We have just finished watching The Deep End of the Ocean.

It’s on HBO, one of three channels in English here at our serviced apartment in Bangkok. We watched it fully engaged in the drama and at times with tears in our eyes. But I’m worried about us and here’s why: this is the fourth time we’ve seen this movie.

We’re positively stuck in the doldrums, counting the days until we can move on.

We arrived in Bangkok after a grueling bus trip over bumpy dusty back roads from Siem Reap. (I think the only roads in Cambodia are of the “back” variety.)

Thirty-eight travelers in a vehicle built for 35, plus the driver, plus at least one huge backpack for each person crammed into a retired school bus with no shocks and open windows pulling reluctantly at the thick dirty air whenever we lumbered over 10 mph.

One man sat in a child-sized red plastic chair placed in the aisle near the front door. He got the best breeze since the door stayed open for the entire ride.

All the way back, lumpy duffel bags and unwieldy suitcases took the walkways. In the final row, people sat five across under a tottering roof of stacked packs threatening an avalanche with each slam on the brakes.

Perhaps, after several squeaking hours you might doze: a small mental escape. But whining, invasive honking would pull you back in to the reality of the journey. Hand on the horn, foot on the gas careening toward and then away from bikes, tuk-tuks, oxen, schoolchildren, goats over the powdery red dirt roads.

Nothing could have been more pleasing to see than the “Welcome to Thailand” sign.

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