Good-bye, hello ...

It is Sunday evening, less than four hours before my flight out of Chiang Mai, and I think I have everything squared away.

Lian's nonimmigrant visa application is "in process" down at the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok and we're almost ready to submit her document package for the all-important personal interview. My big suitcase is testing the airline's weight restrictions with what feels like 40 pounds of faux treasures. My taxi ride to the airport is booked at the fancy-pants hotel next door. And my carry-on is packed with sandwiches for the 12-hour layover in the transit hotel in Seoul.

Thailand is a troubled place, politically. There's so much I'd love to write about it, but I don't especially care to spend decades eating rat meat in a Thai prison. I'm not kidding. The powers that be in this country take lese majeste very seriously, as in super-ultra-extremely.  There's simply no way to write accurately about the political situation here without risking arrest, and that goes for farang and Thai people alike. Ask me about it when I get home.

I hear it's kind of Arctic-y back in Portland. Maybe I should have brought a long-sleeved shirt?

Yippee Tai Yai, mother-bummer

So Lian's 14-year-old son, Dao, has decided to blow off middle school and make the big bucks as a carnival worker, setting up the midway games of skill. Nice to see a young man find his life's calling so early. And in a country that busts out a fresh festival every 20 minutes, he'll never lack for work. Why, in a busy week he might make the equivalent of twenty dollars, almost!

Carny Boy smiles; his mother, not so much.

Monday afternoon Lian gets the usual phone call from the teacher reporting Dao's absence yet again. The boy is not answering his cell phone, either. She has finally had it: "I think he can go live with his father. I cannot control him."

That evening we catch a Red Car to Dao's gig du noir, a cultural festival for the local Tai Yai population. Numbering some 6 million scattered around Burma, China and Thailand, the Tai Yai (also known as the Shan People) have their own spoken and written language, their own traditions and a distinct cuisine. But they share the universal fondness for tacky carnival midways. Arriving at Chiang Mai's Buddhist temple for the Tai Yai, Lian and I pay our 100-baht admission (outrageous!) and quickly locate the boy. Tonight his area of expertise is the knock-over-the-cans game, in which suckers pay 20 baht to toss oddly weighted softballs and miss every time.

As we approach the games, Lian suggests: "Maybe you can wait here?" No problem: I hang back from the blast zone and let the two of them have their Enola Gay moment.

Traditional Tai Yai attire.

Five minutes later, she's finished. We look around at the many festival-goers in their exotic attire and and decide, heck, we've paid our nickel, we might as well make an evening of it and check out all things Tai Yai ... or at least all foodly things.

Our first stop is a noodle vendor hawking a pad thai-looking dish.

Regarding the dining-out experience in this country: at virtually every Thai eatery, on each table you'll find a caddy containing, variously, dried chile flakes, ground peanuts, fish sauce (sometimes with diced chiles), mild chiles in rice vinegar, and granulated sugar. Lian always strafes every dish with sugar and a generous squeeze of lime juice. But tonight we learn an interesting fact about the Tai Yai table arrangement: instead of sugar, the bowl is filled with salt. We learn this the hard way.

Tai Yai food. Beware of the "sugar."

---

Now THIS is a temple of worship!

British Appreciation Day at Central Festival

Just what this town needs, another mega-mall. I'm not being sarcastic here: After months on foot dodging motor bikes, dog shit and crumbling concrete, I really appreciate well-ordered commerce.

Our new shopping destination is Central Festival Chiang Mai, hyperbolically billed as "the largest shopping mall in southeast Asia." Really? Bigger than the retail meccas in Bangkok and Hong Kong? It's a mere 10-minute Red Car ride away, so Lian and I go check it out for ourselves.

Central Festival is everything Thailand could stand a double-dose of: it is clean, comfortable, intuitively organized and pedestrian-friendly. Encouragingly, the place is jam-packed with youngish Thais and farang alike, gathered as one in a universal brotherhood of mall-ratitude. And virtually all signage is in the global lingua franca, English.

Central Food Hall, a.k.a, Heaven

At last we arrive at the holiest of holies: the ground-floor Central Food Hall.

Think Whole Foods, Zupan's and Market of Choice ... allllmost. I give this market an A for effort just for displaying big wheels of parmiagano reggiano. (Lian tries a sample and her facial expression is priceless!) The clientele is almost exclusively farang men with Thai women, so we feel immediately at home.

Parmigiano Reggiano -- Joy!

Price points are all over the culinary map, topping out on the crazy scale at twenty bucks per kilo for fresh peaches. And artisan-quality baked goods remain elusive, although I see a few croissants that might rise to Albertson's standards.

$20 a kilo? I can wait.

I purchase a Norwegian salmon fillet to cook for Lian that is just so-so; I desperately want her to come experience the real deal, Northwest-caught and cedar-plank-grilled.  Working on that.

---

The civil unrest down in Bangkok this morning is taking a turn for the ugly: one person shot dead in overnight violence, and all TV stations have switched to special news coverage. Essentially it's a power struggle between two elite ruling factions, one that enjoys popular support among the poor and the other favored by the comfortable class. Despite State Department warnings, now would be an excellent time to visit: lots of sudden hotel vacancies and last-minute price breaks to be had.

Still an asshole

Flash back more than 25 years to a reunion party for the old Lake Oswego Review newspaper staff, circa mid-1980s. Most of us then are still on good terms (and some will remain close friends well into the future), but one or two folks left the paper under layoff-y circumstances. I witness one socially awkward moment between the editor's wife and an ex-photographer and am tactless enough to chide her about it a few minutes later. Smiling icily, she responds: "I see you're still an asshole!"

Tis true, I nod; always have been, always will be. But she has already walked away.

---

It is three days before Loi Krathong and well into high season, but Chiang Mai is curiously devoid of tourists. The night bazaar at Anusan Market has more vendors than shoppers, and many booths are empty -- not enough business to make it worth opening. Even the lady-boy revue is closed for the evening. Lian has no customers, so we take time to stop at an open-air coffee shop for refreshments and people-watching. Lian, who is now a teetotaler, sips a lemonade while I sharpen my wits on a surprisingly potent mai tai.

Suddenly before us, a ruckus: A lanky old fellow stumbles on the uneven asphalt and pitches violently forward, flailing to regain his footing. Three off-balance steps and down he goes -- but he manages to protect his expensive-looking digital camera, which he holds at arm's length above his splayed body.

The man's family rushes to his aid and the mai tai, speaking through me, tries to lighten the moment: "At least the camera's OK, right?" But no one is amused. In wide-eyed horror, the man's wife wheels around to me and admonishes: "He has two artificial knees and an artificial hip!"

Launching fire into trees.

"Oh," I stammer. "Uh, that's different. My apologies." I can barely watch the poor fellow hobble away, leaning against his loved ones.

(Long sigh.)

Deanna Kelly, wherever you are, you sure called it a quarter-century ago. But honest, I'm trying to get better.

---

Selling floral krathongs to honor the water spirits.

So Loi Krathong happened. That's the big Thai celebration honoring the water spirits during which people release buoyant floral decorations onto rivers. People also try to burn down the city by launching fire lanterns into the air and detonating blasting cap-sized firecrackers, even in crowds.

Fireworks above the Iron Bridge.

Loi Krathong is one of those festivals that's pretty cool the first time -- especially the night sky theatrically aglow with orange fire lanterns -- but I can see how it might get old after a few years. "Every year many people, and BOOM BOOM all night, make me bore," says Lian.  Glad to hear it: maybe next year we can be in America for Thanksgiving instead.

Many ornate floats, multiple parades.

Plenty of room at the Hotel Buritara

Lian's mom waves farewell.

On Wednesday morning Lian and I, along with her daughter, Eve, bid sawadee khrep to her mom and sister in Bang Khae. Our taxi takes us to a nearby bus station, where Eve will return south to university in Hua Hin and we will go adventuring west, in Kanchanaburi.

Originally I wanted to do what the travel books recommend, which is to roll through the countryside up to K'buri aboard the funky, antiquated third-class train that costs just a few dollars for the four-hour trip. But the clickety-clack charm escapes Lian, who has endured a lifetime of grungy backwoods railcars. "Is slow-slow and dirty, have a stink," she protests. "Toilet very terrible. Bus is fast and comfortable, I think you like more." Yes ... I will like the bus more.

By early afternoon we arrive in the pleasant town of Kanchanaburi, just a few kilometers away from the not-really bridge on the not-really River Kwai. I am impressed: clean streets, unbroken sidewalks, scrubbed edifices, a real sense of order that still maintains its Thai-ness. Kanchanaburi is what Chiang Mai could look like if it took a shower, brushed its teeth and put on a clean shirt.

Excellent place to stay in K'buri.

And now a confession: I did not do my homework before coming here: no TripAdvisor check, no Expedia inquiries, nada. So once we step off the bus, we have no hotel waiting for us nor any inkling of what's available, leaving us at the mercy of the songthaew drivers who prowl the bus station like cheetahs at the watering hole, waiting for fresh meat.

The grounds at U Inchantree.

Lian explains to the first driver to close in that we are in need of lodging. He nods and we pile into the back of his passenger truck. I notice that the neighborhoods get tattier and more backpacker-y as we go bouncing down side streets until we arrive at a squalid clutch of houseboats dropped in the muck of a swampy backwater near the river. Dark, depressing rooms. A huge hole punched in the door to the bathroom. Lian asks me what I think.

"Baan kii," I grumble, marching straight back to the taxi-truck.

"Not polite!" gasps Lian. "We never say!" But it really is a shithouse.

Now the challenge is thrown down for this driver to find a hotel suitable for a finicky farang. He delivers us to the open-air reception lobby of the upscale U Inchantree Kanchanaburi Resort, where the highly professional hospitality staff checks us into our tastefully appointed (but tiny!) superior room. After unpacking, we stroll the grounds, scope out the pool and locate tomorrow's breakfast buffet veranda overlooking the river. Now it feels like we're on holiday.

---

On the train into the jungle.

I won't make the same mistake twice: before we depart U Inchantree, I go on Expedia and locate our next night's lodging. Most places are full, but I settle on a rustic-but-charming little resort called Buritara, an hour or so up the tracks and a ways into the jungle. The pictures on the website look like just the ticket, and for only $34 a night it's worth a try. The next morning we catch the train west toward the jungle villages up the line, Buritara-bound.

Tasteful twin portals.

About the train, the bridge and the river: yes, this particular bridge over what used to be the Klong River really did get bombed during the war; yes, the Japanese really did use brutal forced labor to build a rail line through parts of Thailand and Burma. It was only after the hubbub around the 1957 movie "Bridge on the River Kwai" that Thailand cleverly renamed this stretch of the river Kwae Yai (downstream from Kanchanaburi it's still the Klong River) and proceeded to rake in lots and lots of tourist moolah. The nutty part is, the movie was set in Burma, not Thailand ... and it was fictional!

Looking across at where we should have stayed.

At last I get my train ride across the bridge and into the jungle, and it's exactly as I used to imagine Thailand would be before I came here: green, lush, exotic. Best of all, unspoiled. We get off at the end of the line and go in search of a ride to our glorious Buritara Resort.

No one has ever heard of the place.

Finally we talk to a non-licensed taxi driver who might know where it is, but it'll cost us 1,000 baht to get there; we talk him down to 500 and we're off. Turns out he doesn't know after all, but he makes some calls. Curiously, the Buritara desk is not answering its phone. Three hours and many kilometers later -- this guy really makes an effort -- we locate the resort down a long and deeply rutted dirt road, way deep in the jungle. The signs leading in are tiny and ominously deteriorated.

Resort accommodations? Really??

At last we arrive at ... shantytown.

The girl at the open-air reception desk smiles apologetically and I can tell she is thinking: "You poor bastards, what cruel god delivered you into this hell-hole?" We learn that the phones are out of order, which is why our calls didn't get through earlier. But if they had, would she have warned us away?

The girl leads us along crumbling walkways to our cabin, if that's what you care to call this pink stucco box. Buritara looks nothing like the clean, vibrant resort I saw in the pictures. Or maybe it did 15 years ago. Now the ruins are being consumed by the jungle.

We ask about dinner and are appalled to learn that Buritara has no dining facilities, except for breakfast that will be brought to us in the morning. Also, we are the only guests in the entire resort, and it is the cusp of high season. So we pay a staff member 200 baht to drive us into town for a bite to eat and a 7-Eleven run for provisions.

Not long after we retire, rock-and-roll drum practice starts up in the squalid staff cabins behind our pink box. We lie there in the dark listening to hours of thumpa-thumpa-crash-boom.

"This is terrible," we moan to each other, laughing. "This is terrible ..."

Early next morning we pay for a ride to the nearest bus stop that will carry us back to civilization: to Kanchanaburi, to the immense superstation in Mo Chit, and finally back to Chiang Mai via luxury coach. But not before using Buritara's own wi-fi to write scathing reviews to both TripAdvisor and Expedia. Hmph!

Thai nicknames are awesome

Here's what I should have done: I should have told Lian I'd be in Bangkok on Wednesday night, not my actual arrival date of Monday. That way I'd have two full days to poke around Chinatown in search of craft jewels for my sister, and pop across the river to the big Buddhist temple, Wat Arun, for jade beads for my sister-in-law. In fact, those twin expeditions were my whole point of flying into Bangkok, not Chiang Mai, in the first place.

Ornate gates such as these

at Lian's sister's townhouse

 protect most Thai dwellings.

But I wasn't thinking, I divulged my real schedule. And so when I arrive close to midnight at my favorite funky little hotel, La Residence, Lian is already waiting. She is excited to let me know that our itinerary is all planned for us: in the morning we can move to her sister's house 30 minutes away in Bang Khae, where a room is prepared for us. And then that night the tribe wants to take me out to celebrate my belated birthday. "Stay there just one night. And after, we go to Kanchanaburi for holiday, yes?" Kanchanaburi is where the fake River Kwai is, four hours west of Bangkok headed up into the jungle. (More on that later.)

My Thai birthday dinner: Lian's
brother-in-law and sister dig in.

I put on my best "mai bpen rai" face and nod agreeably. But I quietly start planning a solo bead-and-jewel run, maybe in a few weeks after the long Loi Krathong holiday is over.

The next day our trip to Bang Khae turns out to be a bit of a family reunion: besides us, Lian's daughter-not-niece, Eve, has come north from Hua Hin. And her mother the notorious 89-year-old topless flasher is now living here.

That evening we call for two taxis to take the six of us (minus the mother) to the family's favorite seafood restaurant for a great feast. All through the evening Lian's brother-in-law is taking cell phone calls and scribbling furiously on crumpled sheets of paper he keeps in his shirt pocket. I ask Lian about it. "He bet football," she tells me. "Make good money many year." So it turns out Lian's sister is married to a bookie. We bond over many watered-down whiskey and sodas.

Really a very nice girl.

Joining us at dinner is the sister's fetching 18-year-old daughter, whose name I don't catch until late in the evening. I should explain, Thai people's given names are crazy-long, so most everyone goes by a short nickname. I lean in to ask Lian if I heard this girl's name correctly.

"Yes," she replies. "Name my niece Fook."

Lian explains that the name Fook (rhymes with kook) means approximately: "One Who Prevails Over Great Odds." After her first two children were born, Lian's sister had her tubes tied, but Fook managed to come along anyway. So the name really fits, at least in Thai. Nevertheless, I lament that her sweet young niece can never, ever go to college in an English- or German-speaking country. Lian offers: "Maybe she can change her name first?"

New adventures begin Oct. 22

Coming up: jewel hunting in Bangkok's exotic Chinatown ... a 'River Kwai' expedition to Kanchanaburi ... and another trippy Loi Krathong celebration in Chiang Mai. Big fun!

Come for the stewed intestines, stay for the deep fried pork placenta

Whenever we go out to eat, Lian chooses and orders, since many non-tourist restaurants don't have English menus. But some do. Maybe I'm better off not knowing.

---

When I say that this chili sauce is pretty fly, I mean that literally: one night at dinner in a popular noodle joint, Lian notices a dead housefly floating in the sauce. She points it out to the waiter, who takes it to a sink in the back of the restaurant, spoons out the fly, and replaces the container on another table.

---

Hefner's brand may be languishing back home, but in Thailand the bunny logo is still a big deal, with an actual retail store in one of Chiang Mai's busiest shopping malls.

Meanwhile, Hitler Chic is still a thing with the local youngs.

It's another tequila sunRECCCHHHH

Friday afternoon, around the same time that Lian's niece's wedding party is probably winding down -- the small-town Thai Buddhist shindig I so badly wanted to attend -- I board the southbound train to Bangkok, intending to catch up with Lian in Nasan. My bad luck: the sleeper cars in both segments of the trip are sold out, which means a miserable next two nights seated upright.

Two hours out of Chiang Mai the train clunks to a dead stop, a common occurrence on this particular run -- but then, after an hour, we start rolling backward! The conductor makes his way up the aisle with a pre-printed card in Thai and English informing us that the train had derailed (?) and must return to our point of origin, where we will board coaches for the trip south.

Women of Nasan: mother & daughter.

At 10:30, five hours after we first started out, we leave Chiang Mai once more. The bus is freezing -- these Asians are just nutty about their A/C, and I am wearing only a thin short-sleeved shirt and cutoffs. So in one of the warmest countries on the planet I wrap my shivering self in a window curtain as best I can for the 10-hour ride to Hualamphong railway station.

In Bangkok with 14 hours to kill between trains, I book a room at a nearby hotel and am able to get some actual, horizontal shuteye before hopping the overnighter to Nasan.

Hot 18-year-old niece.

On Sunday morning the train slows down in Nasan just long enough for me to jump off. Lian meets me on the railway platform and we cross-country over the tracks and through a vacant lot to her brother's house. There, the whole fam damily is loading into a rented van to take their matriarch to live with Lian's sister outside Bangkok. But they've delayed leaving until I arrive, which is sweet of them. Grins and wais all around. At last the van pulls away, leaving Lian and her big sweaty farang goofus to go scare up some breakfast.

---

Peace Laguna Resort, Ao Nang.

Monday morning Lian and I catch a bus for the two-hour trip to Krabi and on to Peace Laguna resort, in the nearby town of Ao Nang. I found this screaming deal on Expedia: not just half price but also a three-nights-for-the-price-of-two promotion. Even for low season this bargain is startling to the receptionist, who asks to see my email confirmation. She stares at it for the longest time, confers in hushed Thai with her colleagues, and finally checks us in. All told, a little over fifty bucks a night, breakfast buffet included.

---

Mmmm, breakfast.

Tuesday evening we walk off the property for street-vendor pad thai, which we stash in the room. Before we eat, Lian wants to partake of happy hour cocktails, because we're on holiday. Regarding fruity umbrella drinks: so far we've been unsuccessful at gauging Lian's tolerance for spirits; it might be zero. So I try her on a friendly-looking tequila sunrise, which I even help her finish. But a little is a little too much, and Lian starts to slide off her barstool. Okaaaay, time to go! The girl is listing badly as we cross the grounds to our wing. In the fourth-floor breezeway just short of our room she collapses altogether and I hear gurgling sounds.

"Not here! Over the edge!" I holler, lifting her 98-pound frame to the concrete railing. A shudder and, two seconds later, a splooshing sound from the manicured lawn below. Luckily it is dark and the resort has few guests in low season. (And hopefully no one is down below.)

At last the show is over and we tumble into the room. Lian immediately sequesters herself in the bathroom. And what about that takeout pad thai? "For you," she groans from behind the door.

Ain't got time to take a fast train

It's Tuesday afternoon and the train to Bangkok leaves in 45 minutes. We really need to get a move on if we're going to catch a ride and beat rush hour. But Lian dawdles with her makeup, clearly stalling in hope that Dao will come home in time to say good-bye. At last we lock up and double-time it to the road to flag down a Red Car. The driver is a clever fellow who navigates back roads and drops us off at the station with 10 minutes to spare.

Lian's sister and her family will be waiting at the other end in Bangkok's Hualamphong Station. Lian is carrying train tickets for them as well, for the second leg of the trip to their hometown of Nasan for their niece's wedding -- the event for which Lian has planned my ensemble oh-so carefully. The event we've both been anticipating for weeks.

I carry Lian's bag down the platform, put her aboard the dilapidated second-class sleeper car, and wave bye-bye as I watch what should have been our train pull out of the station.

So here's what happened ...

Rewind two days to Sunday evening, when I learn that Bank of America has sent loan documents to my Portland address -- originals that I must sign, notarize and return to BofA by August 23. No extensions, no excuses. Problem is, I'm not due back in Oregon until early September. Hell, I planned to be on holiday down south until well past the 23rd.

I quickly arrange for my brother to FedEx the documents to me in Chiang Mai ... which means I must remain in town to receive them. So much for blogging my big adventure at the traditional Thai wedding.

Lian takes the news that I will be missing her niece's wedding with Buddhist serenity. "Maybe you can come later and we still go to Krabi?" she asks. The loan docs are scheduled to arrive sometime Thursday, so we push my departure back to Friday.

But a problem arises: the only place in town to get a U.S.-recognized notary stamp is the American Consulate, which offers this service only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Which means if I don't retrieve that FedEx package in time, I might have to fly back to America three weeks early! Just to process some stupid damned loan documents.

For two days and two nights, laptop beside the bed, I am clicking the FedEx online tracker relentlessly, following my package through the system. Lake Oswego ... to Memphis ... to Hong Kong ... to Bangkok ... and Thursday morning it is in the air on its way to Chiang Mai. I hike over to the FedEx business center to greet it.

"We should have it for you at 2 p.m." chirps the FedEx clerk, all smiles. But mid-afternoon is pushing it way too close: the Consulate is open only until 3:30. The clerk suggests a brilliant solution and minutes later I am bound for the cargo terminal of Chiang Mai International Airport. Shortly before noon the FedEx ground crew plucks my package off the pallet as it moves from plane to van. I race to the Consulate, pay $100 bucks for two freakin' notary stamps, and get my return package shipped before 3. By now I am a sweat-soaked obscenity. The FedEx clerk takes pity and offers me a drinking glass and a liter of cold water. He is goggle-eyed to watch me drain the entire liter and most of another.

After three nights of sleepless worry and the prospect of my next two nights in train seats -- I couldn't get sleeper cars -- I am ready for some serious ZZZs. The solo adventure begins tomorrow.

The wedding guest in the Chang wifebeater

Lian is determined that I will look sharp -- or at least her notion of "sharp" -- when we attend her niece's wedding next week in her hometown of Nasan.

Her idea, not mine.

One afternoon she returns from Warorot Market bearing a horizontal-striped (ugh!) long-sleeved pullover, supposedly their largest such garment in stock. It fits me the way Bruce Banner's shirts fit the Hulk. Chagrined, she exchanges the now-defiled pullover for a crisp, powder-blue dress shirt. A winner!

But Lian thinks my shirt-and-slacks ensemble needs a finishing touch, and she finds it the next evening among the tourist swag at Anusan Market. "Do you like?" she smiles, holding up a cream-colored tank top shirt with a great big Chang beer logo on the front. She is not kidding.

"Uhhhh ..." I respond. "You think it's polite for a wedding?"

"Polite, chai," she assures me. "Can wear not button a little, people see shirt but not the picture. Make you look young more, handsome more." Flatterer.

All righty then: One week from Friday as the sole outsider at a proper Thai Buddhist wedding, depending on how hot the day is, I might be just a few buttons away from being a lumbering, sweating beer promotion. I promise pictures!

---

Cheeseburger IS paradise.

Twice this week I've escaped Thailand for an emergency infusion of home flavors and aromas at The Duke's. Just a five-minute walk away, this wonderful-smelling American-style grill serves up mega-portions of ribs, steaks, burgers, pizza, Mexican platters, salads, sandwiches ... I need to stop before I recite the entire, food porn-y menu.

One evening when I know that Lian is away at work for at least an hour, I pop around the corner for a basic Duke's burger and fries that back home would be considered pedestrian at best; tonight it's the tastiest thing I've ever put in my mouth. A few days earlier my Duke's fix takes the form of a solo margarita stop on the way home from fitness.

I used to scorn the farang who ate at The Duke's for their lack of culinary adventure or commitment to the local cuisine. But now, two years into this part-time expat life, there are moments when I almost gag at the thought of another god-damned bowl of blistering southern curry and bony fish soup. Or anything that involves rice. 

By the way: The Duke's serves no rice. Now I understand why.

I can't handle the truth!

The Iron Bridge: in technicolor!

Another 24-hour gauntlet, another late-night arrival at Chiang Mai International Airport. On the taxi ride to Lian's place, I notice that the city has pimped out the Iron Bridge over the Mae Ping river with theatrical lighting that cycles continually through the color spectrum. Flashy!

As Lian watches me unpack my usual assortment of ratty t-shirts and wrinkled short pants, she asks what I'll be wearing to her niece's wedding in three weeks. Only then do I realize: I forgot to bring the single pair of big-boy slacks that I own. D'oh! Even I cannot rationalize showing up at the sacred nuptials in faded plaid shorts from Old Navy -- the nicest apparel I brought -- so a few days later we're off to the bargain bins at Panthip Plaza.

Rummaging through the piles of hideous Arrow slacks for what I know is my correct size, I feel two arms encircling me from behind. I smile and reach down to acknowledge the embrace ... and touch man-hands! I am being sized up by a skinny young male clerk with a tape measure. He then produces a pair of ridiculous clown pants that cannot possibly fit me.

"No, no, this size number is much too big," I assure him, "I wear a smaller size." And to prove it, I agree to try them on.

The ugly-ass slacks are a spot-on fit, and for the rest of the day I am despondent.

Damn these primitives anyway, don't they understand the finer points of ly-- I mean, marketing? You don't label clothes for the customer's actual size, you label them for what the customer wants to believe. And I really, really want to believe that my hated new tent-pants are incorrectly labeled.

---

It's a Buddhist holiday in Thailand ... which is like saying it's Monday. Honestly, you could throw a dart at a calendar and stand a better-than-even chance of nailing a holy celebration.

Immortalized in terra cotta. (Click to enlarge)

So I tag along with Lian to a nearby temple and hold her purse while she goes inside to pray. This particular wat, alongside the river, offers all manner of ways to make donation (besides cashola): you can purchase small birds, fish and turtles to release by the water. You can present prepackaged gift baskets to the leader-monk, who will bless you with a spritz of water that he flicks at you from a big brush. Or, you can write special messages on terra cotta tiles that will be used in the temple's constant structural repairs. Lian and I opt for the tile graffiti.

"Write your name and name your mother," Lian instructs, which I do, respectfully. So, Mom, together we are now a permanent fixture in a Buddhist holy place on the other side of the world. See?

---

One argument against overly affordable healthcare is that some hypochondriacs might go rushing off to the emergency room every time they have a tummy ache. A silly concern, right?

Hospital food, Thai style

"Am sore my stomach, want to go to hospital," complains Lian one morning, and not exactly in the doubled-over-in-pain voice that should indicate a medical emergency. So O.K., we catch a Red Car to Rajavej Hospital and Lian checks in upstairs while I hang out in the hospital cafeteria. I am still charmed at finding tasty, fresh-made Thai food in the unlikeliest places. Hospitals? Train stations? Who'da thunk?

In the time it takes for me to enjoy a plate of grapow gai (chicken and holy basil) and an iced cappuccino, Lian is seen by a physician and fills her prescription -- all covered by medical insurance that costs her the equivalent of just over $11 per month.

I look at how Thai healthcare works (and "works" is the operative word) and am embarrassed for America's broken, corrupt joke of a system. What do these people know that we don't?

This is the end again

I have this genius for staying in Thailand exactly one week longer than I should have.

Consequently, my Thai buzz wears off too soon and I start to grump about the half-assedness of day-to-day life here: the sooty-grimy exterior surfaces, hazardous walkways, crapping dogs, crummy products, indifferent workmanship ... man, this stuff is getting old.

One night walking to dinner, Lian and I navigate the too-narrow, crumbling sidewalk along Charonpratet Road near Anusan Market. In the dark we happen upon a tumbleweed-like tangle of thick, black wire that a utility crew simply left on the ground by a utility pole. Was it electrified? Who could tell? In America someone might get in big trouble for leaving a (possibly dangerous) mess like like that lying around. But Thais have a very different take, Lian informs me.

"Thai people think, 'You got two eye, why you not careful?'" she says, stepping around the tangle and over a broken concrete drain cover while avoiding the barbed-wire fence next to the sidewalk. "You can see have not safety."

Yeah, well ... I guess I'm tired of having to be super-ultra-extra cautious every time I step out the door, deliberating every footfall so as to avoid my own Kevin Ware moment.

I am ready to be back in the place where, if bad stuff happens, it really might be someone else's fault --someone who could be held legally liable. So people make an honest effort to do the right thing, the right way. Being a litigious society might have its upside.

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Sorry for not blogging more this time around, but the adventure has sort of decelerated into domestic comedy. (Satisfying for me, lousy for pageviews.) BUT: I'm pretty sure that the next trip, sometime in the summer, will take us on the road again to Nasan and points south. Until then, I'll leave you with a happy shot from early February, on the beach at Hua Hin. We do have a good time.

Better run for the border

Before returning to Thailand back in January, I promised Lian that I would arrive in time for us to meet up in her hometown of Nasan, where she was caring for her mother, the flasher. I also promised that I would still be here for her birthday in early April. Consequently, this puts me one week over my 60-day visa limit. To avoid a steep fine at departure and possible banishment from the country, I make my very first visa run.

It's a simple thing, really, and a whole industry is built up around it: a van or coach takes me up to the border town of Mae Sai, where I step across into Myanmar, immediately return to Thailand and collect a new visa stamp, good for 15 days. (Arriving by air, the limit is 30 days, don't ask me why.)

So I buy van passage at the nearby Riverside guest house, where everyone knows "Mr. William." Thursday morning I am the second pickup as the silver 10-passenger van makes its rounds of nearby backpacker hotels to collect the day's runners. The driver turns out to be yet another maniac who cannot abide the presence of any vehicle in front of him. So for the next five hours we are passing on blind curves, passing with oncoming vehicles barreling down on us, and getting passed by even crazier drivers. Why everybody in this country doesn't die in a head-on collision every single day is beyond me.

Cucumbers on their way to market.

On the highway I watch farm produce go by. Cukes are a big deal over here. Most every plate of food, especially spicy dishes, includes a generous garnish of raw cucumber slices to quench the fire. Lian and I go through about 10 cukes a week ourselves. So it's a very popular crop for northern farmers.

After a harrowing four hours over mountainous terrain we arrive in Mae Sai, where our driver lets us off at a crossing station. "One hour!" he shouts, and that's about how long it takes to exit Thailand, pay our 500-baht entry fee into Myanmar, and then fight our way back through the filthy, despicable little beggar-boys who tug at our clothing and plead loudly for coins to distract us as their accomplices behind probe for our wallets. Rotten little bastards.

The Marlboro Monk.

Passport freshly stamped, I make my way back to the van and settle into my seat for the trip back. Glancing over to the door of a nearby 7-Eleven, I see something I have never seen before in all my trips to Thailand: a Buddhist monk pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighting up. Those guys have rules about that sort of behavior!

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Here's what $89,000 buys you in a gated community outside Chiang Mai.

The owner is an acquaintance of Lian's who wants to move back to her hometown in the south. So just for fun we go have a look. "Only looking!" I caution.

We take a Red Car down to the suburb of Hang Dong. (Snicker, snort.)  After some difficulty we track down the correct address in a maze of identical-looking houses.  We tour the place and I will admit, it looks very clean and comfortable. But Lian instantly loves the place and wants to move in this minute. "Maybe we can ask for discount, you think?" she whispers eagerly in my ear.

I patiently explain that the short answer is: no. And that the long answer is also no.

Ghost town

Tourists? What tourists?

At the tail-end of high season, Chiang Mai is strangely quiet. Streets that should be packed with tourists are only sparsely populated even in late afternoon. Often I see shopkeepers resting their head on a countertop, as if it were nap time in preschool. Street vendors and tuk-tuk drivers laze in the shade reading newspapers. And some days Lian's phone never rings -- not a single spa customer. "I talk to my friends and everywhere quiet. Have a few work," she reports.

Smoky day, not a soul around.

It doesn't help that the city is blanketed in orange-gray smoke from slash burning in the mountains near Myanmar, so eye-wateringly thick that no one cares to venture outdoors. So, on this Sunday morning we hunker down in the room with a mindless Dwayne Johnson action/revenge movie, online Sudoku, and only one of us doing anything that could remotely be called "productive."

My exotic life in Thailand.

'Ghin khao ti-nai?'

Here's how uncomplicated my life has become: answering the above question -- literally, "eat food where?" -- is usually the hardest decision I face all day.

Except for breakfast (typically PBJ toast, cold cereal and coffee), we prepare meals at home only occasionally and on the sly. Lian's single-burner propane stove is a huge no-no for the apartment owner, who busted her once already when he caught her smuggling in a fresh tank. And anyway our dinky little kitchenette is too cramped for any serious culinary action. So most of the time we eat out or bring back takeaway.

Here in no particular order are a few of our favorite chomping grounds:

Busy lunch hour at Ghuttiokamwan

'That place where we always eat lunch'
Actual name: Ghuttiokamwan
Frequency: 2-3 times a week
Attraction: Clean, fast, tasty
Must-have: Spicy and sour fruit salad

Crispy catfish

An easy five-minute walk from home, Ghuttiokamwan (Thai for "noodle soup") does a bustling noontime trade yet manages to serve up beautiful, freshly prepared dishes with the speed of a NASCAR pit crew. It will be the first place we take any American visitors to Chiang Mai. The storefront sign and menu are in Thai and no one who works there speaks English.

Spicy and sour fruit salad, soup.

Lunch for two, including an appetizer plate of fruit salad or spring rolls: maybe five bucks.

Tab Tim Krob: the restaurant ...

'The place with the bees'
Actual name: Tab Tim Krob
Frequency: 2 or 3 times a week
Attraction: Like their sign says, "Clean food, good taste."
Must-haves: Pad thai, tab tim krob

... and the dessert.

Tab Tim Krob is the restaurant with the swarm of honeybees in the streetside cooking station that I stumbled across two years ago. Situated on the outer reaches of the tourist zone, it's an easy walk for a casual evening meal after the gym.

Happy pad thai customer.

The restaurant is named for a Thai dessert consisting of coconut milk and sweet syrup, crushed ice and all sorts of oddball elements: tapioca, kidney beans, water chestnuts, squash ... but it works. Dinner for two, including dessert, around six or seven bucks.

Khao Soi Palaa

'The khao soi place'
  Actual name: Khao Soi Palaa
  Frequency: Once a week
  Attraction: Delicious khao soi, if you can get past the grunge
  Must-have: Khao soi, duh!

Khao soi.

This was my first taste of authentic khao soi in northern Thailand, and their take on the famous curried noodle stew is still among the best. But this hole-in-the-wall restaurant itself is not for the squeamish: birds fly through the open-air space, sometimes dining on (or possibly pooping in) the open jars of crushed peanuts in the condiment trays. The occasional rat scurries across the dirty blacktop floor. And Lian still shudders at the memory of their restroom. But DAMN do they serve a mean khao soi!  Lunch for two, a little over two bucks.

VT Namnueng

'The Vietnamese place'
Actual name: VT Namnueng
Frequency: Maybe once a week
Attraction: A break from Thai
Must-have: Vietnamese wraps

Strangely, this Asian restaurant serves no rice. None. The menu is strictly vegetables and protein flavored with sweet peanut-y sauces. The wait staff seems to outnumber the patrons and food arrives at the table within seconds of ordering. We always get the assemble-it-yourself Vietnamese wraps, which ensures a slow, leisurely dinner. Everything on the menu looks gorgeous and we always order way too much. Even so, the bill at this nice sit-down restaurant never runs more than 10-15 dollars.

Just about every day we order from the Corner.

'The corner'
Actual name: Not sure it even has one
Frequency: Five times a week, minimum
Attraction: A three-minute walk from home
Must-have: Darn good tom yum soup

When the hour is late and we're lazy to cook or walk very far, the family shop on the corner is our first option. Even when we do cook in, it's super-easy to pop down for a 10-baht bag of perfectly prepared rice. The mother works the wok, her teenage children wait tables. A meal for two runs me two dollars.

Got duck?

'The duck place'
Actual name: Beats me
Frequency: every two weeks or so
Attraction: Something we don't eat every day
Must-have: Duck soup, duck with rice, anything duck

Duck soup.

This lunch-only joint is always busy, and no wonder: this is one of the few places where I seriously consider ordering seconds. The rich duck broth with meat, noodles and vegetables is that good. We always order an extra plate of roast duck over rice to go with our soups. And, Lian tells me that the owner-chef commented to her that I am so good with chopsticks. He also taught me the Thai word for "tasty," which is pronounced "ah-ROI." I use it often here.

Grungy but in a good way.

'That place in Warorot Market'
Actual name: Probably doesn't have one
Frequency: Every two weeks or so
Attraction: A hidden treasure known only to locals
Must-have: Crispy pork and vegetables over rice

After winding through the abbatoir-like meat market and past the stacks of fly-covered dried fish, Westerners who stumble across this grubby-looking kitchen in a ragtag corner of Warorot might hesitate to give it a chance. I am so glad to have a native guide who turns me on to these places. Lian always has moo grob, the crispy pork and rice dish, while I go for the noodle soup in a dark pork broth. The place could never pass a health inspection in Oregon, but eating here hasn't killed us yet.

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There are other faves as well: The som tam place for papaya salad, the Antique House for a nice "date" dinner with cocktails and live northern Thai music, the open-air place we go with the sadistic massage therapist Mr. Tong, etc. Not to mention the countless street vendors for rotee, patonko, hot soy milk, sweet sticky rice confections, and other Thai treats. And now I'm hungry again. Ghin khao ti-nai?

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Q:  What do they call corn in Chiang Mai?
A:  Thai Cob!