I can say now that Chitarong and Maria, and I are friends. That really should be no big deal, but in contemporary America, it is a big deal that is rare and surprising.

And valuable to us, and I hope, to him.

Chitarong is a young Thai man in his twenties who worked as a valet on large cruise ships until Covid-19 shut down the cruise industry, and he came to work in Williamstown with other young men from Thailand to work as a waiter in a popular restaurant.

The other young male waiters and servers were friendly with him, but Chitarong was the only waiter we knew there who speaks English – from working on a cruise line – and initiated some conversations with us.

From the first, he was warm and interested in us..

He is the only foreign water or restaurant worker with whom we have become friends.

We look forward to seeing him; he is bright, cheerful, and open. He hasn’t seen his two small children or wife in several years. I miss him and always want to catch up. I’m always happy to see him.

Chitarong never complains; he loves his family and is grateful for his life. Americans seem addicted to whining these days, but he never does.

When I see him, I think of millions of people who have come to America for generations to work hard and send their money back home.

They are a part of our history yet separate from us and our way of life. Chitarong has given us a window into their lives and sacrifices. They are the Invisible Americans.

They have always helped build our country, made it work, and served us in many ways.

There are no museums to them in the Washington Mall. Mostly, they slip in and slip out unnoticed. They come, and they go.

I am surprised by this friendship; I think it has become genuine, probably not lasting, to be honest.

I told Chitarong that whatever he does, or wherever he goes, I will not forget him, and he said he was honored that I thought him important enough in my life to want to take his picture.

He kept thanking me for that.

 

 

I keep thinking of Moise, my Amish friend. My relationship with Chitarong is much easier and simpler than my friendship with Moise. I see Moise almost every day, Chitawrong once or twice a month.

There are also powerful blocks and boundaries to an actual or deep friendship between us.

I asked him yesterday if he misses his children. He smiled. “No,” he said, “I see them every day!” he said, pointing to his phone.

Chitarong works at one of our favorite restaurants in Williamstown, Mass. The food is fresh and delicious.

We both like going there and always bring some food home.

Maria and I often go to Williamstown to see a museum, movie, play and eat Asian or Mexican food. The town has all of the things our village does not have.

The wealthy, beautiful, and college-centered town in the Berkshires offers us some of the culture and food we miss about New York City and our former lives.

We go to Chitarong’s restaurant far more than any other restaurant and are always happy and comfortable there.

The place is bright, cheerful, and clean; the good is always good; we’ve been going there for seven or eight years, most often just before or after a movie or a play at the Williamstown Theater Festival.

The waiters and servers are from Thailand; most speak little or no English beyond the menu.

In those years, we’ve never broken the social barrier or talked with anyone who works there beyond what is necessary. They are quite friendly, but there are tall walls between us. There was really no way or reason to break through.

They live in housing near the restaurant, walk to and fro from work, and are here legally on temporary visas. They don’t have cars or travel beyond the town while they are here.

When the visas and work permits expire, they live and work in another country and send money home.

This is far from the American dream, but it is their dream.

Williamstown is a college town – Williams College is located all around the restaurant – and the restaurant is always busy.

Like so many foreigners who work in restaurants that serve overseas food, the staff works to send money home to their families, with whom they communicate on cell phones and computers.

That is often the focal point of their lives.

They are part of a community. They play games, go online, cook together, listen to music and watch cable TV from home. They play cards and work with puzzles.

Chitarong introduced himself one day – we usually saw him on weekends – and we were pleasantly surprised. He is one of those rare people who are interested in different cultures.

We seemed to surprise and interest him.

We wanted to hear his story, and he wanted to listen to ours.

He said he learned to make conversations with people from different countries on the cruise ships he worked on, and he enjoyed it. He is curious.

The people we rarely get to know are not the owners, but the servers, the ones in the background. I suspect that too much interaction with customers isn’t always welcome.

We told him what we do and showed him our blogs on our phones – he was transfixed, and he always asked about the movies and plays we came to Williamstown to see.

I came in one week without Maria to pick up some takeout, and he came rushing over to me, alarmed because I was alone.

“Is everything all right?” he asked. I have the sense he has some authority in the restaurant.

I explained that she was out in the car, and he was relieved. He said he had never seen us when we weren’t together.

It’s such a different life he lives from most Americans or us. I loved hearing about it; he cranks up the reporter in me.

He and Maria talk easily and comfortably.

Chitarong accepts his life.

He has small children he may never see grow up, and his family depends on his work.

Because he has few expenses outside of work and is hard working, he can send home money that keeps his family comfortable in Thailand.

It’s a familiar story in America, this kind of foreigner sacrifice, but we rarely have broken through the screen and made friends with one of the people who did it.

We have become friends with Chitarong. It’s an improbable friendship, but a real one.

We always ask him about his family and life back home, and he always wants to know about the farm, the donkeys, our work, and the dogs.

He checks up on my blog when he gets near a laptop or a smartphone.

When I see him, I always show him my pictures so he can see what I’m up to.

He wants to know more about my life than many of the people I’ve known for much longer and consider friends.

Chitarong doesn’t have much to tell us because his life doesn’t change much daily, but it is comfortable and worthwhile for him. I always ask about his childhood.

He lights up when he talks about his children, who I know he misses dearly.

Keeping his family comfortable is the essential thing in his life. Everything else is secondary. Few Americans I know have had to leave the country to provide a living for themselves and their families.

We have asked him if he wanted to or could visit the farm, and he always seems delighted by the invitation, but I think we both know it is unlikely to happen.

I think taking time off from work to visit an American farm might be problematic, and he would depend on us totally for transportation, which would make him uncomfortable. Williamstown is an hour away.

Chitarong is not the kind of person that asks for help or wants it.

We aren’t there that often – two or three times a month – and he has no way of traveling, even if he had the time. I think we all grasp the boundaries.

We’ll keep asking; maybe he’ll show up to see the donkeys one day.

I appreciate how he wants to know about Maria and her work as an artist. The men we meet in our social life often don’t speak directly to her or ask about her life.

Our women friends say this is common.

She’s used to it, but I wouldn’t say I like it. I was impressed that Chitarong was as attentive to her as to me.

Chitarong often talks about his work on the cruise ships, which are still recovering from the pandemic.

He says he’s not sure he will be able to return or wants to. It’s not an as easy life for the staff as it is for the tourists.

He doesn’t know what is next.

The other male waiters are his friends; they are also from Thailand and spend time together, socializing in their ways. He is not lonely in that way.

When we enter the restaurant at odd orders, we see Chitarong and his friends them sitting at a rear table, talking and laughing.

None of his friends have ever spoken to us apart from taking our orders and asking if everything is all right. But they know us; when we come in, they all point to us and make sure he gets to serve us.

I don’t think anyone in the restaurant minds or discourages our friendship. He never seems uneasy talking to us, but he moves quickly away when the food comes.

Chitarong does not have American ideas about how to live. His next step is a mystery. We all know he won’t stay in this job for long; nobody does.

They work on yearly contracts, and it’s entirely possible we will show up one day, and he will be gone. Maybe he’ll write, I think he might.

Chitarong’s concept of work and life are alien to me. His purpose is to give his family and children a good life, even if he will not be able to share his life with them for some time, if ever. He works hard, every day.

That is the point of his existence. I think his time on the cruise ships broke through the traditions of his culture and got him interested in people from different cultures.

He also got to use a second language that made communicating possible.

Sometimes, he seems unmoored to me, but he doesn’t feel that way. He says he is pretty anchored. He says he has choices.

We are friends now, he and Maria and I, a term I don’t use lightly. And I am a lifetime older than phe is.

But he worries about me, and I worry about him. When we meet, he wants to know what is happening in my life, and Maria and I want to know what is happening in his.

I gave him my blog URL and Iphone number so we could text if I showed up at the restaurant one day and he had left. When it happens, it will be sudden.

I decided it was time to take his picture last night, something I do whenever a good and exceptional person enters my life.

I never know what people will say when I walk up to them holding my camera and loudly announce that “it’s time to take your picture.”

He got it, smiled, held up the food I ordered, and gave me a thumbs up.

I explained to him that my blog is a memoir, a loving book about my life, a new kind of book. It’s important that the relevant people in my life show up there.

I wondered if we would ever find a time to have those conversations. I think I know the answer.

“Thank you,” he said several times, and to my surprise, “for taking my picture. I’m honored you think I’m important to you.”

Somewhere, across all of that time, space, and cultural gap, there is a connection between us.

I can’t imagine what it might be, but it feels precious to me, and I give thanks for it.