Home is in the Red Light District.

On Monday morning Nikki and I packed up our bags in DoiSaket and moved into the heart of one of Chiang Mai’s red light districts.

We climbed the five flights of stairs to our sterile, melancholy room, which we will inhabit for the next 3 weeks. As I pulled the dusted, cream-colored curtains open, our view of Chiang Mai was revealed in a not so charming way. Tangled wires are strung from house to house; the gritty bars/massage parlors perched below them. The moisture dripping from the clouds clings to every air molecule. Similar to the issues we are dealing with, our view of Chiang Mai is a cluttered mess.

Every morning we walk down the road, past the gated bars, massage parlors, and store fronts, for our morning workout and breakfast. The street is still sleeping from the night before…silence. This road has a much different feel to it in the morning light; it looks as any other road. As the sun lazily ascends into the sky, so do the people. Shopkeepers open their doors, you can smell the aroma of food, and there is the buzzing sound of tuk tuks bringing the young girls back to their bars…thinking about their last night whereabouts is too much to take in.

Walking down the road begins to feel more and more familiar. I love it during the day…it has an “everyone knows your name” quality about it, now. “Sa wa dee ka, Sabai dee mai ka’s?” are exchanged with our two favorite smoothie women. They help us with our Thai; we help them with their English, although they really don’t need the help. I don’t even have to order anymore. One papaya shake (mai la go pahn) to go. This is our neighborhood. We continue our hellos as we proceed back to our guesthouse. After a refreshing shower and our air con room, we head out to lunch at a few of our usual spots and it’s off to our internship. The day goes by quickly and before you know it, the sun is asleep and the street is alive.

We make our usual walk back to the guesthouse, only this time it’s much more difficult to bear. The dim bars and women who are captive behind them, are now illuminated. They are dolled up in short skirts and thick eye makeup, their sadness locked away behind their lipstick smiles. I have made it a point to look straight ahead, only glancing to the left to say hello to some of the women. I look no further than the entrance of these bars for fear that I will curse out the “Johns.” I have become quite spiteful of these “farang” (foreign) men and their actions. Men, who could be my father or even my grandfather, are paying for rape.

We call it an early evening, most nights, falling asleep to the sounds of American hip-hop/pop music and the rowdiness of the bars beneath. As we rise, the next morning, the street will be asleep once again.

This is our neighborhood, this is our home.