I ask the desk clerk and his friend if there is an ATM nearby. “ATM?” he queries. “Yes, for the money.” “ATM closed. Today Sunday.” “Closed? Not always open?” “No, bank close. ATM close. Go to morning market to change money.” “ATM not open all the time?” “Yes, all the time, but give you Laos money. Kip.” “What do I have to use to buy things? Dollar or Kip?” They look at me like I’m crazy. “Kip.” To myself I think, so then why wouldn’t I want to use the ATM? I smile and thank them.

I’ve been in transit for more than 30 hours. As soon as I check in and unpack my bags, I make way for the shower. Shower. Depends on your definition, but it could be considered such. There is a water source. And a hose attached, with a nozzle. It’ll work.

I turn on what I think is the hot water. Cold water sprays from the nozzle. I turn the other knob. More cold water. I try every combination of the two knobs, still getting cold water. Cold water it is. I hop in the tub and straighten the hose. Hm. The hose reaches to my belly button. I’m tall, but I’m not that tall. So I squat, shivering, trying to rinse 30 hours of travel from my body. I wash my hair and soap up, braving one more frigid rinse. I turn the knobs to turn off the water. Nothing happens. That’s odd. I try again. Still nothing, the chilled water is spraying at me with full force. I feel waves of anxiety creeping up behind me. No. I can do this. I turned the water on, I can turn it off.

Except I can’t. After turning each knob as far left, and as far right as I can, the water is still spraying. Oh, geez. I quickly towel off, throw on clothes, and call the front desk. Did I mention the lack of English skills among the staff? What is the simplest way to convey my situation? The desk clerk answers. “Shower. Water not stop. Lots of water. Help!” He is in my room in seconds. He goes to the shower, turns, turns, turns each knob, and the water slowly stops spraying out. I stand there, feeling like an idiot. “You turn both all way off. Okay?” I thank him, feeling quite incompetent.

I’m in the Thai Airlines Royal Orchid lounge. It’s 3 am and there are only two other passengers in the lounge, both men, both sleeping. I wake from my nap, somewhat disoriented. Where am I? What time is it? Where’s the bathroom?

I stumble through the lounge. I see one of the exquisitely dressed employees, shiny black hair pulled back into a perfect bun, glowing skin, glossy lipstick, and a purple silk top and sarong that fit like a glove. I feel very disheveled.

I ask her where the rest room is. She looks at me and smiles. “The bathroom?” “Oh, yes,” I reply. I forget that when I’m in a foreign country restroom is generally not an understood term. She points. As I start to walk in that direction, she stops me. “Bathroom? Or toilet?” I smile and nod, not sure what she is asking.

“I think you need the bathroom. I think you need a shower.”

After being on two planes and in transit for 23 hours, there’s nothing like stating the obvious to bring you back to reality.

Flying from San Francisco to Japan was the most turbulent flight I’ve had in a long time. Ten and a half hours of almost constant bumps and jarring. You know that feeling when the plane jolts and your stomach feels like it’s in your groin, then in your throat, then back in your groin? That’s where mine is now.

I actually packed before the last minute for this trip. Sort of.

I found my passport. Found my WHO card. Packed my clothes. Packed a swim suit, packed appropriate shoes. All days before this trip. I was so proud of myself.

And then. This morning. Throwing toiletries in my suitcase. And all the things I forgot to pack a few days ago. A yoga cd. A lightweight rain jacket. A couple of books to read. A hairbrush. Insect repellent. Emergen-C. It seemed each time I turned around in my apartment, I saw something and thought, “Oh, yeah, I should take that also…” Which lead to the chaos. Of a second suitcase. Throwing items in, realizing I needed to leave for the airport RIGHT NOW. Rushing into the kitchen and quickly checking the refrigerator for anything that might spoil in the month that I’ll be in Asia.

And leaving in a rush. I hate leaving in a rush, yet it seems that’s always what I’m doing. The sad thing is, I’ve become good at it.

This is awesome. I’m on layover in Tokyo. I sign into Blogger, and suddenly everything is in Japanese. I’m glad I’m familiar with the interface…

Several years ago, as I was swing dancing with a very dear friend, he suddenly stopped, looked at me, and said, “Who’s leading this dance — you or me?”

I started to protest, realized he was right, laughed, then let him lead. It’s a bad habit. I set my sights on a goal and then go for it. More than once my tenaciousness has been likened to a bull in a china shop. I don’t intentionally mean to be so focused, it just happens. Remember that annoying girl in high school who just did the group projects because she felt she could do it better than anyone else? The one who felt it would just waste time to explain it to the other members of the group? Yeah. That was me. Sad, but true.

I’d like to think that I’ve mellowed since then. That I consistently value the contributions of others. And graciously realize that I’m not always right. I’d like to think.

I was out swing dancing again last night. My partner tried to turn me in a way I wasn’t expecting to be turned. I started to protest, then realized this was his dance. He was leading. I relaxed my body, keeping just enough tension in my arms for him to be able to guide me, turn me, twirl me. I readjusted my expectations to be completely open to his dance, to his lead. He led me across the floor, pulling me close then spinning me out. I could feel laughter bubbling up inside me, a byproduct of pure joy that comes from doing something you love. As the music ended, he dipped me and the laughter spilled out in waves. A simple reminder that every now and then you have to trust someone else to take the lead.

As I turn my key in the lock, I wonder if I will walk into an apartment covered with fine, white dust, an apartment spotlessly clean, or something in between. I hesitate.

I turn the key and push open the door. Hm. Seems clean. I walk in. There, on the shiny, dust-free hallway table, is a beautiful purple orchid. What?

I open the card. “To brighten your day. Just wanted to say thank you for your patience. I hope you’re happy with our work. Have a great day.”

I can’t help but smile. Flowers make me happy. Surprises make me happy. Unexpected happy endings make me happy. And my apartment is clean.

This morning the workers came before I left for work. “Good morning,” I greeted them as they came into my apartment, carrying buckets of tools and other unfamiliar stuff. “So, how much longer do you think it will take to finish this job?” “Oh, just today, miss. Today, finish.” I smiled. “Great! And then, you will clean, right? There is so much dust…” The woman smiled at me. “You have a feather duster? You just dust, dust, dust and it’s all clean.” I smiled. “No, no feather duster. Maybe you can clean? Here, let me show you the cleaning supplies.” I showed her where the rags were, the Clorox, the Pine Sol, the Pledge, a cleaning product for any job. She smiled. “Okay.”

I left for work. For some strange reason, I don’t think she’s going to clean.

I hate being sick. I hate being sick. I hate being sick.

I hate the feeling of wanting to do something and not having the energy to do it. I hate the feeling of wanting to eat and not having an appetite. I hate the feeling of lying down, exhausted, and not being able to fall asleep because I’m feeling too miserable.

I normally just ignore the feelings of sickness, reckoning it will eventually go away. It usually does. This time, however, it didn’t. It struck back with a vengeance.

I came home early from work today, something I *never* do, because I was so exhausted. I entered the apartment. The workmen were here, working on replastering the newly created walls. They obviously had also been sanding, but had neglected to put any plastic up. An incredibly fine, white dust covered *everything* in my apartment — the floors, the tabletops, the books, the wine bottles, the piano, everything.

I felt so run down I couldn’t even muster any emotion. No anger, no disappointment, nothing. I ran my fingers over the surface of a table and looked at the layer of grayish white dust on my fingers. I looked at the workmen. “Seriously?” They stared at me. I stared at them. I walked into my bedroom, shut the door, and crawled into bed.