Paula Brukmüller - Flowers from Greece - The Autobiography of the Journalist Who Turned a Personal Tragedy into an Inspiring World Tour

- Lisa from Latvia – she said, raising her right hand and lifting her face to see me through the lens, – make yourself comfortable.

- I hope you don’t find it strange, but the weather’s horrible out there and I only have a few hours until I get back to the airport. So I’d like to do something useful, like knowing a different story- I explained, figuring she might find it inconvenient. – Please let me know if I’m getting in the way. Or if you don’t wanna talk. I promise I’ll understand, – I said slowly, searching for the best words in my English.

- Do not worry. That might be interesting. – She smiled.

Lisa was 25 years old and she was studying something like international relations at MGIMO University. I remember because I Googled it to make sure I understood her story. She had been living in Moscow for less than a year and she explained briefly about the political relations between Latvia and Russia. Soon she wanted to know where I was going and the conversation ended around my trip.

Lisa was impressed to learn that I was 37 years old and had been married for 14 year. Although she didn’t tell me everything in detail, she felt comfortable talking to me about her parents’ relationship, and that night I was aware that my story impacted people, mainly, because of the way I see things and the positive attitude I had embraced to face everything.

- Thank you so much for sitting with me. You’re very brave and you should write a book – she said when we said goodbye after two hours of talking.

- Thanks. I’m already planning on it, – I explained, thanking her for allowing me to approach her.

I left the cafe thinking about how much the relationship of Lisa’s parents influenced her view of her life and the relationships she has had. I also thought about how my parents’ story may have influenced my life and relationships as an adult. Probably a lot more than I thought.

I stopped in front of a musician singing “Photograph” by Ed Sheeran, and my mind carried me into Jordan’s arms in Toronto. It was impossible to hear that song without remembering it. I missed him and I even rehearsed a message on my cell phone, but I soon put it away. I think I felt closer to him listening to the melody than trying to read between the lines of the vague answers he would probably send me.

I walked for almost 40 minutes, trying to find an underground station. My cell phone map didn’t match the territory, and the bitter cold made me give up and go into some other café to use their wifi to call an Uber.

I spent another night at an airport somewhere in the world sleeping over my backpacks.

Icould feel the change in the atmosphere as soon as I got into the taxi from the Bangkok airport. Through the window of the car, I could see a huge, vibrant city with such striking contrasts that it could not be denied: the arrival in Asia was not just a change of continent, it was the beginning of a completely new phase not only in my journey, but in my whole life.

There was no one to welcome me when I arrived at the school where I would teach English for the next 20 days. I had applied to teach singing to children from two to four years old, but by then I knew I would be an English teacher. That wouldn’t change much, since I was actually thinking of teaching the alphabet using English songs for children.

The gate was unlocked when the school-hired driver dropped me in front of the colorful three-story building. Since I left Suvarnabhumi Airport, I could feel a warmth that didn’t exactly come from the hot sun, like in Italy. Bangkok’s dry damp haze was more like an internal fever that made the body itself radiate heat.

Outside the glass door was a small shelf full of shoes and a sign: “Take off your shoes.” I didn’t understand the requirement right away, because the floor inside was as dirty as it was outside, so I kept my old pair of black sneakers.

I climbed the stairs and found only empty rooms on the second floor. I kept going, and on the top floor I saw another glass door through which I could hear voices.

- Hello. Is anyone there?

- Hi, are you the volunteer? – a skinny and nice girl came to meet me. If it wasn’t for the bun in her hair, I’d say she was a porcelain doll, with white skin, pretty pink lips and green eyes.

- Yes. I’m Paula from Brazil. – I smiled, pulling my backpacks away.

- Brazil! Me too! – Flávia began to speak in Portuguese immediately – Come on and let’s take your luggage to the room. Things here are pretty messy, but you soon get used to it.

The volunteers’ accommodation was basically a huge hall, separated in half by a PVC room divider. On one side, the female and male bedrooms, divided by a white tarp, each with two bunk beds. There was also a single bed with multiple mattresses, a small sofa, a desk, and a small bookcase swung in the large living room that connected the bedrooms.

The other half of the room was probably the kitchen. A makeshift counter with three office desks covered in grubby, sticky plastic filled the wall below the window. A dirty yellow microwave in the corner, an aluminum cabinet with two doors, and a tiny fridge completed the space. The kitchen sink was placed in the men’s toilet instead of a washbasin and there was no sink in the ladies’ room.

- The girls’ shower doesn’t work either. So we use the bathroom in the principal’s office or the handheld shower. – Flávia laughed, making everything lighter.

- What a mess we got ourselves into, huh? And we still have to pay a deposit for the bedding? I increased the dose of laughter. – I hope the classes are rewarding.

- Don’t count on that. I spend only 30 minutes a day with the kids. It’s enjoyable, but I was expecting a richer experience – Flavia complained.

As we planned to go out in search of food for lunch, another volunteer arrived at the school. Kate’s eyes were expressive and well-defined by black eyeliner. She wore colorful pantaloons, a baggy white T-shirt, flip-flops, and a handcrafted pouch strapped to her waist. A native of the Canary Islands, her English had a slurred Spanish accent, but very easy to understand.

That afternoon, as we walked through Bangkok’s grungy streets full of street merchants, I felt as if a portal separated me from everything I had experienced in the past months. It was as if my divorce had happened decades ago. I felt so far away from everything that even if I missed Jordan or Laurent that was now irrelevant. Everything was absolutely new and I started to realize that the universe was much more vast than my mind could conceive.

Small sidewalk tables displayed plastic bags of soup, rice, vegetables, and whatever was possible to pack for travel. Vendors used only a little stove, a pan and a single spoon to prepare any variety in the menu, and the tools were never washed.

On the first impact I wondered if I could feed myself properly in Asia. On a whim, the only thing I wanted was to run to a convenience store and buy bread, noodles, and cookies for the rest of my stay. That afternoon I surrendered to two bags of chopped watermelons and pineapples. I decided to disregard the dirty nails of the Thai woman who cut the fruits and received the money at the same time.

As we boarded the boat which worked as an underground, transporting passengers to both sides of the Chao Phraya River, I became proud of my journey and decided to open my mind to the cultural differences arising in front of me. What a wonderful opportunity to know other possibilities of living.

I couldn’t help but think of the religious leaders I’ve met in Catholicism and Protestantism, who live alienated within a tiny bubble, unaware of the magnitude of Buddhism, Islamism, or so many other beliefs and religions around the world. Arriving in Asia has increased my perception, at least slightly, of how vast and endless the universe is.