I was a bit temple-d out from my forays into India’s many ruins, temples, tombs, mosques etc. My brain can only take in so much amazing historical architecture- it has been addled by the steady diet of E! Reality Shows that I feed it (just kidding future residency directors- I exclusively read the New England Journal and thick, onerous medical textbooks for fun). Anyway, long story long, I was absolutely floored by the amazing temples in Bangkok. They are truly unlike anything I’d ever seen.
I took the public riverboat bus or walked between temples and along the way ate some amazing food, walked through a relic market and did some solid people watching. I especially enjoyed climbing the super steep steps of Wat Arun (although the way down left me a sweaty palmed mess-
my mom would have hated it!) and grabbing a quiet moment in the queen’s textile museum at the Temple of the Emerald Buddha.
I tried to be very helpful to my fellow tourists, always offering to snap a picture of the whole family. I even took a picture for some young monks who looked about 12 but were actually 16. The best was when I took a picture of a British family and when I walked away they were saying “so polite, Americans. That’s their way I suppose.” Umm, has our national image changed? I almost ran back to eat a big Mac in
one bite while firing a gun I bought at Walmart just to make sure he knew how we ‘muricans really are. ‘Murica!
I even splurged $8 for 30 min of traditional thai massage at the famous Wat Po massage school located in the temple complex. My blissful massage experience was somewhat sullied by the small British boy (around 4 years old) getting a massage next to me who was, I guess, bored with his massage and kicking the table pretty hard. Now my patience for the wee race is almost endless (I have been a nanny for several families) but I finally had to open my eyes and fix him with my best Mary Poppins look and ask him to “please stop kicking, bud. Just close your eyes and take a nap. Or squeeze your hands really tight and say the ABCs in your head.” And my babysitter magic worked like charm…not. I finally just tattled on him to his older cousin who threatened to tell his “mummy.” (tattletale: 1; tiny British tot: 0).
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