We are floating down the Mekong River on the slow boat. Actually we are floating up it, going against the current powered by a large motor. There are two Laotian captains, taking turns rotating the large steering wheel with its quintessential spokes as we make our way towards the border of Thailand. Writing that makes it sound romantic. It is.
This is the first Thanksgiving we have spent without friends or family in a really long time. I love the traditions we have created around Thanksgiving. Living outside of Portland for eight consecutive years meant developing a tradition of friendsgiving. After returning to Portland, continuing to spend the holiday with friends seemed like a simpler choice than rotating every four years between our different families. We often chose to host- balancing all the meat-free, sugar-free, gluten-free needs of ourselves and our friends. I have this strange holdover from my childhood, where if the kitchen isn’t hectic and the meal isn’t served an hour or two late then I am disappointed about how the holiday has gone. I love Thanksgiving like I love a big city; the hectic, frenetic, buzzing energy that comes from lots of people sharing space and experience and enjoying the hustle and bustle of coming together. If you observed me in my kitchen at Thanksgiving you might think I was very stressed and not at all enjoying myself but it is a sadistic type of pleasure.
This year we are eating instant noodles in a cup. It is just the two of us, enjoying a slower pace of life together after three back-to-back visits with friends in Japan, Cambodia and Vietnam. The Mekong River sits at the base of the mountains in Laos, a narrow brown river interspersed with currents and the occasional rock formations. The mountains are covered in heavy brush, except for where they are not and the large limestone juts out proudly toward the sky. In the morning the sunlight filtered through but now the gray skies have rolled in and the foggy mist smudges the outlines of the mountains in the distance. At one point the boat pulled over to the side of the river and a man with his large bag of rice, perhaps actually filled with his belongings, jumped off and then disappeared in the side of the mountain.
We are returning to Portland for the Christmas holiday so that we can in fact rotate between our four families, exchanging gifts and eating rich food and enjoying all the U.S. cultural traditions we identify with. Mostly though, we are going home just to be. To share life together in the moments that are carved out as momentous and celebratory, that mark time and togetherness and help tell the story of who we are.
