Saturday night's alright, alright, alright

It's Saturday, mid-month, time to go pay the rent. But neither of us wants to venture out in the afternoon "Big Sun," so we keep putting it off until early evening. After dinner Lian and I walk up the street to the house of our landlady, Tuk. Tuk is a single mother, mid-40s, who looks like she could be Lian's fun little sister. Last week I bought my almost-new bicycle from Tuk.

We'll be back in a few minutes, we tell Lian's son, Dao.

Beer, Thai style

Halfway there we can already hear party music coming from Tuk's streetside dining patio: she and a few neighbors are taking a late supper and we're invited to join in. Thai people are big on impromptu gatherings and it's impolite to refuse, so we sit down to a whole second supper. And lots of beer, served Thai-style: in a glass over ice and mixed with club soda. A brilliant way to self-pace.

We get to meet a few more of the nabes: the mild-mannered software engineer who lives next door to us, the Chiang Mai cop with the imposing physical presence of Frodo Baggins, and the housewife across the street. We learn that the folks on our lane take turns hosting potluck dinners every few weeks, and that Tuk always hosts an epic New Year's celebration. (New Year's lasts about 10 days in these parts.) I am warned: there will be karaoke.

"Chai-oh" -- A Thai toast with the new neighbors

Tonight's music is mostly '70s American rock, in honor of the farang new bitch, me. Tuk is the perfect hostess, keeping all beer glasses brim-full -- even Lian's, whose mai ao, kaas go cheerily unheeded. (Luckily I am here to help my wife keep up.) As I've mentioned before, Lian's skin turns radiation-burn pink when she drinks any amount of alcohol. But it turns out to be a Thai thing: every other Asian face at the table is equally incandescent. Fascinating.

As the evening wears on, Tuk leans across the table and asks me a most endearing question: "Do you like whiskey?" I answer by showing her the Dalwhinnie single malt on my iPhone wallpaper, and she presents a just-opened bottle of Chivas. Graciously I accept a taste or two.

Eventually we say our good-nights and find our way home, the glow of Lian lighting our way. By the time we fall into bed it is almost midnight.  And we clean forgot to pay the rent.

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This morning Lian is off running errands on her motorbike and I am upstairs figuring out how to dislodge pigeons' nests from the awnings above our back bedroom windows. (We're tired of cleaning pigeon crap off the patio twice a day.) Suddenly Lian bursts into the room gibbering with agitation and darting around the room, unable to sit still. Finally I get out of her what happened: as she was making a U-turn on the big highway, a car sideswiped her and almost tipped her bike over in heavy traffic. Stopped in the middle lanes, she had a heated argument with the driver, a young girlie going too fast. They both left before the police arrived to complicate things further. (Very little damage, Lian was only slightly hurt, and the police would want a bribe to make everything go away.)

But here's what really has Lian steamed: this was the third time she's tried to pick up her new business signs from the printer, and each time he's been closed. So, by her thinking, it's his fault that she almost got wiped out. She fumes: "I hate that man."