A short pause.

Maybe "A Long Pause" is a more appropriate title for this entry. My writing has suffered lately. Journal pages, that is my actual journal pages, were once separated by hastily written dates in order to reach the heart of my writing; the center of my mind's energy. Yet lately my paged book has become an unfinished sentence with clips of inky memories scrawled in a rush rather than for pleasure. Its not that nothing has happened -- in the past three to four weeks I have revisited Bangkok with a fresh perspective, visited old students and friends in Kanchanaburi, made a new friend (through conversation about music) with the guy who was handing out condoms on HIV/AIDs day at Nongkhao school, and went on one of the sweetest dates in my life where everything and nothing really happened. Lately, I just haven't loved writing. Lately, I haven't loved myself. Maybe though, I've loved myself too much. Selfishness is the center of the fall, the fall takes away from who I am, so taking away from who I am takes away from my writing.

There are many stories to speak of, but tonight I want to write about the most recent. This is a short pause to speak of something light-hearted, something soft, and kind. Maybe this is what I need to write to get back to where I was.

Tonight I went on a date.

Her name is Saichon; "Chon" for short. She is from the north of Thailand, but now lives in Bangkok with her two sisters, Pai and Fon. Believe me when I say that they are quite the silly bunch; in fact, they are self-proclaimed "dting dtong" (silly in Thai). The three of them live together in the northern part of the Banglamphu area while Pai studies at a university in the city, and Fon, who has graduated, works for a company. Chon has also graduated, with a bachelor's degree in biology, but while helping her parents and waiting for an opportunity to study medicine, she works at the four star Princess Hotel in the center of the city. This is where I agreed to meet her yesterday afternoon.

With the mobile phone I was lent from the wonderful teachers in Nongkhao, I called her when I arrived and waited in the lobby. I stared in awe at my surroundings. I don't think I've ever been inside a four star hotel. Beyond the glass doors and staff with double breasted suits and golden buttons was humid oppression, but inside these tall clear windows was a polished floor and a room cold with air conditioning. Everything was in its place. Earthy red-toned vases held single flowers purposefully set into balanced existence. Stacked on black granite slabs, they led your eye to silver steps and steel; the entry to a restaurant with folded linen napkins and empty tables.

My phone rang. It was Chon.

She was waiting in the connecting hallway to MBK -- a massive shopping center where every inch of floor space is covered in art, shoes, and t-shirts; a Thai-European hybrid fashion world. I saw her before she saw me. She was standing against the wall, waiting. Wearing a gray classy top, dark short-but-modestly-cut shorts, and white flats with a red stripe on the toe; she looked "cute."

We slowly wandered the hallways, getting a little lost, but eventually finding our way to the sushi restaurant downstairs.

"You can order, I like it all," she told me.

We both started with a frosty drink, hers watermelon and mine lemon, and then moved on to a large California and a Caterpillar sprawled across a white platter. We laughed through struggles to eat the enormous California roll and laughed at others in the restaurant doing the same. My mother has done well in sending several blackmail pictures of the early Wyncott years and Chon certainly laughed at these.

On a Sunday night, masses moved through the restaurant in the gourmet food center of the Siam Paragon, but we sat still, not moving from our table while people swirled around.

"What do we do now?" she asked me. Our table was now cleared of food and the bill was on its way.

I asked her, "Well, do you want to go back (a wrinkled brow) or go to a movie?" (a nod and a smile).

A movie it was.

She bought two massive drinks, and I bought the tickets. We stood up for the king, and we saw Wanted. It was ridiculous, but it didn't matter.

As the credits rolled we stepped out and slowly made our way back to the beginning; taking in everything as we went. We stepped onto the escalator going down and she asked me how long I would stay in Thailand. I told her I was leaving for India in a week and a half. Then it was quiet.

We took the number 15 bus and leaped off at Phra Atit Road, and after mentioning my hunger we made one final stop: a tiny Roti restaurant with two narrow floors sandwiched in a street of restaurants, bars, and cafes. Sitting in a tiny upstairs room Thai music videos sounding from an old TV we sat at a folding table with small stools and shared a late night snack of roti and masala.
We walked back, slowly as always and discovered our streets were leading the same way until we reached a "T" in the road.

"Goodnight," I said. "See you again soon."

"Goodnight," she said.

I walked back to my guesthouse along the river without looking back until I was too far off to expect anything other than an empty path.

She is Buddhist, I am Christian. She lives in Bangkok, I live in Joliet. Those two speak much, but there are more. Let's just name two. We are far apart, yet close for a night.

This was a short pause in my recent complexity for something soft and kind.