Turkey Day

Some people I know managed to track down the traditional Thanksgiving dinner in this town, but they always qualified their assessment of it with “not like home,” or words to that effect. Instead I opted for plaa pad kee mao, which translates roughly as “drunken seafood noodle stirfry.”

What made the day feel festive was the company. My brother Tim (who ordered duck) happened to be in the country, spontaneously stretching the four-day weekend into a 10-day diving trip. It was short notice—he sent me an email after he was already on the ground in Bangkok—but good timing. We caught up a bit over dinner, then toasted being together at an open-air bar on the roof of a 62-story hotel.

Just goes to show that if you’re feeling grateful, it doesn’t much matter how or where you celebrate this holiday. In one sense this year’s version was one of our most appropriate ever, as the voyage that Jip and I have made to a new world is going very well.

Loy Krathong

The twelfth full moon of the year in the traditional Thai lunar calendar appeared a week ago. It’s a night to seek blessings for the next year and ask that bad luck from the past year be carried away. All around the country, people head to a river or canal and float small lotus-shaped vessels (krathongs), bearing candles in homage to the goddess of the river.

Jip’s take on this holiday is to boycott. She doesn’t get the logic of adding junk to a river whose goddess you are trying to thank. (Krathongs sometimes also contain food, flowers, fingernail clippings, you name it.)

But I kind of like it. Those famous Thai smiles are out in force. Families and couples share krathongs as nice symbols of togetherness. One-night entrepreneurs spread their wares on mats or blankets, lighting them with lamps powered by car batteries. After grabbing supper at a crowded market, I took a boat home. Watching the candles along the river’s edge, I got the sense of a giant, nationwide picnic.

Change of Seasons

The outdoor temperatures are steadily dropping (down from the mid-90s to the mid-80s), though I still walk around with a small sweat moustache almost everywhere I go. Jip often asks for a blanket. She’s not alone: once the thermometer dips into the 70s, many Thais dig into the back of their closets and pull out extra layers.

Lately the weather has seemed unable to decide. It’s been strong sunshine in the morning, followed by a good downpour in the afternoon and sticky humidity in the evening. But just a few days ago, at a ceremony in the country’s most famous temple, the prince formally changed the clothing worn by the emerald buddha.

In case I had missed that sign of the “cool” season’s overdue arrival, department stores and hotels today drove home the point by putting up Christmas trees, or at least hanging ornaments from the palms outside their front doors. I saw at least half a dozen of them on my way home.

At the bus stop, a woman wearing a wool scarf was coughing and looking miserable. Tonight’s predicted low: 71°.

Speaking of Food Choices

You know how, at restaurants and fast food places in the States, you sometimes have to navigate an endless decision tree before your order is finished? Ranch dressing, or Italian? Sprite or Coke? Mashed or fried?

Thai waiters never put me through that maze. Half the time, they don’t even let me finish my sentence. I’ll start to ask for something, and before I know it they have supplied the name of the food they think that I really want. (Or perhaps the food that they have been having trouble getting rid of lately?)

And I am so grateful. I’ve ended up with some delicious meals that were chosen for me. I’ve learned the names for some dishes that I’d happily order again. With Thai food, it’s hard to go wrong, so the risk of getting something inedible is small.

Lately my favorite thing is to approach a dessert counter that is full of 101 different colors and shapes, and to basically say to the people serving, “you decide.” Sometimes the resulting bowl is full of wiggly sweet pasta-like stuff under ice shavings; other times, beans soaked in syrup; once in a while, soft tofu in a ginger sauce. I can’t miss.

What’s on the Menu: Update

Recently fish and kale went off the list of a dozen or so comfort foods that Jip will eat, and were not replaced. She says she’s tired of them, which I can understand. But I suspect that taste isn’t the issue.

As in many other areas of Jip’s life, routine and risk-avoidance are her priorities. When I’ve brought her something
that was prepared outside the house, she has wrinkled up her nose at it because it might contain MSG or some other nastiness. (Come to think of it, she may be right about that.)

Jip’s niece Boe, who is majoring in culinary arts at college, cooked a wonderful dish with fresh ingredients, on our very own stove. Jip ate it happily, until she remembered that Boe had worn some perfume on a previous visit. From that point on, the food tasted “stinky.”

Holy basil, Chinese morning glory, and a weird looking veggie known as a winged bean remain favorites. She gets plenty of protein, thought it’s almost exclusively from tofu and pumpkin seeds. And we’re always running out of her favorite fruits. Jip cleans her plate. All the food groups are represented.

So why do I keep urging her to add more variety to her diet, or at least to throw in some Thai specialties now and then? To me, it’s a shame to be surrounded by the world’s best cuisine, and not to broaden one’s food choices. I know, I know … I need more to worry about.

Diagnosis

Disease-wise, Jip continues to be no worse than she was in Seattle. A nurse friend of ours wrote to say that "no worse" really means "better," with all the transitions we’ve had. Jip's emotions still ride the roller coaster, however.

Last Monday morning, Halloween, her first words to me were, “Trick or treat?” Big grin. I thought, “Gonna be a good day.” I was glad, because we’d been seeing a few symptoms that pointed to a possible bladder infection. When Jip has had those symptoms in the past, the uncertainty has usually made her agitated and a little obsessive.

But she wasn’t concerned last week. I suggested we take a urine sample to the hospital to be tested. Jip said, “Why? I’m taking d-mannose.” This is a powder she swears by, which apparently coats the bladder walls with something slippery, making it tough for bugs to grab hold.

Despite Jip’s confidence, I brought a urine sample to the lab. It came back clean. The doc diagnosed the problem as “husband without enough to worry about.” Which I suppose is the right kind of problem.

Sans Frontières

During the week I’m surrounded by Asian and American ways. On the weekend it’s Europe’s turn. I play football (soccer, to you) with the British Club Casuals most Saturday afternoons.

Among the sides (teams) in our MBMG International League are the Bulls Head Brazilians, German All-Stars, Les Gaulois, Dubliner, Robin Hood FC, Bangkok United (Japanese), and SunBelt ThaiVisa, which feature a number of Africans.

Unfortunately, the BC Casuals need a few more goal scorers. Or perhaps we ought to sing more before matches (games), as the Brazilians are fond of doing—or drink more afterwards, as we were invited to do by Germans after a heartbreaking loss two weeks ago.

Saturday and Sunday evenings, the English Premier League is broadcast on TV. Watching the likes of Arsenal and Chelsea and Tottenham Hotspurs, I feel pretty far away from Bangkok. It’s addictive enough that I even find myself tuning in Tuesdays, after practice with the club, to “Football Focus,” an analysis of who’s on top of the table (standings) and why.

The Family That Trains Together

The standard apartment in our foreigner-friendly part of town offers a swimming pool and fitness center. I head downstairs most mornings to break a sweat in air-conditioned comfort while catching the evening (in Atlanta) news on CNN. If the headlines from Iraq are too discouraging, a few laps in the pool usually get them out of my system.

At first I made the mistake of watching baseball on TV while running. It was hard to concentrate on both simultaneously. Once, during a stressful ninth inning, I got thrown off the back of the treadmill. One second I was sending good vibes to the Cubs’ closer, who had loaded the bases; the next second I was sprawled on the floor.

Jip’s exercise is more intense than in Seattle. She never skips a day of leg pushes and yoga. Taking a shower also gives her a workout, because we didn’t bring along the waterproof wheelchair she was using before. Now Jip sits on a modified bench, which has a low backrest. Because some of the muscles in her trunk region don’t get messages from her brain, this new setup forces her to build up the ones that do.

The pool also draws Chao, who has a bad back and so likes to swim. We see more of him than we would if we lived in a place with fewer amenities. Lately Jip’s niece Boe has jumped on the calorie-burning bandwagon, too. She called last week to ask if she could come over to “do fitness.” Apparently the treadmill agreed with her—she plans to spend the night three times this week.