I found Joy in Bangkok, at a coffee shop, in a soi off of Thanon Pra Athit, a young man about my age, maybe a year older. 

While all of the other waiters showered attention upon me, he was slow to open up. They said I was a curiosity to them. Not Thai, but not farang. Most were lightly chatty. But Joy was different. 

It took awhile, but after some time he spoke to me. His first words... "You and me look same-same. You look same-same like Thai people." 

I had to smile at that. Just the night before, I'd seen a tee shirt at the night market. A red tee with thick white letters on the front that read: Same-Same. At the time I'd wondered what that meant. I kind of had an idea of it's meaning now. 

At first Joy apologized to me for not knowing English so much. I only smiled and apologized for not knowing Thai at all. I think that broke the ice, because an hour later, I'd learned much about this young man.

I learned that in fact, we were not same-same, and that besides our age and profession, we had very few in common. The life of an average Thai is unlike anything that I thought I understood. It wasn't until after I found Joy that I realized where the line of similarities was drawn, and where a world of difference began.

Joy was a baby when his papa died. He and his sister were raised by his mama and her family in a northern province of Thailand called Isan. At the age of 14, Joy moved into the city, 9 hours away from his home, to find work.

"I'm not a student," he told me. He'd never finished school. For ten years he worked at whatever jobs he could find. On the streets of Bangkok at first, and eventually working from dishwasher to cook to waiter. For 3 bucks a day, six days a week, Joy is just barely able to pay for himself and his family and make enough for them to live.

The only time off he has to go home and visit them is once a year during a five day Buddhist festival. He drives the 9 hours home by motorbike, and drinks away his time-off with his family and friends, before heading back into Bangkok to work for 72 bucks a month.

His sister managed to somehow move to France, the details were intentionally vague, but she got pregnant there, and returned home to Thailand with a half-farang baby, and without a husband.

In the middle of our conversation, I began to wonder how much of Joy's story was the truth, and how much of it was embellished to gain the sympathy of just another well off visitor. But I eventually realized it was just a conversation between two people who, at first glance, looked the same. Nothing more, just a conversation for comparison.

Joy pointed to one of his fellow workmates who walked by, "She is from Bangkok. She is a student, lives with her mama and papa. Me and her are not same-same." And there it was again. His simple phrase to compare the situations of two very different people. 

I began to understand what he meant. In this world you may find someone whom, on the surface, may seem to be the same as you are. But if you scratch a little deeper, you'll find a world of difference.

We finished our conversation on the topic of politics. Joy told me of the Thai Prime Minister, Taksin, who is currently instituting new laws that will alter the face of Bangkok. This was a concern for Joy. It meant a lot of change for his work future. "If no work, than only die. If I die... family die." There was definitely a deep sadness in his tone. 

I wanted so much to tell Joy that his family would be taken care of. But I couldn't. I walked away from the coffee shop hit with the realization that I was in a world that I didn't yet understand. I knew that I would seem simple minded in my presumptions.

I made my way back to the market place to find that red shirt. It was still there, dark with thick white letters on the front that spelled out: Same-Same. When the lady took it down, I turned it around. On the back it read: But Different.

I left Bangkok that night, six years ago, without being able to tell Joy that things would turn out alright and that he and his family would someday find security. But when I go back to Bangkok, maybe I can find Joy again.

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And now we ask you: When you first meet someone, what are some things in common that you may initially look for? What are some of the first differences that you notice?

In San Francisco there is a man. His given name is Ju-yin, but we call him Julian. His demeanor is somewhat reserved, but extremely aware. His voice is soft and hushed, and his English is broken.

I met Julian through a girl named Char-Mee. We first saw him sitting on a sofa directly across from us in the day room of our hostel. He avoided our eye contact, yet clearly paid notice to our joking remarks directed at one another. But when Char-Mee addressed him in Korean, his eyes lit up and his smile beamed. In their mother tongue, Julian told Char-Mee his story.

It was always his dream to explore North America, so over a year ago he had hopped a flight that took him from Seoul to Vancouver, where he found a job working as a cashier. But the song of the southern road had been calling him, and now he found himself with us in San Francisco, California, having migrated down the coastline from Canada. 

Julian has been living out of his van, moving from city to city. He showers in hostels in exchange for cleaning services, saving his precious money as best he can and spending it only on things that he finds uniquely valuable. Everything he owns is in his van.

Tonight, a man asked Julian if he could sleep in his van. The man was from New York, and he had flown out two weeks prior. Things in San Francisco did not work out as he had planned and, his money having been depleted, he only needed a place to lay his head. But knowing that it would be cold out, Julian took this man inside the hostel instead, and paid for his bed overnight. He did all of this as quietly as possible, not wanting to attract too much attention, perhaps in part to save the man from any kind of embarrassment. I realized then that Julian truly is a good man.

About a month before, while Julian was out, a group of kids decided it would be a great idea to shatter this quiet man's life. They broke into his van and took everything, making off with more than two thousand dollars worth of his belongings. He told me this, while having lunch, in a seemingly frank and forthright tone of voice. When I asked him if he was all right, he simply lowered his eyes and nodded, as if saying there really isn't anything else to do but deal with it.

Amongst his stolen personals was a saxophone, on which he had taught himself to play. It had been too expensive for him to buy, so instead he did what he could just to have one, and the best he could think of was to rent it. When asked what made him want to teach himself the workings of an instrument while on the road, he said that it was more because he needed something to do during his solo travels, something that would keep him company whenever his state of solitude beset a feeling of loneliness. Julian is always alone, but it is when he is lonely that he feels the need to play. But someone has made off with this borrowed instrument, and instead of having saved money by renting, now he is stuck with a debt that he cannot pay off.

Yet, oddly enough, he has managed to get himself another saxophone, this time purchasing it. The occasionally overwhelming feeling of seclusion has given him the rationality to spend his savings on what to some would seem a luxury but to him would be a necessity.  It is an older sax, and from what he tells us, it is somewhat broken and flat. He tells us that there are some notes it cannot reach, but my untrained ears cannot pick up the difference.

Julian told me today about his Okinawan girlfriend whom he had met during his travels. She could not speak Korean and he could speak very little Japanese, yet they spoke to each other with their eyes. She returned home a while ago after having rode with Julian for a short time, and now he is trying to sell his van so as to meet her in her home country.

I sit here on the curb, listening to Julian play his haunting music on a cold park bench. He plays us a song called Santa Fe. It is a well known tune here on the West Coast, although its melody is unfamiliar to me. His version sounds low and almost tiresome, yet pleased and slightly relaxed. It makes me see how one can understand a language even if it is not their own, whether it is through the eyes of a close companion, or through the notes of a second hand saxophone.

The song Julian plays slowly winds down, and when his solo is done, a German kid named Alex claps his hands in applause. Julian bows his head and shyly reiterates the fact that his instrument is slightly out of tune. But Alex just smiles at him and tells him that his ears cannot pick up the difference.

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And now we ask you: Have you ever met someone that has affected your way of life, or the way you think, in such a way that you will never forget the impact they had on you?