Thanksgiving Delicacy

Yesterday we had the day off work because our office follows the American holiday schedule. I prepared lots of Thanksgiving food for Jip and myself, expecting we would probably have a quiet, early meal around 2 or 3 in the afternoon. Jip doesn’t like to eat much in the evening.

But she surprised me by saying that she already had a lunch plan and that my food would have to wait until after her exercises, maybe around 7pm. OK, I said, but I better go out and get something to eat now before I faint (I’ve learned not to argue about the small stuff).

I ended up at a place near our apartment that has always caught my eye but I’d never gone in before. It seemed like they could whip up something quick. Then I realized that it was mostly a Chinese menu, specializing in dim sum.

Dim sum is fine if you know what you’re doing, or if they bring around the cart and you can point, but neither case was true, so I decided to keep it simple and ask if they had any Thai salad.

He replied that yes, they had salad, but I didn’t catch what kind. The word he used didn’t sound familiar, but I figured I can always learn something new. Then the plate arrived and it didn’t look familiar either: kind of opaque and a little bit noodle-like, but not exactly.

The taste wasn’t familiar. If you want the truth, it was a little like chewing on shredded plastic. I was faced with that decision you sometimes arrive at with celery: spit it out or swallow the undigested fibers.

After a few swallows I thought maybe I didn’t really need to finish this meal. Food at most places in Thailand has the advantage of being cheap enough that you can always give up and start over if it’s not working for you. So I paid up and walked off, thinking about where I would go for my second lunch.

On my way out I happened to spot the name of my dish on a hand-written chalkboard menu. I recognized the word for salad, but the words “maaeng ga phroon” meant nothing to me. I figured I’d ask a Thai friend at work to translate. In case it was something really weird, I didn’t want Jip to know what I’d eaten.

My friend raised his eyebrows a little bit. “What kind of place was this?” he asked. I told him it was Chinese. He nodded and said, “Yeah, they always care more about texture than taste.” He didn’t want to tell me at first, but I pressed him and so he coughed up what I’d had for Thanksgiving: jellyfish!

Grand Opening

Last Saturday Jip and I made the trek to Prachinburi, a province about two hours east of Bangkok, to check out the restaurant that Chao and his wife have just opened. They did a fantastic job building the open-air, lunch-and-dinner place. It sits next door to a rice field, where diners feel like they’re picnicking.

This grand opening is a milestone for Chao and Lek, who were married more than three years ago but have had a commuter marriage for most of that time. Chao recently resigned his job at Thailand’s biggest newspaper in order to live with his wife, who takes care of her father and runs the family bookshop. It wouldn’t surprise me if together they ended up starting a new family next year, in addition to this new business.

But it’s also a milestone for the connection between Jip and her younger brother. Throughout the time we have lived in Bangkok, Chao has been a frequent visitor, sometimes just to say hello, sometimes to use the pool at our apartment. We’ve even seen a fair amount of him during the construction and outfitting of the restaurant, because he has had to buy supplies in the big city, and has often spent the night at our place.

Restauranteuring is consuming work. Now that the place has officially opened, I doubt he’ll take many days off. If we want to see him, we’ll likely need to take a drive to the country, as we did last weekend.

Vets World Cup

Bangkok’s soccer league for old men tried out the idea of everyone playing for their home country. After countless matches as the lone Yank among Brits, it was strange but fun to play on a team of (North) Americans.

Not that it was easy to fill the roster. Three of us from the States had to combine forces with three Canadians and a naturalized U.S. citizen who was born in Turkey, just to be able to reach the minimum number of players. Japan, by contrast, fielded three of the 18 teams. England and France had two apiece, and many other European countries were out in force.

But for those countries it’s not unusual for the teams to break down by nationality. During the regular vets’ league season most people end up sticking with their own kind. For whatever reason, us Americanos—maybe because we’re in short supply to begin with—have ended up shared around. Not that I mind playing for the British Club. I get to hear some different accents and to keep up with who’s on top of the English Premier League table.

Yesterday's team, unlike many of the British Club squads I’ve been part of, made a respectable showing in the final standings. A dynasty in the making?

Going Native

Four years and counting, yet I still don’t know how to sleep in Southeast Asia. Air conditioner? Fan? Open window? Each has its advantages.

Our place often gets nice breezes at night, so what has worked best recently is to set up a little tent made of gauzy fabric and place it on the bed. The idea is the same as mosquito nets that hang from bedposts. But because we don’t have bedposts or a low ceiling, I bought a free-standing pop-up device that assumes its shape when you pull on a cord at the top. During the day we stash it in a closet, where it looks like a tall folded umbrella.

Does that make me a native? Or a slow learner? Before you decide, you should know that I now finally am consistent about looking to the right before crossing the street in this drive-on-the-left country. It’s only taken me this long to figure out which lane is going to hit me first.

Loner Krathong

Last night was Loy Krathong, the annual chance to go down to the river with your beloved and launch a little banana leaf boat with a candle in it. Originally it was meant as a day to express gratitude for all the good things nature has done for you over the year. During the twenty-plus years that I’ve been aware of this holiday, it seems to have morphed into more of a Valentine’s Day than a Thanksgiving.

Jip has never been a big fan of Loy Krathong (“what part of polluting the river says ‘thank you?’” she asks, quite reasonably). For the past couple years I’ve been able to sweet-talk her into at least acknowledging the romantic part of the day. But after I finished making our krathongs this year, she declined at the last minute to participate. I went downstairs to the little fountain at the gate to our apartment, thinking that at least I wouldn’t waste the banana leaves.

I invited the security guard to join me. He now thinks I’m even loonier than he maybe already did, but I also think he was secretly pleased to have a chance to thank the water gods.

Jip's Fourth Cycle

Jip has now gone around four times on the Chinese zodiac calendar. For her 48th birthday a few days ago, she let me throw her a party, the first time since she turned 36.

So much has changed in the meantime. Back then, her dad was still alive to send her a lovely note, telling her how happy she made him. Jip was still working, and her colleagues—Cambodian, Chinese, Ethiopian, Jewish, Mennonite—each celebrated her in unique ways. Our wide Seattle care community had yet to band together as the invaluable support network and safety net that it eventually became, but those seeds were being planted, and many people from that large group turned up to wish Jip a happy day.

Yet in spite of the many changes over twelve years, Jip has hardly aged at all. She still has the skin of a twenty-four-year-old, and the laugh of a little kid. Her white hairs probably outnumber the black ones by now, but she cuts them short enough that people who meet her for the first time have a hard time guessing how old she is. She lives such a healthy lifestyle and eats such a healthy diet that she is among the fittest people I know, in spite of her disease.

On the actual day (which happens to be a national holiday here—very handy), we hosted a steady stream of friends and phone callers. Her mom phoned in the morning to say that she had been to the temple. (Jip didn’t want gifts, but it was OK that people made merit in her honor.) We stretched out the occasion a bit longer with a trip two days later to an interesting Buddhist retreat center that Jip had wanted to visit for some time.

I suspect Jip has yet to reach midlife. She’ll probably follow in her grandmother’s footsteps, as she does in many other ways, by orbiting through at least four more cycles.

Pigeon Redux

A few years back, a bird pooped on my shirt as I walked under its perch. Thais I met that morning became quite excited—jealous, even—about what they considered my good fortune. Long story short, I was encouraged to buy a lottery ticket. The ticket’s final two digits were “66,” which were chosen with the help of a Thai website to match the type of bird we presumed had hit me. (I hadn’t been sure, but we all guessed that it was probably a pigeon, the most common urban species.)

That ticket didn’t win. I thought to myself, “bad luck.” But the folks who had advised me thought, “wrong species.”

Fast forward to last week. Some workmates and I were at lunch, sitting at a covered outdoor cafeteria. Three pigeons were perched on a light fixture above our table. This time the victim (favored one?) was my friend Somboon. When I saw the poop on his shirt, I knew he couldn’t lose. After all, we had a positive species identification.

We saw a lottery ticket seller on the walk back to the office. Somboon decided to go out on a limb and bet on the final three digits (the more you match, the more you win). He went for “366,” on the thinking that there were three pigeons. Word spread quickly, and before the day was out, another ticket sporting the same number was in the hands of Tay, the housekeeper on our floor. I gather that she takes her lottery science quite seriously. The day of my mis(?)hap, she too had put down 80 baht on “66.”

Back then, of course, she and I were both denied. This time, it seemed a sure thing. Somboon is engaged to be married in a few weeks—how bad can his karma be? Plus he had experience going for him, and witnesses, and the fact that the poop landed on his shirt and not in his meal.

The winning numbers are drawn twice a month, on the 1st and the 16th, during the afternoon. Because the 16th was a Friday, I didn’t hear confirmation of the victory we were all sure was coming until around noon on Monday. How was I informed? By the housekeeper presenting me with a free lunch, out of gratitude for my role in her big payoff. How much did she and Somboon each win? 4000 baht ($120)!

Somboon’s jackpot won’t make too big a dent in the cost of his coming wedding. But for Tay the payout was nearly half a month’s salary. Not a bad return on investment in these tough economic times.

Lesson Learned

Lots of good running this month, as the annual Angkor Wat half marathon gets closer. A few nights ago was the annual midnight run. It’s kinda gimmicky, but when else are you going to have a good excuse to wander the streets at that hour on a Saturday night with three or four thousand other people? That afternoon, I mentioned that I was going to run it to a teenager I know. She recommended a certain energy drink as my secret weapon.

I ignored her advice until about 90 minutes before race time, when I was tempted to bail because of serious yawning. But then I thought of my soccer mates who would be waiting for me at the start line by pre-arrangement, so I sucked it up, stopped in at the Seven-Eleven around 11:30, pounded said drink, and…

…surprise!... proceeded to run one of my best times ever. The next day I was still flying high. Briefly I was fooled into thinking that I was invincible and could do whatever I wanted to my body without consequences.

But I am not invincible. Sunday afternoon, I donated blood at the Thai Red Cross in honor of Jip’s upcoming 48th birthday (Thais donate blood to make merit). As I walked out of the center, I wondered if I had been wise to choose that day to give. I was already sleep deprived from the race. Then I was going to have to get up several times in the middle of the night as part of my weekly turn to take care of Jip.

And so what did I do to offset any possible ill effects of not having enough blood in my system? Back to the energy drink.

This turned out to be a bad plan, as you could have foreseen, because even though I sailed through the evening with Jip showing no signs of fatigue (the stuff really works), there was a sort of hangover effect on Monday, which luckily was a day off for us government workers (Columbus), but unluckily fooled me yet again.

This time the foolishness was figuring that as long as I was sleepy, I could go for an afternoon massage. Thai massage is great if you have no toxins stored up in your tissues. Or if you have a normal amount of blood to flush those toxins. But I had two strikes against me, having pounded two energy drinks in two days. By Monday night I was hurtin’ for certain and by Wednesday things were bad enough that the wisest course of action seemed to be staying home all day and basically vegging, which in these parts is known as what goes around comes around.

Lesson learned: ignore teenagers’ advice at all costs.

Bowling Night

Two workmates organized a charity event that attracted nearly everyone from our floor to all ten lanes of a local alley on a Thursday night. We raised more than 24,000 baht (over $700) for a nearby orphanage. The evening was a reminder of why working at the same place is still fun and satisfying, just over four years since I started there.

My responsibilities have changed enough during that time, along with disease priorities in Thailand, that most days still feel new and challenging. Recently the emphasis has moved from providing domestic assistance to exporting some of Thailand’s public health successes to neighboring countries.

The work remains important, yet it isn’t intense enough that I’m consumed by it or forced to choose between spending time on it and spending time with Jip. Last month, at a planning retreat with most of my colleagues, I looked around and felt really lucky to get to work and play with so many good people. On bowling night, I re-realized that landing this job was a big score.

Provocative Passage to the Roof of the World

Most trips I take are enjoyable in the moment. Some stay with me for a few weeks. Now and then I look back through journals or photos of the best traveling I’ve done. But going to Tibet, as I did last week, changes the measuring stick. It was a journey as stimulating as any I’ve ever been part of. My traveling companions and I were continually moved by the Tibetans’ pain threshold and sense of humor in the face of Chinese colonization there and the gradual extinction of their culture.

A few of my reflections are posted on hipbelt. Probably I’ll continue to stew over this trip for years to come.

Reading to Jip

Back in Seattle, Jip would happily listen to friends reading aloud to her. She preferred real people to books on tape because she enjoyed stopping to discuss a point or going off on tangents. Sometimes it took two hours just to read one chapter. Everyone involved loved those days. The purpose was not to finish the book, it was to extend the back-and-forth as long as possible.

Then gradually Jip’s brain changed and her attention span shortened. She focused on the here and now, became less interested in the there and then. Fewer readers came to visit. They realized that the days of lengthy, teased-out conversations weren’t likely to return. Jip’s listening tastes turned to taped dharma talks—familiar Buddhist homilies she had already heard dozens of times—or short letters and e-mail messages that I would read to her occasionally.

That’s how things stood when we arrived in Bangkok. Many of her old friends here remembered Jip as an enthusiastic reader. When they learned that she had lost her vision, they offered to send over Thai books that the caregivers could read to her. For a long time, Jip resisted. She was so fixated on her routines that she didn’t want to introduce anything that might vary from day to day. She also betrayed some deep-seated snobbishness, saying that the caregivers didn’t have enough education to do justice to stories. If anyone read to her, she said, it had to be in English.

But a short time ago, an old friend and former professor of Jip’s happened to pass through town, and asked what Jip might like to listen to. To my surprise, Jip offered up the name of a book that I wouldn’t have guessed she had heard of, a Thai tale called The Happiness of Kati. This story appealed for several reasons, among them that the author uses a wheelchair. This writer also happens to be the sister of the current prime minister. Jip admires their father because he is an expert on Jip’s disease.

The book sat on our shelf for a while because Jip still refused to be read to by her caregivers. One morning, a couple of my Thai colleagues dropped by. They had come over to read to Jip a few months earlier, but for various reasons the reading never happened that day, so now they were trying again. I suggested The Happiness of Kati. Instantly the story captivated Jip. Her whole expression changed, as if she were a detective listening for clues to solve a case. She interrupted several times to ask questions and share her own experiences. It took nearly two hours to read the first chapter.

She asked Patama and Noi when they could come again. They said maybe they would be free again the following month. Jip’s mouth fell open in disappointment—she had been hoping maybe they could continue the story the following day. On a hunch, I suggested to that afternoon’s caregiver that she pretend to have just noticed the book for the first time, and to flip through it while saying things like, “hmmm, this part looks interesting.” I said that she might want to “accidentally” begin reading it “to herself,” beginning with Chapter 2.

Sure enough, Jip didn’t stop her. In the evening, the next caregiver picked up where the previous one had left off. Tag-team style, they finished the book in three days. The tale hooked Jip enough that it didn’t matter who her narrator was, she just wanted to get to the end. Conveniently, the book has a sequel. Now she lets anyone read to her. The local crew and Jip have finished several stories together. This part of the day is a great addition to the routine.

Aung San Suu Kyi Verdict

What a shame that this sham trial wasn’t simply abandoned before it began. For several weeks the world’s only imprisoned Nobel Peace Prize winner has had to endure even worse than normal conditions while waiting for the Burmese so-called justice system to rule on whether or not she was right in allowing an uninvited weirdo to stay the night after he swam across a lake to her house in order to warn her that her life was in danger (duh).

A few days ago she was sentenced to three years’ hard labor, a ruling that was immediately reduced to another 18 months of house arrest (on top of the nearly 15 years she has already spent detained for being "likely to undermine the community peace and stability," according to the junta).

Just when you think that a government can’t get any more wicked than it already is, Burma’s bosses outdo themselves once again.

My Kind of Town

I’m breezing through Chicago for the second time this summer. It’s still my kind of town. What’s not to like about a place where the baseball fans stick around Wrigley Field for three hours hoping the skies will clear so they can see the Cubs play the Pirates?

Our Sunday afternoon at the ballpark was fun even though we never got to even see a pitch thrown. Just sitting around that fine shrine brings back great memories. Its smells and sounds (such colorful banter, even during a rain delay!) can’t be found in Asia.

Two other outings we took this weekend couldn’t have happened in Bangkok. On Saturday we took in the city’s most popular public sculpture, nicknamed “The Bean,” which didn’t exist last time I visited. Here’s a cool website that gives a 360° sense of what this unusual gathering spot looks like and what else is nearby.

Just beyond the website camera’s lens is a unique fountain and wading pool, where we watched dozens of little people of all sizes and colors play together on the warm day. These two free attractions are great examples of Chicago’s make-no-little-plans spirit, which has always been most obvious along the lakeshore.

The second outing was a trip to Ravinia, the outdoor music festival north of the city. Saturday night’s offering was a concert version of Rigoletto. I’ve seen this opera in Bangkok, but not while digesting a picnic, lying on a blanket, looking up at the stars. It didn’t hurt that the singers and orchestra were world class.

Of course any place where my parents are is a pretty nice place, even if it doesn’t have the Cubs, the Bean, and the Chicago Symphony. I believe I’ll be back!

Snack Time

In the public spaces at our office sits a great assortment of snacks to share. People here seem to enjoy furnishing food to others, not least because a community plate leads to a community conversation. Compared to places I’ve worked in the States, the “menu” is healthier, tastier, and quicker to disappear.

Food donations go way beyond the re-gifting of a fruitcake (as in, “Don’t worry, honey. Why don’t I just take it to work? It’ll disappear eventually there”). My colleagues bring in stuff they really want to eat, everything from cut-up mangoes to sandwiches hoarded from conference coffee breaks. A crowd gathers instantly and laughter breaks out. It’s all part of Thailand’s jobs-should-be-fun-or-else-they’re-not-worth-doing philosophy.

Food quality gets noticed. Word spreads fast when a rare brand of Thai treat shows up, or a cheesecake from a five-star hotel. Particularly fancy dishes get labeled as “hi-so,” short for “high society.” This term gets used to describe everything from deluxe accessories like brand-name watches to pretentious displays for the sake of flaunting one’s privilege.

The last time I brought in something, I got teased about how my contribution looked kind of “lo-so.” It’s true that boiled peanuts aren’t exactly hotel fare. But they disappeared in a flash. Most Thais prefer boiled over roasted, and a few people told later that they appreciate a snack that fills them up without being too fattening. Even the one who teased me confessed that she was responsible for eating at least half the bag. “I said the peanuts looked lo-so,” she explained. “That doesn’t mean they tasted lo-so.”