We had just finished dinner in a funky backpackers' hangout. Open-air and multi-leveled, tiny lights strung in the trees, lots of wood, rattan chairs and old statues, with huge paintings of goldfish on the walls, it blared steady music. We had cold bottles of Singh beer on the table to chase the incredibly fiery fare we were eating.

Up the narrow street we went afterwards, squeezing aside for motorcycles, tuk-tuks, and the occasional car. On the side of the road a VW Microbus with its roof cut open and side window replaced by a counter had been converted into a sidewalk bar. Just up at the corner a vendor was making a type of crepe, from dough, not batter. He lifted a ball of the sweet soft dough from under a lid and flattened it against the counter with the heel of his hand. Flipping it a few times, he placed a pat of butter on the hot concave griddle and laid the pancake on top of it. An air pocket formed underneath as the butter bubbled up. He quickly grabbed a soft banana and sliced it in his hand, letting the pieces drop onto the cooking crepe. Folding the sides over the banana, he flipped it, and gave it a few moments on the second side before sliding it onto a paper plate. He cut it into little squares with his spatula, then grabbed a can of sweetened condensed milk. Small perforations dotted one end of the lid, and he poured pearly streams of golden milk in zigzags across the top. Then he took a squeeze bottle of chocolate and decorated a bit further. Very hot, very sweet, very delicious, we ate it on the sidewalk with wooden skewers. The next vendor over was selling pirated CD's. Big speakers under the table began blaring Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive". We danced in the street, singing, fueled by the sugar, a few Singhs, and the energy that permeated the air.

We were in Bangkok.

Dirty around the collar, a bit shabby, and electric in its energy- it's an amazing city. Minutes later we were in the back of a tuk-tuk, which is a sort of cross between a motorcycle and a rickshaw. A tiny vinyl seat, some colorful lights, and a metal roof is about all it is. The driver, grabbing onto motorcycle handlebars, zoomed us down the streets of this city. The wind, the noise, and the vitality blew past our faces as we yelled to each other. Not sure I could live like this every day, but it sure was fun to visit.

I'll get some pictures posted soon.

Left a wonderful art opening tonight, walked across the street to a tea shop. I bought a tiny black teapot, earthy brown on the inside, with a tight-fitting lid. Just big enough to make a scant cup of tea. Megan fell in love with a, well, a large cardboard box. On the outside of the box in blatantly large letters, was printed the word TEA. Just below that it said Thailand, then some designations written in magic marker. We told the clerks we liked the box, and they asked if we would like to have it. Yes, I said, knowing Megan would be too shy to accept. I helped the woman slide a very large and heavy bundle out of the tight-fitting box. The package was like a giant block. She was eager to show me the contents, so she cut open the heavy brown paper wrapping to expose the tea within. The paper was thick and lined with a silvery coating, and held an enormous quantity of jasmine tea. I had never seen so much loose tea at once. The aroma was ethereal, flowery and soft, and filled the air around us. I wanted to reach my hands in, sift the tea through my fingers (which I don't think would have been entirely improper) but I refrained.

We left the shop, Megan nestling my tiny teapot, and I carrying this now-flattened large tea box under my arm. We walked downhill through Section 7, a part of town which always reminds me of our first days here. It was here where we first were temporarily housed while we apartment-hunted over a year ago, these streets our first view of Taipei. I remember those days, that first morning even, waking up and walking out into the bright Taiwan sun, finding our way in the daylight past what we had only dimly seen in the dark of night. How sudden it all was. We were in Asia. Just the night before we were descending, our heads cupped to the airplane window seeing a sight I will never forget: the full moon reflecting like shimmering glass, appearing and disappearing in the surface of rice paddies. Our lives touched down in this place more distant than anything we had ever experienced. And now we've let tender roots down to cling to soil which is still new to us, an experience at once precious and exotic, familiar and still surprising. We are in love with a life here, our marriage nurtured more or less entirely upon this foreign land.

Now down the street we strode in the evening air, doing the familiar single-file to side-by-side walk as we squeezed past scooters, skinny trees, up and down oddly-placed steps, dodging dog doo, mesmerized by the smiles of small children with their uniquely Asian smiles. The experiences don't stop. It can still be bracing and new, a combination that keeps you alive, observant and looking, aware of the distinct friendliness of the Taiwanese, the smell of incense drifting from the temples, the certain tempo of the language of passers-by.

Still I carried the large tea box under my arm, fingers clutching securely the plastic strapping. I felt the broad expanse of cardboard suddenly like a shield, as it blocked the headlights, like it could protect us from invasion, from oncoming traffic, provide us passage, like it could carry us home.

And home we were. Why was I suddenly thinking of tears I'll someday shed, the day I step away from here? The day I turn to look for the last time at the surrounding mountains that nestle my life, that delineate my tiny existence here. Making that impossible decision between what is a good life and what is the love of family. The choice is ridiculously unfair. The choice is not a choice, it is too difficult to be a choice. I want to be near my family, watch my nephews grow, dine with my mother on a Tuesday night. But some memories of home are also daunting, and deadening: a car commute to work, just enough disinterested kids sprinkled in every class to make teaching a struggle, shopping in giant stores with glaringly bright lights, products placed at eye level to induce my hand to buy. Driving everywhere to get anywhere. The peace and pleasure and quiet pace removed from your life, replaced by paper cups of coffee carefully designed to be consumed while you get back in your car and drive to the next destination.

Shop owners, at least in the smaller shops here, motion you to sit, have some tea, tiny cups for which it would be ridiculous to refuse a refill. So you sit, listen carefully with your best Chinese ear, drink another cup. In the market stalls women take the vegetables you've chosen, placing them on the scale, saying words to you, maybe about how to chop or cook, maybe the obscure name for this green, eager to see you prepare it in the best way. Their eyes smile as they show their thanks for your business with a handful of cilantro and bright arcs of spring onion placed generously in your bag. The pretty woman in the flower stall catches your eye, calls politely to you in Chinese, lets you know how beautiful the orchids are, what the colors will bring to your house when you step through the door.

How will I walk away from this life? Imagining is not so hard the days when I am tired or the hours at work far too long. But most days make me wonder what it will be like to leave a life where you have found the right mix of small pleasures, of a feeling of safety, joy and interest in the eyes of your students, and adventure a scooter-ride away up into the mountains.