Small Town

Of all the transitions Jip and I have made lately, the biggest is probably the switch from city to megacity. Bangkok is dense. It’s not Hong Kong, but compared to Seattle things are much more vertical and shoulder-to-shoulder. I feel it especially during commutes, when people spill in and out of the sky train, and on sidewalks, where everybody and everything is much closer to me than I’m used to.

Our food choices aren’t that different than they were before; we still speak lots of English; being surrounded by many cultures is nothing new. But being among many millions every day means things are a little more impersonal than we were used to.

That’s why one set of connections in Chiang Mai made a big impression on me. I had searched my college website before going, and discovered three other alumni, all from graduating classes in the 1950s. A few days before my visit, I emailed them, suggesting we chat.

I didn’t hear back right away. But someone else up there, the head of a local language school, suggested out of the blue that I “really should meet this older guy I know, name of Ed.” I said, “His last name wouldn’t be ‘Rose,’ by any chance?”

Of course it was. And of course his wife taught at that same language school. And of course the secretary had their phone number, and he was at home, and happy to have lunch with me, and would have never checked the old email address I had used to write him.

A few other people I spoke to that weekend also knew Ed, all for different reasons. He’s not especially famous -- Chiang Mai is just that kind of place. He does have one claim to fame, though. It turns out one of Ed’s interests was raising Siamese cats. After lunch, he pulled out of his wallet a set of Thai postage stamps. “These were my babies,” he said proudly.