And While We're Traveling...

Maybe we have evolved April into Los Friars Travel Writing Month. I'm really enjoying these posts. Here's a little contribution.

Chaiyo! (Hurray)
~La Haba

My earliest memories of traveling include my brother pointing at Detroit from an ascending plane window and telling me we were looking at Lego land. We were on our way to Orlando Florida where we saw Disney World, some NASA place, Cocoa Beach, and Busch Gardens. I spent my first vacation as a five year old trying to dodge loud noises.

At the NASA place (I didn’t know where we were, I was, again, five, but now I’m pretty sure it was the Kennedy Space Center) we watched some sort of movie about astronauts that must have been an IMAX type, but with moving chairs. It scared the shit out of me while viewing but I believe it was from our trip to that space place that I gained the assumption that most people get to see to walk on the moon in their life time and that my dad must have. Now I’m not so sure anyone has been to the moon.

I am told that when my family sat on a breakfast boat where people in Disney suits would stop by the tables, I thrust my arms wide and shouted “Goofy, it’s me,” because I assumed he must have known me. There’s a picture of me in pigtails sprouting from the top of my scalp and hugging the character tight, bearing a smile that could only be worn by a creature possessing ignorance of consumerism; whose preferences always involve that which is most colorful.
I stood in the Atlantic and giggled at how much the waves pushed me. I did not put my head under the water because this water wasn’t fresh like the Great Lakes. Our hotel room had a balcony and we watched a double rainbow while I dipped my McNuggets in hot mustard sauce for the first time.

* * *
Tonight, I woke up at seven in evening after taking a four hour nap which served as an attempt to make up for the lost sleep of the all-nighter I pulled before dropping off Joel at the airport. I started to worry about dinner because most of the restaurants (known here as food shops) had closed and its Saturday. I wasn’t sure what kind of food stands would still be out around this area. So I ventured out for my first meal alone in two weeks and tried to ward off the haze of sadness by telling myself that I am strong because I can eat meals alone and lone meals are important, too.

There were streaks of pink at the top of the sky, but below them stretched a blanket of clouds that darkened the area and by the time I reached the bottom of the elevator, I was looking at another night in Bangkok. I walked past the shops and watched them close; each seemed to turn out their lights just as my eyes fell on them in curiosity. At the first corner, I passed raw pork on a stick with pineapple and considered it but walked on to see what else was available; I figured Wa Kin Hoey would be open since I remember eating there with P’Nui at 9pm once, but when I saw the grate pulled down halfway over the shop, I remembered that was a weekday. I hoped the friendly roti man would be pushing his cart around, but I didn’t see him. The only stand open on that side of the soi was what looked like barbequed liver a woman was chopping up for someone. I turned around and retraced my steps.

The glowing yellow of a McDonalds sign beckoned me and I considered, for a moment, McNuggets. My sadness deepened because stepping into fast food places here is always, for me, a source of shame (even when I am dragged there by work folks who want a French fry break, which are fun, but still…).

I stopped in front of shish kabob cart and said, quietly, “sahm moo” or “three pork.” The girl lighted the small grill on the side and stuck the pork on top. Watching them cook slowly made me feel even hotter than I already had. I then spotted someone selling fresh squeezed shogun orange juice and figured I had a meal. At that stand, I turned my head and, to my disbelief, my favorite Issan food stand was open… I regretted ordering the shish kabobs but waltzed over there to order some som tam (papaya salad with chilis, fish sauce, and small dried shrimp) to accompany my moo. I picked up my shish kabobs –10 baht a stick—and then spotted my roti man but decided to buy from him on another day.

I kept to the lighted patches of the soi and carried my som tam, orange juice, and pork past the Ronald McDonald giving a Thai “wai” gesture. I took note of his androgyny and then clutched my som tam a little tighter because I had done so well and did not give in to the temptation of spending 4x as much baht on McNuggets than the more healthy, exotic, and delicious meal I held in my hand. I did not acknowledge that once, before I knew much, dipping those grease balls in hot mustard sauce would bring about the same sensation of dipping my fork into a plastic bag full of papaya salad. I suppose if my parents had taken me to the soi 24 for our family vacation, I would have thought the place was drab.