Ah…It’s Saturday and I just rewarded myself for completing the first week of the new term with brunch at my favorite neighborhood café, which serves top-notch Thai and a killer American breakfast. This cozy little joint attracts a mix of expats and artsy Thai boys. Its French-inspired shabby chic décor makes me feel like I'm in Paris rather than Bangkok, minus the view of the cheap massage place across the street. The two women who are always there—one waitressing, one behind the bar—are sweet and beautiful and always greet me with the warmest Sawatdeekahs. Typical for Thailand, the vibe is laid-back and there’s no hurry to leave. It can take a while for an American—used to the getcha-in-getcha-out dining experience—to adjust to service in Bangkok. Your server will usually bring menus and stand there waiting while you decide what to order (this can be somewhat anxiety-inducing, but I’m told it’s considered good service and they’re in no hurry for you to choose.) After your food arrives, you will not be approached by the server again. Not a “How’s the food?” or “May I get you anything else?” It’s up to you, the patron, to flag a server—any server, not necessarily the one who took your order—down for any other needs, including the bill. (Requesting the bill is a simple check bin kah—or khrap if you’re male—while moving your pointer and middle fingers in a circle.) I’ve grown fond of this undisturbed style of eating, particularly when I’m in a leisurely mood and have a good book, but sometimes when nary a server is to be found, the impatient American in me starts fidgeting and drumming her fingers on my nerves. But not today. Today, I'm on Thai time.
My classes this term are going really well so far, but they’re larger so I’m having a harder time remembering all the names. Almost all Thais adopt nicknames, for which I’m grateful, but still... Many of the nicknames are just common American words: Bird, Ball, Game, Golf, Bowling, Beer, Ice, Pie, and my personal favorite, Name. And others are Thai nicknames, which can be difficult because certain sounds don’t exist in English and the rise and fall of syllables is so important. A class during my first term cheered when I finally (at the advice of another teacher) pronounced Ple just like bun, despite their insistence that it sounds like the second syllable in apple. So this term, Ople seemed impressed when I addressed her as obun right off the bat. I’m getting there. But when to tell the innocently named Porn (short for Jiraporn) what her name means in English?
