“I miss home” is the least I can say about how I feel today. It’s strange how “home” has evolved so many times for me over the past few weeks. I thought I understood what it really meant when I left home in Quincy and arrived at the Tufts University campus to start my Civic Semester Orientation or even that morning when our cohort moved out of the Doodle House and transitioned into our homestays––which, I have to say, was quite emotional after having to say goodbye to the owner of the เจ๊นา อาหารตามสั่ง restaurant who cooked the most delicious pad see ew I’ve ever had. But after living in Chiang Mai for the past six weeks, sharing a space with 13 other (wonderful) people, and being part of the everyday life in the Huai Lan community these past few days, I’ve come to realize that home is much more than just a place––it’s the people, the small gestures of kindness, and moments of care that make home feel so much like home.
Living in the Huai Lan community these past few days feels complicated, especially having to adjust to a pace of life that is slower but fuller while, at the same time, quieter yet filled with the hums of familiar connections. But, in a way, it still feels so much like home. Ma and Ba, you might be wondering, “How are you doing with the language?” Well, to be completely honest with you, I’ve been stumbling my way through learning Thai (something I definitely have not been productive with), and though my vocabulary is still embarrassingly small, Meeh WanDi, my lovely host mom, has been extremely patient with me. I’ll probably never forget that night when my host family celebrated Pho Wanlip’s (my amazing host dad’s) 70th birthday, and I had to rely on a mixture of hand gestures and the few words I knew to navigate our small conversations around our dinner table.
The weekend before I left for orientation at Tufts, my best friend drove down to Connecticut from Vermont to pay me a visit. Previously, Laurel and I saw each other every day for hours at a time. At that point, it had been about three months since I had last been in the same room as her, and we were on the precipice of nearly four more. On Monday morning as she loaded up the Subaru to head back up north, we stood looking at each other with tears streaming down our cheeks. “When I see you next, everything’s going to be different,” I told her. It’s a tad dramatic, but it’s rung true.
Since I said goodbye to Laurel, I’ve integrated myself into a group of people I can only describe as my Tufts University-assigned best friends. While I’d like to think our paths would cross in any universe, I’m endlessly grateful to Tisch College for guiding them together in this one. We’re all from different parts of the world, are interested in different things, and have different stories, but we all share the desire to adventure and understand a way of life different from our own. This community has taught me to love, trust, and breathe more deeply. From the very beginning, there’s been so much love in this house of strangers.
It’s crazy to think that I’ve already been in Peru for over a month! This weekend we move in with our host families and I’m very excited. So far, we’ve done a lot already. We’ve been taking Spanish classes, a Latin American Civilization class, and of course our Pathways class. We’ve explored Urubamba, Cusco, and Paru Paru. We’ve gone on hikes and adventures, had bonfires, eaten delicious Peruvian food, spoken to locals in the Plaza and main market, shared group bus rides and movie nights, had fun family dinners, seen the Milky Way in the night sky, and so much more. I can’t even begin to express how happy I am to be in Peru, especially with this group.
At home, in the U.S. (which I’ve started calling America, when did that happen?) — I always liked being in cars. I liked the steady movement, the thrum of the blinker as we waited at stop lights and stop signs, and how you could have the kinds of conversations that only happened in cars, the kind you could leave behind as soon as you got out. Also, the blaring radio, the quiet not-talking, the looking out the window.
Something about cars in the U.S. makes you feel a little invincible, I think. Maybe it’s the way you can and must drive nearly everywhere, or how big the vehicles are, how big you feel in the front seat. At least in part, though, I think it’s how separate you are when you’re inside. You have a separate set of rules to follow, a pre-planned right of way, and sometimes, tinted windows that promise the freedom to sing your silly songs or wear PJs to the grocery store without stares.
I’ve been living in Thailand for a month now, and it struck me the other day that cars and pedestrians don’t feel separate here. I can’t place my finger on why. I imagine it’s a combination of things, like how cars never stop for you at crosswalks, so to get anywhere you have to be willing to walk into traffic and trust that they’ll stop for you when you’re in the middle of the road (which they always do without honking), or how the songthaews and tuk tuks are open to the outside, breathing the same air, with drivers who will call out to you asking if you need a ride. There is a certain closeness between people and roads here; physical closeness—reaching your hands out from the sidewalks, you can brush against passing cars—but something beyond this too.
A week ago, I took a songthaew to a grocery store and the driver asked if we wanted him to wait so we could get a ride home. Yes, I know this is business but can it also be courtesy? Can it also be looking after, or caretaking, the way the restaurant owners do when they see our big group and immediately slide tables together, the way the lady at the compost center did when I told her I’d been sick and she placed a hand on my shoulder and told me all the plants that would make my stomach stop turning?
I got into a normal car for the first time in weeks the other day, and I was expecting, at least a little, to feel the way I do back home—bubbled, separated. Instead, I felt like I was carrying all my human with me. Like I could still roll the windows down and the street vendor food would be close enough to touch, to taste.
I was talking to Mimee a couple of days ago, Mimee who loves noodles and runs a farm in Laos, and she described the village as an un-lonely place—someone always calling you over, here, eat this food I’m cooking, or here, I have a remedy for your aches. Where I’m from, America, feels so far from this village. I think Chiang Mai with its messy traffic and open-windowed cars feels closer.
On Tuesday, September 3rd at around 7pm, I stepped foot for the first time in a Thai market. Instantly overwhelmed by the colors and smells we stopped to look around and admire. There was chaos yet peace. Fresh fruit, raw fish, woven textiles, spices surrounded us, tables filled to the brim with food and clothes, yet everything was organized. Cumin, pepper, chili powder, turmeric, mustard seed, ginger, all compressed into neat little plastic squares. Ceramic baby elephants lined up, each with different vibrant colors and details. Rows of dragonfruit and mangostine surrounded us. While there was chaos, it was natural chaos, it felt as though people fit into their place at the market, tourists admiring, vendors selling and locals bargaining. Days later, in our Southeast Asian course, we read an article which allowed us to learn about the importance of the sense of taste and smell yet also the way these senses are ignored. When I made my way back to the market, I appreciated the smells, I took them in with acceptance and respect.
Nelson Chen: Dragonfruits, burning incense, and tropical rain
From the hints of seaweed and marine life that drift in from Boston Harbor Sea Port to the invigorating aroma of freshly sliced dragonfruits and the smell of burning incense combined with the earthly petrichor that lingers after a sudden tropical rain, I felt a symphony of scents unfold through the bustling markets of Chiang Mai. After a 22-hour long flight from the Boston Logan Airport to Chiang Mai International Airport, I was finally here. (This felt so surreal!). I’ve only read and seen small clips of this place on my TikTok For You Page, probably because of my browsing history filled with unhinged searches like “fun things to do in Chiang Mai,” “Chiang Mai night markets,” and obviously, “must try foods in Chiang Mai.” But absolutely no video clip could have ever captured the depth of the moment I was in. Here, I knew the experiences were much more vivid and much more alive. The market was like a breathing canvas, painted with the essence of Thai locals alongside their stories and relentless energy that thrived on the convergence of cultures and religions. At that moment, I realized that I wasn’t just walking through a market––I was walking through what I would be calling home for the next three months.
To my friends, family, and loved ones back home, I can’t wait to spend countless number of hours sharing my experiences and stories with you guys! Our adventures are just beginning!
Liam Ferguson
I had only ever been to farmer’s markets. I had only ever really been to farmer’s markets in Memphis before coming to Chiang Mai, and that was kind of what I expected. The farmer’s market I would usually go to back home was run only during the summers, and was set up in a parking lot downtown. For the most part, though, I enjoyed going there. There were people selling fruits and vegetables, as well as those who called themselves “less traditional farmers” selling handmade jewelry, and even honey farmers who would give you as many free samples as you wanted. It was somewhere that I had memories of visiting as a kid, and a place I always saw as a source of joy. So when we went to visit the local market in Chiang Mai on our third day, I (sort of naively) expected something similar to the farmer’s market I was familiar with back home. This was not the case. When walking towards the market, I didn’t really see it coming. I just turned a corner, and then I was just sort of… in it. Looking around me, I was a little confused for a second. Then I realized. This was ALL the market. It looked like it stretched for miles. Endless numbers of stalls selling everything you could possibly want. There were stalls selling clothes, coffees, juices squeezed right in front of you, foods better than what you could find at any restaurant, and a wider variety of fruits than I had seen in any supermarket. But the most noticeable detail about the market was the smell. It was almost like there was an invisible barrier protecting the market’s smell from escaping into the rest of the world. As soon as you walked in, you were immediately hit with the smell of meat being freshly grilled, fruits you didn’t even know existed, and the Thai phenomenon called “Tiger Balm”, which can be used to cure pretty much anything. In our History of Southeast Asia class, we talked about how the culture of smell impacts southeast Asia, and how this differs from the western world, where smell is relatively unimportant. With this in mind, I can look back on our trip to the market and recognize that the market’s scent created a feeling of adventure and curiosity to explore. This feeling I think encapsulated not only our motivation to spend hours roaming the market in search of nothing in particular, but will encapsulate our experience and exploration of Thailand as a whole.
Where I [Vorleak] call home is situated close to the equator line, leaning more towards the Southeast of Asia, to name Cambodia. Home for me [Michela] is 20 miles north of Boston in Massachusetts suburbia. For me [Amos], from Narok, Kenya, the beauty of a place lies in how comfortable you are in it.
Chiang Mai is new to us, not so familiar as our hometowns and home countries, but so many of the sights and smells we interact with bring us back.
For me, [Michela], it is the plants along all the streets we wander through—the purple ones I grow in my living room, ivy growing up different restaurant fronts, bamboo shoots along the side of our program house. It’s being in the kitchen in the mornings, prepping breakfasts with each other and doing the dishes, and sharing meals at a big table which always has leftovers. We are less than a week in, but the language is already beginning to sound familiar—we greet & thank people without stumbling over our words.
For me, [Vorleak], Chiang Mai has reminded me of home through the good mornings and good nights I say to people whenever I enter or exit my room. It’s the smiles on the faces of my peers and instructors I see first thing in the morning that remind me of my parents and siblings. Being able to be in the kitchen and using the condiments we’ve picked up at the markets that smell exactly like home transport me back in ways I could not have imagined.
For me, [Amos], stepping into the program house for the first time, I was scared with how the future would unfold, but still held onto the hope of making worthwhile connections with my peers and finding comfort around them. Looking back a week later, I feel like it’s more than what I expected. I am very much appreciative of every single little moment we have with one another, because every day is a step closer to finding our nirvana.
No matter where our origins lie, we are creating new homes every day. So grateful to be here with these people in this place at this time. We look forward to our many tomorrows.
