February 14
St. Valentine’s Day has little
influence here. Red Hot Chilli, the restaurant decked out in red for Chinese
New Year, is now decked out in red valentines. That’s about the extent of it
that I have noticed.
Elsewhere in town, maybe a stray
valentine here or there. It just hasn’t caught the Thai Buddist imagination.
As usual, we started the day by
going out for coffee and bread to have with breakfast at the hotel.
After that, we strolled through a
couple of temple yards, but felt the heat building up fast and went back to the
Boonthavon to hide.
I have stopped wearing a jacket
and am traveling light, wearing an open shirt over a T. It brings down the
number of available pockets, but I can go farther in the heat.
The Sunday Walking Street begins
at 4, so we left the Boonthavon about half past.
The Sunday market covers a lot of
ground, about four long blocks of Rachadamnone, and the same for the cross
street, Propakkloa Road, and a block or two in each direction on Rachapakkinai and
the side street by the Three Kings Monument. Some temple yards are involved
too, mainly as food courts.
We actually covered most of it.
Joanna bought a dress and a scarf, and a cotton pullover with a kangaroo
pocket. This is all puckered cotton. The vendors tie it into a knot and stuff
it in a bag, and it comes out just fine.
Joanna kept nudging me to buy a
pair of loose cotton trousers. She’s concerned because it’s going to be hotter
in Cambodia than it is here, so maybe I’ll need to wear different clothes. But
I plan to wait until I really need them before I buy anything. I already have
more clothes than I need—enough to fill a five-by-five storage cubicle in
Clifton. My supply of good vests is running short, that’s all, and I have two
in the works.
So far, it seems, I’ve even packed
far more clothes than I need here.
As the sun fell, we started to
grow hungry. Joanna noticed a sign advertising khao soi, but I explained that
there is no way to make that mild. It consists of chicken and noodles in a hot
curry made with coconut milk.
According to the sign, it is a
northern Thai specialty. I don’t remember seeing it on Thai restaurant menus in
New York or New Jersey, so the last time I ate khao soi was probably during my
other visit to Chiang Mai, four years ago. But I wasn’t about to take Joanna
there.
We found a place a few meters down
Jhaban Road that looked disgustingly sterile and advertised “coffee and food.”
Besides, the door was closed, which meant the place was air conditioned. It
wasn’t the most efficient air conditioning, but it beat sitting outside right
then.
Joanna earlier had said she had a
taste for spring rolls, and they were on the menu. That and a plate of fried
rice with egg were perfect with a Singha. Joanna confined herself to water.
We headed toward the hotel after
that, and indigestion hit on the way. I had overeaten and felt a little
discomfort. Joanna had it much worse, stomach upset, headache. She woke up next
morning still feeling sick and has sworn off fried food forever.
Monday morning all she wanted was
a coconut to drink the milk. It is supposed to be soothing for troubled
digestion.
We stopped at the U.N., but their
coconuts hadn’t arrived yet. We walked along Rathvithi Road and found a place
that did have one.
Joanna took it with her up the soi
to the Coffee Bar, where I had an Americano.
Joanna didn’t want to eat a thing.
The coconut was all she wanted. She was headachy and miserable, so we went back
to the Boonthavon for a while.
I had been the one under the weather,
either literally or figuratively, and now it was Joanna’s turn. She lay down
while I used the computer to catch up on Antonin Scalia’s obit.
After a while, I went out to mail
a post card to Karl and Jeanie. Karl likes post cards, and always sends me one
when he travels.
First I stopped at the tailor’s
shop to try on my new vests, which fit like gloves, so I asked for a little
more room, which she said would be no problem. They follow the pattern of a
favorite vest that I have pretty much worn out.
The map says there’s a post office
not far from the Phra Singh temple. It is easy to find from the Boonthavon: Go
down Soi 1 to Rachadamnoen Road (aka Rajadumnern, etc.), and take that all the
way to the far end, which faces the Wat Phra Singh. Turn left, onto whatever
road that is and continue walking south—but not too fast, or the sun may kill
you. Eventually you will see a sign in English for the “national post office.”
Go upstairs to the air conditioned room and take a number. Sit and dry off.
The language barrier is easy to
cross. I was able to get postage for the card and, after a couple of tries,
bought a stamp for another card that Joanna wants to send.
Sunday night on the Walking Street
was the farthest distance and the longest time I had walked in days. We had
covered all those streets in perhaps three hours.
Friday and Saturday I had been
falling apart in less than an hour after a trip around the block. We would get
back to the hotel, and the first thing I did was fall into bed and nap.
So of course, now that I was
feeling better, it was time to abuse my good health. I mean, what else is it
for?
I passed Phra Singh into
unfamiliar territory. I was getting thirsty. I wanted a beer. It was
prohibition time, between 2 and 5. Some places will and some won’t sell beer
then. I remembered what the man at the U.N. said. We put that sign up to please
the police, but we sell beer anyway.
But I was nowhere near the U.N.,
and all I really knew is that my route was the wrong direction to get there. So
I calculated, and hoping that all my turns had been 90 degrees, turned right
into another unfamiliar street, but at least I was pretty sure it was headed
east. The sun was no help. It was practically overhead at that hour. A block or
two later, I came to Jhaban Road and was out of the woods.
This is not Harry after being lost. It's an elephant skull displayed in the local history museum in Chiang Mai.
I was hungry, thirsty, and alone.
I was a Farang (and still am). Dehydration and hunger notwithstanding, I was
exhilarated from having just been lost for a while. You know how it is: if you’re
not lost, you haven’t been traveling hard enough.
Then I remembered the khao soi
joint that Joanna saw. So I said to myself, Wow, self, let’s see if we can find
it. And so I did, talking to myself all the way, about not falling down and how
good it felt to do this in the middle of the day and not be dead. And I hoped
they would be selling beer.
The shop is on the corner of
Jhaban and Intrawarorot Road. I have no idea how to say that, but it is the
side street next to the Three Kings Monument.
The lady handed me a menu, but I
already knew what to order. I got the big bottle of beer Chang with no
hesitation.
The lady put crispy fried noodles
into the khao soi. The broth is coconut milk spiced with chilis. There were
also soft noodles and a chicken leg in the bowl. The chicken was so tender that
chopsticks pulled the meat off the bone.
The soup was sweet, savory, and hot
all at once. So there I was—lost and found, consuming fiery goodness, working
through two-thirds of a liter of beer in the shade. I felt triumphant.
It wasn’t a long walk to get from
there to the Boonthavon. When I came in, Joanna was feeling a bit better, but
not all better. She had taken a Chinese herbal remedy, which seems to have done
her some good.
I was ready for a nap now, myself.
For dinner we went to the tried
and true destination, Eden, right around the corner. The lady, who cooks the
Thai food, understands what Joanna wants and gets it right every time, light on
the salt, no chilis, but full of flavor nonetheless, so we go there often.
Joanna headed to the hotel
straight from dinner, while I went to 7-Eleven for supplies. Our usual yogurt
was out of stock, and while the contents are fully identified on the label, the
labels are only in Thai. So I asked the girls at the counter for help.
They weren’t familiar with the
word “yogurt,” so one of them went with me. I want plain yogurt, no jam, no
flavoring. Not sure she got that. I pointed to the blank space on the shelf.
This is what I usually buy. That helped.
She showed me two containers of
another brand. One label was light blue, the other darker blue. The light blue
had sugar, she said, and the dark had none. All right. Kop oon Kop. The dark
label is what I want. At least, I think so. I haven’t eaten it yet. That will
be the first adventure tomorrow.
And now, as St. Valentine would
say, Love to all and to all a good night.
Harry
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