Today is Aug. 24, 2016. My first night in Myanmar.
Within the first three hours of landing in Yangon, what I see in this city quite often reminds me of home.
There are these street food stands clogging the sideways in the middle of the night, and the people who stay out there, having late night snacks and holding beers, could blend in with a similar crowd in my hometown Zhengzhou EASILY, and the attitude that “honking ain’t gonna solve any problems but I’m doing it anyways,” the always smelly air and the scratching bamboo stick that my cab driver uses while driving in busy Yangon streets at 50 miles an hour.
I counted, by the time I went to bed last night, it’s been about 75 hours since I woke up Monday morning in Denver and started packing. The past 75 hours witnessed me hopping from the Rocky Mountain area to the Bay Area, then to the island of Taipei, then the land of mango (Bangkok long layover), and finally, to the final destination and the home for the next year. The past 75 hours had me separated worlds away from the life I established in the last two months in Denver, or the last years in the U.S.
I’m starting over, from scratch. Being terrified is an understatement.
But hey, I think we are soon heading to Burmese style pancakes for breakfast. Options offered in both sweet and savory. The idea of that thoroughly delights me.