I sat in a second-class compartment. My suitcase barely fitted on the overhang; half of it precariously hung over the edge. The seats were a combination of faded beige and hot pink, the color worn away from the passage of time.
I sat on a train in the Bangkok station. It was still morning. I was on my way to Nakhon Ratchasima, a city in central Thailand.
The lights dimmed and flickered as the attendants sauntered between compartments. They checked everyone’s tickets with the sort of dull energy that only comes from a mindless routine. Outdoor vendors were making their final round of customers on the train, selling bottled water and small snacks. I bought a bag of cookies. I decided to pass on the bottled water.
Due to the newly instated government protocol, the attendants wore surgical masks on all public transportation. The media storm on the virus had forced every country to take initiative at this point. It was the middle of February, three weeks after my arrival in China. I was going to teach English in Hangzhou. I was on my way to a new teaching job in Nakhon Ratchasima, known colloquially as Korat. I had never heard of this under-the-radar city prior to my arrival in Bangkok. It made headlines for a mass shooting that occurred in a mall a few days before I arrived. I have been desensitized to mass shootings in the news, as they are a regular occurrence in my home country.
In spite of the impending Thailand shutdown that would come a month and a half later, life went on for the Thai people. Public transport and commercial centers had started to stock sanitary products and fever checkpoints. People went about their daily chores, chattering away in markets, cooking in their street vendors, riding their motorcycles, and drinking at the night districts. The virus felt far away. It was a comfortable, though irresponsible delusion.
I watched the fans oscillating above me, basking in the air conditioning. I had carried my heavy suitcase through the early morning heat and my shirt was already soaked in sweat around my neck and chest. I checked the time: it was 9 in the morning on the final Monday of February, yet temperatures peaked at 97 degrees Fahrenheit.
As I waited for the train to finally take off, I tried to catch my breath. I thought about the city to which I was moving. My new job in Nakhon Ratchasima had not been part of any plan. This train ride had not been part of any plan. I was once again a passenger heading down an unknown line, accepting the new direction with a familiar contentment. The best moments happen when the plan falls apart. The virus had taught me, once again, that one can’t always be in the driver’s seat. One must surrender, must relent their attempts at controlling their own lives. To do otherwise is a desperate sort of vanity that can stunt one’s growth.
The low putter of the engine and the chatter of restless children filled my compartment. My breathing slowed a little as I finally relaxed, content that I would soon be moving again. I glanced around at the other passengers. I was the only Westerner in sight. Americans and Europeans flood the streets of Bangkok. The economy of Thailand runs on tourism, inspiring a common built-up image of Thailand outside of Asia. That image evaporated as I left Bangkok.
The hydraulic brakes released the doors to the compartment shut. The voices outside drowned. I picked up my book. We were finally on our way. After a while, I laid my head against the window. Tiny vibrations rippled up from the wheels on the tracks to the crown of my head as the train puttered along. I drifted off into an uneasy nap.
Bird On the Wire 