Sleeping Around

Inspired by the writings of my wicked smart funny friends Jesse Seret (Perfect Calm), Trish Deitch (Distant Dock), Jessica Schickel (Chagrin and Bear It), Jen Sincero (Hey Little Bad Ass), and Janine Schulz (Oiling of a Rusty Mind), and encouraged by people I’ve met here and there, I will now commence the blog. Maybe just about beds. Maybe about other things too. But the beds are a constant. I’ve been keeping record of every mattress, hammock, waterbed, and couch I’ve spent the night on for some time, as many of you know.

Not every bed makes it into the bed collection. Sometimes I forget to take a picture. Once my computer was stolen on a night train in deepest India and I lost an important year of photos. Sometimes the beds in which I’ve slept would cause too much of a stir if made public, so. But there are lots beds in the bed collection. And stories behind each one.

If beds bore you then there is still some hope for us having a blogger/reader relationship. Let’s see how it goes. I’m only about 80% comfortable with this set up and welcome your input.

Love and kusheln from my red velvet bed in Berlin,

Noa
June, 2010
~ Thursday, November 17 ~
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Phuntsholing, Bhutan (November 15, 2011) – From Samdrup’s in Samdrup Jongkhar to Phuntsho’s in Phuntsholing.

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I could have caught a ride directly up to Thimphu but my neck hurt from 10 hours of jostling on the terrible Indian highway. I was so tired and so ready to get home but not ready for any more action. Another option was to stay at the Central Hotel, like I usually do, but when I got there, I found that my single room was not available and I had no reason for a deluxe And so, once again, it was Phuntsho Wangmo to the rescue. She happened to be in town and invited me to spend the night at her Phuntsoling residence, which is usually rented out but currently empty. As evening fell, she and her husband Tenzin and her brother Sonam and I drank Special Courier and discussed the challenges of organic farming—how to convince people that pesticide perfection is not real perfection—until I nodded off.

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The room they gave me had a loom with a half finished kira. All those threads and colors.

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Their office manager Dorji got me the last ticket on the Coaster bus to Paro and met me at the station. Just six more hours of travel. The coveted front seat was occupied by a very loud woman with long nails painted frosty pink. She had all sorts of fake designer apparel, a fat wallet, and a coarse look. My earplugs could not protect me from her screechy voice. Between the seats in front of me was a gap through which I watched another woman watch the loud woman and I thought by her expression I had found an ally. She squinted quizzically as if to say, “how could you be so obnoxious?” So it wasn’t just me who was annoyed. I wished I could understand how everyone on the bus was interpreting the situation. All the Indian laborers were sitting in the rear. One listened to Bollywood songs on his phone. The man to left of me shoved endless bundles of betelnut in his mouth, then dipped his finger in an old makeup jar now filled with white lyme paste, smearing it onto his inner cheek. His teeth looked like charred timber. He had argyle socks pulled up over a pair of khaki pants that he wore under his gho.

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When my ally got off the bus at the police barracks, the way she said goodbye to the others I suddenly could tell she wasn’t really my ally, she was in fact in awe of the loud woman with her Adidaas and her Channel and her purse full of 100 ngultrim notes. The quizzical look was one of, “how can I get me some of that?”

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How on earth will people be convinced to by spotty apples when big bright apples are available?