Porn and I headed to the hotel restaurant from the elevator, arm in arm. I smelled bacon, eggs, and fresh coffee from the lobby.
She subtly tugged my hand and led me out onto the street. Porn zigged and zagged assuredly tight in a maze of alleys until we emerged into the vibrant bustle of steam and sizzle, a street of hawker stalls. Aromatic spices and savoury oils filled my nostrils.
Porn chose a selection of appealing palette items and mild chilli for me. My enduring love of lemongrass and coriander grew from this day. We consumed a yummy breakfast and strolled with no purpose in the direction of the hotel.
I stopped her at a small shop that advertised personalised city tours. On impulse, I selected a Palace, and we headed off immediately. We embarked on a sightseeing adventure in the back of a private car, arms linked.
However, security stopped our approach at the palace boom gates. A uniformed guy talked to our driver in Thai, and his precise gestures stipulated no entry and a U-turn. In hindsight, I speculated renovations, a state event or a royal in residence.
Porn and our driver shared a conversation, and then she proposed to me a place she wanted to share.
I didn't catch the Thai name, as I agreed, "Fine, let's do something, anything."
Wherever she chose to lead me, the place was exceptionally crowded. The traffic became nose-to-tail vehicles. The streets narrowed to a single file of cars pressed between pedestrians. As our car's speed hit a snail's pace, Porn decided to walk after discussing a pickup point with our driver.
Outside the car's air conditioning, the heat hit instantly.
My cotton shirt became clingy within a minute. A pressing, swarming swathe of individuals streamed around us. We swerved and curved through milling, surging congestion. Porn stayed close company in the mass meander of bodies.
An elaborate array of souvenirs and market stalls flanked a crowd that moved in two directions: snack and fruit stands, flowers, garlands, incense sticks and candle booths. Cubicles selling jewellery trinkets, mala and glass beads. Countless mini Buddhas in brass, unpolished metal or painted ceramics lined tables.
Porn stopped at a juice stall, where she ordered fresh fruits blended, including a dash of lime. It came in a pocket-sized plastic bag, including a mini straw. The juice was a refreshing stop before we pressed on amongst ordered chaos.
She tried to peer over the mass of heads in the street, hard work, given her height. She scouted ahead, eyes darting, intent on a trade stall.
Searching in expectation, her hand gripped her slim purse.
Her persistent seeking ended successfully. Porn pointed high, bouncing on her toes. She excused and sidled us to a stall. Cramped between vendors, a tiny trader sold only gold leaf.
She purchased two thin sheets of foil, flimsy and pasty.
Porn, with a light hand squeeze, urged me to follow her.
We immediately started climbing broad steps into a vast Buddhist temple complex. I entered cultural astonishment, way out of my experience zone. There were no concerns on account of my escort, Porn.
At the apex of the steps, Buddha statues proliferated, positioned at intervals under a massive gabled tiered roof. Devotees performed rituals at each figure. Kneeling forward, offering prayers accompanied by respectful hand gestures as a flimsy piece of gold leaf fluttered in their fingers.
I watched a woman bend, and she pasted a foil leaf on the Buddha's body.
The Buddha in front of Porn and I was smeared in gold leaf. Mottled, stippled, pitted, close to pocked in patches, yet beautifully dappled under gabled shadows. The icon measured a metre tall, sculptured in a seated position.
Porn waited until the lady in front finished their ritual, gilding the gold leaf and moving off backwards with raised hand prayer gestures.
Our opportunity arrived. Porn beckoned me to join her. She gave me a piece of the tattered gold leaf, spider web thin.
Both pieces frayed, close to disintegrating in the heat of the day. My piece pinched between sweaty fingertips, rippling without a breeze.
Porn pasted her piece of gold leaf on the Buddha, and I copied her action.
Her cheeks dimpled; she liked my effort.
I participated in a ritual with and without understanding. Here, I witnessed absolute faith and formal practised procedure by Patsaporn.
I discerned her dedicated moment and strove to respect her devoutness.
She reversed, knelt, and completed a sequence of hand gestures. I comprehended they carried significance and followed her careful movements.
We moved to the side, and another person or couple followed suit.
I glanced at countless gilded shimmering Buddhas.
I don't remember the details of leaving the temple complex or wandering the same crowded streets afterwards. I recall we stopped at a stall of my choice. Distinctive, colourful, hand-painted, and embroidered cloth depicting Ramayana scenes stopped me in my tracks.
I purchased two easily folded gifts as tokens to remember Bangkok.
My memory of this afternoon centres on imbibing a young woman's culture and the pleasure of her company.
Porn wended me to the private car in a side alley. Our courteous driver dropped us off at an outdoor market, where we split a street meal.
Back at the hotel room, relaxed, I decided on a beer.
While I opened the minibar, Porn asked carefully across the bedroom, near her bag, timid and soft, "Luke, I need to go and get clean clothes, please. I will not long go, please."
Heartless hit me!
I looked at her, and my hand missed the beer can.
You're a prick, full of yourself!
Her personal needs ignored, you're so inconsiderate!
"Sure, go, it's fine. I'll wait here," I said straight up.
I gave a reassuring, open face and gestured to reinforce my consent.
She paused at the door, holding her small bag.
"Thank you, Luke. You are kind."
With a click of the door, I faced the hotel's emergency exit plan affixed to the back panel. The do not disturb card in Thai and English swung on the door handle. My fingers tightened on a can of beer, and my foot tapped on a threadbare patch of carpet.
Kind!
I constituted an arsehole!
However, my evening's entertainment had collapsed. I shook my head.
Goodbye, sensual fest?
I contemplated being alone in a hotel room. The beer I opened staled; it was wasted, left unconsumed. I dug into my bag and found my travel reading—deep pages into Les Misérables with Éponine brooding about Marius.
Porn returned within the hour.
Clearly out of breath, attesting, she rushed.
Her glow contributed to her youthful attractiveness. Her eyes searched for confirmation that my wait lacked agitation. The book in my hands relaxed her. She hovered, respecting my reading. She noticed I'd placed the book spine down, open on the bed.
Porn put it in the same position on the bedside table.
Her fresh T-shirt fitted tight in pale pastel pink, and as she scampered into bed, I glimpsed yellow creamy, high-cut underwear.
I slept in my boxers.
We kissed, cuddled and slept; no sex, yet limbs fused and hitched.