Hanging Onto My Salad Days
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: Bangkok, Thailand—we’ve been out of quarantine for almost a week. Toby (our eldest) has moved to a different part of the city since our last visit, so it almost feels like we’ve never been here before—almost, but not quite.
Hanging onto my salad days
A friend recently asked me what I love so much about Thailand (other than Toby). I rattled off the usual list of appealing qualities: food, weather, temples, energy. Last week, as our quarantine progressed and we got increasingly excited about getting sprung, I started sifting through memories of the four or five or maybe six times we’ve been here.
More sensory details started coming back to me: the smell of jasmine, the feeling of airy loftiness above me when I kneel in an empty temple, the distinctive repetition of the koel bird’s call, and the springiness in my feet after I’ve endured the agony of a proper Thai foot massage.
Then I remembered something that happened on one of our early trips. Not my first, which was a blur of jet lag and heat and unfamiliar smells, but probably the second. Our friend Ned was visiting (*waves* Hi Ned!), and the three of us went to the big market for lunch.
Or Tor Kor is one of my favorite markets, anywhere. It’s huge, clean, well-organized, and you can buy any kind of Thai produce your heart desires. There’s a food court, and an entire section full of snacks and deliciously mysterious little desserts that I can’t identify, but love to stuff myself with. It’s somewhat tourist-friendly, in that vendors will try their best to communicate (although that’s also just the nature of Thailand, which is the point I’m about to make), but not touristy at all. Most of the shoppers are generally Thai people. There’s very little English—if you’re looking for a souvenir t-shirt, don’t go there. On the other hand, if you want to try fourteen kinds of fruit that you’ve never seen before, hit me up and I’ll give you directions.
Anyway—the three of us went to Or Tor Kor market one day for lunch. Ned loves a good market almost as much as I do, and Lee, bless him, is always happy to tag along if there are snacks involved. This is why I married him. After an hour or so of wandering the aisles of fruit and fish and more leafy greens than I knew existed, we went to the food court to get some lunch. Ned and I, both being vegetarian, got ours at the same booth, and went to a table. Lee was waiting in line for some kind of meaty thing—sometimes it’s harder to find vegetarian food, but when you do, you can pretty much assume there won’t be a line.
Anyway. Ned had gotten some kind of salad that came with lots of DIY elements, all neatly apportioned on his tray. We were chatting, not really thinking about our food. Ned took a bite of something green, ate it, then took another bite of something else. About that time, a woman at the next table popped up from her seat, came over, and took Ned’s chopsticks out of his hand. We had no idea what she was saying, but the message was clear: You poor foreigners don’t even know how to eat, so I’m going to take care of you!
And she did. She mixed up bits of this and that from Ned’s tray and made him a salad that was a thing of beauty. Left to our own devices, we never would’ve figured out how the various ingredients played together, which would be a pity, because Thai food, properly assembled, is far more than the sum of its parts.
It’s what I think of as ‘aunty culture.’ People here (and I’m generalizing, I know—this is totally based on my own unique experience) are seriously willing to look out for each other. There is a shared sense of responsibility that is comforting.
I like that feeling. To continue a train of thought from last week’s email, it makes me feel safe. I assume that if I have a problem, someone will help me, and that in turn makes me more willing to trust—to wade in with both feet. I don’t feel like I have to be defensive, or on my guard. I’m incredibly happy to be back in a place that feels so right to me. Also? It’s delicious.
From my writer’s notebook: There’s a movie coming out on Netflix later this month called The Dig. It’s the story of the 1939 discovery of the Sutton Hoo treasure—the burial goods of 6th and 7th century Anglo-Saxons. Think: Beowulf. Anyway—Sutton Hoo had sort of mythological status in my youth, because we lived nearby when I was in middle school. I’ve always been fascinated by the artifacts (most of which are now in the British Museum; I ogle them every time I’m there), but I’ve never known the story surrounding the actual discovery, so I’m very excited about the movie. I often think discovery stories, like that of Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon’s search for Tutankhamen’s tomb, are more compelling than the actual finds themselves. (Note: I was also super-excited about The Monuments Men, and I did actually love it, so take my excitement with a grain of salt.)
Take care,
Lisa
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