I have a lovely, quiet morning at the Queen's Gallery and Loha Prasat, and exactly the lunch that I want at the cute Chinese chain restaurant on the corner. It is passion fruit juice, pork roasted, fried and in sausage with cucumbers and plenty of chilies, plus coconut ice cream. The flecks of coconut are dyed pink and pale green for gaiety, but the flavor is rich, slightly smoky, and sublime.
But success like that can only breed arrogance, I guess. I think I'll finally see the Grand Palace, and perhaps take a look at Wat Phra Kaew along the way. Even the Wat defeats me. I pause outside to pull on my little nylon shrug, a gesture of politeness, I think, to cover my almost bare shoulders. A man on his way out gestures at me impatiently with his stick of meatballs, an early afternoon snack. "Go in," he urges. "It's free!" (In retrospect I am sure he meant well.) My heart sinks. I trot forward, still struggling with my jacket. A little further on I pause to adjust a sleeve. A man sitting near pipes up. "Go in, go in! To your left! It's free!" He is an older man, a little plump and quite contented-looking. He shows no sign of wishing to get up. But I scurry away, hoping to escape. Foolish. A bright-eyed woman in front of me turns and waves. All Thailand can't be focused on luring me into one temple, can they? But the lady is. She insists that I follow her, does not allow me to hang back, and demands to know where I am going next, right where we are, plopped down at the feet of the Buddha in the temple. She scolds me for booking tours through my hotel, points out the cheaper tourist office on my map, and then derides my plan to go to the Grand Palace. I will wait for a ticket for at least an hour, and then have no time to see anything. Bad idea! Have I seen the standing Buddha?
Yes, I say lamely, unfolding the map further to show her where. No, no. That isn't the right one. She points out a Wat near Dusit, shows me her holy card of the place, and then points out two others. One, the Golden Mount, I saw years ago, the victim of a convincing tout. It is next door to the places I had visited early in the day, but I had skipped it. Why relive bad memories?
I thank her as graciously as I can, but deflect her questions about where I might go next. After a moment she turns to say her prayers, and I run.
I run out a different door than the one we came in. I turn left, taking a path through an amulet market, skipping over dogs and sucking in my breath to get around monks, who must not be touched, however accidentally. I dodge soldiers with equal care. All hard eyes and hard abs, they should be the opposite of the monks, but are not. Untouchables, all. Or I am, at any rate.
At last, the amulets are behind me. It is no less crowded. Flowers to one side, food to the other. But I can't stop here. I slip through an opening, hoping to look at my map and come up with a plan, but it's impossible. A tuk-tuk driver with a fake American accent rushes to my side. Probably a foreign woman alone is an easy mark. Most days, that is. Not today. He outlines the same program as the lady in the temple, failing to mention the craft shop he will insist that I visit along the way.
I thank him sweetly and assure him that I now know where I am--he has pulled out his own map, as mine is sadly tattered--and re-enter the market the way I came.
Before me sits a man stringing those little white flowers into tiny garlands. I don't know what the flowers are. They are not jasmine, and have an odd shape. I have never seen them in India, but in Southeast Asia they are auspicious, and form the standard collar for a bottle of Fanta offered at a little spirit house. But they are not what stop me. Before him sits a bucket of plastic-wrapped bouquets of gardenias. Only one flower shows on many a bunch, and some look a bit brown. But others do not. The gentleman names his price, 20 baht for one bunch, in a disapproving tone that tells me this is high. Not to me! I gesture at a bunch that has a fresh flower facing upwards, and pay. I run to the pier, half intending to get the boat to pier 15 and walk to the temple where everyone seems to want me to go today. But as I dig for change, I see the cross-river ferry pull up, and remember the pretty white Wat and the coffee shop across the way. I toss three baht at the fare collector and run to the boat. She pays no attention, does not mind what the stupid foreigner does. In this case it's what all the Thais do, so why bother?
Now I've made the right decision. I loosen my bouquet as we float across and see more than three fresh flowers. (In the end there are more than six. My room smells like heaven!)
On the other side, I skip over sandbags, trying to keep my toes dry. A beautiful Thai woman sells me an iced coffee, and I join the drinking, snacking throngs going about their business. The temple is full. The moment to make merit is at hand. In the two foreshrines, people are gilding the Buddahs and offering orchids and marigolds. I would buy a leaf of gold if I could figure out how, but I can't. And I daren't offer a gardenia. I have never seen it done, and my flowers may be inauspicious. (White!)
So I catch the ferry up with all my flowers. I have decided to go to the big Buddha, if I can. He is not all that easy to find. But I do it, passing two disgruntled Russians on the way. They have ditched their cheating tuk-tuk driver at the temple and are arguing about whose fault it was they got swindled. I don't understand a word, but I know that's what they're saying. There is no other reason for a foreigner, a tourist, to be walking on this particularly grey Bangkok street. And I've done the same myself, after all.
As I find the temple a tuk-tuk passes me. The couple inside looks grim. On the way in, they whisper together, arguing about what they ought to do. I hang back, and wait for them to move on. I edge up to the shoe-leaving area, drop my sandals, and move forward. I edge back and forth, hoping to see the spot for my flower. Two Korean boys come forward, equally frightened of being disrespectful. But they take photos, and I watch a cat claw the rug near Buddha's left toe. When the boys are done, I slide down to the left side, and kneel. I salute the cat, place my freshest gardenia in the most humble place, between the Buddha's smallest left toes, and brush my fingertips on his little toe.
The Korean boys have been watching. They comment on what I have done before they go, but I cannot measure what they say. I stand, and look back uncertainly. I have seen people photographing the leaf of gold or offering they gave. But a voice says leave it, let it go. So I do. I look back and see my gardenia, beautiful against the gold. And then I go on. It's finished.
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