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.