I first discovered this tiny book,
Kama for Today's Traveller,
In September 2016 as a student of Thai Massage,
At the start of my spiritual journey through life.
A Polish friend from massage school,
Lolita,
Invited me to a monk chat at Wat Suan Dok in Chiang Mai,
And it was there that I was gifted a copy of this book.
It has been almost a decade since I first discovered this book,
And since then,
I've shared this book with countless others I've crossed paths with on my journey.
I've lost the original copy of this book,
Felt a calling to return to it,
And found a copy of it again.
This year,
In 2024,
I received a message that I have to create an audiobook version of this book.
This is too precious to be kept a secret,
Only for travellers to Chiang Mai,
And thus I embarked on this project.
For me,
This book holds not just my memories from Thai Massage school,
And deep,
Profound,
Life-changing insights about karma,
And how to live life,
But it also represents the special relationship I have with Chiang Mai,
And how this has changed over time.
In his book,
How to Live in the City,
Hugo MacDonald shares that living in a city is an art,
Not a science.
Choosing to live in a city is choosing to enter into a relationship with it.
In 2018,
When I left the home I was given,
Singapore,
In search of a home that I felt I would truly belong,
I imagined I might find home in Chiang Mai,
As already the first time she embraced me,
I had fallen deeply in love.
But the universe works in unexpected ways.
That didn't happen.
And though I did pass through Chiang Mai again,
I was no longer alone,
And it was not the place for us.
Seven years have since passed,
And now because of this project,
I find myself back in her embrace.
This time,
Though once again I am alone,
I've now begun a relationship with a different Torino,
In Italy,
With which I've experienced a different kind of love,
One that,
As described by MacDonald,
Like any human relationship,
One that has taken nurturing,
Constant practice and work,
One that has deepened over the passage of time.
I now know,
Without a doubt,
That Turin is the place where my spirit resides,
And where my body will lay to rest and die.
But a part of me will always remember this intimacy,
Belonging,
And love that I've never felt elsewhere,
Except in Chiang Mai.
It's been just two weeks,
But I'm missing you already.
Colours,
That's what I remember from our first memory together.
Streets lined with plum-blossom trees,
Like sticks of candy floss exploding with fluorescent pink.
Me,
Standing underneath them with arms extended and palms open as I wait for the pink to descend onto my fingers.
Not just pink,
But primary colours too,
Bright red,
Yellow and blue,
On the headdress and clothing and the shimmering gold rings on the necks of Karen people,
The long-necked hill tribe.
The time we spent together wasn't long,
Just a week-long rendezvous in 2011.
My dad introduced us,
And I hardly knew you,
But now I realise I must have been infatuated already.
Four years passed,
And the bright colours faded from my memory,
But the universe works in unexpected ways,
And of all places,
In the yoga studio,
I was reminded of you again.
With the warmth of the sun during golden hour,
And eyes,
A hickory as rich as soil,
June,
My yoga teacher,
Spoke fondly of you.
It was you,
She said,
Who gave her this special touch,
To offer relief from strain,
To help my body get even deeper into the shapes that held me like I had never experienced before.
I knew I had to see you again,
And so later in November,
We arranged to meet.
Because of you,
I went back to school.
I was never a good student,
But because of you,
For two weeks,
I diligently examined foreign bodies,
Bodies whose owners I would become fast friends.
Playing with every muscle and tendon,
Exploring every nook and cranny,
Every bulge and fold,
We stretched,
We twisted,
We pressed to apply tension,
And welcome relaxation.
Friday mornings were a special treat,
Spent practicing Qigong with each other and our teachers at Wad Hart Park,
Along to a mixtape that might have been made by my grandmother.
In your presence,
I felt like a child again.
Do you remember Jay,
The Italian photographer,
Two heads taller than me,
With IKEA blue eyes,
And his signature beaden-up straw hat with sequins,
Pins,
Finished with a translucent pink ribbon?
The sweltering Saturday afternoon,
Over the Flower Festival weekend in April,
At Nong Wad Park,
Which was jammed full of locals.
With abandon,
We played like children,
Jay,
The bass,
And I,
The flyer,
And you,
By our side,
While we attempted the bird,
The simplest of all acroyoga poses.
With my fear of heights,
I didn't think I'd be able to balance with just my hips supported by Jay's feet,
Suspended in the air.
After failing a few times,
Under your coaxing,
I let myself relax and let go.
We found the right positioning,
Where Jay's soles fit like a puzzle piece against the groove of my hip bones.
He straightened his legs,
Propping me up,
And we did it.
Like a real bird soaring above him,
I felt,
For the first time,
Light and truly free.
Some locals even photographed us,
And I gamely put on my best smile.
Afterwards,
Resting on the yellow,
Drying grass by the lake,
We laughed so hard we curled up like caterpillars next to each other.
Years of professional training as a market researcher had made me a skilled conversationalist and sharp interviewer.
I never thought I could get through a day without speaking,
But you changed my mind.
In the mountains of Doi Suthep,
We spent four days following the teachings of Pra.
We learned of the impermanence of life and the importance of living in the moment.
No words were spoken between us,
Just thoughts which became our solace and silence by our side.
I know things have changed lately.
Many have become enamored by your presence.
Many have since come to your side.
We're both not quite who we were anymore,
And yet each time we are together,
I'm reminded of our first encounter,
Of the candy floss trees,
And the many subsequent memories we shared,
And how my love for you has never died.
However many lifetimes,
I'll always love you,
Chiang Mai.
