A Prose Poem on My 57th Birthday

On my birthday, we drive down to Fisherman's Village, a little resort in Haad Chao Samran (Happy Kings Beach) on the Gulf of Thailand. The resort is packed with 40 little villas clustered on the beach. We love this little place, not only because it's small, but because it lacks the brassy impersonal feel of the bigger hotels and resorts. The area, too, is relatively undeveloped, since Hua Hin and Cha Am are where the hoi polloi like to unwind. Thus it has escaped the notice, for the time being, of the opportunists, social climbers, and sundry carpet-baggers from Bangkok. We are the only ones there; it is as if we have rented the place just for our private enjoyment.

For now, I have Haad Chao Samran to myself. There is something there, some quality of light, some trick or turn of the light, that makes whatever is commonplace seem strange. And new. Take this bird of paradise flower. They are a common sight by the ditches and canals in busy Bangkok, for they thrive wherever it is wettest. The bloom is ragged and slightly overblown from its exposure to the sun and the sea breeze. It will not last.

The coconut trees sough in the breeze as if lonely for company. I think of a short story by Italo Calvino, "The Enchanted Garden," about a magical garden that has an air of mystery hanging over it. Who owns it? Why is there no one enjoying the garden? The two children who trespass in that garden cannot really enjoy it either because they are afraid someone will find them and tell them to go away. They see a sad little boy inside the villa, obviously the owner of the house and the garden too. The children creep away. Perhaps they don't want to find out more. I, too, am content with what I see: the strip of land between the pool, the sea, and the endless horizon.

Thailand hasn't quite recovered from the recent political riots, still,  I don't recall an off-season this unattended. It's as if we gave a party and knew that half the guests wouldn't show up but went ahead with the party anyway. There is something sad and tentative about, as if an unsaid apology is on everyone's lips. The gentleman caller has failed to call on the lady. But because she is a lady, she retires to nurse her bruised dignity rather than complain about his lack of enthusiasm. 

There is really no one else in the garden to see the fitful blooms and their fading finery. Was anyone there to see them at their apogee? The amethyst blooms whiten with age in the gathering dusk. It is time to go inside. Soon. Mosquitoes whine their impatience to feed.

The little lizard posted his warning on the boardwalk. Then he climbed up the step and scuttled away. He left no editorial for me. No comment.

For dinner, in an empty dining room there is a table set for three. We eat a traditional Thai meal. First there is a soup, kaeng chud, a salty broth of napa cabbage, tofu, and bits of ground pork. The Thai like to spice things up, hence the little dish of nam jeem, a magical combination of fish sauce, garlic, lime juice, and chilies. A meal must include a Thai salad such as yum woon sen, salty, sour, sweet, and spicy;  a melange of slippery bean threads, slivered tomatoes, onions, tender Chinese celery leaves, and chopped chilies all served on a bed of lettuce.  Chinese kale (not pictured), crunchy and slightly bitter and served with nam man hoi or oyster sauce. And finally, to round out the meal, a kaeng, tender chicken slices in yellow coconut curry sauce sprinkled with slivers of chili and basil chiffonade. For dessert we cool our mouths with ice cream and fresh fruit. Andy's lime ice cream is a suspicious shade of green.
 

Daybreak. Last night's rain has washed away the heat and detritus of yesterday. It is cool. The mosquitoes have declared a temporary moratorium. Andy walks the beach and takes pictures of the day renewing itself.

Dawn's reflection. The light is muted in the windows. It must be a rule that a copy must be paler, denser, darker than its original. To reflect is to be open to receiving. I must remember that.

The beach. Layers of white tips and liquid mercury, gold sea-strand, and pink sand. It is hot. At breakfast I notice that another table has been set for two. Afterwards, I sit in the pavilion facing the sea. The sun climbs higher. It is hotter. I see a young couple walking on the boardwalk. Fisherman's Village is no longer just ours. In my bag, things to read, things to do. It's time to go. Am I ready to leave this place?