Currently lying on my bedside, staring at the azure skies falling into darkness as the sun sets, listening to scattered drizzles as I craft this post. If you don't already know, I am living in Bangkok, Thailand for four months now. I hope the mystery is solved. Technically, I'm performing an internship attachment in a Big Data tech startup for 4.5 months.
The first couple days upon arrival feels like a distant memory. I was collecting brochures, walking streets after streets, looking at possible options on rent.th and Bangkok Expats page for a potential home, anxious I will be homeless or end up settling for a less optimal choice. Home shopping has never felt so real, and more pricey than the budget I had set aside. Admittedly, I was scared, unsure of how to navigate around, or how to rent an apartment knowing how well the limited resources and money I have on hand. I was a stranger to all the foreignness of my new home for the next six months, signing contracts that are not in the language I can comprehend.
Home shopping process became a little more complicated than expected due to budget restraints, my untimely arrival and contractual binds. I was defeated by the lack of clarity and options that fits my limitations, and I was running out of time. A reality of what struggles look like in the process of settling into a 'home' at the initial stage of my arrival. As far as I was concerned, I was not in a good place.
What a time to be alive.
My first apartment:
I can't deal with this. A condo suite. Faulty facilities, excessive noise coming from the air conditioning generator and the language barrier with the concierge was driving me up the wall. Communication incongruence is a consistent pattern throughout my time based here Some days you feel like you are in a reality game of charades as you slowly narrate a conversation in body language. My first rented apartment (for a month) was a temporary settlement while I waited for my current apartment. Despite being 3 min away from work by motorbike taxi, relying on motorbike taxis to get out was a daily dreaded affair, prisoner to the vicinity. It's essentially a chore to get back to the apartment whenever the uber or taxi driver decides they know the route better and takes you somewhere else.
My second apartment:
I found this residential apartment on GoogleMaps by tracing the apartments near the BTS station that I've selected and reserved it a month before I moved in while waiting for the place to be vacanted.
Moving into the second apartment was a welcoming sight, literally, albeit being a little further from my workplace. It gives a decent representation of what a home looks like rather than the basic functionality of an overnight cave. The spacious studio apartment was filled with natural light, the mint walls, the convenience and the liveliness of the residential district. A peculiar sight as you enter the front gate, greeted by a huge snapping turtle caged in a small tank. Kind of sorry that the huge beast is trapped in the small space. Sticking up the world map and fairy lights I've bought from home as an upgrade to the humble unit. Sure, it doesn't contain facilities like a swimming pool or a gym, even television or fridge but I'm definitely not complaining for the price and accessibility. You get what you paid for.
Every morning, I roll to the side of my king size bed (bonus upgrade from a super single back home) and draw the curtains to a beautiful photography studio greeting me and a spacious garden, nine dogs freely roaming about (you might have seen them often on my ig story), weeds carefully tamed by the gardeners. I've watched countless sunrise and sunsets from my balcony, rain poured and thunderstorms through the window panes while I pen down my thoughts on a blank canvas and Netflix and pizza through flooding on the streets. The place where I planned trips in lieu and called my friends and family. The balcony that has served me through panic attacks and frustration while I sit at the edge of the steps, staring into the darkness, pondering hard about obstacles as it arrives.
The temporary solitude before I exit to an organised mess.
The street where my apartment is located is always filled with vehicles during rush hour while I carefully thread the edges of the road to get to the skytrain (BTS), motorbike taxis causing by, honking to signal their availability. The familiar faces greeting me in W cafe, 7-11 and the street stalls along the way. The drainage shortcut lined up with quirky murals that leads me to a photography studio I see by my balcony and a family cafe that I found by chance. Street food along the way back home and a local food market that I frequent with my awkward Thai pronunciation as I ordered my dinner. Thai dai nid noi. ka.
The first time I unofficially opened my place to friends, rearranging the furnishings to maximise the space, polishing it up in preparation to receive my guests. How odd is it to have someone entering my private space, where they can see a snippet of my everyday life? From hosting a spicy noodle challenge, shotgun in my balcony, storytelling, music that filled the empty space with laughter and good vibes. A taste of what personal space looks like, an unfamiliar privilege to me. It's a luxury that many young adults in my generation back home won't have until they applied for BTO. A mark of marriage. Not ready to be locked by a ring yet.
Retrospective thoughts:
Growing up, I never had a chance to own a personal space I can truly call my own, even getting a room seems to require a legal process of debates and justification. Since I was 16, I was constantly getting into arguments with my mum whenever I asked for my own room, knowing well that my proposal will always end up being rejected. I ended up using my paycheck from my part time jobs to purchase furnishings for myself and reconstructed my room from the initial shared study room. I remembered going through the showrooms in IKEA, painstakingly picking out a $69 bed frame and a $89 full length mirror, items that I could afford at that point of time.
Holding the apartment keys, I am infinitely proud to announce "my apartment". The place that I have to consciously put aside a bulk of my paycheck to pay for the rent, electricity and water bills every month. Struggling the weight of personal responsibility and priorities of needs vs wants. The dreaded but necessary weekly laundry and cleaning up, mopping up the mess I've accumulated during the week. The 32 square metres of secrets, retrospective thoughts and loneliness behind closed doors. Times where I come into a mess of dirty clothes stashed aside or stare up at the ceiling on my sofa and listened to the echo of silence greeting me. Times where I cram for exams and churn out reports, making pots of earl grey tea to sustain my focus. The humble space that has served me through times of desperation, sadness and triumph.
This is what home looks like, for now.