EDWIN JONES

I start writing this, just after I moved seats. The chatter, even though joyful, rebounded too much inside my head. All four wore pastel yellows and whites. They must have discussed this before all leaving their hotel rooms. One had a sharp bob style haircut, and she was taking selfies, a pinky pulling one corner of her mouth downwards. Cheeky, fake sad. Perfect content. They began getting up from their table, they had brought in their lunch from a food stall outside, leaving their leftovers for the cafe owner to clean up. Their clothing was like capes, light and flowing, though nothing personal about them, nothing to say what their superpowers would be other than selfish, unaware. Their capes flowed out the door behind them, their big brimmed hats leading the way, to whatever else they were to go explore outside as the traffic noise peaked in from the door.

My table has polka dots on it. Try and look at polka dots and feel sad. Even black and white ones like these, begin to move with a funk or shuffle of a joyful song. Those sorts of songs patter across the soundscape here, like a lofi track you put on when trying to write and pretend you are in a sleepy Bangkok cafe.

Older white men, often stroll inside. They often just look tired, like they were just used to scrub down the stubborn grease on a pan. Whether they have lived in Bangkok for two months or seven years. Their clothes are clean, but their bodies worn, mottled red and patchy. I dont want to assume, though it is unlikely a greasy pan that caused this, but many afternoons in a lane way dive bar, drinking the Singha to stop the life they had left. But today they have found their way, to read the paper and have caffeine. Almost dormant, to start their day, even if it usually leads to the bar directly.

A young, handsome German tourist, wont leave the cashier alone. He is using the opportunity to speak the four words in Thai he has learnt since he arrived yesterday. The cashier is polite, she talks to him, partly looking at the wall behind him. There are no other customers to serve, so she nods and smiles. Probably the third man today using her as his practice. He tells her of the Australian guy who he follows on Instagram who speaks Thai, like a Thai. And ONLY been living in Thailand two years. His English and choice of words are so earnest. You cannot fault him for wanting to simply be engaging and showing interest in language. Eventually he sits quietly, smiling at his phone at something. His glasses on his head, looking up at the spinning ceiling fans.

Bangkok is so easy to drift. Like those coming in and out of the door of this sleepy cafe. Just drift, whether in the snow or river, to what makes you happy. Its what is always learnt, from even just sitting in a cafe in my home of Bangkok.