strange musings of a distracted spunk

She dropped us off at the dance studio, after telling us our father would pick us up. We hadn’t seen him in three months, not since before we left camp in August, before we came home to a household full of possessions and a broken marriage. My sister went to class in her leotard and black ballet shoes while I buried my nose in a book in the waiting room. When I next looked up, there was a brand new white car in front of the studio. He took us to see the Santa Clause, a first date of sorts with our father the weekend figure. We wouldn’t have any more Sunday mornings playing Monopoly and Life on their gray platform bed because we were now divorce kids. Our life would consist of being shuttled between houses and cities for the next eight years.

I found myself missing him while I was in Thailand, wanting to be able to tell him about what was going on and everything I had seen and experienced. I would have called but the connection was faulty. So instead, I sent him an e-mail.

Four months after he left us, he told us he was inviting a friend to come out with us. She walked out of her house, long black hair, Barbie pink lipstick, and the smell of coffee and dog clogging up the air. It was a sickly sweet smell that made me want to throw up, gag out the window for dramatic effect but the only one who would have noticed would have been my sister, and only to complain at that. Something was off; once she entered the car, it was like he forgot about us. I threw gum in her hair, kicked the back of her chair, did whatever I could to make her experience with us an unpleasant one for the first few years.

I asked him if he would be around on Saturday afternoon. It surprised me how much I wanted to see him, considering I sometimes hate him with more passion than I’ve reserved for any of the boys I’ve dated.

She came with us everywhere. He’d pick us up originally in Brooklyn, then Staten Island, where we would slowly make our way over the Verrazano bridge, over the Belt Parkway, to the Long Island Expressway, and finally his house. By the time we got to his house, all we had energy left for was grilled cheese, TGIF, and bed. When I’d wake up the next morning, she was already sitting at his kitchen table. I once asked him if she absolutely had to come to the dentist with us, since I couldn’t imagine that being a very romantic date while [sister] and I got our teeth drilled. He replied, “She has no one else but me.” I thought, But what about us?

He e-mailed me back. “I’ll be in New Jersey on Thursday and Friday nights, but I leave Saturday morning. I guess I’ll see you next Thursday.” There was no explanation needed; Saturdays are his days with her.

It never seemed to occur to him that by making her his priority, he became at best an embellisher, at worse, a liar and a cheat. I still wonder if he’ll ever admit cheating on my mom. As it is, I never could look at him again in the same light. Many of our fights, when they weren’t about him badmouthing my mother or making excuses for my sister, were about her. It seems no matter how hard I try, it’s impossible to show him his words mean nothing when his actions say everything to the contrary.

That sucker punch hit hard. The wind fell out of me and my breath ran jagged miles over my tongue.

In some ways, I wish I knew how to stop wanting him to change, wanting him to become the man I admired for so long as a child. So instead, I cry, for all the years and arguments, for my inability to ever properly articulate how I feel, for always wanting more than I’ll ever be able to have because he’ll never understand.

He always did know exactly where to make it hurt the worst. Even when he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

I could write about the tan line on my left wrist, of the shadow of my silver and turquoise watch now imprinted on my skin.

I could write about the mosquito bites tracing a trail along the side of my right leg, verbose in its catalog of places I’ve traveled.

I could talk about the elephant’s ear flicking off my left shoe and causing me to jump in my seat, and the boy who tore lemongrass from the ground for me to smell.

Or I could write about wading into the Andaman sea, the water and sand working its way over me, leaving sand and water on my shirt, shorts, everywhere.

I will leave tomorrow, with my right leg and left thumb scraping wounds of a motorbike accident in which I almost got run over by four cars. I will say goodbye to monkeys walking on phone wires and girls in burquas sitting sidesaddle and texting. Somehow, Thailand is a place where technology and tradition meet somewhat incongruously. Seven tier waterfalls with swimming pools so clear, you can see the fish swimming near the surface. Incidentally, these same fish are more than happy to nip at you once you jump in. Green rivers humming with mosquitoes, trees leafy, mindful of the sun, the kind of sun that you go out for ten minutes and come back with a fierce burn. Tuk-tuks chugging along the crowded streets of Bangkok, clamoring for a passenger, lights flashing as though there should be a whistling tune sung along. Have I ever seen such a place?

This is Asia. Or Southeast Asia as Thailand would be quick to correct. Where whitening cream can be found in every 7-11 on every corner. Where ladyboys are quick to interpret for me when a cashier cannot understand my simple request. Where cabs are neon, signs are neon, and the sky is choked and polluted, a clogged artery left untouched. Yet the sunsets here are dazzling, simply because of all the gases in the air. This is where you cannot enter a building without being pushed or harangued or crowded. There’s no concept of personal space here, and indeed, my bubble has been violated many times over. This is where my white white skin and my red hair make me the unintended subject of many stares. When did I become what other people want to be?

I don’t know yet that I will come back. The beaches of Thailand, so much of it altered from the 2004 tsunami seems pristine, as though this is how the world was one thousand years ago, and this is how it will be for a thousand more. The silence on an island, so unlike the deafening crush of this overwhelming city calls my attention, of infinity pools and islands far out at sea. Mangrove trees and houseboats, wild animals everywhere. Who knew they had cows in Thailand?

I never thought I could feel so overwhelmed in a city; I’m from New York damnit! But this city, this area is a whole world in and of itself. The jungle, the bridge over the river Kwai, the elephants and tigers we pet and sat with, the dead gecko lizard in the floor of our hotel room last night; this is not New York. The super malls and the plush movie theater seats with recliners and blankets and pillows, the sexpats and their Thai prostitutes, the glass and the steel, the gold and the Buddhas, and my god, the stray cats and dogs everywhere! I’ve never seen a place where everything fits so perfectly, and clashes so discordantly. I feel as though every time I walk down the street, I am history and future at once, present gone out the window.

This is Thailand. And this is my farewell.

His hands traced circles on my skin, green eyes on mine. First he lined my palms. Then he traced my wrists, marking my skin with his invisible words. His hands nimbly moved up my arms, slowly, carefully, climbing up to my neck where they kneaded and pressed. I’ve never been good at eye contact. But this time, something forced me to match the intensity of his gaze, to focus my eyes on his while his fingers lingered.

His hands were warm on my skin, Wesley offering “As you wish” in the background while I watched his eyes. I couldn’t see my reflection there, in the dim light of a television, but I wondered what he saw. Did he see the unexpected pleasure as he touched me? Did he see the jagged wall, spiked from my most recent entanglements with the past? Or did he simply see iris and pupil, gazing at his own?

What is he doing? I wondered. Earlier, he had stretched out, the mock-arm-around-the-shoulders move, before pulling back in and laughing. I had shaken my head at him, grinning all the while. He had tickled me, till we were both breathless and flushed of face, traces of laughter gurgling out. We sat on the futon in his living room, facing each other, as his hands grazed my skin, declaring a tickle truce.

I marked my own words into his skin, asking how I could feel so fundamentally me with someone I had only met twelve hours before. I asked do you like me? before deciding I like you. Not the kind of like that would collapse me into bed with a friend, lazy kisses and fumbled fingers. Not the kind of like that would result in denied chemistry and repeated frustrations. This was me, implicitly, wholeheartedly, convincingly in like. Had I ever experienced this before?

My fingers skimmed over his skin, almost as white as my own, but more carved and sculpted, as I kneaded, pressed, pulled. I wrote the stories of everything and nothing at once, of how I was so utterly in the moment, of how there was no aha moment, he’s going to kiss me realization. I wrote how spontaneity can get lost in the face of basic lust. I told him it didn’t matter if he didn’t kiss me; it was enough to meet someone I felt so utterly comfortable with. I etched lines of my contentment, too cautious to look into his eyes anymore because I was afraid of what I would see. I scribbled and doodled the longitude and latitude of my heart, giving directions the only way I knew how.

He didn’t need them. Without warning his hands wrapped my face, his eyes met mine, and his lips crushed mine; wrenchingly beautiful, soul shattering, and utterly different from anything I had experienced before. I didn’t know then like would become love. I didn’t know then the roads we’d take, full of shortcuts that led to the same place. I didn’t know then how much I’d want him every time I saw him, spoke to him, thought of him, in every possible way and even some impossible. I didn’t know.

So here’s the deal.

We leave for Krabi tomorrow night. We stay on an island for four days (rain shower, bathtub, massages, gym, free wi-fi, a pool that goes into the ocean, etc.) We also will be snorkeling, windsurfing (if the water isn’t too choppy), and other water-based activity, as well as hiking and laying out on beautiful white beaches.

The issue is my skin. Regardless of how much suntan lotion I put on, inevitably, I get burnt somehow - usually in patches. Most recently, I ended up with a stripe from my collarbone to the center of my left breast. How? No idea. I’m also one of those fairest of the fair kinda girls; I’m basically what the Thai folk aspire to with their whitening lotions (think tanning lotions in reverse.)

Today, I’m sporting an awesome collar - front and back - of a sunburn that I got when exploring the ruins of the old capital of Thailand, Ayuthaya, even though I put on tons of SPF 50 suntan lotion (twice!) before we got there. There’s no way I can avoid the sun, but how can I keep from getting burnt to a crisp while snorkeling?

Thailand suggests buying swim clothes, such as board shorts and a surfer shirt but that’s called spending money I don’t have. If I absolutely have to, I will, but I’d MUCH prefer other options. That’s where you all come in. Help!

-I am a good wingman. For gay men. I met several Americans, Englishmen, and Canadians, and chatted them up, dragging Thailand into the conversation when I could

-We went to a bar where it was all teak wood, lounge-type furniture, a small little carriage seat in the middle of the lounge, stone horses hanging from the ceiling, ponds, steps, palm trees, etc. It was so inherently Asian, yet I cant quite put my finger on what made it so Asian. I was just super excited.

-On Sunday night we went to a gay bar named DJ, which is supposedly one of the hottest gay bars in all of Asia. We got there in time for the ladyboy show. Basically, the Thai culture is super accepting of transvestites and even have multiple terms for them; we recognize them as transsexuals, but they call them transsexuals or kathoey. I’m told the latter is more of a derogatory term, but the premise is that some Thai believe that being a kathoey is the result of transgressions in past lives. Anyhow, the ladyboy show featured thai men who had had hormone therapy, breast implants, and perhaps other surgeries done to play up their female side. Thailand has the best gender reassignment doctors in the world. Pea in a Pod pointed out how fascinating it is that a country we Westerners consider to be less…civilized…has more progressive views on gender and sexuality than we do back west.

-Another thing that was so utterly interesting to me was the abundance of older white men with these younger gorgeous Thai men. Thailand has a huge sexpat culture, where it’s easy to get your needs met because anything goes. We would call these situations sugar daddies back east, but here, the emphasis is placed on the boys who are called “Money Boys.” The premise is they agree to accompany the older, and not necessarily attractive white men because the men buy them everything and give them money. It was interesting for me to watch - because when I wasn’t playing wingman, I was watching the crowd.

-Straight girls have no place in a gay club. I got pushed, shoved, and sat on. Twice. Apparently, my vagina makes me invisible. It took me a full five minutes to just get out of the club because everyone kept pushing me out of their way.

-Thai society decrees that every male be a monk at some point in his life, though it can be for as short as a week. Thailand dated a guy who had just finished a three month service in the monkhood. For some reason, it strikes me as slightly ironic, as I typically assume monks to be celibate and heterosexual.

-The gay scene here is HUGE. Granted, Thailand lives near one of the biggest red light districts in the city, where they have live sex shows (which I am also debating seeing), gay clubs, ping pong shows, and more. However, pornography is illegal here. Am I the only one who finds this slightly twisted?

-One thing that keeps overwhelming me is the sheer amount of people. Yes, I grew up in New York. Yes, I’m no stranger to crowded subways. But this is basically like Times Square overload. I often get swept up in a mass crowd of people, on the subway, walking, etc. Sometimes, I find myself almost running to get away from the crowd. We went to this mall called MBK, which is seven floors. And huge. It’s bigger than any mall I’ve ever seen in the U.S., more crowded, and slightly more terrifying. After about an hour there, I began to feel tired and cranky just because there was SO MUCH STUFF and SO MANY PEOPLE. Not to mention, I couldn’t try on any of the clothes because they are meant for tiny, petite Thai girls, and well, let’s face it. I have boobs. And I am not tiny and petite. Asia is giving me a fat complex.

-The temples? Are…amazing. I was more a fan of Wat Arun and Wat Phra Kaew than Wat Pho, though the Reclining Buddha inside was massively huge and impressive. The thing that gets me is I like learning the history behind these things when I’m at these sites. Because it’s easier to match up a story to something that was done, rather than try to remember everything you’ve read or seen beforehand. Even still, just the sheer magnificence of it is stunning. A few pictures!

And finally. Thailand has been seeing more of me than he’s seen since we were babies in the same crib (we grew up together.) He neglected to mention that we would be climbing steep steep stairs at Wat Arun. So I wore a sundress because it’s so ridiculously hot here. Sundress + steep stairs + wind = booty flashing DS. It would have been mildly funny, had it not been for the night before.

See, I had come home early from the club because I was getting a bit claustrophobic with all those people touching me accidentally, pushing me, or sitting on my lap. (Straight girls - invisible. I’m telling you.) I wanted to tell GDB about my experience, so we started talking over webcam. I had just taken a shower, so I hadn’t bothered getting dressed yet since Thailand wouldn’t be home for at least another hour. GDB typically doesn’t wear clothes either. We were talking about Thailand thus far and my experience at the gay club, and I was super hyper, when all of a sudden Thailand staggers in, completely drunk. I’m sitting on his bed naked, GDB is on my screen, visibly naked from the waist up, and Thailand announces how drunk he is. I immediately start trying to cover myself up, GDB is trying not to laugh, and Thailand doesn’t say anything for thirty seconds. Then he says, “Oh. You’re naked. And talking to GDB. And I’m drunk. I’m going to go into the other room.”

I tore a hole in my shorts trying to get them on before running out into the other room. Thailand apologizes for walking in on me naked, and adds, “It took me a few seconds to realize you were naked because I was too busy staring at GDB’s pecs of steel. Also. You have rather large breasts.” I’m not sure who laughed harder, me, Thailand, or GDB.

Two days before we hit up the Thai beaches! (Oh, I am SO excited.)

Ta-da! I am here! And it is…hot. And muggy. And occasionally drippy. Thailand (whom I am visiting and traveling with) said, “The best way to describe it is as if someone took a wet towel and smacked you with it. Repeatedly.” Basically, I just want to take my clothes off all the time. After another fabulous evening, first with my AmeriCorps friends, then with McGee and her man J, I took off for the airport on Thursday morning. 12 hours later, I was in Tokyo. Another 9 hours later (2 hour layover), I was in Bangkok. My observations thus far:

-Watching English movies with subtitles throws me off. Namely, because I’m used to watching films with English subtitles. I kept reading the Japanese subtitles before remembering I don’t read Japanese. It’s amazing how many times I repeated this action before it finally sunk in.

-There was some sort of noodle dish served on the plane. I didn’t pay much attention to what I was eating and the next thing I knew, I was trying not to choke on the wasabi I accidentally ingested. Apple juice is not a good wasabi reliever.

-By the time we got off the plane in Tokyo, I really had to pee. So I went to the restroom. And found a white thing surrounding a hole in the ground. There was slight heart attack-age. But then I found a regular toilet and didn’t have to figure out how to pee over a hole in the ground without splashing everywhere, and balancing a backpack on my back simultaneously. Incidentally, it’s called a Japanese toilet. I much admire Japanese women everywhere who can balance and pee neatly at the same time.

-JAL allows you to keep tabs on where you’re at by providing an in-flight map. It was strange to realize we were flying over the International Date Line. It was zig-zaggy, so I kept waiting for an announcement or some sort of “Whoo! We have just entered tomorrow!” kinda thing, but it never happened. So I waited. And waited. And waited. And eventually, when there was no zig-zag line at the center of the screen, I figured we had entered tomorrow. There was no celebration.

-My method of killing time was to basically say, “And this is how long it took to get to Israel. And…this is how long it took to get to Spain! And…London! Now New York! Now Chicago from San Francisco! Now LA from Oakland!.” This was actually very effective in making me feel better about time.

-Also, JAL? You’re awesome. Putting me in my own row so I could stretch out across all three seats which was actually just the perfect amount of space for all 5′7ish of me was a brilliant idea.

-”Was that your debit card in Thailand this morning?” Always notify the bank when you’re leaving the country.

-I think I may have sprained my big toe on my left foot, and rolled my ankle. This is going to make walking fun.

-Going to the gym less than twelve hours after landing is not always the smartest idea. Often leaves one wanting to throw up and die from sudden jet-lag attack that occurs when your body realizes that you’re on the opposite side of the world and night is day and day is night. However, watching small Thai men bounce around and yell, “Everybody say hey!” with a huge smile on his face during a Body Jam class is infectious. There’s a reason Thailand is called the Land of Smiles.

-Bangkok is a neon city. The cabs are pink, purple, orange and yellow cabs, and when we went to the food court in the mall that the gym Thailand belongs to was in, everything was brightly colored. At that point, I was feeling so sick, it just made me dizzy with how overwhelming it was. He told me to go home before I passed out on a pink display.

-Spirit houses! Everywhere! I keep stopping to look at them and admire the intricacies, while Thailand is like, “Oh. Right. You’ve never seen these before.” *stops and fiddles with his thumbs while I ooh and aah.*

-Speaking of which, it’s…insane how well he’s adapted to being in Bangkok. I wouldn’t have expected a gay Jewish boy from New Jersey to be so acclimated to the area, but he knows exactly where and what he’s doing. It’s kind of admirable, and also strange knowing that someone I grew up with is so…well adjusted to a country so foreign to ours. When we’re in cabs and he gives directions in Thai, it blows me away.

-The tuk-tuks are not meant for tall people. Nor is the subway. I kept hitting my head on the strap you hold to maintain your balance. Those things are slightly painful.

-”Want to go to a ping pong show?” “I love ping pong!” “Um…it’s not the American ping pong.” “What is it?” “Girls shooting things out of their vaginas.”

And that’s a wrap for today. Coming soon on the Thai Adventures of DS and Thailand - Ladyboy shows, the “gayborhood,” three Buddhist temples on a Buddhist holiday, boat rides on the river, Thai beaches, elephant rides, tigers, and more! I still haven’t decided if I want to go to a ping pong show.

He held my hand, loose but warm. His enthusiasm caused him to pump it up and down as though we were swinging along as we walked, though we were only standing in the back of a restaurant. Something felt different about that moment. As though our world was about to shift, again.

Just the night before, he had accompanied me to an event in our shared hometown. Where we wandered among vendors, performances, and hundreds of people, wailing kids, and smeared faces of cotton candy and funnel cakes. We had friends there, and were just putting in an obligatory appearance. Yet I was excited; there would be fireworks. The first time in our history of friendship and more that there had ever been the fireworks of the exploding kind, and not just the ones that jumped when his lips had touched mine. I wanted to stay, sit on the dewy grass on an early summer evening and watch everything I had felt for him light the sky like a visual stage of our tumultuous relationship.

As we walked into the park, I teased him. “You know there’s no one more awesome than me,” I said. He nodded sagely. “Yeah. You are the coolest girl I know.” Half teasing, half wistful, his words were the lyrics of the song I had been waiting to understand. After three years of tense friendship, a week of romance, and another year of tense friendship, I was reassured to know that I was his number one girl. His hand swung close near mine, but we never touched. My heart didn’t leap, but it was then, in that moment, that I knew something was there still.

We stood in the restaurant the next day, me in a strapless dress, and him in maybe a blue checked shirt, or a green one. His eyes were bluer than I recalled seeing them, and even with my family and friends surrounding me, all I could think of was, “He’s holding my hand.” In the past, we would only hold hands when one of us wanted to pull the other somewhere. Or when I was tipsy and about to fall over. We had said goodbye to the days of romance when he said he couldn’t do it, not now. That he regretted kissing me, being with me, after we spent five hours exploring each other, mouths, cheeks, shoulders, more our first night together.

But that day, when the sun was bright and shining, and I was already in a great mood, surrounded by my closest friends and family, he held my hand, vigorously, excitedly. I teased him about how the past year had been hard on our friendship, but we were better than ever. He blushed, turned red, ran to sit with my friends from college, all of whom he had befriended when he visited during a particularly eventful weekend.

I felt as though light would stream from every pore, like Beast at the end of the film when Belle revives him with a tear and a kiss. I had wanted for so long a signal to say he was still there. He was still in that moment. That he never regretted kissing me, being with me, that he cared about me as more than a friend. That him holding my hand in front of everyone was a sign of more to come.

But like the night before, when he suddenly turned sick before the fireworks and I could only turn behind me to watch them splinter the night sky as we drove back to his house, I wasn’t meant to see those fireworks. I wasn’t meant to watch spinning Catherine wheels of delirious delight. I’d see the occasional spark, a brief rush of “Can we do this again?” before a tree would block the view. Had I been able to watch our story, it would have showed spikes, up and down, holding onto the smallest detail for more. Why is it that we cling so tightly to the actions we construe as signs?

Our story wasn’t written in the skies that night or any night. Our story ended with an angry text message, leaving behind a blank sky and a broken me.

I never realized how green the Pacific Northwest was. Though Princess Pointful corrected me and said that we are technically in the Pacific Southwest currently as we are in the southwestern portion of Canada. Hello, Vancouver. Green? Trees? Ah-choo!

So a basic recap of my Northwestern/Southwestern journeys:

-Once again, United Airlines wins. Apparently this time, they forgot they needed a pilot to fly the plane. This apparently didn’t occur to them until AFTER we boarded the plane. And I was so excited that we might actually leave on time for a change. Hour delay? Hello, my old friend.

-I’m still five years old at heart. The Seattle Science Museum was probably my favorite part of the Seattle experience. How often do you get to walk around in a butterfly conservatory? Or test your flexibility skills? (By the way, at twenty three years of age, my flexibility range was 23.0. The normal average for people my age was 12. I am awesome.) Or take a picture inside a dinosaur footprint? Check, check, and check.

-I can do a kickstand on 1 & 3, a snare on 2 & 4, but not with a top hat on 1, 2, 3, and 4. It’s sort of like trying to rub your tummy and pat your head at the same time. I have a new respect for drummers, seeing as I can only do two of the three at any given point. (Experience Music Project; good for releasing your inner rock star.)

-Just because you can take a golden capsule to the top does not make you Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, Space Needle. In fact, you need to take a few lessons from the John Hancock Observatory in Chicago or any one of the tourist destinations in New York. Clearly labeled markings on what one is looking at is helpful. Not a computer screen with exclamation points a la Super Mario Brothers and a big octopus. (Apparently, the Giant Pacific Octopus lives off the shores of Seattle. Good to know.)

-The Underground Tour? Totally worth it. Where else do you learn about drunkards falling off the street and into a ditch somewhere between 5-30 feet below? Or the fact that 87% of Seattle’s revenue in the late 1800’s/early 1900s was accounted for by the high percentage of “seamstresses” in Seattle, where nary a sewing machine was in sight. Occupational hazard? Syphilis.

-A harrowing experience at the Seattle Bus Depot was fun for no one. Forty minutes just to get my ticket because the computers and a printer was down. Travel luck, you strike again! However, we did befriend a native Vancouverian on the bus ride home. It appears he was eavesdropping on our conversation and found us particularly entertaining. Which we are. But still. Between him and PP, a four hour bus ride went by impressively quickly. He even accompanied us through customs and on the train and bus ride home. Wearing a kilt!

-Vancouver has sea buses. As in…a boat. That’s a form of public transportation. It’s a bus! But it’s a boat! But it’s a bus! Ah!

-Also, there’s a suspension bridge. 230 feet above a rushing river kinda suspension bridge. Like the ones you used to see in a playground that would bounce when you walked on it. There was always the asshole (usually me) who would jump on it and make it swing and cause you to lose your balance. I stifled that impulse, but I did run the last fifteen or so feet of the bridge back, just cause I could. In addition, there are treetop adventures. Even MORE suspension bridges in the trees. Basically, if you’ve ever loved playing in a treehouse, this is totally the place to go.

-American Gladiators. ‘Nuff said. I’m pretty sure this is one of those things that you can only do while in another country, like the “It’s okay to cheat because it’s another country” kinda philosophy.

-Vancouver has a police museum! I didn’t really know what to expect, just that it’d be something different and completely unique to Vancouver. When I travel, I like to find places that you won’t find anywhere else. So we went. And we figured it’d be just about an hour at the most. After two hours, nunchuks, Ninja throwing stars, an autopsy room, a morgue, and crazy interesting exhibits, we finally staggered our way out from Vancouver’s police history. They are the only police force that I have ever heard of that have Harley Davidsons as part of their motor vehicles. Red ones, at that. Go Vancouver.

-Totem poles scare me. If I were a pioneer and I came across a totem pole of a demon-like figure eating a human, I’d run right back in the direction from which I came. However. Totem poles with stories aren’t as scary. Unfortunately, the Museum of Anthropology doesn’t share the stories of most of its totem poles, which makes it difficult to really absorb as much of the history as one possibly could. However, it does have one super cool exhibit of a Raven saving humankind in a clamade of cedar, with natural light shining down on it. It’s pretty groovy.

One thing that both Seattle and Vancouver have that are unusual is the abundance of mountains and water. It’s absolutely stunning and gorgeous, especially when in contrast to all the greenery. Flying into Sea-Tac Airport was like no flight I had ever taken before. Additionally, both have a style of architecture that is completely different from the neo-classic, brick, and steel architecture I’m used to from the East coast. There is so little European influence here, it’s refreshing.

With that said, I’m jumping back into the states where I eagerly await naughty text messages for all of sixteen hours before I get on my sixth plane in three weeks and make my way to a completely different climate. Hot and steamy. Hello Thailand.

I went all the way to Vancouver, Canada to get hooked on American Gladiators.

No, really! While Princess Pointful made a yummy dinner, her boyfriend and I debated what to watch on TV. “The Big Bang Theory?” I said.

“Nah.”

“Dancing With the Stars?”

*dirty look*

“Ugh, Punchline is on.”

“What’s that about?”

“Sally Field and Tom Hanks.”

“Oh god no. I can’t stand Sally Field. Let’s watch American Gladiators!”

I gave him a look. “Seriously?”

“It’s good. You’ll like it. They’re crazy.”

Twenty minutes later, I was yelling at the television like a mad woman. “Watch out for Helga! Why is it so difficult for them to swim the entire length of the pool? Do the breaststroke, it’s faster! What are you doing?! He’s going to crush you! What’s the Wolf? Oh. That’s the Wolf. Ewwww.”

American Gladiators was one of those shows that was cool to watch on Saturday early afternoons, after Saved By the Bell because those people were crazy and scary, and also, it was the impetus for Guts on Nickelodeon. When it went off the air all those years ago, I never thought much of it, even when it returned. But now that I’m in Canada? I actually turned down an opportunity to go out with some of Princess Pointful’s friends because I wanted to watch Major Pain try to get past freaking Helga. (Incidentally, Helga looks like a two hundred and five pound version of a girl I went to high school with.) I was so involved with the show, I couldn’t even keep up with the conversation, because there was a former Para-Olympics medalist with one leg trying to succeed on the Eliminator. (On a side note, hand pedals? What demon conjured up that torture trap?)

As I got more involved with American Gladiators and the plight of one John Siciliano who only has the one leg, so did the others in the living room. And as we watched him try to keep his balance on a tightrope, or run down a spinning barrel, or climb up arm first on a teeter-totter rather than run up, it began to feel a bit like you couldn’t look away. But as he persevered, I realized, had I been him, I would have been pissed to know people were aww’ing every time I succeeded at doing something I had initially set out to do.

The guy who did win, after three minutes and twenty seconds did a great job, but he was ignored in favor of the human interest story of the guy who was disabled and still playing the game. The crowd began chanting, “Go John, go!” and you could see the looks on people’s faces as though they wanted to see him succeed but every time his prosthetic leg went wayward, they’d grimace. Hell, even I grimaced, because I wanted to see this guy kick Gladiator ass.

The camera stayed focused on John, zooming in to show his awkward gait because much of his weight had to be stored on one leg, regardless of the black prosthesis attached to him. It began to feel like an exploitation of his disability, rather than a genuine portrait of giving a guy a fair shot. At the end of it all, while people cheered, I was frustrated. I saw parallels in how people played up the inspirational aspects of his activity to how people have suggested I am an inspiration. I don’t think most people set out to be an inspiration. In my case, I lost my ears and did what I had to do. I don’t find anything about that inspirational.

I doubt John feels differently; in an interview at the end, he said, “If you want to do something, get up and do it.” There’s nothing heroic or poignant about that. Nike’s been riding on the “Just Do It” slogan for as long as I can remember. It’s not about setting an example. It’s about achieving goals. Why are we so eager to confuse the two when it involves someone making do with the hand they’ve been dealt? When sympathy and encouragement often walk the same line of a disability, it’s harder to be thought of as an inspiration for just living our lives.

And to think. All this came from watching American Gladiators in Canada. Not bad, eh?