Rolling on the tracks, sitting next to monks, watching a Muslim woman nap, while fumes from fires of flaming trash enter the train window cracks, and coat the linings of our throats as we pass through Bangkok. We go slowly towards the south, and then wait for another train to roll by; full of pastel sofas, oak tables, silver dessert forks, and green wallpaper, and people whose faces are the shade of powdered milk
Onwards, crammed between cars, I smell the urine splashed onto the tracks, and wonder where to look for home. Was it with my friend in Bangkok or is it in my apartment in empty Phetburi? Is it in my e-mails with my brother or in my phone conversations with my friend? Can I find it in my jeans, my English books, my medication, or inside the special water bottle my friend gave me before I came here, the one that filters out pollutants?
- Victoria Cho, Bangkok – Phetburi