All I do is sweat, sweat, sweat no matter what

On a recent Sunday, the Bangkok Electric Company (or whatever it’s called) decided to shut off the power in my employer’s building for most of the day. As a test prep teacher, that meant an unexpected day off. As I was continuing my commitment to explore all that Bangkok tourism had to offer, I decided that I should spend the day touring a place that can only be enjoyed during the weekend: Chatuchak Market.

Okay, “enjoy” might be too strong a word. Chatuchak Market is huge, crowded, and hot as hell. But I have a strange, masochistic love of open air markets. They are, in fact, one of my favorite things about Asia (the NYC equivalent used to be street fairs, but these days street fairs have devolved into one gigantic underwear/arepa stand. It’s tragic.) I was also just easing off jet lag, so I was still capable of waking up before 10am. It seemed like the perfect plan for my utility-sponsored vacation day.

The last time I visited Chatuchak Market was on my first, brief trip to Bangkok in 2012. I remember it through a sweaty haze: rows upon rows of goods for sale, vendors and tourists alike languidly dripping through the narrow aisles. The market (one of the largest in the world) is split into about 25 sections, with themes such as “odds & ends”, “clothing & accessories”, “creature”, and “fighting cock”. There’s also a section devoted to original artwork, which is where I spent most of my time during that 2012 visit. This time I was determined to cover more ground, and maybe actually shop (while I absolutely love markets, I hate haggling, and travel light so I usually don’t have enough room in my tiny bag to add stuff. I know. This makes no sense.)

Start your day right, with many,
many fried things.

I set out around 9:30am, mainly in an attempt to beat the crowds. There’s really no way to beat the heat, which was already pulsing at that early hour, but at least by starting my day in 88 degree temperature I could ease into the eventual triple digits. Many stalls were up and running, and the plastic chair “restaurants” were already doing a brisk business. I didn’t really have a shopping agenda; mostly I wanted to explore the offerings and the atmosphere. Almost immediately I found myself standing in front of a vaguely Mediterranean man tending an enormous paella pan. Ah, Bangkok. You cater so nicely to our Western food needs. I know, I know. No one goes to Bangkok to eat paella. Were I only here for a week, I might have passed on it, but I’m here for four months and dammit, I love paella. So that was immediately put down as the final stop on my day’s itinerary.

Portrait of a man and his paella.

For the first hour or so I just wandered around, enjoying the brisk 90 degree temperatures, and inquiring about the price of an occasional scarf. These are always hilariously awkward encounters. First of all, I think that in many cultures it’s considered rude to ask for the price of something you don’t intend to buy. I don’t mean to be rude, not at all. It’s just that after I ask the price, I choke. I know that the appropriate response is to counter with an offer at least 50% lower. But I still get so uncomfortable doing that. My Western background rears its ugly head. To me, it seems incredibly rude to tell someone that an item they’re offering is not worth even half their asking price. This results in one of two outcomes: either I sheepishly back away and offend the seller, or if it’s something I really want, I say fuck it and pay the asking price. Which is most definitely way, way too much. I know all the reasons that this is wrong: it offends the vendors, drives up prices for other tourists, and also keeps me from experiencing something that I am extremely unlikely to encounter in the US (not so much haggling going on at Target). Of course, it also means that I bring back fewer items from my travels which is probably not such a bad thing. As I discovered when I unpacked my storage unit after a year away from home, most of the stuff we collect is useless. Right now I think that some silk scarf is extremely important and will serve to instantly call to mind significant memories from my time in Asia, but ten years from now I will probably junk it. Maybe even earlier.

Duck. Mountains of duck.

So I suppose I’ve duly established the fact that I went to one of the largest markets in world with the express plan not to shop. Events conspired to force my hand, however. I had an early lunch of roast duck over rice.  I’ve had this meal in a variety of guises since returning to Bangkok. Sometimes it’s pork, sometimes it’s duck, but it always involves a light splash of brown gravy and some pickled ginger. This is definitely a meal greater than the sum of its parts. The duck is good, the sauce a little sweet, and rice is rice. But for some reason once you add the ginger it becomes something totally unexpected and pretty damn great. Pickled ginger: condiment of the gods. Oh, and there’s also a random piece of some type of greenery, which sometimes constitutes my vegetable intake for the day. Scurvy, here I come!

After the duck I ventured back to the outdoor portion of the market and was immediately assaulted by a brilliant, boiling sun. I then realized that I had left my hat at home. For some this would not be a problem, but I am extremely melanin-challenged, and go directly from pasty white to lobster red. Luckily I was in the middle of the largest market in the world. Looks like I would be forced to shop.

Another reason I don’t particularly enjoy shopping: I can’t make up my mind. What if I buy this cheesy elephant knickknack here, and find an even better cheesy elephant knickknack at the next stall? How could I possibly be expected to commit to just one pointless tchotchke?! I believe the New York Times calls this “decision fatigue” but I call it “the indecisiveness of the overly privileged Westerner buying useless shit.” This sometimes extends to moderately useful shit, as in the case of the hat. I just needed to buy a hat. Just a simple hat. I don’t like hats. I don’t look good in hats. There wasn’t some magical millinery stand hidden away in the market offering hats that would somehow not make me look like a sweaty, bald pinhead. So the clear answer was to just buy a cheap hat and have done with it. Reader, I think I tried on every hat in that goddamn market. I wandered for hours. I fully attained the sunburn I was trying to avoid. And I came away with not one, but two hats, both of which make me look like a sweaty, bald pinhead. Mission accomplished.

The Great Hat Hunt did, however, introduce me to much more of the market. I found random restaurants tucked away behind rows of second hand clothing stores. I listened to the sweet sounds of a Thai bluegrass band. I found the restaurant wholesale section and discovered that those roast ducks I always see hanging from street stalls? Totally fake. Stupid farang. There’s even a pet store section, with puppies panting in non-air-conditioned enclosures. Yes, that’s just as depressing as it sounds. The one thing I did not find? Fighting cock. So disappointing.

Chatuchak Market: Bangkok's premier place
for evening wear. 

Bangkok banjo!

After purchasing my two ugly, unnecessary hats I made my way to the art section. I know in my last post I was less than enthusiastic about some of the art that I saw. I was much more interested in the work I saw at the market. The section is really like a large, open air gallery. Up and down the aisles, artists display their works in nooks of various sizes. There’s a huge variety ranging from crafts, to immense portraiture, to intricate bronze sculptures. I wandered through the galleries for a bit, then took a break with a cold beer at a narrow bar squeezed between two crowded aisles.

At this point I’d been walking (and sweating) for hours. Luckily, just like every other touristy place in Thailand, there were plenty of shops offering $4 foot massages. I ducked into one of these air conditioned havens, and dozed a bit while feeling slowly returned to my poor, tired feet. Finally, it was time for paella. I’d traversed Chatuchak, explored its murky depths. I’d earned my overpriced plate of Western goodness. The paella pavilion is festooned with flapping flags, and features not only the titular meal, but also a bar and a DJ. It was a quick affair: you give them money, they scoop out paella for you, then you grab a beer and a seat. I was ravenous, and attacked the plate of rice and whatnot with gusto. In front of me the paella man was theatrically drizzling olive oil into the pan, the bottle held high above his head. I could certainly taste its richness in the rice, and in the browned bits of socarrat scattered throughout. Mixed in with the rice were pieces of golden, juicy chicken, and perfectly textured pieces of shrimp. Also, a few roasted peppers and pieces of green beans. Scurvy averted! I devoured my food, and sat back to enjoy my beer, listening to the tourist chatter and watching the locals casually swaying along with the music. And then I took my sweaty self (and two hats) back to the BTS for the air-conditioned ride home. As I waited on the platform I noticed that, for the first time in my Asian travels, everyone was as drenched in sweat as I was. I smiled at the realization that, in the face of Chatuchak heat, all are equal.

Everything's better with paella.

Tune in next time for the story of how I managed to beat the Bangkok heat (for a day), and updates on whether or not I have, as yet, worn either of those two fucking hats.

Reconnecting with My Inner Tourist

As I mentioned in my last post, Bangkok pretty much has it all: delicious street food, lots of temples, yet with all the comforts of a large Western city. Okay, decent wine is really expensive, but shitty beer is about $1, so I guess that balances it out. When I was here last summer it was at the tail end of my two years in Asia. I was ready for Western comforts. I was desperate for decent Italian food. And I found myself spending a lot of time exploring the decadent side of the city. (Technically decadence was reserved for Decadent Thursdays, but by the end of the summer every day was Decadent Thursday.) I’ve decided that this time around I should take in as many tourist sites as possible before work becomes totally insane. So I have a mission: eat vast quantities, and try to find some art.

My first unfortunate discovery was that not all grilled meat is equal, despite the glistening, succulent appearance as it sizzles in the Bangkok heat. This coincided with another discovery: as in Taipei, art here is cute. Very cute. Two Fridays ago I went to a gallery opening at GOJA café. The title of the exhibit was “Space Oddity”, and advertising promised painting, sculpture, and free beer and food. Right up my alley. It should be noted that I do not know a lot about visual arts. I don’t have the vocabulary to discuss it in depth. I do, however, know what I like when I see it, and I do want to expand my horizons. Therefore I boarded the Sky Train and wandered over to the café. It was small. Unexpectedly small. Small to the point that I don’t know how it functions as a café during non-gallery times. Also, the air conditioning: weak. Very weak. In Bangkok that can be painful, but cold beer usually alleviates that pain. Alas, the beer: not free. And lastly, the food: non-existent. Perhaps I was there too early. Not a big deal; I purchased a beer and made mental plans to hit up the street food after I was done walking around the very tiny room.

On to the art. There were two artists, one of whom was showing Where the Wild Things Are kind of way. The other artist was showing paintings of night skies and fairy-tale icons, alongside little sculptures of aliens. The sculptures appeared to be constructed out of toy thimbles and music box gears. It was…not my thing. But again, no big deal. I was glad that I checked it out. I finished my beer and slipped out, heading down the street to satisfy my street food cravings. Sadly, the stars were not aligned for me that night. I decided to start off with some grilled meat on a stick. In my experience, you cannot go wrong with grilled meat on a stick. Unless you’re a vegetarian. Meat on a stick is almost invariably a delightful little morsel of charred goodness, perhaps sweet, perhaps vinegary, perhaps coated in a fiery spice. Meat on a stick is solid street food, a safe choice.

drawings of aliens and of naked kids hanging out on the moon. It was, as I mentioned, cute, but still enjoyable. In a cosmic, non-threatening

Oh how wrong I was.

Help me, Alien Thimble Man!
You're my only hope!

There are few things that I flat out will not eat. Bugs. Liver. Congealed blood (although I have been know to unwittingly make exceptions there). And intestines. I know that logically, I should enjoy intestines. With the proper char, or in a complex broth, intestines are supposedly very good. But I just can’t do it. There’s some kind of after-taste, a musk, if you will, that I associate with digestion, and it just makes me want to vomit. I realize that this is irrational. I eat sausage. I find marrow delicious. I will go to great lengths to procure pork belly. I have no compunction about eating shrimp that has not been de-veined. I am aware of the possibility that all my fried calamari experiences were lies, and that I was actually eating hog rectum (thanks for that bit of info, This American Life.) And yet I still eat calamari, happily in fact. But intestines. I can’t do it. I just can’t. I’m sure you can see where this is headed.

The grilled meat stand was emitting a wonderful aroma, and the skewers themselves were a beautiful, rich burgundy. I pointed to one that was almost marbled with grill marks. The woman behind the grill took the meat off the skewer and sliced it up for me. The minute I saw the interior, I knew something wasn’t quite right. I had a hunch. The consistency was wrong, all wrong. It bore a striking resemblance to past intestine encounters, but it was not completely identical, so I told myself to buck up and dive in. The meat was…squishy. Rubbery. Not the juicy delight I had come to expect from meat-on-a-stick. And then, the aftertaste. It snuck up on me. One moment I was reluctantly chewing the substandard skewer, the next I was gagging over a garbage can. It was all too clear. I was eating intestine. That vaguely offensive taste at the back of my throat. The horror. The horror.

I immediately threw the bag of vile entrails out and decided that the only cure was some good curry. Yes, that’s what I needed. Curry. Curry so spicy and fragrant that it would burn away all traces of culinary disaster. I ran to the curry stand and ordered a plate of crimson pork curry. I sat down, eager to redeem the evening, and ate a big, heaping spoonful of….curried intestines. No! Curses! Deceiver!!!!!

There was no escape. Intestines were my fate. I accepted defeat and headed back to the sky train. On the way, I passed a vendor selling sauteed bugs. Was it my imagination, or was there a mocking smile on the bug vendor's face? As if he knew that I had been brought low by their offerings, that my Western sensibilities could not be overcome. You can take the girl out of the US, but you can't make her eat insects and offal. Run, little girl, run away! Yes, that's what his smile was communicating. Either that, or I was having an intestine-induced delusion. Regardless, that street was my culinary downfall, and I have vowed never to return. Damn you intestines. Why must you taunt me so?

Yes. This is exactly what you think it is.

“Hello! You didn’t get fat!”

The first time I traveled out of the country for a significant period of time was junior year in college. The morning of my flight to Europe I ran through the house in a frenzy, desperately throwing everything I owned into trash bags which I then stored in the basement. The day of my departure to Taiwan in 2012, I was frantically trying to finish a freelance writing assignment, sending out drafts right up until boarding the plane. The second time I left for Taiwan my poor roommate had to help move my boxes to a storage unit, clean my room for the subletter, and even give me a suitcase because I had not budgeted time to purchase one large enough for a year’s worth of stuff. This time around was almost…disturbingly smooth. Most of my room was packed up and stored a week before my departure; I had a great subletter in place; the room was clean, my travel bags packed, and I was able to spend my last evening enjoying my time with close friends. Sure, the morning was chaotic, but that’s just the nature of travel (also, does anyone ever really remember to leave room in the bag for pajamas? Of course not.) My first morning here in Bangkok I woke up in a panic, trying to figure out what I left unfinished. The answer? Nothing.

What does it mean that I have now become so adept at leaving? I’d like to think this is some marker of maturity, or at least that I’ve finally thrown away enough junk to make my belongings manageable. But I can’t escape the fact that this really means I’ve become accustomed to departure. It’s like slipping on a comfortable pair of shoes (or, more precisely, given the amount of eating in store, a supremely comfortable pair of stretchy pants.) And once I arrived, everything in Bangkok was pretty much how I left it: the same street vendors, the same job, even the same room in the same hotel, complete with the incense diffuser I left behind a year ago. Local restaurant owners remembered not just me, but my usual order.

Same fruit and broom vendors

Same greasy omelette-y goodness

Perhaps that’s part of my feeling of disquiet – things have become “usual”. I travel to challenge myself, to avoid my comfort zone, to run straight towards fear rather than hide from it. But humans are adaptable, and I have most certainly adapted to this peripatetic existence. Also, Bangkok is a very Western-ized city. With the (notable) exceptions of bras and deodorant, I can get anything here that I can get in NYC, with some it being much better and cheaper (I’m talking to you, NYC transit system.) I think I may need to change the way I approach this city – if the challenges won’t come to me, I will find them.

Challenge #1 - rock bedazzled sneakers

Challenge #2 - go shopping with monks

So with any luck, the next few months will feature absurd stories of transit disasters, disturbing food, and interesting characters. This is not to say that I spent the past two weeks holed up in my air-conditioned room (or at least, not entirely). My second day here I went to visit my friend Mai at her sister’s house. Mai recently gave birth to her first child, and the place was packed with relatives from Lao and friends from the neighborhood. I was incredibly jet lagged, broken by the heat, and unable to communicate with most of the group. At first I focused on staring at the baby, because, well, I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. Isn’t that the appropriate reaction around newborns? Stare at them, talk about how cute they are using unfortunate food metaphors (“I could just eat those cheeks!”) and smell their heads. Or something like that. I discovered that my comfort with infants has not improved dramatically since my pre-teen years. I cringe at the memory of my first “mother’s helper” job: I sat the baby down on the couch, and looked at it nervously until it fell over. The mom was not pleased. Then there’s the memorable picture of my newborn sister asleep on my lap, me looking at her with something akin to fear, hands held up in the air, reluctant to actually touch her lest I break the baby. There is now a very similar picture of me holding Mai’s young son Stephen. It is a portrait of barely concealed panic: “How do I hold this thing? Why is his neck so floppy? Oh great, now he’s crying. Back to mom you go!” Let me be clear: I love kids. They are amazing, tiny people who say crazy things and entertain us by deliberately crashing into furniture. Infants, however, are another story entirely. I can confidently say that even now, at 37, I do not feel that drive to have my own eating-puking-pooping machine. Which is probably a good thing, since I would most likely break it.  

After I finished staring at the baby, I didn’t have much more to offer. Luckily, there was food. Mai’s sister’s house is on the canal, and despite the heat, it was lovely to sit out there under the spectacularly lush foliage, watch the water, and sweat. The kitchen is actually outside by the porch-like area, so I spent most of my time out there drinking beer with Mai’s dad. At one point I offered to go in and help Mai with…whatever, but she said no no, I should stay outside and talk. Her father and I have absolutely no words in common, so the conversation was minimal, mainly consisting of him communicating (through charades) that I was very, very white. I suddenly remembered that this is one of the reasons I always got so drunk when visiting with Mai – drinking and eating are really the only activities available to me. This may also explain why my only Thai words are “delicious” and “shit drunk”. Of course, now there’s baby-staring as well. For me, not so much of a game changer.

Sometimes I fantasize about moving to California, mainly so I can have an outdoor kitchen. There’s something so appealing about the idea of cooking outside, under the stars. I also clearly have Foodnetwork envy. Now, however, I know that I don’t need to go to California to do this. I can just get a canal side shack and a hot plate. Anyway, while I sat drinking with Mai’s dad, her friend Ao worked on the meal (Ao is more commonly referred to by her nickname, which roughly translates to “Little Fatty”. Commenting on weight just doesn’t have the same stigma here, apparently.) In about 20 minutes she had prepared a wonderful spread featuring pork larb moo* (ground pork with assorted herbs, spices, and enough chilies to kill a horse. A horse that eats chilies, that is.), a cooling stir-fried eggplant dish, and a rich, flavorful pork soup, because soup is what everyone wants in 100 degree heat. As is typical in this cuisine, the table was covered with baskets of raw vegetables and herbs, which are used to chase the spice. I was also given many handfuls of sticky rice, because everyone could see that I was one step away from spice-tears. (In my defense, even one of the Thai guests commented on the vengeful red spiciness of the larb. Of course, she did comment in English, so it may have been an attempt to warn the sweaty farang.)

Summertime, and the canal-livin' is easy

By the time dinner ended, I had consumed two large bottles of Chang beer in quick succession, That, combined with the jet lag, brought me right up to the wall, then smashed my head into it. I was nodding off into my soup, and while I knew Mai wouldn't mind if I napped (as I had done earlier that day in between baby-staring and drinking) I told her I needed to go. She called their go-to motorbike taxi driver, who apparently has loads of experience shuttling drunken people back to their air conditioned lairs. And so I ended my first full day in Bangkok careening down the road, gripping the back of the motorbike in a boozy haze. I had returned to the land of smiles, where the food makes you weep, and the road safety is non-existent. It was good to be back.

Say what you will about smog- it provides a stunning sunset

* Yes, in Thai the word for “pork” is “moo”. I giggle every time I say it.