For the birds

You stepped into the art gallery to escape the humidity and the rain that was beginning to fall. It didn't quite fit right, snuggled in between the small hanok style coffee shops and handicraft stores. A large banner featuring a nude and bloated waxen male figure hung brazenly on the outer wall. Inside was dark and cool, and the whitewashed walls were familiar. Galleries were the same here as at home, were the same as in Toronto. You saw the central feature as soon as you passed through the door, it was inescapable, but you ignored it, deciding to leave it until last, and you slowly took your time, walking around the room anti-clockwise, studying each piece carefully, not wanting to miss anything and trying not to think about what was ahead, until there was nothing else to see.

There was a large table, upon which rested a large, rectangular bird cage, painted white. Inside was a large variety of trophies, cups and medals, of  differing heights. Here and there, was a trophy filled with birdseed, or water. Here and there and there, was bird shit.
Three small, white birds inhabited the space, and your heart broke a moment.
 Who let them out to fly around in the evenings? Who spoke to them, who loved them??

Dongwook Lee - Love Me Sweet exhibit in Buk Chang Dong, Seoul

You moved slowly around the side of the cage, to the nose bleed seats. The birds  were flying laps, lengthways from one end to the other, like a distressed relay. You moved your face closer to the bars, and tried to make eye contact. You extended a finger, inviting the captives to smell you, scratch you or peck you, they deserved to exert some anger, you felt. You told yourself, that if you spoke enough Korean you would ask about them, whether they were pets or merely props. But you didn't, so you only mumbled 죄송합니다 to the birds and left.

Keepin' the faith.

dollar for your thoughts?

I go to Dollarama to buy pens, jars, and Bubblemint gum.
Last week, as I wandered down the kitchen aisle, eyeing up non-Tupperware tupperware, a mother and her young son (maybe aged ten or eleven?) trailed behind me. They were looking for a lunchbox he could take to school.
He points at one and she says "Don't be stupid, that's too small, your lunch won't fit in that one."
"I think it will," he says.
"Oh my god, no it won't. Are you retarded?"
She chooses a larger one.
"We need a new mop too.." she says, as they reach the non-Swiffer swiffers.
"No mom, we don't need the whole thing, we just need the top..."
"What are you talking about?"
"Look, mom, we just need one of these refill things, not the whole thing.."
"Oh my god, are you retarded?! You're driving me crazy today.."
"Mom, look, you just buy the top and it clicks onto the handle we already have at home!"
"..Oh.. okay then."
"And stop calling me retarded.."
"I didn't call you retarded... but stop saying retarded things."

It was the saddest.
I really regret not saying something.
Not to her. Who am I to give parenting advice? I don't have any kids, Besides,  she's probably still a good mom. I mean, at the very least, she makes sure he goes to school and makes sure he has lunch, and those count for something.
But I wish I'd told him he sounds like a smart kid and never to listen to anyone who tries to make him feel stupid, especially people who use "retarded" as an insult and don't even understand the concept of replacement swiffer attachments.

tungsten in cheek

Smell ya later, Breaking Bad.






or






"Spread lightly."






Get it?

Yeah, I went there.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

I woke up today to see that Seamus Heaney had died last night in Dublin.

He's a poet I and most Irish people of my generation will associate strongly with school. In fact, I think he may have been the only living poet on the whole English curriculum. He was never my favourite (Bishop and Plath shared that spot, and there was also a fascination with Gerard Manley Hopkins but mostly only due to the whole repressed homosexual thing... the class where our teacher talked about how one line of his could be interpreted to mean anal masturbation with a crucifix was particularly entertaining) but there was something very familiar and home-like about him. Even since primary school, we had been taught how important he was, that he was a Nobel laureate and that was kind of a big deal, a point of Irish pride. He was someone who reminded you that our great reputation for writers (which struggles for air sometimes amongst our other less impressive reputations) wasn't necessarily dead and buried.

I'm no great reader of Heaney. I knew a handful of his poems, and that's about it. Of course, Mid-term Break was the big one for us. Maybe the first time a poem made me cry, and I'm probably not alone. A little boy in our school was killed on the road outside, his older brother just a little younger than me, and it was read at the funeral, or the school service, I can't remember which.

And then later it was Digging, and Bogland, and though back then the sentiments never truly struck me, I remember feeling like I could smell those poems, smell those words. He always chose such pungent words!

You know you're getting older when you hear someone died at age 74 and think "but that's so young.. sort of." At least he got his recognition in his lifetime, and that's something.

return of the mack

I've been back in Toronto a month and finally found the Canadian equivalent of Blu Tak enabling me to stick my little pieces of flair all over the walls -postcards and doodles and bits of memorabilia, so my room FINALLY feels like my real room now.

It's been a month and I don't have a job but I have a phone, a bank account, a bike (with a basket) and a social insurance number.

It's been a month full of weekends and long weekends and weekdays that might as well be weekends and these have been filled with laughter and trips to the LCBO and staring at the sky from Trinity Bellwoods park and late night stops at Smoke's Poutinerie.

It's been a month of reunions with old friends and new unions with new friends and first dates and skype calls back home.

There have been rooftop shows and pool-hopping and island jaunts and bikerides and railroad-bridge adventures and romance and that time I nearly fainted (don't ask..).

I could really use a job though.

#ToasterStrudels #Heisenberg #BreakingFast

#ToasterStrudels #RealMature

Bruise pristine.

Yesterday I took the ferry to the island with a couple of new friends. We biked around in the sunshine, lay a blanket down on the beach, and spent the day drinking a eating mango-cilantro salad.
In the evening, we biked home but not before making a short pitstop to pool-hop at Alexandria park. I guess I knocked my knee while clambering over the metal fence, because I woke up with this bad boy this morning.

Capsize

“Billy, she's a beaut!”

“Thanks!” Billy grinned as his older brother slapped him heartily on the back. They stood on the dock admiring the little boat, bobbing up and down in the water.

“Come aboard,” Billy invited Don, extending a hand. “I've got to show you her sexy little engine.”

Don couldn't care less about boats or engines. They were Billy's thing, always had been since they were kids. But this was the first time in a long time he had seen his little brother excited about anything, and he was more than happy to indulge him. So he nodded enthusiastically as Billy listed off the specs, and gave a low whistle like he was impressed when Billy announced the speed she could hit, though knots meant nothing to him.

He figured his attempt to feign interest was poorer than he thought, because after ten minutes of the charade, Billy's face seemed to fall.

“Aren't you gonna offer a guy a drink?” Dan chided.

“Of course, of course,” and Billy hustled him into the cabin, rooting through some cupboards before producing two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. He poured generously.

“We'll have to get the boys around sometime soon. Christen her properly, you know? Take her down the river, a real fishing trip. Maybe take Dad's old guitar with us, what do you say?”

Don swallowed a mouthful and nodded but said nothing. It was a nice idea but it would never happen. The “boys” he referred to were only boys of summers long gone. They were men now. Johnny's wife had just had their second kid, Lucas was working in the city and usually only home for a week around Thanksgiving and Ed Wirth was moving to Ohio for a woman. There would be no fishing trip to celebrate Billy's acquisition of a small boat.

“Of course,” Don added with a smirk “This boat has a lot more potential than just getting drunk with a bunch of hairy, stinking dudes. Girls will love it. You always hear about how much pussy sailors get!”

Billy gave a half smile but looked away and muttered that he didn't think so.

Don laughed, and slammed his glass on the table.

“I'm telling you Billy Boy, this boat's gonna see more action than the audience at a Steven Segal double bill!”

Billy wasn't amused. “Ah, c'mon, stop... Hey, how's mom doing?”

And that was it. Don had pushed too hard and now the rest of the evening would be spent discussing family stuff and the superbowl.

Around midnight, Don hugged his brother goodbye. Billy decided he might as well sleep on the boat, it was late, he was too drunk to drive home anyway, told Don he should stay too. Don knew he should, and maybe if he'd been sober he'd have stayed, just to be nice. But he was drunk and the thought of staying in that lonely little cabin with his brother and playing boyscouts was depressing, so he dug his hands in his pockets and started to stumble home. It was still warm enough and there were stars. He wondered if Jill was asleep, and wished she was waiting in his bed for him to cuddle up to. Maybe he could call round to her place.. nah, it was late, she'd think he just wanted to get laid. He did want to get laid, of course, but that wasn't the only reason he wanted to see her. Nah, he'd leave it. He could see her tomorrow. He wondered if Billy felt like this every night. How it must feel, knowing that no, you won't see her tomorrow. That poor fucking bastard.

For a second, when Billy woke, he didn't know where he was. White sheets... white sheets... why are these sheets white? Then he remembered he'd slept on the boat, got up and stood out on the deck. It wasn't until then, a whole minute after waking, that he thought of Rebecca. He was used to waking up on the blue sheets she had picked out, being disappointed not to feel her body next to his, seeing her photograph on his night stand. But this moring, for an entire minute, Rebecca didn't exist. He had never known her, loved her, lost her. Until, standing on the deck he smelled that harbourside smell she had always commented on, and he'd thought of her, and his heart sank.

For she's a jolly good fellow.

Oh man, a friend just posted a clip of Disney's Fantasia on facebook, and it brought back some traumatising memories I thought I'd share!

It's nearly my eighth birthday. I'm not a kid anymore. Previous birthdays involved tea-parties with my mom and my dolls, mostly just my dolls. I really loved dolls. But not this year, I'm eight and I'm ready to have a real birthday party, with real friends! Or at least real kids my age. It's going to be a normal party, we're going to do the things normal kids do, there will be rice krispie buns and we'll watch movies and everyone will leave thinking "Amanda is so cool and normal!".

Being normal is important when you're eight.

So I invited about ten kids from my class, including two boys, which was kind of a big deal. Gerard was my on-off boyfriend all through primary school (I'm pretty sure we held hands once) and Podge had big brown eyes and the biggest mushroom-step haircut in the class, like woah.

So everyone comes, and they give me sparkly note pads and glitter glue pens and squishy bracelets, you know the typical neon fare for a birthday in the early nineties (apart from one girl who gave me this really unusual but pretty silk flower in a glass vase filled with water.. kind of like this. Which I liked so much I bought a similar one for a girl's birthday the following year who looked at it in disgust and said "Why are you giving me a grave ornament?")

Anyway, all is going well and then it's time for the movie. My mom had rented a video earlier, and when I asked what she'd gotten I hadn't heard of it, but she assured me she asked the clerk for something for a birthday and I figured it must just be a new release. What followed was the most embarrassing twenty minutes of my life at that stage. 

Have you ever seen Fantasia?!

 It's fucking weird as shit. All I really remember is that it was weird and creepy and there were no words, and there were hippos dancing in tutus and I couldn't decide if I thought it was for babies, or for grown ups (high grown ups) but it was definitely not appropriate viewing for a normal eight year old's birthday. Normal kids had normal moms who rented normal movies like Hook or the Goonies or the Neverending Story 2: The Next Chapter. What kind of bullshit was this?!  Oh god, and everyone was like  "Uh... what is this, Amanda?" and I'm all "Um... I think it gets better", thinking "It HAS to get better!" until I eventually  begged my mom to let me turn it off despite her telling me I was being silly and ungrateful and everyone probably wanted to see the end. No, mom, nobody wants to see the end!
 And that was the day I decided never to even try be cool ever again. I think it was the first time I truly experienced embarrassment. If I ever have a kid I will be force-screening Fantasia at it's eighth birthday for character building purposes, and for kicks.


UPDATE!
I found a couple old photographs from that particular birthday the other week, so I thought I'd add one. I'm in the pink and purple ensemble.

Felt the fear and did it anyway. Boom.

So, I made a dentist appointment today. So what? Well, I'm it's kind of a big deal. 

You should probably read my original post first -the general gist being that after ELEVEN YEARS of avoiding the dentist due to sheer terror, I decided to try to actually deal with my phobia instead of hiding from it and feeling like I was being followed around by an ever increasing dread cloud the last few years.


Actually, I never really made an update after that post. I talked about my plans to psyche myself up to make an appointment and confront my biggest fear and ... then never followed up. What a tease!

So, come settle down children and mama's gonna tell you a story. A wonderful story, the best true life story that ever was since Homeward Bound! Well, just before Christmas 2011, I went to the dentist. I just ended up going to a local guy my mom regularly goes to. My doctor had prescribed me valium for the occasion, but on the morning of the big day I was so stressed out that I forgot to take it until five minutes before the appointment and by that stage there was no point. (Don't let me make the same mistake on my wedding day! Eh? Eh?). My sister drove me up. The surgery (why do they have to call a dentist's office a surgery? Why not just call it an office? Ugh) was located in a regular house. I sat in the waiting room for about five minutes, nervously laughing  (while secretly wanting to vomit) with my sister who was totally getting a kick out of the thing, but still being nice and sisterly and telling me I'd be fine. Then the dentist came out and lead me into the room. 

First off, it was pretty nice! It had French doors that looked onto a backyard with lots of flowers, and felt a lot less formal than I expected. The chair too -that looming figure from my nightmares -was also less intimidating than imagined. It was smaller than I remembered, and much lower... less like an operating table and more like a chaise longue. The dentist was super nice too. I guiltily told him how long it had been, feeling like a lapsed Catholic at confession and he just told me there'd be nothing to worry about.  Next thing I'm saying "ahhh" and I can taste the latex gloves as he pokes around and prods a little with the little mirror and pointy thing. I was still nervous, but a few months beforehand, just imagining this much would have had crying and retching. But here I was, doing it, in real life! And I just remember thinking "this really isn't so bad...". I'm still waiting for him to recoil in horror, to call for back-up, to give me some indication of just how far gone things are.  Instead he asks if I grind my teeth. I said I didn't think I did, but I drank a lot of soda -my big, dark, dental secret. (Why would someone who hates dentists do much do that to herself?). Then he said he wanted to take an x-ray, so I had to bite down on these weird metal things that made me think of electroschock therapy, but obviously, it was painless. This whole thing took about five minutes and then he pushed himself back on the wheelie stool he was sitting on and said "Right!" as if that was everything. Here it comes, I thought, trying to absorb and appreciate these last precious moments of ignorance before hearing the verdict, the long list of things that needed doing.
"That's perfect then. Just come back in a few months and try not to grind your teeth, I can see some wearing on your enamel."

"What, you mean that's it?!"
"Yep. See, nothing to worry about."
"You mean I don't even have any cavities or... anything?!"
"Nope. Don't let anyone touch your teeth, they're fine! And really, once you get to your twenties if you don't have many cavities it generally means you have strong teeth and shouldn't expect to get cavities as long as you look after them."

This was insane. I could not believe it. This was impossible. I hadn't even hoped for an outcome as unrealistic and awesome as this one. I walked out to the receptionist to pay up and was stunned. My sister saw my face, probably white as a sheet from the shock, and asked how it went, excitedly. Frankly, I think she was a little disappointed when I explained I had been given the all clear, and who could blame her... there had been such a build up to this, that it was almost a anti-climactic. Almost. I was on top of the world, and I still think that's always going to be one of the best moments of my entire life. And if you think that's sad then you just don't understand how big this fear was and what a triumph it was to face it. To not need any work was just a dream come true on top.
It was a Christmas miracle!!

That was a year and a half ago. I purposely didn't visit a dentist during my year in Korea because I had heard scary things, and meant to go as soon as I came home, but of course it's pretty easy to put off things we don't want to do. Still, it's been well over a year and I do not want to let it go so long that all that fear builds up again, I know it's best to go when the memory of that super positive experience is still fresh in my mind. So, I phoned today, like the total badass that I am, and I have the check-up Thursday. And I'm certainly nervous and fearful and worried but it is absolutely nothing in comparison to how I felt two years ago. Two years ago, choosing to go to the dentist of my own accord was just an impossibility. Downright unfathomable.

I know it all sounds very trivial and first world problems of me if you've never experienced a phobia to the same extent. But it honestly changed my life, to know that I could do the one thing in life that scared me most. That means I can do anything. (Well, not anything, I'll still never be able to do a cartwheel or ride a bike with no hands or drink cream liqueurs, but you know what I mean.) It's weird though, to think that two years ago I had this crippling phobia that was  affecting me on a personal level, I mean I got depressed about it every day. And now, I actually feel free. I don't know, I'm really not into all that new-age-y bullshit, but I will never underestimate the power of positive thinking and ideation. If you have a phobia or just a fear/dread of something that is affecting your life, I really would urge you to do something about it. Make a plan, start imagining positive experiences, create favourable memories even if they are fictitious, KNOW that the imagined fear is a zillion times worse than the actual experience will be, take small steps, think about how fucking rad you will feel about yourself when you conquer it, and how you will wish you had done it sooner.

And if that doesn't work, just be grateful you don't have mangoworms. (Seriously, do a youtube search for mangoworms. It's THE WORST. I can't stop watching.)

Testing, testing.. 1, 2, 3..

There is something about being tested for a disease of some sort that instantly makes me feel 300 times more likely to have it than were I not tested. Is there a name for this? Like, a more specific name than regular paranoia? 

I get regular STI tests, aiming for about every six months. And I've never really suspected I've had an STI (which, bear in mind, can often be symptomless), I just get checked to be on the safe side, and because THAT'S WHAT RESPONSIBLE, SEXUALLY MATURE GROWN-UPS DO (If you can't tell from previous posts, it pisses me off that most guys I know do not get tested regularly, or in many cases, ever. You deserve to never get laid!)
Still, from the moment I pee in that cup until the moment I get my results, I'm suddenly convinced that I have acquired every STI under the sun.   What if all my previous tests and clear results have been one big admin error and it turns out I have an extremely advanced stage of AIDS? What if that in-grown hair I had a couple weeks ago wasn't an ingrown hair at all, but was in fact My First Herpe? What if I have some new thing that they don't even have a test for yet?!  It doesn't matter if I have been accidentally celibate since my last test, I'm still paranoid that by the very action of getting tested, I've caught something. 

So, when I arrived in Korea and was taken to a hospital on my second day for the routine medical testing, I got predictably worried again. A chest x-ray, physical, urine and blood tests. In fact, it was my first blood test ever. (I was so super-pleasantly surprised at how quick and painless the blood test actually was, that I'm no longer that bothered my needles actually. Win!)
Still, despite not being into unprotected sex or intravenous drugs, I was terrified when I went to collect my results a week later. What if, what if, what if? A lot of my fellow teacher friends admitted to experiencing the same paranoia over their health checks too.
The tests checked for HIV and Hepatitis, and if we had one, we would immediately have our visas cancelled, be sent home and would not be reimbursed for our flights. I think I was about 5% worried about my health and 95% worried about my year being ruined. The language barrier didn't help. The document I was handed was naturally all in hangul, and when I asked the nurse nervously "So, I got the all clear, right?" she didn't understand me, until I waved my hand between a thumbs up and thumbs down and she smiled and responded with a thumbs up. I don't think I could have been more relieved to see a thumbs up if I'd been in a ancient Roman amphitheatre. 


This all brings me to two weeks ago, when as part of my Canadian visa application, I had to complete another medical check. Same tests -chest x-ray, physical, urine and blood tests -except  two hundred euros more expensive than its Korean counterpart. This time, the blood tests checked for HIV and Syphilis, neither of which I logically suspected I had, but again, just the fact I was being tested for them started to make me paranoid. I mean... what if?!
I checked with the admin clerk to see if I would get the results, but as I had read online, no -they would send the results straight to the Canadian government, and I would only be alerted of my test results if they refused my visa, but they could send out my my results if I requested them. 
"Oh, okay," I said, deciding not to ask for the results and just let bureaucratic nature take its course.
So when, today, I received a large brown envelope from the hospital marked "private and confidential", I freaked out. In the five seconds it took me to rip it open with shaking hands, I felt sick and convinced that I must have something, as there was no other reason they would contact me. I flipped through the sheets.

HIV -negative.
Syphilis -negative.
Lungs -clear.
A slight scoliosis of the dorsal spine convex to my right side, whatever the fuck that means but that's NBD.
Phew.
Of course, I always have that split second of confused panic induced by the association of "negative" with bad things, until I remember how diagnosis works.
Oh my God, the relief, I cannot even express it.
And on the front, a note in biro "Results, as requested." I guess the woman took my "Oh, okay" which I meant as "I understand, nevermind" to mean "Great, please send me my results!" 
Which is fine. Hey, it's good to know. Being officially notified that you don't have syphilis is pretty neat, in the same way it's nice to be reminded I have no student debt or that I don't live somewhere that will be affected by the cicada swarmageddon. It doesn't really change anything, but it's good news all the same.
But damn if I didn't nearly shit my pants first.

violence begets

No doubt about it, hacking somebody to death with a meat cleaver is pretty brutal and inexcusable. So too is claiming to do such a thing in the name of a religion. But at the same time...

Look I don't know all the facts about Woolwich. Sure, Woolwich has got me thinking about this stuff but I'm NOT talking about Woolwich in particular here, okay? I'm being hypothetical and shit.

If you sign up to the military (of whatever country) and you are sent abroad, and you end up killing people -some of whom may be what you or your government consider "bad" people, but some of whom are inevitably going to be innocent bystanders, and you manage to deal with it by not thinking about these people you have killed as people as real as your own family, friends, neighbours, because you are just being a brave and upstanding citizen serving your country and/or fighting for freedom -fine. But if one day, then somebody chops you up -or  chops up one of your friends or family members.. well...   it's horrible but don't be a fucking hypocrite about it. 

Just because it happens on a nice paved street with a Boots and a Tesco Express instead of some dusty dirt track in some foreign country where you think that stuff belongs, doesn't make it worse.
That violence doesn't belong anywhere and it's not any more okay when it happens to poor people in war torn countries. Is it more shocking when it happens in your own neighbourhood? Sure. But it's not any more unjust.

Those who are "our brave troops!" to some people are those who slaughter the friends and family of other people. 
You can see that right?

I felt the same way about 911. Of course it was sad, awful to see so many innocent people killed. But hold up, Amurica, your government does this to people all over the world, all the time. Be shocked, be saddened, but don't act so goddamn offended. If your government is doing shitty things to others, every once in a while, expect the others to hit back. I mean, it's nice to have the privilege of thinking "How very dare they!!" and all, but instead, maybe take a minute to think about your own government's role in all this, or something?

How's it gonna be?

You know what I love? When you've listened to an old song a hundred times, sang along with it a hundred times, and then one day, you hear it one particular time, and it's like hearing it for the first time, and though you've always liked it, this is the first time you've related.
It happened tonight, I was walking through Bucheon's central park, the ground still marbled in snow and ice, and very strangely, not a soul around, and I was singing along with my ipod, when the lyrics to a familiar song which I had never really thought about before, made sense. I dig that feeling.


Break ups are interesting. The whole getting to un-know someone part, I mean. Someone who, in many cases, was your best friend. Who you spoke to everyday, told personal things about yourself, who you had lots of little private jokes with, who you cared about. Watching all that unravel, or disappear. I guess it depends a lot on the hows and the whys of the break-up.
For the most part, I get along well with my exes, we broke up on good terms and most are still my friends. In these cases, the un-knowing process is usually gradual, slow. We might still hang out occasionally, keep in touch, have short online conversations every few weeks, have long, deep drunken online conversations once a year.
Or sometimes you have to stop talking, for yourself, or for the other person, or for their new girlfriend. That can hurt, but you know you're still friends really.

With some exes, it's a little more sudden. Sometimes the un-knowing process happens in one swift flash, with one stomach-churning pang of "you are not who I thought you were" right before the break-up even occurs. And so you end things, and the un-knowing process begins. And it's one of those rare cases where you never want anything to do with them again, which makes it easier. But you still know things about them. You still know their weekly schedule. You still know their upcoming vacation plans, which drawer they keep their socks in, the scents and the scars of their body. And you don't care, you don't think about them (this is the one thing dishonest/disrespectful guys have going for them -you get over them quickly and easily) but you can't help knowing it. I suppose that must fade too, after a while.

holidayyy

I am glad I am on staycation because it's  6:45am and I still haven't slept because I am too excited! I just booked a trip to Thailand for two weeks before I go home in March!
THAILAND!
Two weeks of sunshine and white sand and turquoise water and coconut milk based curries and boat trips and cheap massages and jungles and elephants..... shiiiiit!

For the record, I don't do this. I don't go on vacations as such, I don't spend hundreds of bucks on a flight when the stay is only a couple of weeks. I don't go somewhere with the plan of just travelling around, or laying on a beach.
I save up all my money, and I apply for work or study visas, and then I go to a big city (until korea, a big north american city) and I get a job and an apartment and settle down for a year. I'm not knocking it, because I love it. But it's very, very different to this.

But here I am, in Asia, nearing the end of my contract, and I didn't travel anywhere during my summer or winter breaks, so I'm finally going to go on a trip. An amazing trip!

I am flying in and out of Bangkok, so I'll check out some palaces and markets and all that. After a day or so I am going to head north to Chiang Mai. I'm already looking forward to the train journey, a window seat to admire the scenery and a good book and I'm golden. Chiang Mai has been highly recommended by a good few friends. I want to do a jungle trek, and I hear there is an elephant sanctuary there too. After a few days I might go west to Pai, near the Myanmar border. About half way through, I want to make my way down to the islands. I'm not sure if I should fly, or get a train, or instead of going there directly go back to Bangkok for a day and split the journey in two.
I want to visit Koh Phangan for sure, probably go to the full moon party, but a good friend has told me about some unreal and much more secluded areas as well that I have GOT to go to. I might check out another island too... I've really only become remotely familiar with Thailands geography in the past couple of hours, so this plan could change. And it probably will once I get there and meet some people in hostels and stuff.


So excited, yo!!