Bangkok, Thailand
This post breaks my rule of no outside contact for the first month, but since it’s not directed at any one person and no one is likely to read it, I feel ok about it. It’s a few days old, but this post tells the entrancing tale of my first encounter with my apartment.
My first perceptions of my apartment were such: Really? A whole year here? This place is miniscule! Alas, all was not lost. In the twenty minutes I have been here since Ted and Darwin dropped me off, this apartment has become like an old friend. It’s charm grabs hold of me like the sweltering heat, which I know will only get worse in the daytime. The linoleum floors and the delightful pseudo-balcony upon which my kitchen sink is perched; the community-shower styled shower (which shall not be shared!) and the overwhelming amount of cupboard space; all these things feel like home in a way it is hard to imagine.
When I first entered the room, I saw the old toaster oven, two baking sheets and sink and thought, they called this a kitchen? A more imaginative use of the word is hard to conjure; however, upon further searching, cupboards revealed unseen treasures. A vocal refrigerator, two rice cookers, some sort of food processor and a hot water heater all are to be found, if one simply looks. Imagine also my surprise when I discovered the food stuffs left for me (by whom is still a mystery; was it the previous tenant, a kindly landlord or some kind of food fairy?): rosemary leaves, ground cinnamon, whole oregano and parsley begin the list; it goes on to include a bottle of syrup (1/3 full!), a “Royal Blueberry” pie filling or topping, aged to my exact specifications (and, if the calendar in the cupboard is any indication, is something like five years old) and a decently sized Ziploc style bag of a yellowish powder I am praying is not heroin. The refrigerator, expressive as the dogs down the street, contains a loaf of bread, a jar of jam (strawberry), two bottles of water, three soymilks and, thanks to me, two handfuls of Chewy bars and Nature Valley trail mixes (I know, they don’t need to be refrigerated, but what can it hurt really?); there is also an ice cube maker in the freezer section of the fridge, but it is regrettably empty. Also noticeable is the unforgivable lack of Ben & Jerry’s. This requires further fieldwork.
The sweat runs down my face as I type this, the humidity hard to truly grasp. What I thought was a chair folded upon one of the dressers turns out to actually be a ironing board; where the iron lies is an enigmatic, if boring, tale, the likes of which would never be confronted in the pages of a Hardy Boys novel. For some reason, while putting away my clothing, I naturally select the most difficult-to-operate drawer for my underwear; this drawer, which opens neither fully nor easily, works with the exact amount of effort one does not wish to confront when one is girding oneself.
The apartment, though meager, has plenty of space for my belongings (also meager) and is just cozy enough to call home. No chair has been found and a place to do pull-ups does not immediately present itself, but not to worry; time solves many things. The splotched, worn towels (I’m certain they were white once) look iffy, but smell clean enough. For now, I have to ask myself whether to continue unpacking or take the first of many showers. It is noon-seventeen at home, Thursday, and a little after 2 am Friday here. I better get some sleep tonight, although I won’t likely be able to do prison ministries with the other teachers tomorrow. They said I could rest, a thoughtful gesture; Thanks for welcoming me, Bangkok, and specifically apartment 501. I think we’ll have some times.
