Sometime Raining, Sometime No Raining in Thailand

by Adam Jeffries Schwartz

The Armenian Cab Driver

Your cab driver is Armenian. You know this because he says, "Hello, I am Armenian."

"Really?" You say, "How long have you lived in New York?"

He laughs, "All my life. It's just for money."

What, you wonder, is just for the money, his life?

"I speak six languages," he says.

You count languages he might speak: Armenian for sure, Turkish probably, English. You're stuck for the next three.

"Where are you going?" he asks. (The cab is going to Kennedy airport; he knows this.)

"To Asia," you say. Thankfully he doesn't ask why you're going.

This is your fourth trip to Asia.

The first was six months from Bali to India, the standard tourist trek, where even disgusting things were fun.
The second was a job in Korea. You lasted a full two months of the year contract.
The third was escape from a relationship. You can't blame a continent for your mood.
This is the fourth. You have no idea why you are going; you wish people would stop asking.

"I go to Asia twice a year!"

"Really, where?" You feel the urge to ask why and hate yourself for it. Why does anyone do anything?

"To China! I go to China for the freedom!"

"To China," you repeat. "For the freedom?"

"Yes! With two thousand dollars you live like King!"

The Armenian cab driver has an identity; he can locate it on the map, lucky guy.

The Flight Attendant Has One; Drew Barrymore Pretends to Have One, Too

Flying is too fast. Flying over the polar ice cap is stupid fast; it's the microwave of cooking--and you're the popcorn. You would like caravan slow; you'd like dates and figs; you'd like camels. But then there'd be other problems: camel spit, flies. There might be bandits also; but they might be cute: you can never tell with fate. You wish you didn't believe in fate, it's sentimental, arrogant, self-indulgent. Still.

The plane and all the people on it are Japanese.

You sit in your miniature seat and watch movies as various body parts go numb.

You watch Chariots of Fire, a classic.

You watch Drew Barrymore impersonate the girl next door. She does this remarkably well for someone who has never been next door; you're impressed.

You eat mango sandwiches. They don't make sense in any culture but whose fault is that?
The sandwiches are presented with great dignity: eyes lowered, head bowed; it is suddenly a great honor both to give and to receive a mango sandwich.
Your inner American screams:
Stop it! Stop all this bowing, the scraping. Stop the fake humility. Stop it!

The flight attendant doesn't hear you. Instead she spills things on your leg; she spills water on your leg and she spills juice (both orange and then apple). Later--as a special treat--she spills a bottled green tea thing on your leg. The flight attendant apologizes. She apologizes after the water and she apologizes after the juice spills and she apologizes after the bottled green tea spill. She brings scented towels and she rubs, rubs, rubs the stains away.

Then you watch the plane make its way across the miniature map of the world--that counts as progress also; it has to.

Sometime Raining, Sometime No Raining

You land in Bangkok. It's midnight outside and eleven in the morning inside; you're stretched between the two. You get off the plane and you wait in line just as a person would.

"Passport, please."

"Yes," you say as you hand it over.

"What is your destination?"

You make something up and walk into Thailand.

It's raining in great sheets; it wasn't raining when you landed. You buy a ticket for the tourist bus and ask, "Has it been raining long?"

She scrunches up her face, turns her back, consults with three friends behind the counter who are smoking. (Thais smoke cigarettes as we would cigars: puff, puff, puff. It's all exhaling with little inhaling. They only get lip cancer--generously giving us the rest.)

Your question has clearly stumped the whole community of smokers.

Undaunted the ticket woman says, 100 Baht (about 2 dollars fifty cents, the price of the ticket you just bought).

Then she points to the chart behind her, fifteen minutes (the arrival of the next tourist bus.) She stares at you, hopefully.

You say, "Sorry."

She says, "Sor-ly."

You put your hand out of the awning. She jumps up, tries to restrain you.

You show the wet hand to her, say, "Rain, coming?"

She nods, happy to understand finally. "Rain com-ING, sometime rain no com-ING."

It's true. Finally something is true; it makes you so happy.

The Author

Adam Jeffries Schwartz is a writer and a traveler. He has stories in Descant and Grimm magazines(both in Canada), Petit Journal (Mexico) and in the anthology, Walking Higher (USA)

Online he pops up at many sites, including Ghoti (Fish) Magazine, Melange, LitBits, Magazine Shiver, Mosaic Minds, Kaleidowhirl and Anacoenesis Literary Journal.