A Walker in the Suburbs

I wake early on normal days, even more so since the Asia trip. Trying to catch up with the other side of the world, giving up sleep for quiet time, plunging into a new morning that vanishes like a puddle on a hot sidewalk.

Travel, like any other intense experience, becomes even more valuable upon reflection. For me, the reflection began on the return trip, when I settled down into Seat 44H with my journal and pen and wrote for the first hour of an (unfortunately bumpy) 13-hour flight from Seoul to Washington.

But for now, it’s a return to routine, to more typical duties — writing and editing  — and to domestic ones, too — unpacking and doing laundry.

And then there’s pie-baking. Luckily, the girls are taking care of this Thanksgiving. Suzanne and Appolinaire are hosting with an assist from Claire and Celia. I’m only supplying a pie. Ah, this is why we have children, isn’t it?

But still, the pie must be baked, which means the ingredients must be purchased, which means the grocery store must be tackled. At least I’ll understand what I’m buying and how much it costs. No more rupiah or kyat.

I can’t help but think about the domestic duties and supplies of the ginger farmer I just visited, though: two barrels of water, tin plates and bowls, alfresco kitchen and bath — a simpler (though by no means easier) life.

In many ways the Asia trip itinerary was completely crazy, packing way too many appointments into way too little time.

In one especially intense stretch, we worked a full day in the U.S., then took an evening flight to Doha, connecting to Jakarta, with a 10-hour layover there before hopping aboard a Garuda Indonesia flight to Kupang, West Timor. We had about four hours of sleep before getting up at 4 a.m. for the puddle-jumper to Waingapu and a full day of work on the island of Sumba. That was three days on 10 hours of sleep.

But in one important way the itinerary worked, because it took us around the world. Heading east, easter and eastest … or something like that.

Twelve days, 14 flights — and a complete circumnavigation of the globe.

A nighttime trip to downtown Yangon: banana peels and melon rinds, the detritus of the day.

Impromptu teahouses on the sidewalk, tiny plastic chairs, metal teapots. Wizened old women sitting on crates, couples embracing on the pedestrian bridge. And everywhere, the half-ruined colonial buildings of long-ago Rangoon.

I had hoped to see all of this in the daylight, but an after-dark viewing was the best I could do. Still … I saw them. And I’m so glad I did.

On a weekend trip to Shan State, I walked down the hill from the Pine Hill Resort to the Kalaw market, a multi-block extravaganza featuring everything from chili peppers to sewing machines. There were melons and limes and shiny dried beans.

Sometimes, no words are needed. Or if you could summon some up, they would be inadequate to the task.

This is one of those times.

Even arriving at night it was unmistakably different from anything I’d seen before. A different fragrance in the air. The people taller than I thought they would be. Funnier, too.

And this morning, in the light, all the sights and sounds of a new world. Thanaka paste on women’s cheeks. Longyis around men’s waists. Saffron-robed monks. Tiny teahouses tucked away behind bamboo-frond curtains.

I want to be out in it … that’s where I’m headed now.

Stay tuned …

On this trip I’ve seen the coastline of Bali emerge from the blue Pacific and the French twists of Garuda Indonesia flight attendants, who glide down the aisles in native batik, looking like goddesses.

I’ve been jostled and hassled and asked for money more times than I care to count.

It’s been a journey of journeys,  of flights and flights and more flights.

Today’s trip is different, though. I’m Burma bound.