We were indeed smiling in the land of smiles.
The minute we left the comfort of Suvarnabhumi Airport, my lips were automatically stretched upwards into a smile-esq looking squint. The sun was hard at work welcoming our arrival with its usual, overly warm embrace.
While Bangkok was hot in general, the heat that was felt during the few days we spent there could be broadly categorised into three different levels. We had the shopping-centre-hot, the street-level-hot and lastly, right at the top of the scale was the sibey-tekong-chatuchak-hot.
Shopping-centre-hot was optimal temperature for me. Like Goldilocks with Baby Bear's porridge, I was most comfortable in this 'not warm; not too cold' category. This level of heat only afflicted hubby who would counter check with me if the a.c. was turned on low, or if his senses were slightly haywired. (He wasn't feeling well before and during the trip.) Of course it didn't help that we were having steamboat at Koka then. The steaming hot pot right in front of us that if I put my face nearer, it would have been just like a steaming session during those facials.
The Goldilocks syndrome also stuck with us as we methodically weaved our way through the many different (but same-same) stalls at Platinum Plaza. Meticulously combing the floors, we ended up at the food court as our last stop to refill our tummies and rest our feet.
We would later do the ultimate Singaporean thing by sweeping down the aisles of Big C supermarket for their cartons of assorted Pocky and Mama instant noodles. Shopping-centre-hot was perfect for fickle-minded shoppers like me, generally needing a longer time to come to a decision but spared from the heat of the sun.
Street-level-hot was the generic category used to describe the heat while we were traipsing along the dusty streets of Bangkok. This heat level was hot, but relatively bearable and usually felt when we were heading to and back from Erawan Shrine. During such walks, we would often escape the heat by hopping into Starbucks for a nice cup of mocha while we watched the world go by. As the afternoon melted into slightly cooler evenings, we would resume strolling down the streets onto our next destination.
Chatuchak-hot was when we visited the weekend market one very sunny afternoon. The heat at this level was intense, burning, relentless and ruthless. Beads of sweat formed persistently, constantly dripping down our faces and backs no matter how we wiped them off. Under the scorching sun, we trudged down the maze of stalls with sweat-soaked shirts. Chatuchak's renowned humidity and heat were a formidable combination zapping away our energy levels. For respite, we sought refuge at a random massage shop in exchange for one blissful hour of cool air. We napped as the masseuse attempted their skills to sooth our tired feet.
Exactly an hour later when the massage ended, we awoke slightly rejuvenated but with feet that continued protesting. That impulsive day, we trundled from noon until evening under the unrelenting hot sun, nearly killing our feet at the end of the day. We decided simultaneously then, that age was truly catching up with us and that we would be highly selective in our market jaunts for our next visit to Bangkok.
All too soon, the holiday finishes.
And now, as we sit in the comfort of our home, in the not-as-hot Singapore, the after effects of visiting Bangkok lingers.
Aching feet, check.
Pining for street food, check.
Hole in pocket, check.
Unpacked luggage, check.
Reluctance to return to daily duties, check, check, and check.
I miss mostly the street foods of Bangkok. The varieties of the morning snacks hawked freshly fried from the vendor's woks, the savory crunch of fried chicken paired with square blocks of glutinous rice, the sour spiciness of mama salads, and the very affordable freshly squeezed pomegranate juice. My mouth waters at the thought of these foods.
We had heartlessly left the kids behind for a short getaway, for the aroi mak mak food, and for prayers to the four faced Buddha. In spite of the blistering sun and its 50 other shades in between, it was a well-deserved reprieve for us and although not nearly enough, we have to go back to home, to the kids.
The many boxes of slightly squashed Pocky still sitting in my luggage is a harsh reminder that life has returned to normal and that I must now unpack.
As I kissed the kids goodnight and tucked them in to bed, I know Klab ban di mak.
It's good to be home.
