“I've
always wanted to go
there,” I say, watching another travel show on PBS.
K.
says: “But you say that about everywhere.”
But it's
true. I've always wanted to go everywhere, and Maine is only one of
the many places I dreamed of visiting. I've debated enrolling in the
Century Club, where members visit all 321 (at press time) of the
world's countries before they die. The number varies, of course,
with new countries minted, nullifying a lifetime attempt to check
them all of the list, forcing deathbed adventure, at least in my
imagination.
But
Maine: Maine I saw as cliffs and white-stone beaches, me walking
along the shore barefoot, wearing a white dress, with a white house
perched as an ocean lookout above the white-grey sea. Wherever this
vision came from the illustrated children's version of Moby-Dick or
from Bangkok billboards, I'll never know.
Maine is
different. Maine is cold. Maine is a place where one can remain
indoors, quietly stewing, for weeks at a time, while outside the moon
principle rules, the cold, the dark. It's the yin principle come to
life, the yin I recognize from childhood, although it's perhaps my
first acknowledgment of its power.
The
first yin-yang I saw was on the Confucian temple, bedecked with pink
and orange pastel. We passed its alien statues of a dark-bearded
idolatrous Confucius as we walked to our friend's house in the slum
along the khlong—one of Bangkok's fetid bottle-green canal-sewers,
smelling of garlic and rotting flesh, a smell I still catch in my
dog's breath, which reminds me, thoroughly, of home. It doesn't
disgust me. When I catch the smell from a septic release valve or
loose propane now it feels old and faintly nostalgic, as when I
caught the whiff of raw sewage through my dorm-room windows, in
Manila.
What do
sewage and the yin-yang have to do with each other? And how do they
connect to cold and Maine and wanderlust? Who knows. Just another
string of associations, the dangling trail as I pull monkeys from the
barrel of memory. But I still want to go everywhere.
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