Bangkok VII

The receptionist is always at the front desk, behind the monitor. When we arrived in the evening yesterday, she was busy clicking away. After coming back from our evening excursion, she was still there, smiling. This morning too, as we left the hostel, she was already seated, freshly groomed. And now, at almost 9PM, she's still sitting on that black desk chair of hers, looking at the screen while I placed myself by the counter with my 40baht chap fan I'd bought from a street vendor with dreadlocks and piercings.

I stopped in front of his cart, looked at the dishes, then up at him and said "Well, I've only got 40baht left!" I wonder how this tourist with the bowl bob must have appeared to him.

My companions have gone off to eat Moo Kata. If I were to describe what happened with historical accuracy, then it would be more appropriate to say that I left them on the train and came back by myself. It isn't that I'm being a considerate sister who knowingly leaves the lovebirds at the peak of their youth to their own devices, rather, they had already spent what little tolerance I have in me. With the Moo Kata, it was because they never bothered looking up the address of the restaurant properly, and relied on me to lead the way, the me who similarly haven't a clue as to where the place could be.

Google found me an article of how to get to this 36 Moo Kata On Nut, and so we rode 9 stops from Siam Station to On Nut. A barbecue place called 36 Moo Kata On Nut would obviously be in On Nut, right? Well, the Thais need some education on logic and rationality because the restaurant wasn't there.

I suppose it was partly my fault for failing to check the date of the article, but it should have been their responsibility to double-check before we left, mainly because it was where they wanted to go. Like After You and the 100baht wantan noodles that were drier and lumpier than my expired love life-- they just had to go dine at the places their friends, and the rest of Malaysia have visited. In my experience, hyped up food is never worth the wait nor the price so I never bothered looking up restaurants.

Young people these days are the sheep that God has dreamt of, but they seem to be worshipping social media instead of this great diety. He's going to have to make it rain for 40 days and 40 nights a lot sooner, and drown this hopeless generation of pampered hype beasts.

The receptionist is probably a Rihanna fan. Tonight's playlist is Rihanna, Rihanna, and oh, Rihanna.

Having finished my peasant dinner, I'm chilling--literally having my body slowly frozen underneath the flow of the air-conditioning--in the common room where a huge flat screen sits above wall racks of DVDs. Someone is watching an American movie that I've already watched. I've forgotten the title but it is one of those dramatisation of real-life stories. This one in particular is about how a few men made millions, or billions, off of the housing market crash in the US some years ago.

A bookshelf stands upright in an unlighted corner two steps away from the TV. Surprisingly, there is a selection of old Japanese novels.

Rihanna's Te Amo is playing in the reception hall. It's been a very long time since I've heard this one. A little more, and I'll move my icy feet to climb up three flights of stairs.