Between the Thais

For what felt like the first time in my life, this journey had no destination.

Well… that’s not entirely true. It did have a goal—just not a geographical one. It was social. Deeply, stubbornly social. I wanted to hug my friends. The kind of hug that makes up for years. Marina, Denis, and Alisa hadn’t made it to our wedding with Nastya—but those sneaky bastards recorded a video message, which the ever-cunning host slipped into the congratulations segment as a surprise. The emotional ambush worked flawlessly. I teared up.

Bastard.

Given those circumstances, you can imagine—tourist attractions were strictly secondary. The dominant force of the entire trip was a relentless, almost gravitational urge to wrap those three in bone-crushing embraces. And if, along the way, we managed to see something Thailand had to offer—well, that would just be a luxurious bonus.

After a night spent in a train compartment with neighbors who snored like they were summoning ancient demons, the cavernous halls of Domodedovo felt eerily empty and quiet. Compared to the industrious hum of the domestic terminals, the international section carried a solemn silence that bordered on mausoleum-like. Which, metaphorically speaking, felt oddly appropriate for the current state of travel between our God-preserved homeland and the outside world.

After a modest 40-minute delay—which, in today’s reality, barely even qualifies as a delay—we finally boarded and took off. I had never flown with Emirates before and, to be perfectly honest, I was wildly unprepared for the sheer volume of food those dazzling, ever-smiling flight attendants were planning to deploy upon us.

But the real challenge wasn’t the culinary onslaught.

It was the neighbors.

Now don’t get me wrong—I enjoy a good chat as much as the next guy. And if I’m passionate about the topic? Good luck shutting me up. But what we witnessed here was nothing short of a masterclass in never shutting up at all. Maybe it was flight anxiety. Maybe the giddy anticipation of vacation. Maybe a stealth-consumed bottle of gin. Who knows. But these individuals provided a continuous, unbroken commentary on every single aspect of their reality.

Even during the main meal—mid chicken, mid pasta—they somehow kept the stream of verbal white noise flowing. That day, crying infants got themselves some serious competition for the title of “Most Annoying Thing on a Plane.”

The transfer in Dubai became a deliriously welcome break from the audio assault. We landed at night, and thanks to delays, had just one hour left out of the original three and a half. We had, quite unintentionally, chosen to travel at a time when several Middle Eastern countries decided to revisit their favorite geopolitical grudges—expressing their feelings through missiles and drones aimed at each other’s infrastructure.

Which is also why our flight to the UAE capital took two and a half hours longer than expected—we had to take a generous detour. The modern world, ladies and gentlemen: it was safer to fly over Afghanistan than to stick to the standard route.

We landed in Terminal C and had to depart from Terminal A. Not exactly a short stroll—especially since getting from B to A involves a charming little inter-terminal train ride. With only an hour to spare, time was… tight. But at least we weren’t flying out of Terminal F—according to the boarding pass map, that one requires a 40-minute bus ride. That would’ve been a guaranteed miss.

As it stood, we made it. Even with a few minutes to spare.

The main trick? Activating a mental filter strong enough to block out the monstrous gravitational pull of DUTY-FREE shops.

And then—after a couple of movies and a couple of hours of not-particularly-comfortable airplane sleep—we landed in Bangkok. Nastya’s pre-purchased eSIM cheerfully pinged to life, we grabbed our luggage with surprising efficiency and set off to find our friends.

A few minutes of wandering. Some crowd navigation. A bit of squeezing through humanity—and there they were.

Denis, Marina, and Alisa, waving at us like their lives depended on it.

We, naturally, responded in kind.

With a joyful battle cry that mildly alarmed a nearby group of unsuspecting Asians, we collided into each other in a series of bear hugs so intense they had clearly been marinating for years. It’s honestly a miracle we avoided dislocated shoulders and cracked ribs.

Dressed in our newly adopted “tropical mode,” we only slightly perished from the heat while our friends guided us across an endless parking lot toward salvation—a car whose air conditioning, in those conditions, felt less like a feature and more like divine intervention.

We didn’t head straight to Pattaya, where our friends lived and where, incidentally, we had a hotel booked. Marina—true to her status as a yoga goddess—insisted on making a tactical stop at a couple of outlet malls to “assess the stuff.”

While she was busy critically evaluating racks and shelves, we parked ourselves at Café Amazon—a massive Thai coffee chain that seems to lurk on every corner like a well-caffeinated ambush. The first cafés popped up back in 2002, and since then they’ve spread with quiet confidence across malls and gas stations alike. The menu isn’t exactly groundbreaking, but it’s predictable—in the best possible way. Pair that with perfectly decent coffee, and you get a reliable choice when you’re somewhere unfamiliar or simply too lazy to hunt for something artisanal.

After about an hour and a half on the road, we finally reached Pattaya and checked into our hotel. It turned out to be cleverly tucked away - close to all the action, yet somehow so quiet that in the mornings we were woken up by somewhat skinny but all the same very loud roosters.

Marina took one look at us and delivered her verdict:
“You’re far too tired to be resting.”

So naturally, after tossing our suitcases into the room, we headed out to acquaint ourselves with this Thai den of sin.

Now, it’s worth noting: if your sole purpose in Pattaya is to drown in vice, you really only need a couple of streets. But we, in defiance of the city’s… marred reputation, aimed to cultivate ourselves as much as possible. Before the trip, I even asked ChatGPT for recommendations—strictly “no dirt.” It offered a decent list. Turns out, however, our friends could absolutely body a poor neural network in the category of “things to see besides ladyboys.”

We took a stroll along the local promenade. The only people swimming there are either extremely desperate or entirely unbothered by the presence of nearby sewage runoff. A far more reasonable option is to part with a laughable 30 baht and hop on a slow, chubby ferry to the nearby islands, where the scenery suddenly becomes properly tropical.

"Get him, boys!"

As we soaked in the local flavor and listened to Marina and Denis dispense practical wisdom on currency exchange, a familiar sign quietly materialized before us: Hard Rock Café. I desperately needed another guitar-shaped pin for the collection, so we handled that situation with surgical efficiency and turned back.

Because ahead of us lay something far more serious.

We were about to experience the full, unhinged force of Asian shopping culture—and our guide into that abyss was Terminal 21.

On the way to this cathedral of consumption, we encountered… a character.

A man approached us on the sidewalk—glassy-eyed, arm extended straight ahead like he was reaching for an invisible lifeline. A clear farang, European by appearance. As he passed us, he muttered something that could equally be interpreted as “stop me” or “hit me.” Before we could even process it, he drifted past, slipped into the nearest 7/11, and vanished.

Given that Thailand has legalized the “Devil's lettuce” it’s entirely possible our man had a less-than-fun encounter with his own consciousness and was trying to claw his way back. But since none of us felt particularly qualified to play paramedic, we exchanged a collective shrug and carried on.

Now, I wouldn’t call myself a fan of shopping.

But even I had to admit—Thais know exactly how to legally relocate your money into their pockets.

When a six-story leviathan spanning 40,000 square meters rose before us, it became immediately clear: without a guide, one could get lost in there for years. Imagine every store you’ve ever seen. Multiply that number by two. Better yet—by three. Throw in a solid cinema (SFX Cinema) and top it all off with a food court where you can sample pretty much any cuisine on the planet—and you’ll get a rough idea of what Terminal 21 is.

Naturally, seeing everything in one go was impossible. And our internal battery of reckless enthusiasm had already started blinking red, desperately signaling imminent shutdown. For a first day, we had more than enough impressions.

We had a proper dinner, after which our friends walked us back to the hotel and casually mentioned that, alongside a hefty cultural program in Bangkok, tomorrow would feature one very special temple.

The final boss of the day, unexpectedly, was the shower.

The water, despite all attempts at negotiation via the faucet, remained… invigoratingly cold. Now, in theory, I could’ve embraced the whole “tempering the spirit” angle. In practice—I really, really didn’t want to.

That’s when I noticed a small box with a display mounted just above the showerhead. On it, a promising number glowed:

34°C.

After a brief internal council, I pressed the button.

Instant reward—warm water surged forth like a blessing from the engineering gods. Turns out, it was a tankless heater delivering hot water on demand.

Barely managing to inform my wife of this groundbreaking technological discovery, I collapsed onto the bed.

And almost instantly, jet lag pounced.

Lights out.

As it so happened, the morning of the new day fell on March 22nd—my birthday.

The last time I’d actually celebrated the date itself abroad was my 30th, in Istanbul. Those adventures are thoroughly documented in “Bosphorus Motifs.” This time around, I was happily accepting congratulations while squinting into the blazing Thai sun—and with a far more dramatic time difference in play.

When Denis, Marina, and Alisa—deeply absorbed in drawing on her tablet—came to pick us up, I had no idea that the “special temple” they had mentioned earlier would turn out to be dedicated to… coffee.

I can say this with full confidence: the café Nitan, located just outside Pattaya, is absolutely unique. Imagine someone deciding to convert an entire cathedral into a coffee shop. Keep all the grandeur and scale but make a few key substitutions: instead of icons—shelves filled with beans from all over the world; instead of an altar and relics—a PROBAT roaster and a capsule-making machine; instead of monks and attendants—smiling, attentive baristas.

And you could tell the creators of this coffee temple aimed to cover every possible type of customer. At first, I couldn’t understand why there were fries and salty snacks on the menu—hardly typical coffee shop fare. But then I spotted a long row of beer taps and let out an impressed whistle. Everything clicked into place.

In the morning and afternoon, they serve coffee and desserts. After sunset, the stage belongs to lagers, lambics, and stouts—accompanied by proper hearty snacks. In theory, you could live there for days without stepping outside. Everything you might need—already in place. Respect.

Fueled by my favorite black liquid, we were ready to go stare at the capital of Thailand.

About an hour and a half later, we reached Bangkok, and the first thing that hits you is the sheer number of skyscrapers and highway interchanges. The skyscrapers are straightforward—tall, glassy, doing their best to scrape the sky. But the interchanges? Those are something else entirely.

As you drive along them, it doesn’t immediately register that you’re actually cruising at the height of the third, fifth—or even tenth—floor of surrounding buildings. What you see from the road is just the “surface level” of the city. Below lies an entirely different world: narrow streets packed with shops of every kind, sprawling parks, ancient temples peacefully coexisting with ultra-modern shopping malls.

Speaking of shopping malls…

Not one to waste time on half-measures, our friends took us straight to what I can only describe as the queen mother of all malls—ICONSIAM.

Let me try to put this into perspective. Remember how Terminal 21 in Pattaya boasts around 40,000 square meters of shopping and entertainment? ICONSIAM, opened in late 2018, casually claims 525,000 square meters. Apparently, if you’re a construction company in Thailand with 54 billion baht (about $1.5 billion) burning a hole in your pocket, you can build something like this—complete with two residential towers (70 and 52 floors), a 3,000-seat exhibition hall, a museum, and a riverside park just for good measure.

In reality, you could spend an entire mini vacation inside this place. And if you bring along funds comparable to a few percent of Slovakia’s GDP, you might even enjoy some serious shopping. Alongside every luxury brand imaginable, there are actual car showrooms. One floor—you buy a burger. Another—you buy a Maserati.

Naturally, we weren’t immune to a bit of spontaneous shopping ourselves.

At one point, we found ourselves staring at a massive animatronic dachshund, peacefully stretched out across several meters—part of a surreal installation at Gentle Monster. We only discovered what the place was thanks to Nastya’s friend Yulia. Upon hearing we were inside the store, she firmly declared that her life would be dull and joyless without a pair of their sunglasses.

She begged us to show her the selection so she could wire the money immediately.

After what felt like an endless fitting session, the chosen pair was carefully packed, and Yulia’s excitement nearly overflowed from her Telegram voice messages—threatening to flood at least one entire floor of the mall.

By that point, the kaleidoscope of impressions was pushing our brains toward sensory overload, so we made the executive decision to pause for food. The only problem was choosing—from hundreds of options.

There was even a stall offering ready-to-eat spiders, scorpions, larvae, and other questionable protein sources. I briefly considered trying something… but had no idea how my body would react to such an adventure. It reminded me of a similar moment in Kamakura, when fermented natto beans rolled past me on a plate—and I chickened out back then, too.

Ah yes. The curse of aging. And the localized atrophy of adventurous spirit.

In the end, Marina and Denis took control and confidently led us toward sushi, sparing us hours of agonizing indecision. And honestly? The rolls tasted no different from what we’d had in Japan—same perfect rice, same incredibly fresh fish. I’d also noticed something interesting on many food labels: “Made today, good until tomorrow.” I’m inclined to believe them.

Our next stop was Wat Arun, also known as the Temple of Dawn. We got there by a slow-moving boat across the Chao Phraya River.

The temple is one of the defining landmarks of both Bangkok and Thailand as a whole. Though it has gone through several name and stylistic changes under different kings (yes, Thailand is still a monarchy, in case you forgot), and dates back to the 17th century, its most iconic central tower only appeared in the early 19th century.

They say it’s especially stunning at sunset—lit up with dramatic illumination.

And honestly, when you stand before something like this—86 meters tall, painstakingly assembled by human hands—you can’t help but feel a certain reverence. Every inch of the structure, from the main tower to its smaller companions, is covered in shells and fragments of porcelain. The sheer amount of time and effort that must’ve gone into it is staggering.

Properly impressed, we sailed back to ICONSIAM, where our car was parked—and where one last observation deck awaited us.

From there, we watched the river, the city, and people enthusiastically flying kites along the pier. It was oddly mesmerizing—like some kind of surreal “upside-down fishing.” Children and adults alike held plastic rods, with kites of all shapes and colors fluttering at the ends of their lines.

The difference in skill levels was obvious. Some kites soared proudly dozens of meters into the sky, while others nosedived in quiet defeat. At one point, an especially massive kite was launched—but sadly, it never quite took flight, even with a smaller “helper kite” attached like a parachute.

Before dragging ourselves—on the last fumes of energy—toward the final destination of the day, we made a quick detour and suddenly found ourselves in Don Don Donki.

It felt like being teleported straight back to Japan. The same catchy jingle, the same chaotic abundance of goods, the same dangerously pleasant prices. Naturally, leaving without stocking up on KitKats would’ve been pure madness.

To crown the day, our friends took us to one of the city’s most famous rooftop spots—Vertigo & Moon Bar.

If, like me at the time, you’re not entirely sure what a “rooftop” is—it’s exactly what it sounds like: a bar or restaurant placed on top of a building to capitalize on the view. And in this case, the gamble paid off. From the 61st floor, Bangkok at night shimmered like a giant disco ball.

We weren’t allowed up right away. The unyielding hostess informed us that without a reservation, we’d need to spend 800 baht per person just to get in. That wasn’t exactly part of the plan, so I obediently turned to leave.

But Marina and Denis stepped in, engaging the hostess in negotiations, with silent but very pointed support from Alisa, who stared at the situation with quiet disapproval.

A couple of minutes later, the hostess relented and—very confidentially—shared a workaround: if we went down a couple of floors, ordered anything at another restaurant, and brought the receipt, we’d be allowed up top.

We followed the plan—and discovered that the lower restaurant had its own terrace with a fantastic view. Barely any people, a couple of singers quietly humming into microphones… perfect.

So, we spent most of our time there, chatting and sipping cocktails. The glamorous rooftop upstairs? We visited it briefly—just long enough to snap a couple of photos.

Funny how life sometimes throws in adjustments that only reveal their value in hindsight.

After all that—and the drive back to Pattaya—the moment we stepped into the room and took a shower, we collapsed into bed… and it honestly felt like we fell asleep mid-air, somewhere between standing and landing.

I have no idea what came over me, but at some point, we had agreed that that morning we’d swing by our friends’ residential complex and join them for a workout.

Now, Nastya is always up for lifting weights and pounding a treadmill. Me? I usually try to dodge that particular brand of joy at the earliest possible opportunity. So, the fact that I voluntarily signed up for gym-related suffering while on vacation can only be explained by heatstroke or a temporary system malfunction in my brain.

Denis, Marina, and Alisa’s neighborhood, it seemed, had long been thoroughly claimed by Russian tourists. Walking down the main street, you could easily convince yourself you’d somehow ended up in Tuapse or Sochi instead of Thailand. Russian speech dominated the air. Among the elegant curls of Thai signage, you’d suddenly stumble upon things like “Cafe Teremok” or “At Oleg’s” written in Cyrillic, naturally.

If a cashier noticed that a pale-faced visitor wasn’t particularly fluent in English, they would instantly switch to a clunky but perfectly understandable Russian. Even Thai taxi drivers, if you walked past silently without giving away your nationality, would wave at you hopefully and shout:
“Poyekhali! Taksi nada?”

For the record—modern Thai residential complexes come with some very pleasant perks: private gyms and multiple swimming pools, both on the grounds and inside the buildings. If you’re lucky enough to live in one, you and your guests are free to use them whenever you like.

After our noble suffering in the gym and a brief soak in the pool, we set off to explore the Thai interpretation of Italian cuisine.

And you know what? It was surprisingly solid. A small pizza tasting session revealed that Pattaya and Naples might have more in common than one would initially assume. Also, it turns out that “Buongiorno” with a Thai accent is an absolute delight.

Having nourished the body, it was time to feed the soul.

Our next stop was the Big Buddha Hill—one of Pattaya’s most popular landmarks, packed with symbolism. The statue itself commands respect purely through scale: roughly 10 by 15 meters. Structurally, it’s concrete—painted white at first and later gilded for that extra layer of solemn grandeur.

A staircase of 120 steps leads up to it. Legend has it—you’re supposed to count them as you climb. If you get exactly 120, all is well. If you lose count—well, your karma clearly has a few holes that need patching.

Fortunately, there are plenty of ways to do just that.

You can make offerings to one or several statues—there are many forms of Buddha here, even one for each day of the week. Or you can buy a small sheet made of what looks like silver foil, write your wish on it, and tie it to a nearby tree. Supposedly—it works.

Another option is to release a flock of birds from a cage. A noble, selfless act… albeit for a small fee. Experts claim your karma becomes clean, silky, and generally well-groomed after that.

As for the fact that the birds seem highly experienced, possibly in quiet collusion with the cage owner, and tend to circle back after a short flight—well… the experts maintain a respectful silence on that matter.

Different birds - same level of cunning

Since only Nastya and I were technically on vacation, we were left to our own devices for the rest of the day—our friends had to return to work. We wandered through the local streets for a while, and by evening decided to check out a food festival that had set up its colorful tents somewhere near Terminal 21 Pattaya.

There was just one small problem.

We were still adjusting to local distances and geography. So, when the navigator cheerfully informed us that it would take about 42 minutes to walk there, we made a lightning-fast decision to try local taxis instead.

According to both locals and seasoned travelers, Uber isn’t really a thing here. Instead, everything runs through Grab.

The process is simple enough: download the app, turn on location, snap a quick selfie for your profile—and you’re good to go, practically proving the timeless wisdom: “Why bother learning geography when a coachman will take you anywhere?”

As it turned out, we didn’t actually make it to the food festival that day.

Because the moment we arrived at the mall, we made one fatal mistake—we spotted a UNIQLO sign.

And that was it. Lights out. Wallets open.

You’d think that after Japan we would’ve developed some kind of resistance to those hypnotically neat shelves of minimalist clothing—but no. And judging by the number of slightly sunburned compatriots roaming the aisles with the same hungry look in their eyes, we weren’t alone.

A whole swarm of us—naive shopping moths—irresistibly drawn to the all-consuming textile flame of consumerism.

The next morning most definitely did not begin with coffee.

Maybe it was the abrupt change in climate. Maybe we’d eaten something questionable. Whatever the cause, the fact remained: my beloved wife was being violently nauseous, with occasional bouts of vomiting for good measure.

I tried to reason with her—told her to forget about the Temple of Truth altogether. Truth, at the very least, is a highly subjective concept. Why not just stay in, lie low, and wait until she felt better?

Nastya waved me off with a pale, trembling hand and declared that she had no intention of wasting precious vacation days.

Once again, I found myself in awe of her iron will, which had a habit of manifesting at the most unexpected moments. Admitting defeat, I gathered what composure I had left, and we set off to see this famous “not-a-single-nail” construction.

If we’re drawing architectural parallels, the Temple of Truth could loosely be compared to Sagrada Família in Barcelona—another never-ending construction project that’s been going on for something like fifty years.

Though, to be fair, the comparison isn’t entirely honest—if only because of the climate and the materials involved. The Temple of Truth is made entirely of wood. And in the Thai climate, wooden structures have an unfortunate tendency to deteriorate rather quickly. Not that it takes much—modern apartment complexes can start crumbling into semi-abandoned ruins within seven to ten years if left unattended.

But I digress.

Personally, I loved the temple. (Nastya, meanwhile, was heroically battling another incoming wave of nausea, so admiration wasn’t exactly on her agenda.)

I’ve always had a soft spot for wood as a material, and what truly impressed me was what a human being can achieve with a jigsaw and a chisel—provided no one stops them in time. Practically every square centimeter is covered in intricate carvings inspired by Thai, Cambodian, Indian, and Chinese mythology. No matter where you look, it’s symbolism upon symbolism, each detail carrying its own philosophical and cultural message.

As for the never-ending construction, our guide, with a slightly mischievous smile, put it like this:

“An ongoing construction fits perfectly into our philosophy. I can assure you—if you come back to Thailand in five or even ten years, the work will still be in progress. Some things will age. Some will decay. And perfection, as you surely know, is unattainable.”

Well, that’s a business model as reliable as a Swiss watch—can’t argue with that.

Frequent “emergency pit stops behind the bushes” eventually did their job, and Nastya began to feel a bit better. She was now brushing off my timid suggestions to return to the hotel with considerably more energy.

So, when Denis, Marina, and Alisa once again “kidnapped” us from the hotel, the idea of heading to Sriracha to see a full-blown Japanese village was met with genuine enthusiasm—from both of us.

Context.

About forty minutes from Pattaya lies J-Park Sriracha Nihon Mura—a shopping complex styled as an authentic Japanese district. You’ve got plastic cherry blossoms in eternal bloom, a miniature version of Kyoto’s Golden Pavilion, and appropriately themed cuisine (the ramen was genuinely excellent).

To deepen the immersion, the area is laced with canals filled with colorful, well-fed koi carp—the very same kind we admired and fed back in Japan. Much like in the botanical garden in Nara, there were vending machines selling dark green pellets for anyone eager to witness a spectacular display of fish greed in action.

They smelled suspiciously like dry cat food. Unlike the deer crackers, there was absolutely no temptation to try them—neither in Japan nor here.

Naturally, I couldn’t resist.

One packet went toward luring a group of rather indifferent carp closer to the canal’s edge. Apparently, those particular aquatic gentlemen were either well-fed or deeply introverted, harboring a quiet disdain for homo sapiens.

But in the neighboring canal, their evolutionary counterparts were thrilled by the sudden manna from heaven and erupted into a chaotic, bubbling frenzy over the precious pellets.

Something far more edible than fish snacks was discovered in a nearby shop.

There it was—castella. The very same sponge cake whose twin brother we had brought back from Japan. It sat on the shelf, seducing with its shape and aroma. The taste was just as soft and sweet. A simple combination of sugar, flour, eggs, and starch syrup—originally brought to Japan by the Portuguese—yet somehow still delivering perfection centuries later.

Though, to be fair, this could very well have been imported, so the identical taste wasn’t entirely surprising.

On top of that, we stumbled upon another iconic Japanese treat—melonpan. We had searched for it across countless bakeries, and at some point, the quest had taken on the shape of a sacred mission. In the end, the glory of discovery went to Alisa, who pointed me straight to those treasured buns with their signature melon-pattern crust.

The local version of melonpan was devoured by me shortly thereafter during one of our traditional coffee breaks.

While we were ordering drinks, Denis—probably for the seven-hundredth time during our café and food court adventures—uttered one of the most useful phrases in Thailand:

“No sugar.”

Roughly translated, it means:
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, dear Thai people, but why do you put an ungodly amount of sugar into absolutely everything? You even manage to attach a sugar packet to fresh fruit—as if bananas, mangoes, or papayas somehow require additional sweetening. In order to avoid developing diabetes by the end of this vacation, I beg you—by all that is holy—do not add sugar to my drink.”

It sounds clear enough.

But almost every Thai food service worker, after listening carefully, smiling, and saying “Okay!”, will still proceed to dump in more sugar than you would ever willingly add yourself.

We discussed this peculiar habit—and several others—as we walked through the humid twilight along yet another waterfront. Over the course of our time in Thailand, we talked about an absurd number of things. But that particular evening, our conversation leaned heavily into linguistics.

Rather than retelling the entire discussion, I’ll just say this: a recurring theme was how every language contains a surprising amount of illogical and inexplicable quirks—unless you’re a native speaker who grew up accepting that things are simply said that way, and no other.

About five years ago, someone posted something on Reddit that perfectly illustrates what we were talking about. It went something like this:

“Imagine a table. On the table, there’s a glass and a fork. What are they doing? The glass is standing, the fork is lying down. If you stick the fork into the table, it stands. So vertical objects stand, horizontal ones lie?

Now put a plate and a frying pan on the table. They’re horizontal, yet they stand.

Place the plate inside the pan—it lies there. But it used to stand on the table. Maybe objects stand when they’re ready to be used? But the fork was ready when it was lying down.

Now a cat climbs onto the table. It can stand, sit, or lie down. Standing and lying kind of fit the vertical/horizontal logic, but sitting is something new—it sits on its backside.

Now a bird lands on the table. It sits—but on its legs, not its backside. Logically, it should be standing. But it can’t stand. And if we kill the poor bird and stuff it—it will stand.

You might think sitting is reserved for living things—but a boot also sits on your foot, and it’s neither alive nor equipped with a backside.

So good luck figuring out what stands, what lies, and what sits.”

I think you get the idea of the kind of linguistic dissection we were performing that evening—across Russian, English, and Italian alike.

After such a packed day, it all seemed set to end on a calm, cozy note.

I finally made peace with a local self-service laundromat, sketched out the early chapters of this very story, and fell asleep wrapped around my wife—who was about 99% recovered and ready for new adventures.

But life, that inventive little troublemaker, had entirely different plans for me.

Let me start with a disclaimer.

If you’re particularly sensitive, squeamish, prone to vividly imagining what you read, or—God forbid—about to eat… you might want to skip a few paragraphs.

No, seriously. Skip.

Just scroll past it without mercy.

Still here?

You sure?

Alright. I warned you. Let’s go.

Sometime around 3 a.m., I woke up so abruptly it felt like someone had shoved me.

My stomach was boiling with violent intent, and something truly terrible was clearly brewing—something on the scale of Germany in 1934.

In one desperate leap, I made it to the bathroom—and just in time, as it turned out—because a split second later I unleashed a jet so powerful it would’ve made fighter aircraft jealous.

Just as I was about to congratulate myself on narrowly averting a brown catastrophe of galactic proportions, my stomach decided that relying on a single exit point was, frankly, inefficient.

According to the internet, the speed champions of the animal kingdom are birds. Among them, the peregrine falcon stands apart, reaching nearly 400 km/h in a dive.

Believe me: compared to the speed with which I dropped to my knees and pivoted toward the toilet, that bird would’ve looked like the sloth from Zootopia.

What followed was a vomiting episode of such monstrous intensity that it dragged me straight back to my earliest, clumsiest experiments with alcohol—events that lay more than twenty years behind me.

Back then, after recklessly mixing something vaguely alcoholic from a collection of brightly colored cans, I somehow managed to carry it all the way home—only to proceed, within the safety of familiar walls, to projectile vomit farther than I could see.

This time, though… this was worse.

Not long before this regrettable incident, I had been amused by a verse from the song “Chelovechek” by the Russian band Zatochka. I remember thinking at the time: nice hyperbole, very vivid—but physically impossible.

It went something like:

“What could you possibly threaten me with, your mind froze?
I’ve once seen a guy vomit through his nose…”

As you can imagine, curled up on the bathroom floor in agony, I would’ve preferred not to verify it firsthand, but I can now confirm: vomiting through your nose is, in fact, possible.

While I was processing this revelation, my stomach—fickle creature that it was that gloomy morning—changed its mind again and reversed the direction of my suffering.

To spare you the finer details, I’ll just say that over the next few hours I performed this acrobatic routine more than once, driven by a simple motivation: I had no desire to later scrub the entire bathroom clean of my unsolicited tribute to Jackson Pollock and his “Shimmering Substance.”

More than once, in the midst of my misery, I found myself thinking—with reluctant respect and even a hint of fear—about Nastya’s determination to go out into the heat in a similar condition.

All I was capable of, meanwhile, was pitiful groaning and feeling very, very sorry for myself.

I think you can already guess how the next day went.

I dug in at the hotel room like it was a bunker, blessing my wife to venture out solo or with friends. I was in no condition to stray more than a couple of meters from the toilet—and I was in full agreement with that restriction.

My entire diet that day consisted of activated charcoal and several cautious sips of water.

By evening, the infernal nausea and weakness began to subside, and I dared to attempt something bold: a bit of castella cake with tea.

That was the plan, anyway.

Having brewed the tea and picked up the bag with the sponge cake, I noticed—somewhat puzzled—that it was… moving.

Turns out, 98022 ants had beaten me to it and were in the middle of a full-scale gastronomic orgy on my long-awaited dessert.

All that remained for me was to gloomily sip my green tea, curse the universe, and invent increasingly offensive rhymes involving the word “ant.”

As if for added dramatic flair, there was suddenly a sharp click—the lights went out, and the air conditioner sighed and died.

After a call to reception, a smiling repairman knocked on the door. He went straight for the fuse box and quickly determined that the residual current device had tripped.

With a slightly theatrical gesture, he flipped the switch back, gave a polite bow, and left.

Happiness, however, is fleeting—just as it’s meant to be.

An hour or two later: click. Darkness. Heat.

Not seeing the point in summoning the technician again, I took matters into my own hands and flipped the switch myself.

The device, apparently offended by such audacity, retaliated with a vindictive click five seconds later.

I flipped it again.

It shut off instantly.

The nausea receded into the background, replaced by irritation and frustration.

Several times I bounced up toward the ceiling like an enraged grasshopper, trying to coax the thing back to life—but it had absolutely no regard for my suffering. The moment I dropped back to the floor, I’d hear that cynical click behind me, marking yet another defeat.

While I was locked in this personal war with the fuse box, Nastya returned.

After a brief emergency council, we decided to head down to reception and collectively demand, in spirit if not in wording: “How long must this continue?!”

The Thai receptionist listened attentively, clicked her tongue sympathetically, and offered to move us to another room so we wouldn’t have to worry.

We agreed immediately.

She handed us a new key card—one floor up.

The new room also had two air conditioners. One of them worked with the enthusiasm of a man asked to tie the rope for his own hanging. So, the entire burden of cooling fell onto its colleague.

“Well… screw it,” we thought, collapsing into bed.

“At least the power stays on.”

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