December 29, 2010

My dearest,

Looking out of the window, all I see are clouds and wisps of blue sky in the gaps. It’s a familiar sight. I’ve been flying a lot this year. A few vacations here and there – much-needed holidays and getaways; mostly though I’ve travelled for work. There is a difference that few other than those whose jobs also revolve around commuting between airports may understand between doing this for business instead of leisure.

This time I am up in the air for neither, I think. And yet, it is for both, perhaps. Some time out to figure what I will be doing next year. I remember the conversation with Ellyne – “You need to get out of here, to get away from the stress of work, get some quiet, to not think.”

She meant an escape from the office, since things are quieter at the end of the year, to reflect. How does one reflect and sort out one’s future without thinking, though, I wonder? Especially one who spends more time thinking than anything as else as I do?

The plane lands. I’m in Krabi. And so it begins, this experiment in not thinking in the guise of four days in Paradise. (Get away, don’t think.)

Everything feels very familiar. The airport, the signages in Thai that are indecipherable to me, the slow crawl of life as the van I am in takes me to Ao Nang beach. Déjà vu.

I know why, of course. It was only September, barely three months ago, that I was here, for a real vacation. Sand, sun, surf and simply the best company a guy could ask for in my fellow travellers three – Monkey, McCutie and you. This time it’s just me. Monkey, when he found out about my return here, called it soul-searching. So did McCutie. (“Is there anything wrong? Why are you going back? Alone?” went the text messages, and after a while, I too wondered if indeed there was something wrong.)

And you? You just said, Go. You sure could do with the break. Don’t eat so much of the deep-fried or spicy food. Bad for your tummy. Stay out of the sun; remember how red you got the last time? Try more massages lah. So syiok. Lucky you. Go, go and enjoy yourself.

Pause for a beat, and then: You’re not going for too long, right? I’ll miss your hand holding mine when we sleep. I like holding your hand.

I like holding your hand too, dear. I won’t be long. I’ll be back, and we’ll sleep together, with our hands holding its partner.

The sea does not call as loudly here, does not drum as strongly as the waters off Sabah. The air is different here, less humid, less suffocating. It feels odd to notice these little differences when one almost believes, after travelling so often, that one place blurs into the next.

They don’t, not really, not unless your mind is not really there. Not really here.

I’m walking along the beach, the damp grains of sand sneaking in between my toes as my flip-flops sink softly with every step, and I’m not really here. I am in Macau, hunting down Lord Stow’s Bakery for the original, authentic Portuguese egg tart, and when I find it, it is simple and it is good and delicious. We sip on unsweetened iced lemonade and we have an argument, we don’t talk to each other, we walk along the village esplanade, we forget our argument, whatever it was, and we smile, take a bus back to the casinos and the tiny, ancient alleyways and our favourite secret little temple.

I choose the one-hour body scrub, followed by an hour of coconut oil massage and a foot scrub too (why not?) but I’m not really here. I’m at home and we have guests, friends and visitors in our new apartment. We just moved in this year. The place is still a mess, but we do our best with it. We boil herbal chicken soup in the slow cooker and we stir-fry some green vegetables with plenty of chopped fresh garlic. We cook and we feed our guests, and they are always the best company, even as the faces change with each meal and each conversation. When they leave, we are alone at home and we do our own things but that is okay; we are together.

It’s only 20 baht, the Nutella-filled crêpe the pretty street hawker is making me but I’m not really here. I’m snapping photographs of Japanese fish merchants as they slice giant slabs of frozen tuna into very expensive portions already sold during the morning auction, trying my best not to get in their way and getting carved up myself.

The Tsukiji Fish Market, the largest of its kind in Tokyo, probably the world, and it feels like we have stumbled upon a brand new world here. The giant lanterns of Asakusa, the Abercrombie & Fitch boys of Ginza. The sacred weddings held at Meiji Shrine, the Harajuku girls wildly in love with nothing at all but the spirit and joy of this time. This time, now. Though the sakura last fell upon our heads and onto our open hands in April, the petals are still falling on us now; the memory remains.

The hours and the adventures, the faces and the smiles flashing across them. The good food and drink, our friends and our family, the ones we have the very good fortune of loving. The spirit and joy of this time, of now. No words can describe my gratitude for all of this – what a blessing! what a gift to be alive! To be alive now and to live this wonderful life!

Four days later and I’m on a plane back to Kuala Lumpur. I’m home in time for us to spend Christmas Eve together on the morrow. You ask how was my trip? Relaxing, I say, everything I needed. So you know what you wanna do next year, you ask.

Not a clue, I answer, but I do know it has sure been a very good year.

You smile, you tell me I’m silly. Then you fold me into an embrace and we hug tightly for what seems like hours, and I know you agree. It sure has been. A very good year.

Yours, ever and always.