Since being back to Chiang Mai, Cole has been asking us to go for a ride on the motorbike, usually right before he falls asleep at night. He’s like, “I’m tired, you know what would be relaxing? A ride around the old city. Seriously, let’s go right now.” But what he really says is:
“SHOES!!! SHOES!!! GO! GO!”
Then Drew and I scramble from whatever position of repose we were enjoying to take a 10 PM jaunt around the city.
On this night, we’re driving around, Cole has already fallen asleep and everything it’s dark and quiet.
Drew: Look, there’s the Chiang Mai Writer’s Club*.
Me: Ooh we finally found it. We should go there.
Drew: And drink Hemmingway style!
Me: Drew I can’t, I’m pregnant.
Drew: Oh. If you can’t drink what’s the point?
Me: What’s the point of anything?
We laugh. Way too much.
Drew: [after a pause] Wait, does this mean we’re nihilists?
Me: No, it means we’re alcoholics**.
*Google tells me it’s the Chiang Mai Writers Club & Wine Bar, and Lonely Planet notes, “There’s also English pub grub to help anchor a liquid meal.” I’m pretty sure writer’s club is just a classy way of saying, “I like to get hammered but without the loud music”.
**We’re not really alcoholics but I do miss wine. Just this week. I’m daydreaming about frozen margaritas too, it’s unsettling.
Photo by Sergey Puzin