What a Nun, a Monk, and “Y’all” Taught Me About Travel
A quiet moment in Myanmar that became a lasting reminder of what travel is truly about.
Mandalay, Myanmar
Morning Commute on U-Bein Bridge - photo by Laura Oslick
In 2017 over Thanksgiving, my friend, Leilani, and I went to Myanmar. It had been a bit of a rocky time there, but tourism was open, and we both felt called to go. I had always dreamed of seeing the pagodas of Bagan (ideally from a hot air balloon), and we finally made it happen.
Overall, we were greeted by smiling, happy people who welcomed us with open arms. There was so much joy, even with difficult living conditions and a political climate that felt tense, yet still hopeful. There were so many phenomenal stories from that trip but I want to focus on one in particular:
It was 4:00 in the morning in Mandalay. We woke up and made our way to U-Bein Bridge to catch the sunrise and practice our photography skills. U-Bein, built around 1850, is believed to be the oldest and longest teakwood bridge in the world stretching 1,200 meters across Taungthaman Lake. As the sun slowly crept over the horizon, we took hundreds of photos with pink, purple, and gold dancing across the water, long wooden boats resting beside the old teak bridge.
But what stayed with me had nothing to do with the photos.
U-Bein Bridge at sunrise - photo by Laura Oslick
We had some time to spare before heading to a nearby monastery to watch the monks’ morning procession. So we wandered over to Pyi Lone San Dat Paung Su Pagoda, a stunning white pagoda nearby. It was completely empty, quiet, almost glowing in the early light.
As we walked around, I noticed a woman sitting alone.
She was a Buddhist nun, dressed head to toe in pink robes. Tiny, maybe 85 pounds, and easily in her late 90s. Her face was full of those beautiful, weathered wrinkles that can only be earned over a lifetime of laughter and struggle. You could understand her life story without her ever saying a word.
We made eye contact. Smiled. Hers with kind confidence. Mine with sheepish curiosity.
That kind of smile you exchange when you both know. There’s no shared language here.
She gently waved me over.
So I went.
I sat next to her, and without saying a single word, she offered me cookies (my love language). They were simple sandwich cookies but in a life where she relies on daily alms for food, that felt like an extraordinary gift.
There we sat. In silence, except for our cookie munching.
I remember feeling overwhelmed in the best way: completely present and connected. It brought me to tears. Leilani came over at one point, saw what was happening, and let us have that moment.
No words. No translation needed.
Just two humans, connecting.
I have no pictures of her, but her face is etched into my memory, and that feeling is stamped on my heart.
In fact, I’m a little misty-eyed as I write this.
You can’t plan the moments that matter most.
You simply have to be open to them.
Pyi Lone San Dat Paung Su Pagoda
photo by Laura Oslick
Shortly after, we went to the Mahagandhayon Monastery and watched the monks’ alms procession.
We met one gregarious monk who wanted to practice his English, so we sat and chatted with him. He asked us to teach him a new word.
Naturally, as any good Texan would, we taught him: y’all.
He lit up. Absolutely delighted. Big smile, cheeks raised, pure joy.
He was tickled, as you might say ‘round these parts.
Y’all Come Back Now Ya Hear
In one unexpected morning, we experienced two completely different but equally powerful connections with people whose lives couldn’t be more different from our own. Understanding, without the need for the same language.
Those are the moments you can’t plan.
You can’t book them. You can’t schedule them. You have to be open to receiving them.
When they happen, they stay with you forever.
That’s why we travel. Shift how you travel if you need to. Just keep traveling.
Now more than ever.
If a trip is taking shape in your mind, let's start with a conversation.
Boats at Taungthaman Lake - photo by Laura Oslick
