Looking Glass Series, part 1

A few moments in my life stand out like turning points. Not in any kind of big way, like major life trauma or distress. These points have simply made me think about life in a way in which I never had before. I call these moments “looking glass” moments. Alice discovered so much behind the looking glass. She stood staring into a mirror that reflected her own image. But she had the courage to step through and see a whole new universe of existence, full of new experiences. Imagine if Alice never stepped through the glass. Or if she never followed that white rabbit. I don’t know about you, but my childhood would have been incomplete without opium smoking caterpillars and clearly mentally unstable wearers of hats.

In the end, it was Alice’s decision to step through the mirror that gave her new experiences and introduced her to a new world.

One such moment happened on a January Thursday in Chiang Rai, Thailand. Myself and two friends arose early in search of coffee. To our delight, the prevalence of coffee bars in Thailand is only outmatched by the quality thereof. I sat on a small metal chair in the cool of a Thai morning, sipping a cappuccino.

The sun rose on our morning coffee and Buddhist monks appeared silently, collecting food offerings from store owners who bowed low in reverence. Attached to our little coffee bar was a noodle shop attended by a smiling, old woman. She placed a carton of soup on the ground and bowed. As the monks passed me by, my senses were overcome by the smell of morning noodles. With pointing and grunting, or perhaps hungry eyes, I communicated my lack of noodles. Soon the old woman placed a bowl in front of me. I gave it a quick stir with a large spoon and chopsticks.

I took a sip and the dark, savory broth filled every pore of my soul. I’m sure my eyes dilated and new neural pathways opened giving me access to more of my brain. I wielded the chopsticks like ancient swords, consuming noodles and soup with a cathartic passion. As I ate, I saw several pieces of meat which were foreign to me.

“What’s this?” I asked a friend. I lifted a piece of the meat with chopsticks. Some discussion took place between the old woman and those who spoke Thai.

Hesitant eyes looked my way.

“Blood,” they said.

I was floored. But not because I was repulsed. I was surprised because my first instinct was not to push the bowl away from me.

I was shocked.

“How can this be so good?” I gasped, out loud.

If a bowl of noodles with a meat made of blood in the north of Thailand can so easily open my senses and break down the walls of my comfort zone, what else have I been missing?

Perhaps much.

But to answer that question properly, we will need to go to Malaysia and meet a man named Pak Omar. He will have more answers for us. 

anthony forrest

*this series will publish each week through the end of January