This little piggy went to market ...

No place to go, no promises to keep

Flash back 20-some-odd years. I am standing on the front step waving good-bye as Claire and the boys pack off to California for a weeklong visit with Nanny and Grandpa. Moments later I am back inside and the stereo is cranked, the wine uncorked, and the menu deliberations begun: "First the eggplant parmesan, or do I start with the chicken okra gumbo?" Jeffy's Seven Days of Single-Dadness are on!

I recall this as I bid sawat dii khrap to Lian and her son, Dao, who are catching a night bus south for a family gathering in her hometown of Na San -- visiting her elderly mother, joining with siblings to honor dead relatives, various Buddha stuff. I volunteer to watch the room while she's away.

Click! Off goes the moronic, annoying Thai TV sitcom. Click and click! On go the ceiling fan AND the freestanding portable fan. (I needs me some Mighty Wind.) And at sunup, the breakfast expedition to San Pakoy Morning Market is a solo venture.

Clockwise from left: Stumptown coffee, fresh mango,
 patongco and jok moo.

This morning by unanimous consent we want jok moo, a hot, thick soup of boiled rice and minced pork topped with shredded ginger and chives. Into my takeaway soup the vendor lady cracks a raw egg, which will soft-boil on the walk home. To go with the jok moo I buy a fresh mango and a bag of greasy X-shaped fried dough treats called patongco. And you know what? I eat them all. Because I can!

It is Friday night, clients are happy, the weekend is wide open, and a big bowl of prawns and calamari is marinating for tonight's stir-fry with long beans and noodles. Sometimes it's nice to have someone to share it with. Tonight is not one of those times.

An unexpected send-off

It is summer and I'm with a tour group in, I think, the countryside of northern Italy. We are milling around in the sunshine waiting for our transport when I look over and standing maybe 15 feet away is Claire, dressed in her '90s-era Sequent power suit and sweater. I gaze at her for the longest time and, amazingly, the scene does not mutate or dissolve. It is really, really her.

And then I am awake in the dark, and it's time to load up for my 4:15 MAX connection to Portland International Airport and the 28-hour gauntlet that delivers me back to my alternate reality in Chiang Mai.

Smoky sunlit garden path at my guest house.

It's the beginning of the hot season in Thailand. In mid-April they even have a national holiday, Songkran, that is one big water fight. Squirt rifles, buckets, garden hoses, anything that can splash and soak is aimed at innocent passers-by. Two years ago Songkran is what ruined the passport in my (unprotected) pants pocket; this time I will be prepared, and maybe even armed.

Chiang Mai is still choking from the slash burning in the highlands, same as when I left a month ago. Many people suffering from allergies and smoke irritation, Lian tells me -- including her. On the plus side, the smoke seems to dry out the air so that mid-90s temperatures are not so oppressive.

I kind of like the smoke -- takes me back to the old field burning days in the summers of my youth. But I really can't be out and about in the stuff, at least not for the next few days. Work, and more work.

Things will get non-humdrum soon: Lian is heading south for several days to visit her ailing mother, about the same time as new-bud Albert arrives for his first visit to Chiang Mai. Two single guys on the town. Look out!