Tag Archives: Bangkok

“I Missed the Wedding?”: My Thai Christmas

To elaborate:

“Tor, what the hell do you mean they’re already married?”

“Man, they already married. Happen already.”

Tor, unable to escape his Thai accent, is in the habit of calling dudes ‘man’ with a quickly rising tone. It adds a certain idiosyncratic charm to the moniker, except when he tells you that you missed his sister getting married. At 6:30 p.m. on the day of her wedding. When you’ve been with Tor, his sister, and her family since 1 p.m.

The word already is normally translated from the similarly defined laew, except laew is reportedly used a lot more often in Thai than in English, so discerning exact past-tense time frames can be confusing.

Resting against the stand-up table, admiring the warmly-lit stage adorned with flowers and candles after further scanning the buffet for more vegetarian options—I had a mound of fruit and spring rolls in hand—I began to absorb what I had heretofore tried to choke with food: this was the motherfucking reception.

Kind of par for the course, really.

“Oh, that’s right. This is the engagement ceremony,” I said under my breath, simultaneously remembering my presence among the families.

At 12:57 p.m., I had run into the engagement ceremony at the Plaza Athenée in Ploen Chit, Bangkok. Thanks to traffic and a particularly slow-moving BTS train, I had to sprint from the sky train to the high-end hotel, thanking any and all Powers that I chose to wear a black, and therefore sweat concealing, shirt.

Luckily, the wedding was a wedding, so everything was running well behind schedule. I had to time to settle in as Tor performed last-minute duties and schmoozed with his family. I was told the wedding would be jam-packed with friends and family.

I’m no mathematician, but the seventy-ish other people there hardly packed the room, and certainly were not jammed.

As it goes here, traditionally, there’s an engagement ceremony sometime before the wedding itself. The couple is ‘engaged’ before the ceremony, but this event is a way to bring the two families together before the actual wedding—as well as maintain leftovers from the days of dowries.

(Please pardon the BlackBerry pictures)

This ceremony is pretty exclusively meant for the closest members of the families’ coteries. I, no matter how one sliced it, was neither close nor coterie.

They are family.

Indeed, my invitation to anything more than the reception was rather fortunate. Fortunate because my friend Tor is a damn sweetheart.

A general invitation to the reception was extended to all farang in Tor’s social circle: this wedding needed a party, and no one should be excluded from a party. The engagement ceremony and reported wedding, on the other hand, were another matter entirely. These two were by invitation only.

But this was a Christmas wedding and I planned on fishing for a Christmas miracle—or, you know, a Christmas invitation to a wedding.

Before the wedding, all of my friends were working on plans to go to a hotel for a lavish and entirely too-well stocked food and booze buffet. Their plan sounded great, but the buffet ended at 3 p.m.; I’ve been hungover before dinner and that shit blows. Besides, I hadn’t been to a wedding in six or so years, and I didn’t want my Christmas in Thailand to drunkenly pass me by.

Drunkenly pass me by before 8 p.m., at least.

The Christmas miracle proved easy.

“Yea man, come to engagement party,” Tor said.


So there I stood, clutching Tor’s camera while a woman with a microphone, the planner, narrated the proceedings, seemingly down to the tiniest detail.

I felt like a dick in a yard.

The family was wonderful and hospitable and affable and charming. I thanked them endlessly for allowing me to come to the entire day’s events. They didn’t hesitate to shut me up and say, “Of course,” “No problem,”or“ It’s a pleasure to have you.”  They were nothing if not affirmingly delightful.

But still: dick in a yard.


The engagement ceremony went about ninety minutes too long. The gift-giving, picture-taking, and tireless MC made sure that the whole schedule would need to be adjusted.

People were getting antsy. They waited for the appropriate time to spill out for the coffee-and-snack break, but they nevertheless did spill out. Tor and I separated from the crowd, concocting what to do between now, 3:45 p.m., and the alleged wedding at 5:30 p.m.

In the end, we did what any two guys would do while waiting for a Bangkok wedding to recommence on Christmas Day.

Mexican food and beer.


Three-quarters deep into my rice bowl and at the bottom of my Heineken, Tor looked at his watch.

“Shit man, almost 17:15.”

We hurried back to the hotel and sauntered into the large hall.

Motherfucker, this doesn’t look like where a wedding happens, I thought.

There was food laid at both ends of the long room. People, now approaching packed but not yet jammed, had their ties loosened and dresses shortened. The stage, which looked like a chode version of the letter T, had an eight-tier cake at the end and was topped by Ken and Barbie. On the room’s three screens was a looped video of the bride and groom: a campy narrative, set to music, of how the two doctors met and fell in love.

Tor and I still had time to shoot the shit before the other farangs arrived. We nursed watered-down whiskey and sodas—a Thai specialty—as he introduced me to members of the family.

Why not cut the cake like pirates?

I felt comfortable here. There were no (always acceptable and understood) sideways glances at my unexpected and maybe displaced farang body. Old ladies smiled and little kids didn’t give a shit. They were here for a wedding and I was of no consequence, except to be greeted and welcomed.

Tossing the bouquet

The groom rockin' out

At some point the other Americans showed up. At some point the whiskey and sodas got stronger or coordinated a bull rush. At some point there was a lot of group dancing—but only the farang group—to the only English-language song the band played. Don’t ask me what song. Before that, though, all of the old people had left. After that, though, a Thai man almost 100% fluent in English tried to right my vegetarian wrongs. He even used the word paradigm, albeit incorrectly. During this talk, he almost tipped backwards. I did my best not to register any notice. After those, my friends, who booked a room in the hotel, had two ice blocks that were used as decoration brought to their room. Somewhere there, I exchanged BlackBerry pins with Tor’s cousin whose name I remembered thanks to the pin. During this, we almost ran out of whiskey. At the end of the scare, Tor came in with four boxes of Johnny Walker Red. After refueling, there was a dance fest with the bride and groom. Towards the end, two of my friends had absconded—can one abscond if I’m too drunk to notice?—and worked the ice blocks into ice luges. After doing one, I faced a bottle and did a lot of drunk texting.

After it all, I was involved in a rolling brownout in the back of my cab, whose driver was asking for directions.

“I’m sorry. I’m a little drunk,” I told him in Thai.

That room, those hors-d’oeuvres, Barbie and Ken, belied what was to come.

Scanning the place, figuring out when I’d hear the I Dos I hadn’t heard in so long, I didn’t realize I hadn’t grasped it yet.

Don’t get me wrong: I was loving the food; I was loving the crowd; I was loving the couple’s music video; I knew I was about to love the whiskey and sodas that were to follow the one in my hand. But something was amiss. If nothing else, we were an hour passed the reported hour of the wedding.

“Tor, when do they get married?”

“Man, they married already.”

Did I miss something?

“Tor, what the hell do you mean they’re already married?”

“Man, they already married. Happen already.”


Langauge barrier?

“What do you mean ‘married already’? Are they husband and wife yet?”

“Yea, man. That what I said.”


Fucking with me?

“Tor, are you fucking with me?”

“No man, not fucking.”

Nope, although a direct object would have been comforting.

“How did we miss them getting married? Why did we get Mexican food if they were getting married?”

“Man, you can’t see that. After engagement, parents say, ‘Goodbye,’ and Oat and Pueng [groom and bride] go to their room together. They marry then.”



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Posted by on January 16, 2012 in Happiness, Thailand


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Saturday to Saturday, Shrimp Omelet to Jack & Ginger

Who knew that a perfect Saturday morning breakfast would be a shrimp omelet with a side of rice, sweet chili and fish sauces, and a salty lemonade? Not this guy. And yet here I am, two weeks later, bummed Zapp, the restaurant where I bought it, wasn’t open this morning.

That meal kicked off a wonderful week of mostly good class experiences, teacherly moments, an outdoor market, strange yet often reviving workouts, and a drunken resuscitation of my opinion of Bangkok.

The Saturday of the Omelet was otherwise highlighted by a trip to Chatuchak Market (also transliterated Jatujak and abbreviated JJ), which is self-reportedly the world’s largest weekend market. The venture was brief and hurried as the group was there to find only a specific item for a daddy’s birthday, but nonetheless pretty enjoyable. I even got to rock a sweet tank-top tan for a couple days because it was so sunny out.

I was broke as a joke, having only about THB 1,000 to my name—around $33—so the trip was mainly for the sensory experience rather than the shopping one, which was totally fine with me.

The crowd at Chatuchak

The thing is ginormous. According to the market’s Web site, the market spans twenty-seven acres (Wikipedia says thirty-five acres) and is subdivided into twenty-seven sections. To fill this expanse—and it is filled—are around 15,000 booths peddling everything from Big Lebowski t-shirts to traditional Thai wares to—or so I’ve heard—fucking crocodiles and baby tigers. Every weekend day, 200,000 people supposedly come to the market to check out the awesome Buddhist medallions and investigate if tigers really do hate cinnamon.

Street musicians

(For better or worse, the market has received some scrutiny over the years for the availability of illegally trafficked animals, which are often seized in Suvarnabhumi Airport. These reports, while probably accurate, should not taint the otherwise wholly enjoyable and differently wholly taintable aspects of JJ.)

Women working

Eat shit, Steve Martin.

From women tucked into a recessed shop or a dude killing it on the banjo, the market is full of sights and sounds. There is a main vein that runs through the entire place, off of which is a dizzying array of narrow covered paths that lead to more shops and vendors. You will get lost here, but you will probably love not knowing where you are. Finding the best price seems like a total waste of time, anyway, because haggling appears to be the general ethos of JJ—and another reason I really need to be studying Thai more diligently.

After my friend found the birthday gift for her father, our group of seven sat down for a much-needed beer before heading back to Bang Na. I traveled back knowing that I will be returning to JJ—and soon, as July is the month of birthdays for my family and I’d love to get them some fun Thai gifts.

The week of teaching went well enough. It had its ebb and flow, as does anything, so it oscillated between obnoxiously trying and appreciatedly rewarding. In particular, I taught my (mostly) sophomores how to write an essay. I had to rely on the standard four to five paragraph rubric taught (and handicapped) in high school around America, but I made sure to encourage the possibility of freedom within the schema—of being able to use the rubric for effective communication rather than a rote process. I even got to break out a trick taught to me by a high school history teacher who set me on my path as an expository and academic—i.e. not creative—writer. (You’re reading my blog; take that last statement as you will.) I’m currently grading an essay they wrote in class on Friday and I’m thoroughly happy with their ability to organize and explicate their arguments.

Things in the classroom are now past the easy and improvisable get-to-know-you stage; I’m lesson planning, grading, making decisions about grading, and doing all of the other rigmarole that goes into molding youngins’ minds. Shit’s getting real, son. Every day proves to be a large test run and reminds me that plenty of tuning is still needed. That being said, teaching is going better than I expected; all I need to do now is be better.

Once upon a time, I was a fatty. At thirteen years old, I weighed 210 pounds—and not good pounds, but solid A- or demi B-cup pounds. Come college, I invested in a pair of running shoes, bought Men’s Health magazine (sometimes trite but often very helpful), and get my ass in gear. I have no idea how to characterize or evaluate my fitness, but I can say I’m committed. Coming out here, I was a bit worried that it’d be difficult to work out. Luckily, the school’s weight room is equipped enough to get the job done, the stationary bikes work, there’s a lap pool (huzzah!), and I still have trusty running shoes. I’m able to keep up with my, albeit mild, triathlon training and get my skinny-boy swell on with the same kind of frequency that I’ve come to crave. My friends are varied enough, too, to satisfy a number of workout buddies: one for swimming and one for biking and lifting days. I prefer to habitually run alone when I’m not with my brother, but I’ve found a partner who wants to do some triathlons in the area and train together, which is goddamn fortunate for me.

The week was peppered with workouts, two of which stand out. The first, an outdoor group aerobics class, was on Monday. I just got done a heavy gym session when a group of my friends roped me away from grading and into an experimental aerobics class.

I’ve often made Jane-Fonda-workout jokes, but I hadn’t ever lived one until this class. From the outfits to the kicks to the syncopated dance steps, I felt almost naked without leg warmers and a unitard. Aerobic classes are for some people, but for Suddenly Farang, they certainly are not. I’m gonna keep that shit in my VHS drawer.

Contrastingly, Wednesday, I was reunited with my long-lost love, muay thai. I trained in it for only a year during college before an empty wallet, jujitsu, and grad school interfered. Of course, it’d be a waste of extended time in Thailand if I didn’t take up Thai boxing again. There’s a fantastic school near my campus, but until I get the feel of how to be a teacher better, I’m sticking to the free class offered on Wednesdays.

The class is led by X, a guy who works in the school’s gym but who has obviously trained somewhat. It runs for ninety minutes and is mostly geared towards conditioning, but for now it satisfies my cravings. This may sound strange, but there’s something redemptive about aching shins, red knuckles, and the musk of muay thai. (There is a musk. Trust me.)

A quiet Friday out was an appetizer for Saturday, or a much better-tasting Kok.

A huge group, which fluctuated between eight and twenty people went into the city for a twenty-fourth birthday party. Dinner was at Bongos, a place not actually called Bongos but simply deemed it by other farang teachers. The food was cheap and filling and the beer was cold. But you’d never go to Bongos for the fare. Instead, the vibe of the restaurant is tremendous. It feels like what Applebee’s and Rainforest Cafe try to capture in the US. The walls are either minimally stained wood or corrugated metal panels. Along them are collections of elementary school achievement trophies and old lanterns, which also light the place. The whole restaurant is tied together by shitty and mismatched tables. The food was OK, but it’s a great place to have a beer with friends.

Next was a stop-over in Baba, a nearby bar with hookah and outdoor seating. I met up with a really good friend and was introduced to her awesome boyfriend, both of whom made me incredibly happy. While I was gone, the group was growing and congealing, and after I returned we all went to Narz, a club to be seen and not reported.

But this is a blog, so we don’t have much of a choice, huh?

Narz is four stories, and each floor corresponds to a different theme. I only remember two themes: the trance room, which evokes ecstasy trips never had, and the hip-hop room, which is where we spent most of our time. Like any good club, the drinks were severely over-priced, the clientele was shit-hammered, and the only lighting came by way of strobes and lasers. I’m famously down for the occasional club, and Narz fit the bill to a T. It was also the first time I danced on a stage, onto which I was pulled by both friends and random locals. Everyone was there to have a good time—and it was contagious. It proved hard to care when the birthday girl jammed me with the cherry of her cigarette or spilled a Jack and Ginger on me. Maybe it’s because it was her birthday, but Narz was nothing but a fun.

We didn’t get home until after 3 a.m. via a cab that seated four but was jammed with six. By the time I went to bed, I was fucking drained—but completely content. It was a hell of a week.

P.S.: I’m getting used to the heat! The humidity is still kicking my asthmatic and sweaty ass, but I regularly go whole days with just the assistance of my fan and forsake the A/C. It’s definitely a conscious choice to keep the air off, but for me, there’s some silly piece of pride to be had in it. Maybe I can thank all of the banana cheese I’ve been eating.

Banana Cheese. Everyday.

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Posted by on June 18, 2011 in Happiness, Thailand


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I’m a Teacher at a University (insert laugh here)

My first plan for this entry was to include a long post about my day of shopping at three of the many malls in the area, but that seems a bit disrespectful to my loyal followers; you guys don’t want to read about the Starbucks on every floor of Central World. So I’m gonna keep the shopping nonsense to a minimum before jumping into my (surprisingly terrific) first week as an ESL teacher.

Luckily, there’s an American guy here who has a firm grasp on the area’s transit system as well as above-passable Thai. He was our tour guide for mall day and he exposed our group of five to the full spectrum of mass transit around Bangkok,

A view of the traffic we missed thanks to the BTS

from the shoddy, unnumbered green buses “that go places” to the BTS, Bangkok’s clean and efficient sky-rail system that gives a nice tour of the city’s mind-boggling traffic. I finally picked up a phone—a Nokia 1280 reminiscent of 1998—for THB 750, or $24.40. I also ate some tremendous Japanese food and have had a craving for soba ever since.

Afterwards we make our way to MBK, which is like an outdoor bazaar crammed into seven-story mall. I need to head back there soon to pick up some cheap DVDs and computer programs, like Adobe’s Acrobat Suite for THB 250. MBK is definitely something to see; it’s jammed full of people and its stores fit an impressive amount of crap into their small spaces. There’s half a floor dedicated to cell phones and, if I had to venture a guess based on no research at all, I’d say there are more cell phones being sold in that mall than there are active ones in some major American cities.

Excitement picked up on the way back to campus, when our taxi driver almost fell asleep at the wheel. To keep him awake, I kept screaming and talking loudly. At one point, I saw his eyes shut for almost 1.5 seconds. I was tempted to slap him on the back of his head. I’m not even kind of joking a little bit at all.

The uglist bedding ever.

As soon as the cab pulled up to the dorms, we hopped into the school-sponsored van heading to Tesco Lotus, or Thailand’s version of Target. I picked up some essentials, like silverware, laundry detergent, hangers, and the ugliest bedding ever.

At the end of the day, I celebrated with a can of Diet Coke. I love the soda anyway, but I also love products that announce themselves, like the can below.

No, stupid, it's not a bottle. Can't you read?

Mall Day, Thursday, was pretty exhausting by the end. Things improved on Friday, though, when a friend and I checked out the local fruit market, as we were (and still are) craving fresh foods. Market is probably a misleading term, as it’s more a collection of tables in a muddy clearing that get occupied by various vendors. Regardless of what it’s called, it was a life saver. Although the thing seemed to be winding down,  we still managed to pick up some mangoes and a delicious kiwi smoothie.

The local fruit market.

They taste like you think they would.

While there, I also nabbed some chicken feet, which I guess prompts further explanation and confession of my dietary habits beyond the last post. I was a vegetarian in the States, but now I’m a pescatarian who won’t be too annoyed if I eat animal stock, which is ubiquitous here. I also figured I’d eat some offal and nasty bits, but I don’t know how much longer I’ll keep that luxury; the chicken feet weren’t—surprise; surprise—anything to write home about (but something to write on a blog about, apparently).

Shopping days transitioned into orientation days, which involved two eight-hour sessions over two days, Saturday and Sunday, to teach us what we needed to know to be ESL teachers, crash-course stylee.

And people lament the American school system.

Despite its whirlwind nature, the orientations left me feeling prepared enough for, at least, the beginning of the semester. Thankfully, I’m also not a typically nervous person. Consequently, Monday—the first day of class—wasn’t too daunting; in fact, I was a little excited.

But then Monday sucked.

Out of my three classes on Monday, two went pretty damn poorly. One class got the wrong syllabus—which were poorly marked—so I had to wing the explanation for grading and standards in the class. After that SNAFU came a class that, for professional reasons, I’ll remain vague about. Let’s just say it could have been much, much better.

Once the first day wrapped up, I was pretty damn discouraged. I spent the rest of the day bitching to any sympathetic ear that didn’t mind being bent. The balloon was popped; I had temptations of Chipotle and American TV playing on my mind.

But then the rest of the week kicked ass.

My students are either awesome or quiet, a blessed mix for a new teacher. Moreover, almost all of my sections are at the school’s highest level of English classes, meaning I get (mostly) the best English speakers. They’re funny, observant, personable, witty, hard working, and respectful. Thanks to my students, the classes had flow, which isn’t something I’d ever thought I’d achieve.

The kids bought onto the class from the outset, even after my boring setup. The first class involved a general outline of the course, class rules, and an interview process that culminated in telling the class what you learned about your partner. Of course, I tried to spice things up with little asides and humorous spins on rules. One of my lame schticks went “I’m from Philadelphia. Do you know Will Smith? He’s from Philadelphia too. He tried to blow up a toilet with a firecracker when he went to the same high school as my younger brother.”

(Just in case you were wondering, I was right: blowing up toilets is globally funny.)

During the post-interview presentations, most of the kids simply and dryly went through their explanations of their partners. A select few, though, showed remarkable confidence and embraced the chance to perform—and speak English—in front of the class. A pair of girls in their third year broke into a song and dance for a couple seconds without thinking twice. Later, a pair of fabulously gay guys talked about how much they both like soccer—not the game, but the players—and that one wants to “get into businessmen—businessmen” when he graduates. Confidence and a pun? The kid’s a winner. He got 1,000 points for effort that day. Of course, not all of my classes were through-the-roof tremendous, but they were enough to put a smile on my face at the end of the day.

I still have some anxiety, though, about the remaining weeks. For one, all but one of my classes focus on speaking and listening and seem to be a bit more off the cuff and open for improvisation and organic organization. The remaining class, though, is reliant upon silent reading, writing, and grammar lessons; it’s more obviously academically rigorous than the conversation classes. The academic one meets three times a week; the others only meet once. I’m constantly concerned that the kids in the one will lose focus and glaze over when I teach them about conditionals and past continuous because, hell, I glaze over. I want to hear these kids speak more, but that isn’t the point of the class. I guess it’s a matter of hitting and recognizing my stride, so we’ll see how it goes. Regardless, I’m a teacher at a university, which seems a little silly, if not a little cool.

In other news, the Phillies need to start winning again.

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Posted by on June 5, 2011 in ESL, Thailand


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My First Taste of Kok (a bit bitter, but necessary).

The Monday night after I arrived—my second night in Thailand—was the last night for a person who had taught here for a year. Her contract was up and she decided it was time to return to her small town in Virginia. Monday was to be her going out party, and that meant a night, at her direction, in Bangkok.

Of course I would have loved to have come into this country without any prior expectations—and of course that ideal is a bunch of bullshit. Say “Bangkok” and a number of things will come to mind: cheap street food; prostitutes; skyscrapers; pollution; underage prostitutes; beautiful temples (wat); rich-ass foreigners; transgender prostitutes; class stratification. For better and definitely worse, my first trip into Thailand’s City of Angels included almost all of these.

From my campus in Bang Na, a group of NES teachers—three experienced; two new, including myself—hopped in a taxi for the 40-minute trip from Bang Na to our university’s campus in Hua Mak, Bangkok. Hua Mak has a strikingly different vibe compared to our relatively isolated location; it’s located in Bangkok itself and is very much a city campus. Within walking distance of the classrooms, there’s an array of food, entertainment, relaxation (massage!), and sight-seeing choices, not to mention ready access to plenty of cheap public transportation. I got a little jealous at first, but I don’t know if I could handle one of the East’s major metropolises for a year.

Everyone—about twelve NES teachers—pregamed a bit in the soon-to-be-departing female teacher’s room before seven of us eventually went into the city. I had no idea where we were going, but everyone saying “skybar” sounded a bit highfalutin, if not a bit fun. I missed where the bar is specifically located, but from the view it seemed to be in fairly central Bangkok.

Oh, the view? from fairly central Bangkok? from the rooftop bar on the sixty-fourth floor of a high rise at 11 p.m.? Fucking phenomenal. After a quick Google Image search for an example, this picture kind of jogs my memory ( So, let’s pretend like I was at the top of the State Tower, which is the vantage point of the top picture.

At this bar, I was merely an appreciator of the skyline. I—and probably we—were/are totally outclassed at this place, which was populated mostly by international travelers who enjoy the finer things in life. Drinks were THB 400, or about just north of $13: a price I wouldn’t pay in America. I’m not a big drinker anyway, so I didn’t mind nursing the view from above instead of a gin and tonic. I never realized how big a city of 9.1 million cramped people actually is.

It was only a matter of time before the potential price tag of the skybar got to the group. From there, we decided on Nana Plaza—and that’s where shit got to be a little too much for me.

Getting there was an adventure. The group split up into two groups for cabs; myself and the other new teacher ended up with one who had been around a year, but was too drunk to remember much of the cab ride. I’m not sure how we got to Nana Plaza, but it involved a lot of pointing and almost futile repetition. We ended up traveling down a narrow soi—a smaller road off of a main drag—that could barely fit our taxi, let alone the dense line of human beings walking up and down parts of the road/alley/nocarshouldevergodownhere. Thankfully, we spotted our friends, shouted at the cabbie, and hopped out into pretty seedy nightlife.

We made our way up stone steps that were more puddle than hard surface and into a club called Spanky’s. Inside, there were eight to ten girls on stage, all of who were reportedly for rent.

For anyone who knows me, this lack of enthusiasm comes as no surprise: I don’t really like the sex industry—at all. I don’t feel like getting on a high horse on a blog over it, either, so this part of the story will remain short.

Anyway, we went, people had fun, and I can’t imagine going to Bangkok with a bunch of twenty-somethings and not going to a sex show of some sort.

After some ketchup-saturated street food in which I, thankfully, did not partake, we jumped in a pair of cabs and got back to the dorms by 3:30 a.m. Unfortunately, I was up for another two hours with the dreaded anti-sleep.

All in all, it wasn’t the greatest night in the world, but it felt good to go out with people and not spend the night watching Thai TV and reading. Stay tuned, though, for my almost ideal-night-out and when I considered slapping a cabbie on the back of his head so he didn’t kill us at 120 kph.

(But if you want the latest updates, make sure to take full advantage of my 21st century nerdness and subscribe to my Twitter feed, SdnlyFarang.)

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Posted by on May 27, 2011 in Disorientation, Misadventure, Thailand


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