Berrin and I met before sundown for an outing. We decided to go shopping, get dinner and a drink in between. We grabbed a red truck for 20 Baht a piece to Tha Peh Gate and hopped off. Found a dingy “American” bar to have a drink. We were the only ones there, next to the older, weathered Scottish couple drinking whiskey. The man-woman in a tight black dress served us our drinks. We sat and blabbed blatantly about life, throwing our customs and social graces aside. The way things should be between two people, I thought. Suddenly, the rain started poured hard. The block facing us went powerless. Lights were out and shops closed down. Sheets of water leaked into and down the walls of the bar, soaking the bottles and splashing the shelves, as the Thai patrons and wait staff howled in disbelief. Berrin kept smoking.
We sat in mild amusement and kept the conversation going, as if it were all a part of this amusement park ride called Thailandia; entertained with ourselves and the inadvertant situation.The rains slowed. Young tourists filtered in, along with Berrin’s roomate, Emily, a French Canadian also on the Thailandia ride.
The musician with jean jacket and cigarette hanging from mouth took the stage and began to play. He played the blues, the sound of home; the sound of beer and whiskey, cigarette smoke and trouble. Sex, dance and wild things.
We drank and laughed, then left.
Hopping puddles of water and downed tree branches in a poorly-lit street, we meandered our way to the night market. I picked a meat on a stick I will
never eat again. We walked and walked toward our place getting tuk tuk ride offers for exorbitant rates they give to tourists, until finally, I hitched a ride on a red truck for
20 Baht and met a group of Chinese students.
They got off. He got on: an American, a little weathered, blond hair with glasses, early thirties. He spoke Thai to the driver and quickly took up conversation. He asked me where I stayed and what I was doing here. He had just gotten off the bus from Chiang Rai, on his way back home to a village called Lamphun.
“You’ve got 5 minutes to learn conversational Thai,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
I asked him how long he’d been in Thailand. He looked up, shook his head and smiled, “About 5 years or something.”
Our eyes stayed locked for the rest of the conversation, that ended when then the truck stopped at my street. We swayed forward.
“It was nice meeting you….briefly,” I suggested and jumped out.
“Good luck with the Thai,” he said holding his gaze.
I crossed the street and glanced back to see him standing on the bumper, staring back at me, as it pulled away into the wet Chiang Mai night.
Sudden torrential downpours are sometimes a blessing in the heat of the Louisiana sun like heaven’s lakes falling from the sky. My folks and I were caught in one such unexpected down-pour while cruising on our silly bikes on the Trace bike and horse trail near Covington this day. We rode for an hour sopping, laughing at each other and me howling at the skies when the thunder lent a hefty roar.
the grass over here 