Flying Dreams and Happy Landings

In 2011, Dave and I were still working, volunteering, attending night meetings… and worrying about our adventurous daughter, Casey, who was traveling in Southeast Asia with her friend Karis. In October of that year, we were able to steal away, to escape, to meet up with them in Thailand:

October 13, 2011 9:00 AM

Cathay – Marco Polo’s destination. The word whispers of ancient cultures and kingdoms - silks, incense, temples and elephants - and we are going there, borne by Cathay Pacific Airways. For two anxious months we’ve wrestled with doubts: should we go or not? Can we take the time from work? Does Casey really want us, or will we impose on her free-wheeling journey? Will it be an incredible experience or an opportunity to contract malaria, polio or typhoid fever? The path scattered with those decisions and fears is behind us, and we are waiting among our carry-on bags and fellow passengers at Gate 22. I am afloat with elation. I feel daring. This is not a trip; this is an adventure.

Dave and I have been rendered disease-immune machines by a multitude of inoculations. To-do lists are done, discarded in the recycling bin. Research and recommendations have reaped a hotel in Chiang Mai for five nights, and a few sights to shoot for, but for the most part, we fly to Karis’ and Casey’s guidance, chance, floods, and monsoons.

When we made our plans, the dates dictated by when we could leave work and where the girls would be during that window, we knew we’d be hitting the rainy season. Casey called two mornings ago to alert us to possible travel glitches due to flooding in Thailand. Trains are no longer running, but she assures us that they will get to us somehow.

Control is an issue for me, yet today, I feel giddy at letting go.

In-Flight:

We are off to the other side of the world! My personal display screen and entertainment center flashes the time in New York and Hong Kong (Hong Kong!) in English and Chinese characters. Dave and I will be aloft for twenty some hours. Unclaimed hours. Hours without phones or email. Hours to read, write and watch movies. Friends have groaned at the length of our flight, but twenty hours might not be enough for all I want to do. I want to watch movies Dave would hate: Green Lantern, Bridesmaids, Pirates of the Caribbean, and Thor. I want to read Paul Theroux’s Ghost Train to the Eastern Star. I want to read magazines and write. I want to sleep a little. Time and choices. Bliss.

* * *

When first we boarded, lovely Asian women with serene smiles directed us to our seats in Economy. We passed the private cubicles of business class, each with its cozy quilt, individual monitor, stretch-out seating and decorative purple orchid sprig, but even our steerage seats are roomy compared to the cramped quarters offered by Delta, Continental and their ilk. Our meals have been delicious, and during these quiet lights-off hours, a whiff of something soothing and salty lead us to a woman stirring noodles with chopsticks. She grins and waves toward the rear of the plane. Apparently, we can lurch back to the galley any time we wish to order noodles, tea, or snacks. Dave clambers from his seat and returns with two steaming bowls, a glass of fruity white wine for me, and a beer for him. On my. Bless you, Cathay Pacific!

Brunch is served a few hours later – a noodle dish and a cup of fresh fruit. Soon after, a pleasant attendant distributes drawstring bags of water, oat bars, apples and refreshing towelettes for our comfort. Heaven forbid we be hungry for even a moment. Fed! Entertained! Rested! May I recommend Cathay Pacific for your traveling pleasure?

Our on-screen flight information display tells us we have 8 hours, 55 minutes and 4386 miles to go. We are content and cared for, our circumstances clear, while all is uncertain once we land.

October 14

I’ve set my expectations low. In fact, I’ve aimed for no expectations. With reports of hundreds dead in floods, the potential for Karis’s and Casey’s delayed arrival, and the possibility that we’ll be stranded in the airport, it seems a wise mindset. My aim is a Zen sense of calm even if our bags are lost, no one shows to meet us, and rain pours.

But ours is a joyous welcome.

First, triumph, as we spot and retrieve our backpacks from the tumble of duffles and suitcases rattling by on the conveyor belt at baggage claim. As I slip my arms into the straps, bend to take the weight in my knees, and straighten, I ponder that an exercise-aversive 58-year-old woman has no business carrying a forty-pound backpack. But I like the image – the connection to the twenty-one-year old Lea who traveled Europe in the seventies.

Like wistful children hoping their parents have not forgotten to pick them up after school, we push through the double doors into the pick-up area and scan the crowd. An Asian couple, a young man in a coral uniform jacket and a woman in a white blouse and black pants, hold a sign bearing our name. As we approach, they beam and bow, hands pressed together as if in prayer. They seem as overjoyed to see us as we are to see them.

Outside, the hotel’s van is a silver mirage of sumptuous seats, ornate mirrored décor, and frosted water bottles in cupholders. We are in THAILAND!

During the brief drive we learn that, yes, Casey and Karis arrived earlier in the day. Karis, Casey’s roommate in New York, is a petite, spirited blond with expressive blue eyes. She has been my daughter’s companion on this journey, experiencing the extraordinary, as well as sharing the anxieties of the utterly unfamiliar and the terror of the seemingly dangerous. They have also peed together in the dark of a rice paddy and shared a bathroom in weathering the hideous aftermath of a tainted chicken sandwich. As Casey says, “We were close. Now we’re closer.”

Borne in comfort by our silver van, we pass tented street stalls, lighted storefronts and the swooping, red-tiled roofs of temples. As we take a turn, the woman says, “Look, now down this road, a beautiful hotel.” I crane to see, and she giggles. “It is our hotel! Sirilanna!” And we pull to a stop before a stairway flanked by two snarling white lions and water-filled pots arranged with palms and flowers.

Our hosts do not let us tire ourselves with our backpacks. Those are whisked away up a flight of stairs as we are invited to sit, sip a chilled glass of guava juice and wipe our faces and hands with a warm, damp towel. Heavenly, but I am impatient, yearning for my daughter. Where are Casey and Karis?

Hospitality is not to be rushed, however. Once assured that we are indeed refreshed, we all pressed our hands at chin level in that prayer-like gesture and Bow-ee, a slender girl in a white silk top and black pants, leads us to our room. With as much delight as if she’d crafted them herself, she shows us the massive carved wooden armoire, a chair of sinuous dragons, the throne of a bed with its carved head and footboard. She gestures toward the floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors to a balcony overlooking the pool. She pushes through saloon doors to an expansive bathroom to point out the double Jacuzzi, tiled shower and folding stained glass windows with jeweled handles of amber, emerald and turquoise that open to the bedroom. Spotless, beautiful, luxurious, and all for eighty-five dollars a night. Thank you, Sirilanna!

On the desk, a wooden bowl borne on the backs of elephants is heaped with pomegranates, pineapple, and what looks like a plump, pink blowfish. A baggie of…hmm…yes… large, stewed crickets - perhaps a daughter’s touch? - is tucked beside some bananas. An aromatic lei of jasmine blossoms twines across the arrangement. All lovely, but I could wait no longer. Where is my girl? Bow-ee smiles and says, “Right next door.”

I peek out into the hall just as a face appears. Casey! We hug and dance and clap and grin. And then Dave and Karis trot into the hall, and we babble and hug and dance some more while Dave and I take in these two travelers, heroines of our favorite blog, dauntless voyagers of the Mekong River, Great Wall, and Angkor Wat, survivors of Viet Nam thefts, piddles in paddies, creepy boatmen, and tubing in Vang Vieng. Dressed in blousy Asian pants, wrists wreathed with beads and string bracelets, hair wispy in the heat, faces alight, here they are before us, in the flesh, themselves still. It seems weirdly natural and normal to be together, but we keep shrieking, “Here you ARE!”

And for two weeks, we will be together, part of their adventure, in THAILAND!