As the Thingyan water festival wound down in mid-April, V and I departed on the second of the two R&Rs afforded to us during our Burma tour. During our January R&R, we had visited Vietnam and Indonesia. This time, we traveled to the United States for two and a half weeks for medical appointments, family visits, and the wedding of my eldest stepdaughter, A. It was a wonderful trip despite the long-haul travel from Asia and a domestic itinerary that took us across the country.
Our R&R unfolded in three distinct segments. First, the two of us spent several days in the Washington, DC, area. Next, we road-tripped to Georgia, where we stayed in an Airbnb with family, including my mom who’d flown out for A’s wedding. Finally, we flew to Washington state to visit my dad before beginning the long journey back to Burma.
At one point, while battling jet lag and exhaustion and noticing how quickly the days were slipping by, I found myself wondering, “Is traveling so far to ‘rest’ and ‘recuperate’ really worth it, just to have to fly all the way back?” The answer I ultimately arrived at was an unequivocal yes. Yes, it was worth it to fly all the way to the United States just four months before we leave Burma for good: to enjoy our lives, be there for our families and friends during important moments, and enjoy a little bit of good old ‘merica.
On the day of our departure from Burma, the Thingyan water festival was still in full swing. We’d borrowed a suitcase from our neighbors the night before after realizing, a little too late, that most of ours probably wouldn’t survive another international flight. With holiday closures in effect, buying an inexpensive replacement locally wasn’t an option.
An Embassy motor pool driver picked us up that afternoon, and we wove through the intense Thingyan traffic toward the airport. Water streamed from second-story balconies, drenching crowds of people dancing below with their arms raised in celebration. As we neared the airport, a car pulled up quickly alongside our van, and a group of smiling children rolled down their windows and “opened fire” with their water guns. In a different context, it might have been alarming, but instead it was mostly just funny and somehow delightedly unexpected.
Earlier that day, three of my colleagues had stopped by the house to borrow our plastic Super Soaker water guns before heading out to join the festivities. As we drove away, I thought of them out there enjoying the celebration in a way I did not think I would have been able to.
V and I flew first to Bangkok where we enjoyed a delicious airport Pad Thai dinner before boarding our overnight flight to Tokyo. In my carry-on, I packed about a dozen of my vintage purses, planning to transfer them to my private storage unit in Virginia and lighten the load for our upcoming PCS move this summer, rather than attempting to move them all at once.
After landing at Dulles, we picked up our rental car—a Volkswagen SUV remarkably similar to my own—and headed to our hotel. It was the first time I’d driven since we left for Burma in August 2025, and it felt familiar and amazing. Once we checked in, I calculated how long we’d been in transit door to door: about 33 hours, if I remember correctly. There was only one thing that made sense after that kind of journey. We stumbled across the street to a Mexican restaurant where we’ve eaten countless times over the past 16 years. After a late lunch, I went straight to bed until the following morning, when I had a hair appointment. V, however, as is typical, bounced back a little more quickly than I did.
In the days that followed, we worked our way through a list of simple things that made us happy. We met friends for dinners that always felt too short. Sadly, the friends we didn’t get to see (and didn’t even let know we were passing through) far outnumbered those we did. I visited my storage unit to check on the vintage purses I had packed away in 2025 before we moved to Burma. We both attended medical appointments, and I had routine lab work done.
We also took care of a few everyday luxuries: manicures, pedicures, eyebrow appointments, and I even treated myself to eyelash extensions. V had already had a couple of custom suits made in Rangoon for his daughter’s wedding, but he still needed an undershirt, socks, shoes, and a new tie. We went shopping and found everything we needed in a single store. Oh, America!
We went to a movie theater, where we enjoyed popcorn and candy while marveling at how comfortable the seats have become. We took long walks through the natural areas surrounding our hotel and noted that no one was burning trash. We visited Alexandria’s Bosnian grocery store—a place we’ve frequented since first moving to Virginia in 2010 and one that now feels even more meaningful. Not only did we want to bring a little bit of the Balkans back with us to Burma, but I am also mentally preparing to begin studying Bosnian this fall in advance of my 2027 assignment to Sarajevo.
At the store, we caught up with the Bosnian owner and told him what we’d been up to. We also ran into an old friend from V’s time as the Macedonian service chief at the Voice of America: M, the former Bosnian service chief, and her father. It felt like the past and the future were colliding, in the best way.
I paid bills, accessed social media without needing a VPN, and even wandered through Safeway just to look at grocery prices. I noticed that Ben & Jerry’s ice cream—a treat I couldn’t get in Rangoon and that costs around $16 in Bangkok—was selling for $6.99. Without minimizing the struggle many Americans feel right now to keep food on the table, it felt like a small but striking reminder of how different everyday life can be from one place to another.
And soon the time arrived to make our way down to Georgia for A’s wedding and the second chapter of our R&R.
Collecting Postcards 