Coming up for air in Ayutthaya

For anyone who is concerned about hygiene in Thailand, let me point out a few things about this picture.

Notice that this utensil cart in the airport cafeteria is plugged into an electrical outlet. The young lady appears to be selecting her fork and spoon but is actually immersing them in a reservoir of boiling water. I watch this cart for a good 20 minutes and every single person gives their fork/spoon/chopsticks a good swirl in the sanitizing bath.  The women especially eyeball their flatware before dunking as if they were going to be, well, putting it in their mouth.  Have you ever seen a utensil cart like that? I haven't.

Bangkok is a study in contrasts, and I try to reconcile the image of these fastidious eaters with the apocalyptic stench that hangs over their city this morning. Not just the usual funk but a gag-inducing reek, like burning toxic waste. Whatever thoughts I had of hanging around Bangkok for a couple of days vanish: my bus arrives at Hualamphong train station just in time for me to catch the next departure north to the ancient Siamese capital of Ayutthaya. Third-class rail fare for the roughly 65-mile ride works out to a penny per mile.

Rolling through the Thai countryside with the window down, gazing dreamily at sugar cane fields and rural Asian life, I almost don't want to get off the train ... and then manage to miss my stop in Ayutthaya. D'oh! It costs me an additional four baht to (literally) backtrack from the next village up the line.

Trackside squalor, 21st Century style: note the satellite dishes.

Centuries ago Ayutthaya, an island town at the confluence of three rivers, was sacked by invading hordes. Clearly the locals still hold a grudge against foreign interlopers, as I am assailed by savage touts the moment I step off the ferry.

"Hey, mister, where you go? I give you ride!"

"You got hotel? I take you good place to stay."

"I show you around!"

"Change money? I show you where you get good rate!"

Just when I think I've shaken an especially persistent creature, he turns up again, this time driving a tuk-tuk, the official vehicle of Satan's minions in Thailand. I dodge down a vendor-choked side street to lose him ... but now I've lost my bearings as well. It takes over an hour of sweaty, frazzled wandering around under the tropical sun, risking heat stroke, until I finally locate a guest house recommended in the Lonely Planet book, the very un-Thai-sounding "Tony's Place."

Tony and his fabulously flamboyant Thai manager offer the exact three things I need immediately: an air-conditioned room, a wi-fi connection, and a clean bed, all for the slightly splurge-y price of 500 baht (about $17).  Moments later I am well once more: a glorious cool-down shower, a bottle of ice-cold water, and the first horizontal sleep I've had in almost 60 hours.

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Walking around Ayutthaya, I strike up a conversation with a grizzled Aussie backpacker I meet who's searching for a certain guesthouse he read about in his Lonely Planet book. Solo traveler, perhaps in his late 50s or early 60s. Been to Thailand three times before, he says. Just arrived back yesterday and half-thinks he'd like to make it his permanent home, maybe. Badly in need of a shave and a shower.

Poor old wretch, I don't know whether to hug him as a brother or put him out of his misery.