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Time to Start that Diet

Our second day in Thailand begins with a road trip to Ayuttaya (the ancient capitol) by way of the Queen's craft center, the Bang Pa-In summer palace, a lunch cruise, a bustling local temple, and an elephant ride (see photos).

Joe, our earnest young guide from Thai Friends, works valiantly to keep our group of dedicated shoppers together. (As one local saying goes, that's a bit like trying to keep live fish in a shallow basket.) At the Bang Sai Royal Arts and Crafts center, we stream off in all directions, browsing silks and handmade pillows. I spend all of fifteen baht (thirty cents) on a wicker fan ... which proves to be my best purchase of the day, as it can serve as both a parasol and a portable air conditioning unit. (It also turns out to be a "napping fan," used by old grannies as they try to cool off enough to go to sleep. No wonder people grinned when they saw me using it!)

At one point, the little tram around the craft center pauses for far too long beside one roadside vendor's cart. There, a woman ladles ice cream cone batter into perfect discs the size of coasters. To this, she adds a layer of hot marshmallow cream. Finally, she garnishes the cookies with fresh coconut, scoops them up, and folds them in half. (They look like tiny tropical tacos.)

The smell is hypnotic. All warnings about food saftey go out the window, and I buy my first street cart food. Others in the group are dubious, but my orgasmic moans soon have everyone pawing through my grease-spotted paper bag. So sweet! So sticky! So fresh! We decide the cookies are worth the risk (and at three cents each, they're the bargain of the day).

At Wat Phananchoeng, dueling loudspeakers broadcast monk chants and huckster sales presentations. People squeeze inside to see the massive Buddha image, pray by divination (shaking cannisters full of sticks until an answer falls out), and buy gifts and offerings for the monks.

The energy of the place amazes us, and we're all caught up in it. Barbara and Jeri shake sticks and get answers (Jeri now has no worries about having more babies!), and several of us pause for prayer in front of gleaming, beatific Buddha images.

Lunch on the river is surreal. After placing our orders, we're loaded onto a party barge. We float down the Chao Praya, eating spicy Thai food ... and singing karaoke. Barbara and Lisa dance. Clyde and I laugh. Phil takes the microphone and belts out "I Will Survive." Behind us, ancient temples drift by at lazy speeds, and children (bathing and brushing their teeth in the river) wave to us, point, and giggle.

Late in the day, we prepare for the highlight of the trip: elephant rides. We buy our tickets, line up, and await our turn. Young Thai women load couples onto the backs of the massive beasts, and the mahouts, or drivers, take the tourists on a twenty-minute stroll.

Clyde and I climb the stairs to the loading platform. Clyde clambers onto the elephant, and the locals begin to chatter. The question, it seems, is whether the two of us will be a heavier load than the elephant can bear.

I get on, and the elephant sways from side to side. "No, no, no!" the women say. "Off! Off! Too big! Too big! Get off!"

We get off. The woman assesses our size, looking us over from head to toe. Finally, she says, "We are going to have to get bigger elephants."

Ultimately, Clyde, Phil, and I all are forced to ride the elephants solo. Around us, the guides grin and giggle; this is, apparently, the first time the drivers have been forced to carry single passengers. The Thai people love to laugh, and our mahouts pantomime our condition to each other, puffing their cheeks and exaggerating their bellies by patting imaginary pregnant stomachs.

We're good natured about it, too ... but for both Phil and me, I think, the idea of being so big we have to ride elephants solo is a sobering experience.

We get back home Wednesday ... and the diet starts then.

(Update: our experience wasn't too traumatic, by the way, to prevent our plowing through the Shangri La dinner buffet at full speed. Grilled lobster, flash-fried samosas, and crispy shrimp proved to be too tempting ... and by the time I finished my chocolate mousse, cappuchino gelato, and chocolate wafer layer cake, I probably gained enough weight to rule me out from riding elephants entirely.)

Seven Thousand Words

For the visually inclined, I offer a slide show of seven photos from our first day in Thailand. Enjoy!

To Market, To Market

How can I capture for you the chaos that is the Chatuchak Weekend Market?

We meet Emm and Egg, our incredible Thai Friends guides, in the palatial lobby of the Peninsula. Soon after, we're packed into a (not very) air-conditioned van and whisked off to our first stop of the day: Bangkok's famed Chatuchak Weekend Market.

Within minutes, we pass stalls for silk, embroidered fabrics, designer fakes, lanters, frozen on-the-spot popscicles made from Coke and Sprite, char-broiled chicken satay, handmade Christmas bags, hand-carved chopsticks, tapestry, table runners, fresh fruit, hats, handbags, baskets, roasted whole chickens, candles airbrushed with day-glo paint colors, noodles in broth, carved wooden fertility symbols, antique coins, temple bells, statues of Lord Buddha, bottled water, teakwood furniture, garden urns, and wristwatches.

Imagine all these goods passing by you at fifty or sixty miles per hour, and you'll have an idea of the market experience. But this blur of merchandise also emits a range of scents and odors: pungent curry, sulphur, aromatic oils, flowers, garlic, ripe human bodies, chicken broth, steamed squid, tar, incense, and pineapples.

To get the full effect, you must stage your multi-sensory experience inside a metal shed ... within a sauna ... on the hottest of summer days ... with several thousand locals. Allow magazine salesmen to squeeze past, shouting headlines. Throw in the machine-gun backfires from hundreds of motorcycles, the cackle of live chickens, the sizzle of fresh meat cooking over red coals, and the constant babble of tourists and vendors haggling over prices.

The market is all this ... and more. We spend four hours winding our way through no more than a tenth of it, stopping only for lunch in a (not very) air conditioned restaurant.

Bangkok is sweltering, dizzying, raw, and as far from a Disney park as you'll ever get ... and I absolutely and totally love it.

Tonight, back at the hotel, we immerse ourselves in the hypnotic calm of the Peninsula Hotel: showers in cool rooms, the Thai version of a familiar game show ("Who Wants to Win a Million Baht?"), and dinner in an opulent restaurant in the basement (courtesy of Barbara and Lisa -- thanks, ladies!). Here, in the middle of Bangkok's cacaphony: a marble-floored oasis of calm.

During a pause for cool drinks, our guides ask me several questions about my relationship with Clyde. "Eleven years together?" they ask, raising their eyebrows. "That's so long? How do you not get bored?"

"We just enjoy each other's company," I say. "We're good together."

They giggle. "I cannot imagine it," one of them finally says. "We'd need more variety!"

I'm perfectly happy with Clyde, and Clyde alone, but my assurances earn more giggles. In a country where the local market carries everything from live animals to zippered leather facemasks, variety is assumed to be the spice of life.

Back in Bangkok

The long flight over goes quickly and easily ... for us, anyway. (Lisa and Barbara sat in front of a line of screaming babies during the 12-hour leg of our flight!)

On the way over, we speak with the pleasant woman who drives us from the airport to our hotel. "Who will you be supporting in the US election?" she asks.

Everyone in our van says, "Kerry!"

She's delighted. "My last group was all for Bush. Most Thai, I think, support Kerry. We've seen how Bush frightens people since 9/11. Tourism is down. I think a change would be a good thing."

I agree.

It's very early here -- 2 AM, to be exact -- and we're very tired. Still, I had to post a note about the Peninsula Hotel, which is simply the most opulent hotel I've ever seen. Our suite is like a small apartment, with touch-controls for everything from the curtains to the air conditioning, all mounted on the bedside tables. We're in the lap of luxury!

More tomorrow. For now, I want a shower. I want to burn the clothes I wore on the flight. And I want to try the bright yellow water apples the staff left on our coffee table as a "Welcome Home" present.

We're safe. We're sound. We're here.

Back to Bangkok

We're headed to Asia, meeting John, Jeri, Phil, Brett, Barbara, and Lisa along the way.

In the Jackson airport, we're caught behind a couple who have never experienced the Wonders of Air Travel before.

"I have to take off my coat?" the wife asks. She shakes her head. "I've never heard of such nonsense."

Her husband is carrying a half-ton of change ("Must go in the bins, sir," the TSA agent says), a laptop ("Out of the bag, sir."), shoes with metal lifts hidden in the soles ("Step out of your shoes, sir."), and several large metal objects ("These can't go through with you, sir."), including a can of Diet Coke ("Yes, sir, you'll have to drink it or throw it away. I realize you just bought it, sir, but those are your options.").

Meanwhile, Wifey steps through the security scanner and sets off the alarms. "It's my metal hip replacement!" she brays. "I've got papers for it!"

A female agent approaches. "I'll have to scan you by hand, m'am. Can you step over here?"

"It's my hip," Wifey says again. "It's made of metal." She waves a yellow form under the agent's nose.

"Don't need to see that, m'am. I just need to scan you."

"I'm not taking off my blouse! My bra is see-through!"

On the far side of security, we squeeze past them. They are red-faced, huffing, half-dressed. They are stunned that it takes so long to get through "this security stuff."

They have taken their first baby steps into the Very Big World.

Voting Absentee

Clyde and I requested absentee ballots this year, as we'll be out of the U.S. on Election Day. Three weeks passed, and the ballots (predictably) never arrived ... so yesterday, we headed down to the County Courthouse to cast our vote.

It took only seconds to make my "X" for Kerry/Edwards. I had long ago made up my mind about the need (or lack of it) for a new convention center in Jackson, so this vote, too, went quickly. I knew embarassingly little about the judges on the ballot, but made (fairly random) choices and dispensed easily with these, as well.

And then, there it was ... the last item on the ballot -- the motion to amend Mississippi's state constitution to:

a) define marriage as a union between a man and a woman

and

b) declare that same-sex unions established in other states will not be honored or recognized by Mississippi state law.

Seeing those words printed on a state document made me both sad and sick to my stomach.

I have no question how this vote will go in Mississippi. We aren't exactly the nation's most progressive state.

Still, I really, really want to understand why my desire to marry my partner of 11 years is so darn threatening it requires a constitutional amendment to keep it at bay. What, precisely, is so threatening? Is it the fact that I love him? Is it the fact that I want him, by default, to be the person who inherits my pitiful estate, should I die first? Is it the fact that I want guaranteed access to his hospital room, should he become ill? Is it the fact that I want us to enjoy the same legal and civil protections that heterosexual long-term couples enjoy?

I don't want to force anyone else into a same-sex marriage.

I don't care whether or not the First Self-Righteous Church recognizes my marriage; therefore, I'm not interested in forcing them to embrace or bless my union.

For goodness sake: I just want to have the right to marry and care for and stick with the person who means more to me than anyone, anywhere.

What makes this whole affair so ugly, so objectionable, so outrageous is the simple, plain, unabashed, unapologetic bigotry behind it all: the reluctance on the part of certain heterosexuals to admit that my relationship with my partner is equal to (or stronger than) their own.

I almost wish people were honest enough to just say, "In our eyes, you people are second class citizens. You're fundamentally undeserving of marriage; you're flawed and less worthy. Your attachment to each other doesn't merit legal protection." That, at least, would be easier to take than all the doublespeak about "defending marriage." (Especially when those policiticans and pundits so intent on defending marriage are, so often, those who have destroyed more than a few through divorce!)

And so, yesterday, in the basement of the courthouse, I cast my vote against the constitutional amendment that, when it passes, will define my relationship as unworthy of state recognition.

When you cast your own vote, I hope you'll do so with folks like me and Clyde in mind.

China Belle - Restaurant Review

Yesterday, Clyde and I went to Jackson's China Belle restaurant for the first time in more than a year.

China Belle serves up your generic Chinese buffet fare (General Tso's chicken, sweet and sour chicken ... you know the drill) with a twist: they've installed a Mongolian grill.

Now, the restaurant dedicates one buffet table to raw strips of chicken, raw beef, and various cut veggies. You fill your plate with flesh, walk the length of the entire restaurant, and hand it over to the surly Grill Keeper, who dumps everything onto what looks like a scorching-hot stainless steel tabletop.

This unique approach has its downsides. Jacksonites aren't very careful with the tongs they use to select their raw meat, making cross-contamination very likely (as I discovered a bit later in the day, thank you very much). Worse, the Mongolian grill isn't vented, so the dining room is filled with a thin, grey, greasy smoke.

The Grill Keeper knows his audience -- overweight Southerners -- very well, so he's extremely liberal with his squirt bottle of glistening oil. If you don't want your food "Exxon Valdez" style, be sure to pantomime "No Oil!" within seconds of passing him your plate.

The Mongolian grill is, at least, an attempt to be distinctive in a market bulging with look-alike, taste-alike Chinese buffets. (Sun Koon implemented the same innovation, but closed it down after repeated citations for cross-contamination.) When I left, though, I felt all too greasy -- inside and out.

Great Movies You Won't See in Jackson

While in San Francisco, we took in showings of Shaun of the Dead (warning: big files, loud sounds) and a peculiar limited-release sci-fi flick, Final Cut.

Shaun of the Dead is a goofy, giddy send-up of all things zombie-licious. It moves quickly; in order to catch everything packed into the dialogue, you'd have to see it more than once.

Shaun (on telephone, worried): Mum! Mum! Are you alright?

Shaun's Mother (filtered): Funny you should ask. Earlier, some people did try to break into the house ...

Shaun: Mum! Did they hurt you?

Shaun's Mother (filtered): Um ... they were a bit ... bitey.

Lines like these are thrown away at 500 miles per hour while the characters careen from one juicy, stringy zombie attack to the next. As a result, the movie comes off as breezy and cheery ... even Clyde, who hates scary movies, seemed to like it.

Final Cut takes place in a contemporary, parallel world where a growing number of people are choosing to purchase Zoe implants -- organic brain enhancements that passively record everything the recipient sees and hears. When people die, "cutters" -- essentially, editors -- clip down the thousands of hours of footage into a 120-minute first-person documentary called a "rememory."

A very sober Robin Williams plays a dour master cutter who specializes in editing down the most horrible and sordid lives into gentle, nostalgic rememories. Like Solaris, which points out the difference between our perceptions of people we know versus the reality of their identity, Final Cut raises disturbing questions about the difference between what really happened ... and what we remember.

Good films, both. If they come to Jackson -- oh, who am I kidding? When they come to New Orleans, pack up the car and go see 'em.

A Fresh Approach

After reviewing their website, I booked two tickets with San Francisco's Local Tastes of the City tours. During our previous visit to the city, we enjoyed our Wok Wiz walking tour of Chinatown; this time, I thought we'd see what a culinary walking tour of North Beach would be like.

The fact that Clyde and I were the only two folks on the tour didn't daunt Tom, our friendly, animated guide. After we met in front of Mario's Cigar Shoppe on Washington Square, we walked to one of several local coffee shops -- this one distinctive because they roast fresh beans right on the premises, making their dark brew especially smooth. Tom knew our hosts by name, and the owner didn't hesitate to usher us behind the bar for a hands-on tour of the bean bins and roasters.

After this, we hit a local bakery specializing in focaccia. Tom bought us a "pizza," which I figured would be a doughy, cheese-laden pie -- too heavy, this early in the morning. Instead, we found ourselves scarfing down mouthfuls of cool, sweet, light bread gently brushed with fresh tomato sauce and spices. We didn't miss the cheese at all ... and learned a lesson about the power of fresh, flavorful ingredients in the process.

Over the next three hours, we sampled hand-thrown chocolate truffles (several varieties, all made on the premises by the owner), hot chocolate (think melted chocolate, not watered-down Swiss Miss), soft petit fours the size of my hand, chunks of freshly-baked bread dredged in extra-virgin olive oil, incredibly moist chocolate-dipped macaroons (more like coconut bread than the dry lumps that pass for macaroons back home), and more.

By the time we paused for lunch -- we were stuffed! Still, we managed to make room for the best pizza I've ever tasted in my life (light crust, naturally sweet tomato paste, topped with a few diced onions), a platter of pasta (three kinds, with three different sauces), and an amazing array of antipasto (including calamari and marinated mushrooms).

We walked away with a huge shopping bag of leftovers -- enough to feed four aggressive eaters! Best of all, though, this tour focuses on the food. Tom's tour is an education in the joys of fresh, local foods, prepared simply and lovingly by people who care about the products they make. Unlike other tours that pressure you to purchase packaged food from each vendor, the point of Tom's tour is the experience. We weren't asked, even once, to buy anything more than what the tour supplied.

In San Francisco? Call Local Tastes of the City Tours. You won't be disappointed.

Small Fish

Clyde and I arrive at the Borders Books in San Francisco�s Union Square about an hour before my book signing and author appearance are scheduled to begin.

My books are shelved in a prime location � right at the front door. We pass the display and head up the escalators to the fourth floor, where author events are held. I�m surprised to see the space includes a stage, speakers, a wireless mike hookup, and about twenty seats. An onstage table is stacked with my books. A poster, advertising my books, is on the wall. I�m shocked to see a dozen or so people already in their seats.

�These people are waiting for me?� I�m humbled. �A whole hour early?�

We wander back downstairs and circle the block a few times, returning to the store about fifteen minutes before the event is scheduled to begin.

The staff points me to the events director, who greets me with a smile. �Good to see you!� she says. �We�ll set up your table on the second floor, where everyone will see you, and you can work from there.�

I pause. �Really? Okay � that�s fine.�

�You can work the crowd better that way. And that will be nice, because we�ve got [an A-List author, who will go unnamed here] coming in thirty minutes after your appearance, and you can help build traffic for her.�

At first, this puzzles me � but upon reflection, it makes perfect sense. Clearly, the upstairs event space was intended to host two events this evening: mine, then [the A list writer�s] event. The folks upstairs, though, aren�t here early for my show � they�re very early for [the A list writer�s] show. With her crowd already growing larger than the space can manage � I�m being shifted to a spot by the escalators, two floors down.

Of course, I comply graciously, never mentioning that I�m aware of the change in plans. I meet and read for a dozen people over the course of the next two hours. I have a good time.

Before we leave, Clyde wanders upstairs to see [the A-List writer�s] crowd. �Not such a big deal,� he says. �No more than fifty people or so. In San Francisco, I�d expect more people would be here for [an A-List writer].�

It�s a sweet sentiment. Meanwhile, the event serves as a good reminder for me: I�m a very small fish in a very big pond -- at least for now.