. The scheduled phone calls and meet-ups. I always know when he’s going to call or not. The guy evidently keeps after a schedule or something. He always calls between 5 to 7 PM. If he doesn’t call within that time frame, then he won’t call at all. What little anxiety level I have at waiting for him to call is confined to within those 2 hours. He did surprise me one time, however, by calling at 10 PM to tell me that he was going to bed. It probably had something to do with house music (see number 1). One thing I can really appreciate about this guy is the fact that he books his dates in advance. At least, he doesn’t expect me to drop whatever it is I’m doing for him. That works for me. Obviously, that works for him too.

Dating a Western man is a tedious exercise. It is even more so in Bangkok. Honestly, is there still a farang in Bangkok who isn’t just out to dip his wick in as many Asian crevices as he can? That’s what I’m here to find out.

Ahhhh…the things I do in the name of research.

The Skinny on Being Skinny

One of the first things that I noticed when I arrived in Bangkok was how unbelievably skinny the Thai girls are. All my life I have never really been conventionally thin. I’m constantly locked in a battle with my weight but it never really bothered me too much, except maybe after Christmas and the start of the New Year. When I got here, however, I’ve become incredibly self-conscious because I was literally surrounded by stick figures. I felt like a trunk amongst twigs.

Thai girls are positively minuscule, very much so that to call them women would be totally wrong. They have bodies of adolescent, almost pre-pubescent girls, and in a society where being thin is revered, they make the rest of us look bad. Of course, it would take more than that to make me feel ugly but I did find myself looking sadly at my rather flabby stomach on a regular basis.

I was a long way from obesity but being here made me feel unbelievably fat. I knew I had to lose at least 10 pounds. I just didn’t know how. I’m lazy and I hate exercise. I once paid good money for a gym membership and I only showed up 8 times. I am also devoid of self-control. When I’m hungry, which is often, I will eat. I don’t really eat a lot but I do eat frequently. Being alone in Thailand doesn’t help. It gives new meaning to comfort food. I sleep a lot too. I can’t live with less than 8 hours of sleep or else I’ll get really sick. Whatever hours of sleep I miss one day, I have to make up for them in another. So, no, it really didn’t look like I was going to lose all that weight.

For some strange reason, however, I did. I didn’t know it right away, but I’ve lost 7 pounds. The buttons on my tops don’t pop anymore. I can get into my jeans without having to jump up and down several times. I don’t have unsightly underwear lines anymore. My armpits are hollow and I can even see my collarbone again. I feel fantastic. I don’t think I’ve looked this good since, umm, last year.

I don’t know how this happened. My rice intake is just about the same. I still eat two or three times a day and snack occasionally. I still sleep a lot. I wasn’t even really trying to lose weight, it was always just an idea I toyed around with in my head.

Then I realized that I’ve been here a little over a month and have gone through quite a lot. I was sick when I got here. I have chronic bronchitis that comes and goes and I had it when I arrived. It has never been easy to shake it off, and it was particularly hard for me to recover from it being here and so far away from home. I have also been running after buses, gotten lost several times, missing my stops, climbing a lot of footbridges, and walking for blocks. Not to mention I live on the 5th floor of a building with no elevator. That’s a lot of physical activity for this lazy lady, more than I’ve ever done in my entire life. It’s no wonder that I now have firm legs, less flabby arms, and a waistline that I’ve almost forgotten existed.

It’s just another reason why I love Bangkok. I know I’ll never be as svelte and willowy as the Thai girls are, and I don’t really want to be. No, this is a real woman here with her curves in the right places. And this woman is here to stay.

Girl, Lonely in Bangkok

It’s my only day off for the week, and I could choose to stay cooped up in my apartment all day or I could do some exploring. The latter was definitely more appealing. After all, I am in a new city with so many sights that I am yet to see. I am also in a new city with very little money. Not only do I have to watch my spending, I also have to make sure that I could find my way home without having to take a taxi.

I thought about spending the day writing and people watching in Chatuchak Park. I come from a city completely devoid of parks so the ones here in Bangkok are a bit of a novelty for me. I decided against it, however, because it is scorching hot today, the way Bangkok usually is after a night of rain.

After some thought, I took the BTS sky train to Siam, took the first exit, and found myself in Siam Paragon – a gigantic monolith of steel and concrete right at the heart of Siam Square. It’s no wonder of nature, but it is indeed a marvel of modern architecture, with its 9 floors of designer shops selling everything from clothes, shoes, computers, books, cars, and the list could go on and on. It is where the crème de la crème of Bangkok converge. I suddenly found myself in the presence of fashion legends that I’ve only ever heard of in many an episode of Sex and the City – Jimmy Choo(!), Balenciaga, Dolce and Gabbana, Pucci, etc. When I saw a real Ferrari up close, I knew I was on hallowed ground, and in my gauzy rainbow skirt, t-shirt, and flip-flops, I felt completely out of place. But I was in retail heaven and it would’ve taken an army to drag me out of the place. I knew I couldn’t afford anything, but it didn’t mean that I can’t look.

After walking past Jimmy Choo for what seemed like the 50th time (I couldn’t bring myself to go inside the shop. I was afraid I’d break something!), I was starving. There was a floor dedicated entirely to restaurants so I figured I could find the cheapest meal possible, or starve. I was surprised to see that everything was so affordable. I thought the food would be ridiculously overpriced like everything else. I found a little Italian restaurant, thinking that I’m finally going to satisfy my craving for pasta. I got lasagna, or at least something that they called lasagna. If that thing was any indication of the state of Italian food in Bangkok, I may never eat good pasta again. And yes, it had cilantro, lots and lots of cilantro.

I burned off my rather disappointing lunch by checking out the other floors. They had about 20 cinemas on the top floor. Once again, I was surprised to see that tickets were priced quite reasonably. I wasn’t in the mood for a movie, though, so I continued exploring. I was really excited to find a huge bookstore with a big selection of English books. The best thing about it is you can actually just sit there all day and read a book if you want to. I was tempted, but I wanted to be home before dark so I tore myself away from an annotated copy of Pablo Neruda’s poetry and hurriedly got down the nearest escalator. There’s a huge aquarium on the bottom floor where you can see all sorts of marine animals. I wanted to check it out but the tickets were quite expensive so I figured I’ll do it some other time when I’m not pinching pennies. I would’ve wanted to see that shark up close.

I walked around a bit more and found myself in an area called The Lagoon. There’s a manmade pond with huge kois, a wooden bridge, and a wooden dock where I sat, listening to the pond’s bubbling filter and almost feeling like I was in a beach somewhere. I looked up and the ceiling above the pond was painted black and spattered with tiny, twinkling lights to mimic the night sky. It was rather pretty.

I sat there for a long time just writing. I watched lovers strolling past, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang. I watched families spending quality time together, and I couldn’t help but miss mine. I watched a group of friends laughing hysterically about something, and I couldn’t help but feel lonely. It’s sad, really, I’m on the most exciting adventure of my life and I have nobody to share it with.

But as I sat there, watching the kois swim lazily and the pages of my new notebook as it absorbed the black ink of my pen, I realized that I wasn’t really sad. I chose this life, and I really won’t have it any other way. There will be time for family, friends, and maybe a boyfriend later. For now, this is time spent for myself.

Of Cilantro and Homesickness

I’ve been feeling quite blah today so this post is going to be completely random. Bear with me.

oooOooo

Probably my least favorite spice (or vegetable) is cilantro or coriander. Unfortunately, it seems that it’s also the favorite spice (or vegetable) among Thai people. I’ve had cilantro on my food since the day I arrived in Bangkok. Usually, I just set the pesky leaves aside. It doesn’t really have any effect on the dish’s general taste as long as you’re not chewing it.

Anyway, I decided to treat myself to a different lunch today, one that didn’t involve street food. I went to the mall nearest my office, Future Park. I decided I wanted chicken so I went to KFC with the idea of ordering my favorite Zinger meal. While I was on queue, however, I happened to glance at the colorful menu behind the counter and I saw it – the spicy chicken meal. It looked good, owing to the fact that it had a lot of onions. For the record, I love, love, love onions. I eat ‘em raw, fried, baked, chopped, un-chopped, whole, you name it. But I digress. I decided right there and then to get the spicy chicken meal.

After much pointing and gesturing with the food server, I finally got my exciting new dish. With tray in hand, I headed to the nearest corner table, eagerly started eating, and promptly gagged. The whole thing was crawling with cilantro. The worst thing was I could barely see the evil leaves so I couldn’t set them aside. They were chopped so fine that you’d need a microscope to see them.

Because I couldn’t possibly waste 77 baht on a meal I took only one bite of, I forced myself to eat the rest of it, taking big gulps of my Pepsi in between bites. I managed to finish almost three quarters of it. The sad thing was it would’ve been a very good meal. It was a tad too spicy but hey, this is Thailand. And unfortunately, because this is Thailand, I’m in cilantro hell. Indeed, it was the best of times, and it was the worst of times.

oooOooo

Unable to successfully get the nasty taste of cilantro out of my mouth with a large Pepsi, I decided I deserved an ice cream. I walked around the mall, looking for Hawell’s, my favorite ice cream stall with their excellent 15-baht vanilla ice cream cone dipped in amazing chocolate fudge. I never did get to find Hawell’s.

There it was, it’s pretty pink sign a beacon for cilantro victims everywhere – Baskin and Robbins! It shouldn’t be a big deal, I know, but I come from a city where there isn’t a single Baskin and Robbins. I remember there was one when I was about 12 but for some reason, they closed it down, and I never saw a Baskin and Robbins again. I’m not even sure if they have Baskin and Robbins in Manila. I’ve never seen any on my frequent trips to the capital.

But once again, I digress. I eagerly perused the divine display of ice cream, obviously chock full of calories. But I was in ice cream heaven and, like all addicts, I wasn’t thinking straight. I was confronted with one of the hardest decisions of my life – what flavor should I go for. After about 10 minutes of walking up and down the aisle and peering rather seriously into every cooler, I finally decided on a double scoop of Jamocha Almond Fudge and Chocolate Escape.

Being Baskin and Robbins, it was rather pricey, but I suppose 69 baht for a double scoop of ice cream is a pretty good deal. I’m sure it’s at least double the price in other countries. It was worth every baht. The rich flavor and sublime creaminess tickled me all the way to my toes. It was an almost orgasmic experience that got me thinking: who needs a boyfriend when you have Baskin and Robbins?

After the sugar rush, however, I decided that a girl can’t live on Baskin and Robbins alone. She would definitely need a boyfriend…to buy her Baskin and Robbins. It makes perfect sense.

oooOooo

I love the rain. The rain is a beautiful thing. I love walking in the soft drizzle and just feeling the tiny droplets on my face. I love listening to the rain pouring outside my window, especially while I sleep.

In Thailand, however, one can easily hate the rain. It could be perfectly sunny one moment and pouring the next. The rain in Thailand comes down without warning. And not only does it come down, it comes down in torrents. Buckets. You’re guaranteed to get drenched in less than a minute, which is exactly what happened to me as I was heading home. I keep forgetting to buy an umbrella, and I’m definitely getting a good, sturdy one tomorrow. That is, if this rain is ever going to stop.

If that isn’t bad enough, dig this: my area floods. If you’re unfortunate enough to be caught outside in a downpour, expect to wade in water at least 5 inches deep and pray there aren’t any potholes. It’s one of those rare moments when I’m thankful that I’m living on the 5th floor of an elevator-less building.

oooOooo

I love corn. No, it’s not a typo, I do mean corn and not porn. (See, I love it so much that I can be corny too!)

Anyway, on my way home, I often pass through a market that always smells of that thing we leave in the toilet periodically. They sell some really interesting cuisine in this market, such as some mysterious animal’s tongue and fish heads the size of my own head. I was hurrying through the market when I saw this little old lady selling bags of huge yellow sweet corn. She was only selling them for 10 baht a bag, with 3 juicy ears of corn in each bag. I immediately bought one. I ate all three of them within minutes! And here you were, thinking I was buying them for another purpose. Nope, fresh produce is not my style.

oooOooo

I don’t know if it was the rain, the ice cream, the cilantro-infested dish, the corn overload, or the fact that I just spent the last hour and a half hand washing my clothes, but I found myself crying. This is the first time I’ve cried since I got here. I always thought that I’d be crying everyday out of homesickness but I haven’t – until now.

I suppose it’s a good thing. It proves that I’m not such a bad person for not missing home more because I do, albeit slightly delayed. I just finished watching slideshows of pictures of my family and friends. I have also just finished crying hysterically. I miss my mum. I miss my sister. I miss my best friend. I miss all my friends, especially the ones at work. I miss my dogs. I miss lechon, adobo, sinigang, pochero, mum’s mango float that she told me she was making today, and Larsian. I miss having my own broadband Internet at home. I miss my bed. I miss having a helper to wash my clothes. I miss IT Park. Hell, I even miss my call center with its centralized air conditioning.

Yes, I miss a lot of things. And with that said, nope, I’m not coming home. I am home.

Heading Home

I walk on the familiar footbridge to my bus stop. I breathe in the acrid fume-filled air, so different from the fresh breeze that passed through my lungs this morning, and my head throbs. I long for my hard mattress, my lone pillow, and the modicum of familiar things in my sparse little room.

I descend the steps to the street below, and then I see it – the 356, that elusive behemoth that offers the best route home. It has already started to pull out of the bus stop. Will I catch it in time? I know I must. It will be a long time before the next one comes along.

As it pulls into the outbound lane, I catch the bus driver’s eye. He could see in my eyes how desperately I longed to be in his bus. It was too late to stop, but he can slow down and I can run. And run I did. My right foot makes contact with the bus’s first step. So far, so good. I take another step. I almost lose my balance. What a travesty it would be to fall from a moving bus! I grab hold of the railing just in time. I pull myself up. I was in!

I look around. It must be my lucky day. There is a lone seat waiting for me. I sink gratefully into the bus seat with its torn upholstery and leaking cushions. I smile. I am going home.