16

16. Ah yes, what a number. I would venture to say that everyone associates something with the number sixteen. For some, it may be a flickering flashback to that "sweet" but in all reality awkward stage of life where you should have been kissed at least once. For others, it could be their date of birth or their lucky number. It could be their sixteenth blog post or the number of years one has been married, but today, in the life of Erin Leigh Seavey, it signifies the number of days until I journey home.

I write this in a stuffy internet cafe in Pai, the hippiest town I've seen in my 22 years - yes, even more hippy than Telluride (I know, I was surprised too). Pai is a mountain haven in Northern Thailand that welcomes people from all walks of life with reggae tunes and friendly smiles. I've seen a lot of dread locks here, and marvel at the people they're attatched to every time. This was a surprise trip for me. I was supposed to be at work this week, but was granted a few days off so that I could make a long-awaited trip up north. If you know me well, you know that I sort of come alive in the mountains. I grew up in the foothills of the Sandias and although I was blessed to travel to all sorts of places as a kid, I always looked forward to the mountain trips the most. There is something serene and soothing about mountains. Maybe it's their towering presence, their sturdy and seemingly unshakable posture, the grandeur of their facade - I'm not sure, but I know I can't really get enough of it.

This morning, my buddies and I set off before sunrise on a nine mile hike. We took rented bikes from our hostel through the tiny town, past thatched roofs and rice fields, to the base of our day's challenge - a pretty hefty mountain. We saw a sign that promised fresh coffee just up the hill a ways, so we willingly obliged in hopes of kickstarting our energy for the trek ahead. The sign led us to a sloping hill sprinkled with more thatched roofs, and ultimately to a laid-back, make-shift, outdoor coffee shop. The man behind the counter welcomely said, "hey, take a seat, stay a while." We sat on tree stumps and ordered our cups of joe while taking it all in. This was none other than a tried and true hippy commune nestled into a picturesque scene. I looked around, trying not to look as much like an outsider as I felt. I saw a few dread-locked couples preparing for their morning chores. They had this incredibly calm way about them - what a contrast to the morning bustle that is so very inescapable in Bangkok. My eyes wandered and met another sign that read: Free Food and Lodging. Volunteer Opportunity - Grow your own Food. Minimum Stay - Two Weeks. Whoah, who could stay here for two weeks?! We relocated to another set of stumps and waited for the fresh morning brew.

Have you ever experienced a moment that makes you consciously stop and try to fit it into a permanent frame within your mind? Well, let me tell you, this was one of those moments. The people there were really living simply. As I sipped possibly the best coffee I've had in months (we only drink instant cofee at work), I tried to imagine myself roaming the very hill I was perched upon with bare feet, a make-up free face, dreads in hair that went down to my waist, and a simple smile dancing across my face - well, needless to say, I had a hard time imagining it :)

With filled tanks and a new appreciation for the endless surprises of life, we sauntered down the hill, our steps adding just another background beat to the reggae music oozing from the coffee stand.

I don't have nearly as much to say about the hike itself, but I will tell you that after three and a half hours up, two and a half hours back (it's always so much quicker on the way down), a nude-colored and absolutely fearless frog, a few thousand humungous Daddy Long Legs, an emerald green dragonfly, and only minimal scratches and bruises, we made it back to our rickety bikes.

As I rode away, I could hardly think of anything other than the early morning scene. Jill Fredston, the author of Rowing to Latitude, wrote, "Travel is ... a way to make a link between features on a map and what is actually there ... the value of travel is not so much in leaving one place or reaching another as in the knowledge that when at last we go home, we will not return to exactly the same point. Travel takes us outside of ourselves and deeper within." One of the reasons I loved Rowing to Latitude was the resonance that came with so much of Fredston's personal insight. I can't really imagine a life without traveling. As I'm quickly nearing the end of a journey of a lifetime, I sometimes try and picture the Erin that sat on the plane that took me from Dallas to Hong Kong and then on to Bangkok. I remember clenching Tiller's hand, my arm stretched across the aisle, and trying to console her with fresh words that came from my brother just days before our grand departure. He too has spent time abroad and has experience with transplanting himself into vastly foreign cultures and societies. He pulled me aside and said something to the likes of, "Now, it would be easy for you to sort of freak out when you get to Bangkok because it's not going to feel familiar. You're going to feel and let's be honest, be, really far from home. But just know this, where you're traveling to has the same sky, same earth, and the people there are just that, people." I vividly remember telling this to Tiller on that plane ride - just as much as I was telling it to myself. Same sky, same earth, just people.

Never has that phrase rung so true with me than in this moment. As I type the concluding lines of this post, I finally feel what my brother told me almost a year ago. I can't help but countdown the remaining days, and as I told you before, I have 16 to go, but even in the midst of a countdown that brings with it more emotion than my body can hold, I am full. Full with the knowledge that I, like Fredston, will not return to the same point when I go home. Life is a constant, moving, organic, cyclical beast, and I know that this fleeting year is a mere speck within that beast we call life. But this year has been a chance for me to see that we really are all just people, roaming the same, wide and wild earth, under the same vast sky.