Christmas in October

If you've ever packed up your life and moved--next door, across town, around the world, it doesn't matter--then you will be familiar with the feeling of dread that sits on your chest while you pack your life up, simultaneously sneezing from all the dust. Dread because, even if you are excited (and I was), when you begin to question when you became that packrat (not quite a TLC hoarders special but...) that's really only the start of the existential crisis. 

Fortunately my moving-savvy friends reminded me that on the grade scale of Life Experiences, moving is up there as one of the most stressful. Dartmouth University even has the life change index scale that you can calculate how many stress points your current life is at (google it, for serious). 

Not needing to calculate the metrics of how much I'd blown up our lives, I settled for packing up the flat in a scattergun move from this room to that room, throwing my life's hoarding into four piles: donation; storage; packing in suitcases; packing into boxes for shipping. Paul continued working from home around my daily meltdowns.  Sometimes we'd have a whole argument, from start to end, in under five minutes. He's a minimalist and I'd prefer not to live in a white-walled asylum. Yin and yang. 

TLDR: moving is shit. We survived. 

And now it's October, we're nearing the half term break and I poorly calculated in the best way possible when the boxes we (I) packed would arrive. Due to geopolitics, the typhoon season and other end-of-the-world moments, our boxes took the long way around the horn of Africa, getting stuck in an unusually long customs queue in Singapore. And yet, they still arrived one month earlier than I anticipated.

So today I woke up to my seven boxes being delivered. I was nervous; having lived with the two suitcases I brought on the flight for two months it all felt a little unnecessary. The flat's been fine, a little sterile but otherwise fine. Call it residual moving trauma, call it Paul's minimalism rubbing off on me. 

This was short-lived. Staff dropped off my boxes, shut the door behind them and I went to town with my scissors. A frenzied glee took over as I traversed nearly 4k steps pacing between boxes and the two bedrooms. Every unwrapping was like a warm hug from my past life coming to greet me, reminding me I am both the person who packed these boxes two months ago and the person I am today. There were tears; it was a genuine reunion. I spent the day in a state of glimmer and joy. (And yes, Frank's hot dog costume was at the top of one of the boxes.)

So now the flat is decked in textiles, giant cushions, artwork, prints and postcards from our travels. Tonight I used my stick blender to make my favourite soup and opened a beer with the bottle opener that should have gone in my suitcase. It made a change from using a teaspoon to mutilate the lid open.

It's not quite our London flat but we're not quite our London selves. And that makes this 34-degree October Christmas day so very full of promise.

A Dog's Life, Bangkok Edition

Hello, October! We're nearly reaching the two-month mark of life in Thailand--it feels like we've been here longer. I'm still comparing my adjustment to my China move, struggling to understand how two situations 10 years apart can be simultaneously similar and juxtaposing.

Full disclosure: moving is hard. Moving with two people is harder. Moving with two people and a dog with separation anxiety that you've tried to drug with a dinky dose of doggy CBD oil is the hardest yet. 

I should preface this with the fact that our 'dog' is an 8-year-old, 3.6kg miniature dachshund who picked up some bad habits when the world shut down during Covid. Remote work became part of Paul's permanent plan and with his parents down the road, we had ready-made doggie daycare for the odd long work days, evenings out and travels out of the country. Frank loved our flat in London. He'd lollop from room to room following the sun spots on the east-facing balcony to the west-facing living room. He loved his loops around the park twice a day and the proximity to Paul's family. 

And then we moved to Thailand. 

It turns out the flight, something we mega stressed out about, was the least of our worries. Frank flew with Paul in the cabin and there was minimal fuss. The dog refused to use the toilet but was otherwise fine.

And then we arrived in Bangna, a suburban enclave of the city far removed from your imagination of what Bangkok is. Beyond the mundane nature of our neighbourhood, the main problem with this suburbia is the lack of grass or parks within a walkable distance. That and the proliferation of soi dogs, Bangkok's semi-cared for, semi-feral street dogs. More on this later.

Maybe it was all too much too soon for Frank; the sights, the smells, the sounds became all encompassing. He has clung to us. Only BKK is not nearly as dog friendly as London and so he has to stay home more than he's used to. When we leave him, we're greeted with a puddle of saliva twice his body length upon our return; his paws are licked to soaking. He scratches at the floor and cries. It's absolutely heartbreaking.

'Dog Friendly' Bangkok 

At the weekend, we're trying to find our new normal. But 'dog-friendly Bangkok' is a bit of a misnomer thus far. There's tons of dog-friendly cafes. Only in town. And there's excellent doggy daycare facilities and boarding places. In town. And some shopping malls have designated themselves 'pet friendly.' Also in town (and completely next-level unhinged). But the BTS, the city's excellent public transport that avoids the omnipresent traffic, is not pet friendly. So a taxi it is. 

At Central Eastville, a mall that touts itself as 'pet friendly,' you're greeted with next-level madness. People push their corgis, huskies, three tiers of pugs in dog trolleys around the mall. These dogs do not use their paws. There's a 'running' track on the roof and dog yoga classes on special holidays. And because Bangkok, people also bring their Mexican hairless cats, their chinchillas, their parrots for a day out to see and be seen. It turns out pets are something of a status symbol in Thailand and the infrastructure has opted not to keep up with a group of people who sometimes haven't cleaned up after their beloved pets in the past. So there's really no middle ground for pet lovers; you're either pushing your pup in a trolley or hiding him at the bottom of a canvas bag to get through the park. Because even the parks are largely designated not dog-friendly. 

Benjakitti Park in the city centre is one exception. The dog-friendly section is spacious, leafy and green and spans the width of the main park itself. It's glorious. But the remaining 3/4 of the park is decidedly not pet-friendly. We got chased off by security guards on bicycles before knowing the reality. There are a few other gems we've yet to try; Nong Bong Park is apparently lovely. And we'll get there, perhaps once we've mourned how easy everything was for Frank back in London.

The Soi Boys 

Down our street (or soi) a motley crew of street dogs that sort of have humans but mostly don't live their lives roaming the neighbourhood. They mostly sleep under parked cars, scratching themselves and wandering the food market waiting for people to drop them bits of sustenance. Paul calls them the Soi Boys. And true to his form as a tiny dog with a Napoleon complex, Frank absolutely hates them. 

The Soi Boys are largely harmless but there's one territorial scruffy, grey lady dog who's taken to growling at people who get too close to her 'territory.' One of our colleague's named her Fluffy. And six weeks ago, Frank, from his perch in Paul's arms, squared off with Fluffy, who lunged for him and got Paul's leg instead.

Paul is now the proud recipient of a series of precautionary rabies jabs, 5 vaccinations given over the course of a month.

This story will one day be funny. So will Frank's separation anxiety. In the meantime, we despair just a little bit.