It is Sunday evening, less than four hours before my flight out of Chiang Mai, and I think I have everything squared away.
Lian's nonimmigrant visa application is "in process" down at the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok and we're almost ready to submit her document package for the all-important personal interview. My big suitcase is testing the airline's weight restrictions with what feels like 40 pounds of faux treasures. My taxi ride to the airport is booked at the fancy-pants hotel next door. And my carry-on is packed with sandwiches for the 12-hour layover in the transit hotel in Seoul.
Thailand is a troubled place, politically. There's so much I'd love to write about it, but I don't especially care to spend decades eating rat meat in a Thai prison. I'm not kidding. The powers that be in this country take lese majeste very seriously, as in super-ultra-extremely. There's simply no way to write accurately about the political situation here without risking arrest, and that goes for farang and Thai people alike. Ask me about it when I get home.
I hear it's kind of Arctic-y back in Portland. Maybe I should have brought a long-sleeved shirt?
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