Missing
There I was, in easily the best hotel in Bangkok, wondering what would be the greatest pleasure. A swim in the large open-air pool? A drink on the veranda? Or my feet up on the bed listening to the best of the Archers' most recent scandals, brought to me on CD by Paul? The pool and the drink had to wait: the demise of Hazel and the thought of Susan Carter's social embarrassment were far more enticing.
It's funny what you miss. At the moment, sitting typing in yet another internet 'cafe' (this time it's a camera shop with a few computers on one side), I long for the comfort of my own laptop. One which won't switch to Thai if I make an accidental keystroke (there are at least three characters per key and trying to decipher which one is to blame would be more than my sanity could bear). Last week, whilst staying a few kilometres from Angkor Wat, justifiably one of the wonders of the world, the thought of the shrink-wrapped, only one-day-old Saturday Guardian was almost as thrilling as the idea of those 2000 year-old temples.
I knew that I'd miss those I love. I knew that I'd miss my home. I knew that I'd miss the repetitious daily tasks that I usually take for granted. But I didn't know I'd miss, well, some rather odd things.
Water. From a tap. London water, with its tangy, metallic taste. Here, no one drinks the tap water and every place you stay and shop sells both branded mineral water (usually Evian and very expensive: 66B for a litre as opposed to 15 or so for water from Nestle, Singha or, guess who, Coca-Cola... so that's where it all went) and the more ubiquitous 'drinking water'. I have a bottle beside me now and it tastes, well, soft, as if it's been squeezed out of cotton wool. My resistance to Evian has just this minute dissipated: I need something that resembles the water I know and love. Something drinkable.
Fixed prices. On the bus. On a motorbike taxi. When buying any kind of souvenir or item of clothing. It's the done thing to haggle, to bargain. Most of the time I don't but when the advertised price in big black letters on the songthaew (an interesting cross between a pick-up truck and a bus) is 30TB and I am quoted 100, I start to get irritated about being taken for more than one ride.
Yogurt. Only one hotel has offered this at breakfast and that seems a long time ago. In most instances there is the classic 'American' (some variation of eggs, bacon, sausages), cereal or toast or fruit, but never yogurt. There is usually also an Asian breakfast but I am still a long way away from eating sweet vegetable soup or rice porridge in the morning.
Dinner. Bar the odd drink or bag of fruit I rarely eat much more after breakfast. This is for lots of reasons: I have read that Thais consider those eating alone as oddities and since I have been asked every single time that I have sat at a table on my own if it will be 'just one' I'm starting to realise that this is true. So I don't feel comfortable in 'proper' restaurants. However, in Thailand, there are more street-markets and food stalls than there are bags of rice. Technically, I should therefore be fine. But I don't know where to start. There are satay sticks, balls of indistinguishable meats tinted pink and yellow, grilled chicken and duck wings, plastic bags full of sauces stuffed full of lime leaves, peppers, chillies, bags of cooked and raw noodles, bags of rice, sticky and steamed, bags of green mango sold with dried chilli and sugar sprinkled over the top, miniscule crepes cooked to order and filled with something sweet, small squares of jelly. All of this produced and sold on trolleys no bigger, in most instances, than the ones used by British posties.
The most amazing, and intimidating, are the noodle stalls. There is a glass box full of different types of raw noodles, bowl after bowl of greens (spring onions, basil, lettuce and many I've never seen), tubs of dried shrimps, sacks of crushed peanuts, raw shredded chicken (to be avoided at the moment...), piles of livers, a colander full of beansprouts and a heap of lime wedges. From this tiny space, with one wok, one burner and a jug of water, a myriad of dishes appear. Some are served on the street, the customer sitting at a table on the edge of the pavement a few feet from the continuous traffic, some are taken away, all the different components, from rice, to sauce, to limes dispensed in tiny plastic bags, knotted at the top. I have no idea how to ask for one thing, let alone the kaleidoscope carried away by most hurried commuters and eaten on the run. So, until I marshall my courage, I am left with a bag of crisps and, sometimes, a bottle of beer to finish off my day. Strangely, I don't seem to be losing any weight!
I realise, having read this to myself, that food, drink and reading matter seem to be the most felt absences on my travels. But that isn't quite true. Paul met me last week and it was the first time since I left that I had someone to talk to at any length. Or ate properly. He also brought the Archers and Guardian so I could pretend, in some ways, that I was almost home. I felt like myself again, instead of a taciturn, hungry person, watching the world around her. Hence the lack of blogs: all my talking was taking place in person, instead of on the screen and the evenings spent in front of a screen were now spent eating dinner. But, funnily enough, I sometimes found myself missing the shaping of experience on the page. On this first night alone again, typing away, I suddenly realise that my travels have given me something to replace what I've left behind and that I shouldn't take my current situation for granted either. However, I still plan to buy that Evian...
It's funny what you miss. At the moment, sitting typing in yet another internet 'cafe' (this time it's a camera shop with a few computers on one side), I long for the comfort of my own laptop. One which won't switch to Thai if I make an accidental keystroke (there are at least three characters per key and trying to decipher which one is to blame would be more than my sanity could bear). Last week, whilst staying a few kilometres from Angkor Wat, justifiably one of the wonders of the world, the thought of the shrink-wrapped, only one-day-old Saturday Guardian was almost as thrilling as the idea of those 2000 year-old temples.
I knew that I'd miss those I love. I knew that I'd miss my home. I knew that I'd miss the repetitious daily tasks that I usually take for granted. But I didn't know I'd miss, well, some rather odd things.
Water. From a tap. London water, with its tangy, metallic taste. Here, no one drinks the tap water and every place you stay and shop sells both branded mineral water (usually Evian and very expensive: 66B for a litre as opposed to 15 or so for water from Nestle, Singha or, guess who, Coca-Cola... so that's where it all went) and the more ubiquitous 'drinking water'. I have a bottle beside me now and it tastes, well, soft, as if it's been squeezed out of cotton wool. My resistance to Evian has just this minute dissipated: I need something that resembles the water I know and love. Something drinkable.
Fixed prices. On the bus. On a motorbike taxi. When buying any kind of souvenir or item of clothing. It's the done thing to haggle, to bargain. Most of the time I don't but when the advertised price in big black letters on the songthaew (an interesting cross between a pick-up truck and a bus) is 30TB and I am quoted 100, I start to get irritated about being taken for more than one ride.
Yogurt. Only one hotel has offered this at breakfast and that seems a long time ago. In most instances there is the classic 'American' (some variation of eggs, bacon, sausages), cereal or toast or fruit, but never yogurt. There is usually also an Asian breakfast but I am still a long way away from eating sweet vegetable soup or rice porridge in the morning.
Dinner. Bar the odd drink or bag of fruit I rarely eat much more after breakfast. This is for lots of reasons: I have read that Thais consider those eating alone as oddities and since I have been asked every single time that I have sat at a table on my own if it will be 'just one' I'm starting to realise that this is true. So I don't feel comfortable in 'proper' restaurants. However, in Thailand, there are more street-markets and food stalls than there are bags of rice. Technically, I should therefore be fine. But I don't know where to start. There are satay sticks, balls of indistinguishable meats tinted pink and yellow, grilled chicken and duck wings, plastic bags full of sauces stuffed full of lime leaves, peppers, chillies, bags of cooked and raw noodles, bags of rice, sticky and steamed, bags of green mango sold with dried chilli and sugar sprinkled over the top, miniscule crepes cooked to order and filled with something sweet, small squares of jelly. All of this produced and sold on trolleys no bigger, in most instances, than the ones used by British posties.
The most amazing, and intimidating, are the noodle stalls. There is a glass box full of different types of raw noodles, bowl after bowl of greens (spring onions, basil, lettuce and many I've never seen), tubs of dried shrimps, sacks of crushed peanuts, raw shredded chicken (to be avoided at the moment...), piles of livers, a colander full of beansprouts and a heap of lime wedges. From this tiny space, with one wok, one burner and a jug of water, a myriad of dishes appear. Some are served on the street, the customer sitting at a table on the edge of the pavement a few feet from the continuous traffic, some are taken away, all the different components, from rice, to sauce, to limes dispensed in tiny plastic bags, knotted at the top. I have no idea how to ask for one thing, let alone the kaleidoscope carried away by most hurried commuters and eaten on the run. So, until I marshall my courage, I am left with a bag of crisps and, sometimes, a bottle of beer to finish off my day. Strangely, I don't seem to be losing any weight!
I realise, having read this to myself, that food, drink and reading matter seem to be the most felt absences on my travels. But that isn't quite true. Paul met me last week and it was the first time since I left that I had someone to talk to at any length. Or ate properly. He also brought the Archers and Guardian so I could pretend, in some ways, that I was almost home. I felt like myself again, instead of a taciturn, hungry person, watching the world around her. Hence the lack of blogs: all my talking was taking place in person, instead of on the screen and the evenings spent in front of a screen were now spent eating dinner. But, funnily enough, I sometimes found myself missing the shaping of experience on the page. On this first night alone again, typing away, I suddenly realise that my travels have given me something to replace what I've left behind and that I shouldn't take my current situation for granted either. However, I still plan to buy that Evian...
posted by Louise at 6:01 AM
3 Comments:
Hello Mr Wiltshire,
Glad that you're still reading. There should be some more blogs this week too.
Is your blog up now?
Love
Louise x
A *great* post, Louise. Glad you're around and thriving, but that list of what we miss is amazing--and impossible to remember on the return home. I remember, in England, longing for mixer taps: just to run some warm water on my hands without making a big production of it. But what else? I remember in Mexico missing a certain kind of bread. But you're a much better traveler than I. Stay well, love!!! xxxxxx
Hello Anne,
Lovely to hear from you. I remember someone else from the States telling me about the tap thing: moving your hands left and right very quickly to try and get something resembling warm water!
Take care,
Love Louise xxxx
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