The rain was already drumming on the corrugated roof when I woke up. Not the polite drizzle of the morning, but the full afternoon hammer, the kind that makes you check your watch and do the maths. If it started at two, it would be done by four. I had two hours to get across town, see the show, and get back before the streets turned to canals. The guesthouse fan was still spinning from the night before, and my notebook had a list of three things I wanted to do. The museum was at the top, because it was the last day of the inaugural exhibition at Dib Bangkok, and the woman at the front desk had told me it was worth the detour.
I pulled on my sandals and grabbed the umbrella from the corner. The air outside was like a wet towel. That is the thing about Bangkok in August, the air holds everything. It is 26 to 33 degrees, but the feels-like number is always higher, and the humidity sits on your skin like a second layer. You learn to move between air-conditioned pockets, from the 7-Eleven to the BTS station, timing the gaps. The fare to get down to the art district was about 45 baht on the Skytrain, roughly a dollar and a half, and I tapped through the gate with the Rabbit card I had picked up on day one.
On the train, I watched the city slide by. The sky was the colour of old silver coins, and the skyscrapers disappeared into the cloud at the twentieth floor. In the monsoon, Bangkok stops being a city of roofs and becomes a city of reflections. The glass towers turn into waterfalls. The streets turn into mirrors. It is not a bad way to see a place. The train was half empty, which is rare for Bangkok. Everyone with any sense was inside somewhere, waiting for the rain to finish. I was the only one heading out into it.
Dib Bangkok is a converted steel warehouse. I was told it used to be a factory, and you can feel it in the bones of the place, the high ceilings, the concrete floors, the way your voice echoes off the bare walls. The inaugural show was called '(In)visible Presence', and I got there with maybe an hour before closing. The gallery was quiet. A few other people moved between the pieces, but mostly it was just me, my wet umbrella, and the work. There was something about the way the light fell through the high windows in the rain, grey and soft, that made the whole place feel like a held breath.
I will be honest with you. Contemporary art is not always an easy sell for me. But this show was about absence and memory, about the things you see out of the corner of your eye. It worked in that warehouse, because the space itself does half the talking. The rusty steel beams, the patched roof, the smell of old concrete and new paint. I spent 45 minutes in there, and I did not check my phone once. When I came out, the rain had stopped, or rather, it had paused. That is the rhythm here. The sky opens, drenches everything, then holds its breath before the next round. I wanted to see the Song Wat market, since I had missed the film festival market by a day, but the stalls along Old Gate Alley were still packing up from the weather.
I walked down towards the Chao Phraya river. The streets in this part of town are narrow and old, and the warehouses have been painted with murals. There is a creativity to it, a sense of a district finding a new life. A few small cafes had set up chairs by the water, and I spotted a table at Piccolo vicolo, a tiny Italian-inspired spot tucked under the awning. I ordered a cappuccino, about 75 baht, around two dollars, and watched the river do its work. Barges loaded with sand and such moved slow, and the ferries cut across at an angle, tracing lines in the brown water. The ferry to cross costs something like 8 or 10 baht, a small coin for a big view.
There is a particular feeling to drinking coffee by the Chao Phraya in the rain. The river is the reason Bangkok exists. It was the reason the old kings built their palaces here, why the trade came, why the city grew up along the klongs, the canals that used to be the real streets. Now the river is the working backbone, ferries and freight, while the BTS weaves above the city. I sat there for a while, watching a long tail boat accelerate, its engine roaring like a chainsaw. The wake slapped against the concrete embankment. That is the sound of Bangkok, I think. That and the low rumble of thunder you learn to read like a clock.
The shop owner came out and stood under the awning too. We got to talking, the way you do when the rain forces a pause on everyone. He told me that the Song Wat film market would be back next week, from the 4th to the 12th of August, if I was still around. I told him I was here for the week, settling in, sorting the paperwork before heading north. He nodded, like that was the most natural thing in the world. He said the word 'sanuk' which means fun, or joy, or the sense of making life an enjoyable thing. He said that in Bangkok, you have to find the sanuk in the rain, or you will only ever feel wet.
The rain eased off, and I decided to walk into the old town, Rattanakosin, just a teaser pass. I am saving the full tour for a later season, but I wanted to see the Grand Palace walls, even in passing. The white walls with the crenellations, the golden spires of Wat Phra Kaew just peeking over the edge. I did not go in. The queues were long, and I was not properly dressed, no long trousers, and the whole thing needs a full morning. But standing there, at the edge of the ceremonial heart of Bangkok, built in 1782, I felt the weight of the project. This is the starting line. Everything I need to know about Thailand, about the north, about the old railway I plan to follow, it all begins here, in this old, heat-soaked, rain-washed city.
I walked past a vendor selling som tam, the green papaya salad. She was pounding it in a big clay mortar, the pestle making a steady thump, thump, thump. The smell of lime, chilli, and fish sauce cut through the damp air. I bought a small bag for 50 baht, around a dollar and a half, and ate it with a plastic fork, standing under a shop awning. The heat from the chillies woke me right up. In Thailand, you eat to beat the heat. You sweat, and somehow, it makes you feel cooler. That is the logic, and I am a believer.
By late afternoon, I made my way back to Ari, the neighbourhood I have chosen as my base. I keep coming back to Ari. It has a quieter local character than the expat corridor, more trees, more cafes, and the rent is reasonable. I have been looking at a one-bedroom condo near the BTS, somewhere between 12,000 and 20,000 baht a month, maybe four hundred and fifty dollars. It is the kind of place with a little balcony, a place to hang wet clothes, a view of the green canopy. It is not flashy, but it is real. It is a life, not a holiday.
That evening, I went out for dinner with a purpose. I had a craving for pad krapao, the basil stir-fry, and I found a local eatery in a small soi off the main road. A plastic table, a metal fan, a plate of rice with a fried egg on top. The whole thing was about 120 baht, about three dollars. The cook was using a wok over a huge gas flame, and the oil was sizzling so hard you could feel the heat from across the room. The holy basil went in and the whole place smelled like a Thai kitchen should smell. That is sanuk too, I think. That simple joy of a good, hot, fast meal after a long day.
I have been thinking about the structure of this journey. Bangkok is the hub. It is where I will keep returning, the base between the roads north. Over the next two years, I want to follow the old northern corridor, out of the city, through the ancient Siamese capitals of Ayutthaya and Sukhothai, then up the historic railway into the monsoon-green mountain valleys of the far north. But the city keeps pulling me back. It is a place you have to learn to carry with you, like the rain in your hair.
I walked back to the guesthouse through the evening air. The city had washed itself clean, and the streets steamed gently. The tuk-tuks were out in force, their three-cylinder engines ticking over at the lights. The drivers called out, but I shook my head and kept walking. The night was too good. The sky had cleared to a deep violet, and the city lights were starting to flicker on. I could hear a gecko call from the wall of a building, the little chuckling sound that means the evening is properly begun.
I stopped at a 7-Eleven for a bottle of water and a cup of yoghurt, probably 40 baht all in. The fluorescent light was a shock after the softness of the street. The cashier smiled, wrapped my items in a small plastic bag, and I stepped back outside. The air was warm and thick. It is easy to love a city that holds you this close. Tomorrow, I will start the paperwork hunt for a proper year-long visa, because the 60-day exemption runs out faster than you think. I will go to the immigration office at Chaeng Wattana, I am told it is a whole day affair. But tonight, there is nothing to do but listen to the rain start again, a soft patter on the awnings above. It is the soundtrack of this season, and I am learning to move to its rhythm. Tomorrow is another day, and there will be more rain, and more surprises. That is the beauty of starting from here.
I got back to my room and stood at the window. The street below was glassy with water, and the neon signs reflected in long streaks of pink and green. I thought about the art I had seen, the quiet warehouse, the grey light. I thought about the river, full of water and history, moving through the city like a dark artery. And I thought about the north, waiting for me out there, beyond the rain. I have two years to see what all this turns into. Day one was about landing. Day two was about surviving the monsoon. Day three, today, was about finding the silence inside the storm. That is enough for now. I have a proper meal to plan for tomorrow, and maybe a boat ride down the klong before the afternoon shower. Sawasdee from Bangkok. Sleep well.