Tuesday morning. Here we are at the coffee stand. Something crazy is happening a bit further up the street. Not really sure what it is today.
I had a very interesting evening last night. It was most unexpected. I went down to the pot shop I like. I was hanging out with the Sardinian Guy I met there who came by with his other Italian friend. The friend is a real-life Hot Chef who is in the city for a cooking class. I don’t know f he’s teaching it or taking it, but either way he was ready for dinner.
Suddenly, I was no longer the lonely spinster who was pining away for the British Guy and his attic full of dark secrets. I was an award- winning food critic teaming up with a professional Italian chef on a mission to find the best street food in Bangkok.
Hell yes. Change that channel, bitch!
This is why I don’t like it when people say I play the victim. Who is a victim here? I’m out to dinner with two Italian Stallions. Yeah I think I’m winning at life.
How did our mission to find dinner go? Well, it was an adventure. First the Sardinian, who I met at the pot shop some months ago, wanted to go to the karaoke bar next to the American Bar. The vibe was super weird! They didn’t have any of the food on their menu and the only people allowed to do karaoke were the owner’s drunk family members.
Finally, they brought us a single plate of fried rice, which was just… lol. We got out of there pretty fast after that. We wandered down the street and around the corner to some random market instead. We got a bunch of different things from the food stands and shared them all. It was okay. Decent. I’ve had better, personally. There are better places. I hope the Hot Chef and I can go to a different spot for food.
The night continued to get weirder from there. There was a pool table, but we couldn’t just play pool together. Only one guy was allowed to play pool and everyone else had to challenge him for the table. It was… like kind of a weird mafia situation actually? This guy had a whole Krewe of pool sharks that just flocked around the table and cheered him on. We decided to leave after the Hot Chef played a game with him. We were supposed to play together. Alas.
As we walked back, the Sardinian began explaining to us that he “feels like he is black in his heart” and that’s why he wears his hair in dreadlocks. He also said, “it was the greatest honor of my life to be called a N**** by a black Rasta guy from Jamaica.” He did not censor the word. Meanwhile, I was just standing there trying not to say anything. I didn’t know what to say, so I just smiled and said nothing at all.
Then we went to the American Bar, where I ended up wandering off with Old Man Wiley, who is my local replacement for Mad Dog. It’s not the same at all. And let me tell you, the vibe got super weird in this World War II Bar when the Italians walked in. Like, weird weird. There was an energy shift like I have not felt before. Something was definitely off.
They left after a short time and disappeared off into the night. Don’t worry, I definitely got the Hot Chef’s number. I’m actually way more interested in the food on this one than the guy. I mean, what’s there to say about the guy? He’s hot, he’s Italian, he loves food and football and life. He’s super cool. It is what it is.
Let’s hit up that night market, baby.
One thing that was fun was to change my name again. Not everyone does well with the name Betsey, so I use Liz sometimes. Italians don’t like to say Betsey because it’s too hard on the accent. It’s smoother to just say Liz or Eliza. Mostly, they were using Eliza. Ayy-leese-a.
The Sardinian was so funny when I told him my name is Elizabeth. He said, “I knew you were a Queen.”
Lol! I love Italianos! Got a great deal on that 2-for-1 special last night. Talk about La Dolce Vita. Lol!
Hmm… British Guy who? You see, they come and they go. Another one (or two!) always appear in their place soon enough. No need to worry. Just enjoy the ride.
It’s like the Universe heard me say, “Roman Empire” and delivered a Roman straight to my doorstep. Love that for me.
After the Italians departed, I was sitting back at the bar all alone. At this point, I was tired, tipsy, stoned, and in a food coma. I was ready to go home. And then the IRA came looking for me to share their story.
I was sitting there like, “First of all, I am way too fucked up for this conversation right now. Second, I need to make a list of questions to ask you and come back when I am not fucked up. Third, I can’t believe they had you making bombs when you were only sixteen years old. That’s insane. Let’s table this conversation and return to it later.”
Ask and you shall receive. I asked the universe to help me become a writer, and look at all the stories I’m gathering. I’ve been here, what, a week and a half? And already I’ve had it out with a Mark Antony-wannabe, watched a screaming bar fight between the Brits and the Irish, met a YouTube Influencer, had dinner with two Italian guys, met a bunch of current/ex-military guys with crazy stories from Hong Kong (and life in general), and hung out with the IRA.
All in a day’s work.
Oh yeah, I can totally do this. It’s just the putting it all on paper part that’s difficult to do. it’s starting to come together. I have a routine. I have plenty of content and endless access to new material. I can do this. I can make this happen.
Let’s make it happen.