Over the past two days I've listened, with my naturally undivided attention, to flight safety instructions in English, Thai, Korean, Chinese and Spanish. I can now crash in any language. At least my traveling calluses are toughened up after buses held together by colorful rubber bands careening up and down the road to Pai, up and through Mae Hong Son, all over bouncing and heads bobbing falling. At least I'm used to being uncomfortable and confined for long periods of time. Good for me. There was a particularly potent irony teasing my freshly-stateside, ringing and pierced little ears ... stuck in a 767 with agitated Latinas with places to be, those carpeted walls were static with aidios mios and such proclamations of the departure of patience (rather than that of American Airlines flight 252). First our
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