Trips By Sam

            I left the Chiang Mai airport on foot, sojourning to Pancho’s school where I registered for a two week course, figuring that by the end I’d know everything about Thai massage… only to trip (again) over my hubris.               “I have an appointment for Chi Nei Tsang after class,” Pancho, my personal shaman, informed while providing his apartment keys in the massage school’s quaint cafeteria.   Graduation Day "What?"           “It’s an abdominal massage,” he explained, touching on the ancient Chinese practice of adjusting the intestinal chi energy, barely eating the eggplant curry lunch that I scarfed, famished after a 20 minute walk with as many kilos in my backpack.   “Oh, and Kar Sai,” he added, “Which massages the organs internally.” I figured it was one of Pancho’s peculiarities, along with commune living in a ...

            “Orange,” they hissed like cats as I passed.   Because of the vibrant tangerine and scarlet scarf shrouding my head, fruitlessly masking my nostrils from the sidewalk generator’s onslaught of exhaust?   I pressed onward upon uneven pavement, unsure of what they were saying, and where I was going with the plethora of time and money that must be spent.   My only engagement was 11 hours from then, when the hotel shuttle would ferry me back to the airport, upon which the currency would be rendered useless... and t he receptionist had recommended I withdraw 2,000 birr.               “Well, how much is a coffee?” I asked groggy eyed, estimating the number of cups needed to fuel me through the layover.               “Maybe 200?” she answered.        ...

“Davis County 5K Walk / Run for Breast Cancer” my Thai massage instructor’s t-shirt read.   Odd.   I didn’t realize he’d been to the U.S., let alone participated in a charity run.   Confusion quickly replaced curiosity as he demonstrated kneeling on the massage model’s buttocks and pulling her shoulders upward.   My brain, oversaturated with anatomy and palm pressing techniques, forgot further inquiry of his shirt.               It clicked a few days later as I stumbled (barefoot) upon an obscure thrift store.     Compressed under a tin roof and chronic, sweltering humidity, sweat cried along my spine as I watched women browse through pool sized pens of prints and patterns.  Daunted by their endeavor, I drifted toward the jimmy-rigged racks organizing flannels and polos.   Brand tags tickled my memory: Sonoma from Target, Old Navy, even an ex-employee’s Best Buy uniform.   Pe...