Bangkok arrives in sparks: a monk’s robe catching light at dawn, a wok striking metal on the pavement, badly behaved tangles of wires snaking up lamp posts as though the city never quite agreed on a system. It moves too fast, then not at all. It ignores plans, stretches time, and makes efficiency feel like a naïve ambition.
Outside impossibly golden temples, travellers are admonished for bare knees and redirected towards stalls selling elephant-emblazoned drawstring trousers, pulled on hurriedly and without grace. Elsewhere, a different welcome plays out. At a small temple on the edge of Chinatown, an impromptu opera rises without stage. Free drinking water is offered. Nothing is asked in return.
