Notes on Thailand Pt. 1
From the archive: 2015
On November 12th, we arrive at dawn. Through the tall glass windows of the airport, we watch as the sun climbs into the dusty lavender sky. When we left LA, it was the 10th. Sometime in the night, in the dark, like a space capsule rocketing us across the earth, we skipped over the 11th altogether.
Bangkok. Right away, the humidity rushes up and wrestles you into a warm embrace. We jump into the back of a dark pink taxi adorned in gold buddha trinkets that twinkle and jingle as we make our way through the bustling streets of the sprawling city. Boys on scooters rush by with cigarettes in their mouths and their girlfriends on the back, riding sidesaddle, bored and barely holding on. Everything is speeding and sparkling and boiling over and my eyes ache from the effort of trying to take it all in.
We check into our hotel, drop off our bags and head out. In our half-exhausted, half-wired daze we pick a direction and start walking. Holding hands, we stumble through the streets trying to make sense of the flow of traffic, trying to decipher this new rhythm. And in these first hours it seems there is no rhythm, only chaos. But by the end of the month, it will be a rhythm that beats in our hearts like the songs of childhood that cannot be forgotten.
We wander for hours until an immense hunger hits us. Turning down an alleyway, we spot an outdoor place where we sit down and order a big plate of thick rice noodles and two large beers. With bellies full, we grow tired but it’s still only afternoon and we are determined to adjust to the time change. So we pay the bill and continue walking.
When night finally falls, we find our way to an old school Japanese restaurant with a wooden sliding door. Inside, the walls are also wooden and there are little booths to sit at. The waitress brings us menus and hovers over us waiting for our order. We hastily point to two dishes that look good. She writes down the order and scurries off to the corner to giggle at us with her co-worker. We giggle back at them.
After dinner we are too tired to go on anymore so we go back to our hotel room where we share a chocolate honeymoon cake that was brought to us by the hotel staff. Two bites in and we fall into a deep sleep for the next 12 hours.
In the late morning, we load up the only luggage we have - two small backpacks. We check out of our hotel and take a taxi to Chinatown. Moments after we arrive we are caught in a huge downpour. We run down the magical side streets and alleyways - everything looking like it hadn’t been touched since the 1940’s. I catch slow motion glimpses into shops that don’t have doors or windows but sit beside each other like a row of open garage’s. Of what business all these shops are in, I have no idea. They are dark and musty and filled with big stacks of ancient newspapers and rusty motorcycle parts. Cats are lounging in corners but keeping a steady watch. Dogs are sprawled on the floor looking sleepy but ready for a scrap at any moment. Men with greased back hair wearing white tank tops and high waisted trousers sit so still and stoic that only their thick puffs of cigarette smoke let you know that they are there.
As the rain begins to fall heavier, we realize we are lost. We stop running and huddle together underneath a tiny awning and watch as the streets become violently flooded. From inside the tiny garage-like shop behind us, an old couple gently waves us inside. They tell us in hand gestures to wait there with them until the rain subsides. We thank them and step down into the shop. The old couple returns to their table in the back. The man lights up a smoke and eases into his chair with a warm smile. The woman hovers over some work on the table, diligent and steady. A tabby cat jumps up on the shelf beside us and together we watch in silence as the rain continues to pour down. The only other sound beside the rain is that of an old wind chime dancing by my head. It looks as if it were once a bright gold but now covered in lifetimes of soot. It was like some magical instrument whispering songs of another time.
After a while the rain begins to slow. We thank the couple, shyly pressing our palms together in prayer and bowing. They return the gesture and the old man beams his sweet smile again. Then we’re off.
We find the street that we had been looking for which leads us to a tiny restaurant called Nai Mong Hoi Thot. This place also has no doors and the cook is stationed right up front in a little platform booth made of plexiglass. He sits on a metal stool before a big wok and is surrounded by bowls of spice and herbs. He kind of looks like he’s driving a bus. The place has about four tiny tables, all of which are taken up. But as soon as we step inside, the people sitting at them get up and say goodbye to the bus driver cook and we realize they were only friends getting a little shelter from the rain. We sit down at one of the tiny tables - a red card table with an ancient Coca-Cola napkin holder and an antique-looking box full of chopsticks. A young girl comes from the back and gives us a picture menu that has about five options to choose from. We point to a picture and she translates the order to the driver. He nods at us kindly and promptly begins tossing things into his wok which sputter and hiss with each flick of his wrist like some kind of magic cauldron. In a few moments we have before us our first Thailand breakfast; a wildly strange and delicious fried oyster omelet with spicy gooey mussels.
By the time we pay the bill, the rain has dried from our hair and clothes and the sun is shining heavily again. We weave back through the streets until we find the train station where we buy iced coffees, camera batteries and two tickets to Ayutthaya; Thailand’s oldest city. We crouch down with our backpacks a few feet away from an area reserved for the monks who sit barefoot and quiet in their holy orange. Sipping our sugary drinks, we await the train that will carry us to the next part of our adventure.