Someone Else is Living Your Parisian Dream

Photo Credit goes to someone else.

From the warring jungles of Burma, to the clandestine border towns of Thailand, to the jungle paradises of Borneo, to the concrete jungles of New York, and then to…..Paris? Yes, Paris. Who would’ve thought I’d pay good money to step foot on in Europe - more specifically France - before I turned 60?

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He e-mailed from an Internet Cafe today and I feel my lifeline tugging me in that direction. The country is changing in my absence. There were no Internet cafes when I was last there 1 year ago and now that there is, access is priced out of range of the average local. Back then, it was accessible only to the powerfully rich or the government and at Western hotels.

Before he left Finland to travel to Burma, I asked Antti to take a stacks of photos to my friends there. Finally, they would receive photos of my last trip there nearly 1 year ago. As well, it serves as a mutual introduction. He will have an amazing time as he follows my trail to see my friends with the gift of memories and portraits in hand.

One of the places I sent him to was a monastery in Rangoon. I connected with beautiful, curious U Acchariya who has been a monk since the age of 11 and lives there today. Acchariya is 25 years old. He wrote,

“I still remember you and the the water festival where we met. how is everything with you? How are you? and how is studying? when are you coming back here? thanks for your pictures i like them so much. all your friends are missing you and i am waiting for you to come back. I got your email address and i’ll write you more later.”

I had arrived at the monastery dripping wet from head to toe with two new Australian friends. It was Thingyan… the Burmese New Year Water Festival. On this campus filled with young monks, their curiousity was peaked when an American female - who spoke their language - stepped into their domain. We talked about life in America, boyfriends, the Internet, and American “girls who wear bikinis.” “Do you wear one?” they asked laughingly, cigarettes dangling from the corner of their lips.

Leaving the monastery hours later, Acchariya walked us to the bus, about a kilometer away. We were again attacked by precocious children and drunk men, all celebrating the New Year. Monks are generally spared and I hid behind Acchariya, taking care to respect the tradition of keeping physical distance between females and monks. Acchariya opened the outter wrap of his saffron robe, and there I hid, all the way down the street. We laughed to each other at the ridiculousness of it all and I watched him watch the bus until we were both of sight. I wondered what must be going through his mind.  At 27 years of age, he had lived in monkhood for 14 years already.

Antti’s note was a small surprise. I had informed him that if he really needed e-mail, that he could go to the Trader Hotel, but this virtual connection with a monk who lives in Burma…the casualness of his tone…the prospect of simply being able to e-mail a Burmese friend baffles me. Beyond words. It strengthens my resolve to go back to live the changes for She certainly is changing.