Why Travel Isn’t Fun All The Time 

First time throwing up after bad food.

Unfinished business back home.

And where is home. In my heart.

I live out of a duffle bag. 

Last night when a beautiful cascade of ugly remnants came belching out of my stomach, I really thought to myself “omg why am I here”.

We see pictures of beautiful beaches and we want to be there, but what is the reality? 

Sometimes unclean food, bad water, nagging sales people trying to sell you henna tattoos on the beach, headaches, missing macaroni and cheese, chipotle, fries…and here in kata beach, I am missing McDonald’s. I know, sounds ridiculous…but when you’re not a tourist and simply living in different countries, the story is different.

Well, I’m not going to dismiss the fact that yesterday when I was walking aimlessly, my friend from the birthday party that I accidentally walked into gave me a moped ride and later the guy gave me a ride on a stallion around town. A chopper. 

Omg was I in heaven.

And thank god I didn’t throw up then. 

Let’s just say it’s been a heart journey of trusting God.  

On Saturday I walked past a bunch of people eating scrumptious shrimps and seafood and asked them “how much”, they ended up inviting me to eat with them. 

Before you know it I am their honorary american friend who speaks little Thai. 

Everyone here owns a business. Nan owns a papaya salad store, another owns a small bar, then his friend owns a tattoo shop…the Malaysian owns a gift shop…after work everyone drinks together. 

Thais are rather communal and I like that about them. 

    
  
What a beauty   

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s