Things seemed to be willed into existence that before could only have existed in a night of fitful sleep.
Bouffants are back.
They assure me.
Sketches are drawn before you, lines intersecting in angular patterns, rising up like a phoenix from the ashes of a busy highway.
They remind me.
Masterpieces paint themselves before you, watercolors swirling on the page until they find just the right spot to settle.
We blew the grocery money on Pocky! Again.
They explain to me.
The vivid tableau of Bangkok life is a gallery all of its own. But it seems that no one - expats, tourists and locals alike - will ever really understand all that there is to know about Bangkok.
What does anything ever mean anyway?