Smells like Thai spirits

We fly out of smokey Chiang Mai on Sunday morning at sunup, climbing above the haze that has engulfed the city for days ... only to descend one hour later into the gagging stink-bomb that is Bangkok. At least the north could boast good old-fashioned slash burning -- a pure nostalgic hit of August in Eugene, circa 1967. Whereas Bangkok feels like you're punishing your body just by breathing.

On the departures level at Suvarnabhumi Airport* we hail a cab for the long drive out to Bang Khae, where Lian's sister lives.  It is not a straight shot from A to B: the cabbie has only a vague notion of how to get to Bang Khae, Lian does not have an actual street address for her sister, and I am ... patient.

You could eat off these floors. (And die.)

One hour and 600 hundred baht later, after much backtracking and many phone calls to the sister -- at one point a relative on a motor bike is dispatched to meet the cab and guide us in -- we arrive at the house. The grimy, grimy house. Visible dirt on the floors, the walls, the windows. Just ... ugh!

"My sister not tidy," Lian concedes later. "Does not clean."

"But she has a restaurant!" I reply. "We eat there!" She just shrugs.

In the afternoon we double back into town for my true purpose in Bangkok: shopping for Dragon Treasure at enormous Chatuchak Weekend Market. Three hours and one sweat-destroyed shirt later, we're back on the Skytrain toward Bang Khae with a double-bagful of faux jewels in hand. Huzzah!

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Back at the sister's house in Bang Khae, I sit cross-legged on the floor at the low dining table in the front room as various Methacharatphon clan pop in and out, smiling and wai-ing in my direction. I just grin goofily and nod back, flinging perspiration at them. After a while Lian whispers: "We put on shoes, go visit my sister husband." So we amble down the semi-paved lane to another residence, where some old folks are waiting for us with food and refreshments. I do a clumsy wai/handshake greeting with the our host, a wizened old gent in a traditional cloth wrap, and we sit down to get acquainted.

Bonding over beers with the relatives down the street.

They pour me a generous Singha over ice and then break out a jar of deep cherry-red hootch -- homemade Thai whiskey. An elderly woman (who I learn is my age) pours me a small glassful. The menfolk gesture to the food. So I indulge.

The homemade Thai whiskey looks and tastes like Jim Beam mixed with Robitussin. But I smile approvingly and slap my empty glass down on the table in front of my hostess: "Hit me again!" Everyone laughs with delight.

Lian, who has no experience with alcohol, watches me with concern. Every 10 minutes she asks: "Are you drunk now?"

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An hour later we're back up the street at the sister's house for the real evening meal. As the ladies are ordering take-out, Lian assures her sister that spice-wise they don't have to dumb down dinner for their farang guest, that I can swallow fire and belch flame with the best of 'em.

As we're sitting down to eat, Lian sets a tall bottle of water next to me but quietly instructs me on etiquette: "Cannot drink until after dinner." And then I learn that we're having Issan food. Issan, in the northeast, is sort of looked down on as the Appalachia of Thailand, but its food is famously incendiary. I make it through dinner without so much as a sip, perspiring like a fire-walker as that precious, cooling liquid sits inches away, unopened, taunting me at every burning bite.

Finally someone pushes back their plate and I am ALL over that that bottle. And then another one.



* Thailand Travel Hint of the Day: At Suvarnabhumi Airport, you're supposed to connect with your cab into town at Arrivals, where you get charged a 50-baht cab fee. Screw that! It's a total new-tourist penalty.  Instead, pop upstairs to Departures, which is swarming with cabs dropping fares at the airport. Grab one of those and no one will stop you