The romantic in me has always been a sucker for sleeper trains so when I learned there was a thirteen-hour, overnight train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai, I wanted to be on it. Obviously, it would be faster to fly the four-hundred miles north, but I suspected Ceci would dig it too, so I booked first class berth tickets through 12. Go Asia, thinking we’d order dinner onboard and make a girl’s night of it. 

Unfortunately, Covid knocked out dinner service so before boarding, Ceci and I hauled our suitcases through the busy streets, loading up on noodles and Dunkin Donuts, before dragging our luggage back into the picturesque station where Ceci humored me as I snapped “too many” photos of her on the platform, boarding the train for her first ever cross-country train ride. Ceci was just eager to get her stuffed animal “Foxy” settled in our berth. She needed a bite of those donuts before dinner. You know, vacation rules.  

At first, the train made lots of local stops, frustrating Cecilia. She wanted the train to “go!” but eventually, go it did as the white-gloved attendants came by and converted the seats into beds, tucking in sheets and blankets, poofing pillows. Ceci went down easy, I popped melatonin and thirteen hours later, we arrived in Chiang Mai where we were immediately swarmed by eager drivers shouting prices for transport. 

The Covid restrictions had just fully lifted so we were among the earliest tourists back. Just like my experience in Peru, that meant locals were eager, if not desperate, for business. It scared Cecilia, to be rushed by a crowd of yelling men, so I pulled her aside, barking a NYC “no” at anyone who dared come near. Bangkok had done a good job of resurrecting my protective instincts. 

Still, one man followed at a distance, ignoring my glares and saying softly, “I just want to work” and something about the earnestness of his voice, made me turn and make eye contact. I trusted him immediately. “You wanna work? Okay, I’ll put you to work.”  

Mister A became our driver, tour guide and guardian angel, toting us all over Northern Thailand in his big, white van. He hiked beside Ceci when she was frightened by large brown bugs near a waterfall, allowing me the freedom to explore deeper into the woods, knowing she was safe. He cut down mangos in a field when Ceci got motion sick. He climbed through caves, helped us wash an elephant and stayed with us in the ER when I had an allergic reaction to mites, refusing to take my money. And yes, he drove like a bat out of hell but he got us everywhere safely and by the end of our trip, Mister A was family. 

But that’s skipping ahead.

Our first stop with Mister A was just past the city’s edge to our forest villa in the subdistrict of Suthep. Part of a family compound located near War Umong (and not too far from the super-trendy Nimman district), our little two-bedroom was perfect for us. Private, quiet and meticulously maintained, it included a pool, daily cleanings, and had a magnificent teak tree growing through the outdoor patio. 

It was also walkable to Slow Hands Studio, where Ceci would be studying wheel-throwing, sculpting and hand building with Kritchnun Srirakit, a master ceramicist. “Jern” as he is known by his friends, teaches at his artist compound, essentially, an adobe house, kilns and an open-air shed surrounded by banana trees and lazy dogs. 

Walkable was essential. No way I was going to teach myself how to drive a moped on the opposite side of the street. And even more no way I’d put Ceci on the back of one, no matter who was driving. If I had to do a quick errand or small grocery run, fine, I’d jump on with a driver and pray the whole time, but mostly, during the weekdays, we’d stay on foot within a mile-radius of our villa. Get up, have breakfast, walk a mile to the pottery studio, throw pots and bowls for three or four hours, walk back half a mile, stop at the ridiculously adorable No. 39 Cafe for lunch and chocolate cake, walk the rest of the way back, jump in the pool, swim, and call it a day. 

Our little routine made Ceci and I a welcome curiosity in Suthep. 

An American mom and her daughter, with no dad, no other kids, happily trudging back and forth, covered in clay. Our weekday patterns became so familiar the local vendors started shouting out, “Good morning, Susan. Good morning, Ceci!” My strawberry smoothies were ready and waiting at the fruit cart. We were the first customers of the No. 39 Cafe to ever complete a loyalty card. Ceci won an umbrella and the employees took a photo, posted it on Instagram and tagged me. 

I knew people wondered - “what’s their story” - but the Thai people are exceedingly polite. No-one ever pried. Ceci befriended the landlord’s daughter and her best friend then we all went bowling together in a nearly deserted mall populated by creepy mannequins and break-dancing teenagers filming TikTok videos. 

The best friend’s mom owned and managed a boutique hotel in Old Town. I found it remarkable that as a scrappy, divorced, single mom, she was not only able to afford her own home and pay for private school but she also bought a small hotel. On her own! 

Chiang Mai seemed so livable, especially for families and artists and entrepreneurs. A single mom hotelier. A ceramicist with land and a house. I couldn’t figure it out. What was going on here? In America, that all seemed out of reach. 

Then I had an aha moment - “Ooooooooh, Thailand still has a middle class.”

The poverty rate in Thailand is half of what it is in America. Their middle class is growing while ours is shrinking. 94% of Thailand’s people are considered economically secure   while in America, the measure of financial stability varies wildly from city to city, state to state. Comfy in Charleston, WV is broke AF in Los Angeles.  

No wonder Chiang Mai felt so…welcoming. Between New York, California and Hawai’i, I’d been living in the most expensive places on the planet for the last thirty years. It was tempting to consider a permanent overseas move. Don’t think I didn’t consider it.  

I’d already put half the Pacific Ocean between Cecilia and her grandparents, not out of spite, not to “move away” but to “move towards” - to move towards our healing, our recovery, our rehabilitation as it were. Everyone understood my decision, Hawai’i was a plane flight away, but still I felt guilty. Adding the whole North Pacific plus the South China Sea, that would be beyond inconsiderate. That would be a severance from the United States, our families and our friends in a more intentional and final way. 

Ceci needed her grandparents and they needed her. We’d enjoy our month in Thailand, bowl with our neighbors, get chatty with the local vendors, but touring schools or hiring a realtor, that’d be a step too far. Our role in Thailand was to visit and travel pono - a Hawaiian word with a complex meaning - to travel consciously, with regard to stewardship of the land, to live in balance and harmony, to be righteous and respectful. We came to Thailand as students, not as settlers. 

Now, I’d originally planned for Ceci to focus on ceramics while I studied meditation with the Buddhist monks but all the temple trainings required non-negotiable, week-long overnight stays. I tried explaining my situation: dead husband, solo mom, young kid. I proposed alternatives: maybe I could attend the dharma talks during the days but leave at night? The monks just stared at me, confused. Clearly, a widowed mom was not their target audience. 

I’d already decided I wasn’t willing to put my daughter’s daily care in the hands of a nanny, so after one quick visit to Wat Umong on my own, where I was abruptly greeted by a sign that read:  “To heal a wound, you need to stop touching it,” I joined Cecilia at Slow Hands for her second lesson and ended up staying. 

Throwing pots with Jern turned out to be more than just instructions in hand-building and wheel-throwing. It was also a daily practice in presence, listening and patience. I’d gone to Thailand to study meditation and it was Jern who became my kumu - my source of knowledge, my teacher. 

Jern taught me to move more slowly, to touch with intention, to listen and watch and feel, to be wholly present or my distraction would move through my hands into the clay and take shape. Rushing was not an option but neither was checking out. The wheel was always spinning, testing the limits of my endurance and focus, straining my back, neck and shoulders. It was an exercise in purity and flow. 

Jern immediately recognized the artist in Cecilia. He spoke to her, always, as an artist and not as a child. He respected her own vision of a piece and helped her execute that vision, allowing her to make mistakes and teaching her how to correct them. They had a respectful rapport and near the end of our time together, Cecilia sculpted Jern (and his fat, lazy dog) out of clay, in tribute.

He was quite touched. 

There is a ritual in Thailand, wai khru, that literally means “bow to teacher” in which students pay their respects to express their gratitude for the passing of wisdom. Cecilia and I presented Jern with a Hawaiian kukui nut lei, a symbol of enlightenment and peace, often worn for graduation ceremonies, which he accepted with a humble bow and then hung on his studio sign. 

I hope it’s still hanging there, in Suthep, that kukui nut lei from Waimanalo gifted by a daughter born in Los Angeles and her mama born in Morgantown. Souls converging. Worlds connected by curiousity, creativity and courage.  

I hope someday, my hands will again be covered in clay.