Deeper between the Thais

How much do you actually know about elephants?

Sure, most people know the basics. Mammals. Members of the order Proboscidea. Big, adorable giants that can live for sixty or seventy years. Fair enough.

But did you know that elephants rank among the most intelligent animals on the planet, right up there with chimpanzees and dolphins? They can recognize themselves in a mirror, which, mind you, may be a sign not merely of intelligence, but of actual self-awareness.

But their coolest ability has to be their hearing.

No, not with their ears, as you might assume. Those are more of a built-in air-conditioning system.

Their feet.

Elephants are remarkably good at hearing with their feet.

The secret lies in the fatty pads, which can detect seismic vibrations from astonishing distances. A storm front approaching? They can "hear" it from as far as 240 kilometers away. At distances of around 30 kilometers, they can even tell who's walking and whether that individual belongs to their herd.

Which is probably why elephants are so fond of that song “I would walk 500 miles” by The Proclaimers – for them it’s about not only travelling but about hearing experience as well.

By now you're probably wondering why I've suddenly launched into Elephant Facts Monthly.

The answer is simple: Marina and Denis decided that we absolutely had to see, feed, and pet these magnificent creatures who, judging by their behavior, seem to find humans about as adorable as we find cats.

At the Elephant Jungle Sanctuary, riding elephants is strictly off the menu. Feeding them, petting them, taking photos, and generally making fools of yourself in their presence, however, are highly encouraged. For those seeking additional adventure, there's also a jungle walk followed by a mud bath and a river bath.

Personally, I wasn't particularly eager to spend the day disguised as a swamp creature.

So, we armed ourselves with baskets full of bananas, watermelon chunks, and sugarcane, sat through the safety briefing, and headed toward the elephants relaxing nearby.

The guides immediately explained that the sanctuary houses only females and very young calves.

The reason is simple.

Male elephants tend to see another male elephant and immediately begin measuring ... hmmm... trunks. “Show me yours, I’ll show you mine” kinda thing. Before long they become so enthusiastic about the process that entire sections of the surrounding landscape may cease to exist.

Needless to say, this sort of excitement is terrible for business.

The feeding and hugging process proved surprisingly entertaining.

Those trunks are fast, clever, and astonishingly greedy. Given half a chance, they'll simply confiscate your entire basket and cut out the middleman altogether.

Some elephants, however, have standards.

One particular lady was absolutely obsessed with bananas. When I offered her a piece of watermelon, she took it, casually tossed it aside, then fixed me with a deeply disappointed look before extending her trunk in my direction once more. During this exchange, I was generously sprinkled with a mixture of elephant saliva and residual watermelon juice.

Nastya, meanwhile, had ascended directly into elephant heaven.

I had no idea she possessed this much affection for these animals. She hugged them, refilled her basket multiple times, continuously stroked their rough, weathered skin, and generally behaved like someone living out a lifelong dream. Her eyes positively glowed with concentrated happiness.

The same could be said for Marina, honestly.

Despite having visited the sanctuary before, true love is true love. It only grows stronger with age.

Denis and I, meanwhile, were assigned the honorable roles of photographers and logistics officers. Our mission was simple: ensure a continuous and uninterrupted flow of fruit to the front lines.

There were also bundles of local sugarcane available. I managed to cut myself on it twice before even properly picking it up. After that, I chose strategic avoidance.

As for Alisa, she flatly refused to join us. She had already seen elephants. She had already touched elephants. She had already formed an opinion about elephants. And that opinion appeared to be: "Meh."

Fair enough. To each their own, I guess.

At the end of the tour, we were shown a tiny open-air workshop where locals manufacture paper from, shall we say, elephant-generated raw materials.

Here's the trick.

Fruit, bread, and sweets are merely treats for elephants. Roughly seventy percent of their diet consists of various grasses and plants. As you might imagine, the resulting byproducts are extremely rich in fiber.

Enterprising Thais discovered that if you thoroughly wash these elephant contributions, add pineapple leaves, throw in a few secret ingredients to eliminate the smell, and perform a bit of processing magic...

...you end up with a pale, fibrous pulp that possesses no obvious aroma whatsoever.

This pulp is then soaked in water, spread evenly across fine rectangular screens, and left to dry beneath the merciless local sun.

Several hours later, the dried sheet is peeled away, and suddenly you're holding a perfectly functional A5 page ready for writing.

We each took a sheet as a souvenir.

And all of us—except for the ever-skeptical Alisa, naturally—agreed that the few hundred baht spent on admission had been money very well spent.

The rest of the day was dedicated to a leisurely stroll along the waterfront and observing the brave souls who had actually decided to swim in Pattaya's coastal waters. I still felt decidedly suboptimal but chose to follow my wife's example and not squander precious vacation days by surrendering to weakness and general bodily mutiny.

At this point, I should pause and elaborate on what Marina refers to as a "walk."

I am convinced—though, admittedly unable to prove it—that in ancient times this particular style of locomotion was described as "rapid advance" or perhaps "just short of a sprint." It made absolutely no difference whether we were running late or had nowhere to be. Having reached cruising velocity, Marina somehow managed to lecture us about local attractions, take selfies, and periodically complain that we were dragging behind her like a flock of sleep-deprived flies.

Even in peak condition, keeping up with her in that heat was no trivial matter. Now, however, with every new hundred meters covered at what felt suspiciously close to escape velocity, I became increasingly aware that I was deteriorating. In fact, I could practically feel my weight decreasing.

Mostly due to my shoe soles being ground into dust, of course.

After somehow surviving this pedestrian version of the Paris-Dakar Rally, I was already preparing to congratulate myself on my triumph over both common sense and physical limitations.

Not so fast.

Several flights of stairs still stood between us and freedom from the beach. Somewhere halfway up one of them, I finally ran out of fuel. My vision darkened, I lurched sideways into a railing, and it became painfully obvious that the situation was exactly like John Coffey’s from “The Green Mile”:

"I’m tired, boss."

True story

After an emergency stop and a desperate effort to gather every remaining fragment of energy into a functional human being, we somehow dragged ourselves to the nearest shop. There, beneath the blessed blast of an arctic air conditioner, I hoped to postpone my inevitable demise for at least a few more minutes.

My poor wife desperately wanted to help but had no idea how.

At one point, out of sheer helplessness, she offered me a painkiller.

Immediately, I was reminded of that scene from “Saving Private Ryan” where the wounded medic, fully aware that the bullet has shredded something critically important, simply asks for more morphine so he can die in peace.

Since a trip to Valhalla had not been included in my vacation itinerary, I rejected the offer rather more sharply than necessary.

Sorry, my love.

My theatrical bravado and apparent disregard for the afterlife amused Denis immensely. Later he kept joking that absolutely anything in life becomes survivable if you're properly medicated first.

The rest of the evening was spent at our friends' place, and it turned into one of those wonderfully warm, cozy gatherings that seem almost impossible to manufacture intentionally.

It reminded me of the apartment get-togethers we used to organize back in Lipetsk: homemade pizza, wine, coffee, heartfelt conversations.

It was unexpected, but incredibly comforting to recreate at least a small piece of the magic of those evenings, even on the other side of the world.

What I missed most were the guitars and the courtyard songs, performed by voices that were perhaps slightly intoxicated, but entirely sincere.

Then again, you can't have everything at once.

A shame, really.

The next day was specifically designed to put my beloved wife's concerns to rest. She had become increasingly worried that we'd come all the way to a tropical country and were committing the criminal offense of not swimming nearly enough. Our destination was the island of Koh Larn.

Well, if we're going to be pedantic and turn this into a linguistic lecture, then technically it was a trip to Larn Island, since “koh” simply means “island” in Thai.

Be that as it may, if you're staying in Pattaya and don't particularly enjoy dodging an endless stream of boats while simultaneously eyeing the water with growing suspicion and trying to determine whether that smell is natural or not, then for a very modest fare and roughly twenty to thirty minutes of travel, you can reach this thoroughly gorgeous little island. The kind with that famous turquoise water that looks spectacular even without filters on absolutely any social media platform of your choosing.

If, however, patience is not among your virtues and you wish to arrive in paradise as quickly as possible, then an entire fleet of speedboats stands ready to assist—for a somewhat less charitable price.

There is, however, one small detail that isn't especially beneficial to your long-term health.

The captains of these aquatic missiles often suffer from profound boredom. Fierce competition means boats fill up slowly, and some of these gentlemen cope with the monotony by consuming substances that, let us say diplomatically, do not always fall within the spectrum approved by Thai authorities.

As a result, local news pages display a depressingly regular rotation of headlines involving yet another speedboat captain who has crashed into rocks, launched himself onto a beach, or collided with another participant in maritime traffic.

Getting around on the island itself couldn't be easier.

At the pier, entrepreneurial taxi drivers wait in open-backed trucks, ready to whisk you to the nearest beach for pocket change. Knowing the beach names isn't even necessary. Driven by the noble pursuit of profit, the drivers fire them off in rapid succession like a mounted machine gun.

All you have to do is nod when you hear one you like.

Personally, though, I'd recommend Tien Beach.

That's where our friends took us, and it was magnificent.

Marina and Denis spent a considerable amount of time trying to persuade Alice to spend at least a few minutes in direct sunlight.

She rejected this outrageous proposal with absolute determination, convinced that exposure to the sun would cause her to start sparkling like Edward from Twilight, which would inevitably attract unwanted attention and all the other burdens associated with excessive popularity.

Speaking of popularity.

We hadn't even finished settling into our sunbeds when an absolutely legendary character approached us—a man who, as far as I know, even has a few YouTube videos dedicated to him.

Like a Christmas tree whose decorating process had spiraled completely out of control, he was draped in necklaces, bracelets, friendship bands, beads, and various other trinkets whose monetary value was questionable but whose nostalgic value was apparently priceless.

From the very first words he uttered in his delightful Thai-Russian dialect, it became obvious that Russian tourists had spent years educating him.

Possibly marketers.

And possibly very successful ones.

His sales technique was a masterpiece of psychological warfare.

The elderly Thai gentleman would approach surprisingly close, fixing you with a gaze of unmistakably Russian gravity.

Then he'd lock eyes with you and thunder:

"Madam! You need?"

Or:

"Dude! Buy!"

If the chosen victim continued resisting, he'd follow up with a mocking question:

"What? No money?"

At this point, the targeted madams usually dissolved into giggles at his entrepreneurial creativity and unexpected language skills, while the wounded dudes instinctively inflated their stomachs in a display of financial capability.

But even then, if you remained unconvinced, the scoundrel had one final trump card.

With a long, mournful sigh more suited to a dockworker from Rostov than a beach vendor in Thailand, he'd sit down next to you—or on the neighboring sunbed.

For several seconds he would stare silently at the sea.

Head lowered.

Shoulders slumped.

Then, without warning, he'd straighten up, re-establish eye contact, and declare with theatrical feeling:

"Fuuuuucking exhausted."

Curtain.

Applause.

I personally witnessed people surrendering 200 baht after that performance while wiping tears of laughter from their eyes and congratulating the man on his virtuoso understanding of the mysterious and unfathomable Russian soul.

Once we'd roasted ourselves to a perfect golden-brown finish, it was time to head back.

On the way to the hotel, our friends suggested a quick stop at a local market.

A real one.

The kind where actual locals shop.

And that's when things started getting interesting again.

The thing is, Pattaya has several markets, including night markets. And while they still perform their primary function—selling farm-fresh produce to anyone interested—an overwhelming majority of them have gradually transformed into tourist attractions.

The place we ended up at, however, was noticeably different. No deafening music blasting from a dozen mismatched speakers. No crowds. No carnival atmosphere.

Most of the customers were locals, though there were a few farangs scattered among them. Everyone wandered about with quiet dignity, carefully selecting fruit and berries from enormous piles.

By this point, I'd already developed the habit of keeping a respectful distance from durians and jackfruits. Longans, on the other hand, Nastya and I consumed in quantities that could only be described as excessive.

Even on the painting it looks sketchy (pun totally intended)

One of the key purchases that day was mangoes.

As it turns out, tourists from all over the world share a surprisingly common tradition: buy a brightly colored plastic basket, fill it with local fruit, and simply bring it home as an extra carry-on item. Virtually every airline seems to treat this particular human weakness with remarkable understanding.

With a sly grin, Denis announced that he knew a magic spell capable of obtaining fruit guaranteed to survive even a long flight home.

He approached a vendor, pointed at a mango, and confidentially declared:

"Airplane. Home."

In Russian.

The merchant of mango-based happiness immediately smiled with understanding, nodded, and beckoned us deeper into the stall.

He led us to a wooden crate, grabbed a small crowbar, and pried open the lid.

Inside, nestled in neat little bundles, lay a collection of magnificent R2E2s.

If you just thought of a robot from Star Wars, you're only slightly mistaken.

The robot was R2D2.

R2E2, meanwhile, is the name of an Australian mango variety distinguished by a handsome red blush on its skin.

This particular cultivar was the first commercially successful mango variety developed in Bowen, Queensland. The local botanists approached mango breeding with admirable thoroughness. Trees were planted in carefully organized rows, while every experimental variety received its own identification number.

As a result, R2E2 literally stands for Row 2, Experiment 2, the specimen grown at the station whose fruit was ultimately deemed worthy of commercial cultivation.

Upon returning from the market, we said goodbye to our friends, whose workday was only just beginning thanks to the time difference, and concluded that it was time to visit the local laundromat.

After all, elephant-slobbered T-shirts don't wash themselves.

Inside that tiled temple of self-service, where laundry detergent and fabric softener had replaced incense and sacred oils, we encountered a truly fascinating specimen suffering, apparently, from some form of domestic disability.

A rather portly gentleman of advanced years burst through the entrance carrying a bag of laundry with the sort of sweeping flourish more commonly associated with mounted knights charging enemy lines while enthusiastically swinging a spiked mace overhead.

Having stormed beneath the shelter of the plastic roof, he immediately began studying the labels on the neatly arranged rows of washing machines and dryers.

His attention span occupied approximately the same weight class as a guppy.

Five seconds later he surrendered in his unequal struggle against instructions roughly equivalent to:

“Insert coin → add detergent → press Start” and requested assistance from the audience.

Given the universally acknowledged fact that female hearts have always harbored a certain weakness for reckless idiots, one of the local Thai women folding clothes at a nearby table took him under her wing.

Like a patient kindergarten teacher, she guided him step by step through the enchanting mysteries of pre-soak cycles and spin settings.

Everything was going smoothly.

Almost.

There was, however, one moment that made me physically wince.

Intoxicated by success and possibly by prolonged exposure to laundry chemicals, the proud owner of both an X and a Y chromosome slammed the washing machine door with such force that it seemed he was permanently closing the door on a life filled with gambling debts, substance abuse, and morally questionable companions—not the hatch of a poor innocent appliance.

The explosive bang shattered the peaceful rhythm of an otherwise sleepy Thai laundry evening.

The helpful Thai woman took this as a personal insult directed at every laundromat in her tropical homeland.

Drawing her eyebrows together with impressive severity, she scolded the offender like a schoolboy and firmly forbade him from treating machine doors in such a barbaric fashion.

She pointed out, quite reasonably, that men are often driven into a state of righteous fury when women slam car doors.

The unfortunate abuser of household appliances attempted a clumsy display of remorse and offered a disarming smile, admitting that he possessed a certain degree of natural incompetence when it came to domestic matters.

Whether he later managed to transfer his laundry into the dryer without demolishing anything in the process remains unknown.

Our own clothes had already been folded and packed away, and it was time for us to head back.

For a long while afterward, I continued muttering under my breath with the indignation of a technical support employee who had finally witnessed firsthand how consumers actually treat their equipment.

They beat the poor thing senseless.

Then, when the machine eventually breaks down out of confusion and spite, they call customer support and demand:

"So why is your equipment so unreliable?"

Since Marina categorically refused to leave our cultural education to chance, we jumped into the car at an ungodly hour the following morning and once again set course for Bangkok.

Our destination this time was the Bangkok Museum of Contemporary Art—or, as it introduces itself to friends and family, simply MOCA.

For a perfectly reasonable 300 baht (assuming you're neither a student nor a child under thirteen), you gain access to five floors and roughly 20,000 square meters containing around a thousand exhibits dedicated to both traditional and contemporary Thai culture.

The museum itself is privately owned, surprisingly enough.

Boonchai Bencharongkul—a local genius, billionaire, playboy, and philanthropist—may not fly around the globe in an iron suit fighting crime, but he evidently decided to carve his name into the granite of history by different means and founded this museum instead.

In March 2012, even Her Royal Highness Princess Maha Chakri Sirindhorn honored its opening ceremony with her presence.

And honestly, how could we not visit?

The acknowledged father of modern Thai art is Professor Silpa Bhirasri—born Corrado Feroci in Florence—and Italians, as it turns out, know a thing or two about creating art that survives the centuries.

The same proved true here.

The maestro himself, along with a sizeable army of students—and later, students of those students—produced an impressive body of work that continues to be exhibited at MOCA to this day.

Apparently, the professor's once-radical idea of blending realism, impressionism, and post-impressionism before adding a generous dose of Siamese flavor struck a deep chord in the Thai soul.

As for the museum itself, I can only borrow Rocky's immortal words from “Project Hail Mary”:

"Amaze! Amaze! Amaze!"

The last time five hours vanished this quickly was when I wandered through the Technical Museum in Vienna.

Paintings, masks of local mythological creatures, conceptual metal sculptures — everything demanded to be examined with the utmost attention.

Without question, the undisputed highlight of the visit was the colossal triptych Three Kingdoms, located on the fourth floor.

Imagine three canvases, each measuring roughly seven by three meters.

Together they depict Heaven, Earth, and Hell.

Each panel was created by a different artist, but all three seem to have been competing to see who could cram in the greatest number of details.

I'm not joking.

If your goal is to properly study every inch of those paintings, setting aside an additional couple of hours would not be excessive.

Before returning to Pattaya, there was one more essential pilgrimage that had to be made. Well, essential for me. I absolutely had to visit the local branch of Hard Rock Cafe. Their signature white T-shirts were not included in the holiday budget, but purchasing one of their collectible pins was completely non-negotiable.

What should have been a routine trip was dramatically enhanced by a traffic jam of biblical proportions. We got stuck roughly five hundred meters from our destination. At first traffic crawled along at three to five kilometers per hour.

Then it stopped entirely.

The situation quickly reached the stage where old jokes about "buying a car closer to the traffic light" began to feel less like jokes and more like practical consumer advice.

This is not AI - I swear!

In an effort to minimize our catastrophic loss of time, Nastya and I abandoned the car and continued toward Hard Rock on foot.

Naturally, the moment we arrived and began browsing the merchandise, the traffic jam finally cleared. As a result, there was no need to walk back.

The others managed to park almost directly outside the entrance, and we promptly dove back into the air-conditioned semi-darkness of the car.

Since our flight home was scheduled for the following night, it was decided that the day deserved a modest farewell shopping session.

Combined with the sort of heartfelt, philosophical conversations that seem to emerge naturally during long drives, our final evening in Thailand felt like a complete success.

But Fate, that mischievous old troublemaker, had entirely different plans for us.

When we woke up early that morning, we remembered that it might be a good idea to check in for our night flight and try to snag window seats.

I had barely opened my inbox when my eye caught a freshly arrived email from the flight aggregator bearing the delightfully alarming subject line:

"Flight Cancellation."

You've probably heard the expression, "the morning didn't start with coffee."

It's usually used to describe waking up unwillingly because something unpleasant has happened.

Let me tell you: when a cold sweat breaks out because you're terrified of what you're about to read in an email, the effect is far more invigorating than a triple espresso administered intravenously.

After carefully studying the message, we discovered that Dubai—through which we were supposed to fly home—had just received another shipment of Iranian rockets.

Further ballistic precipitation was expected over the following days, so our departure had been postponed by three full days.

Technically, we still had holiday time left. Our budget hotel room wasn't particularly expensive. But the phrase "your flight has been cancelled" tends to inspire a very specific blend of sadness and panic.

Had our tickets simply been moved to a new date and remained valid? Or was it already time to start evaluating the market value of our internal organs?

A quick search for alternative flights revealed that anyone absolutely determined to leave that very day could still do so—for the modest sum of $3400 for two people.

Fifteen minutes later, that figure had become $4600.

Shortly after that, the website simply announced:

"No tickets available."

With considerable effort, we pulled ourselves together and began looking for solutions.

While I was busy torturing chatbots (hate ‘em!) and trying to determine the fate of our tickets, Nastya found Emirates' customer support hotline.

The menu offered two language options:

English and Thai.

After selecting English, I was quickly connected to an extremely suspicious and astonishingly thorough Indian gentleman who proceeded to extract every conceivable piece of information regarding our surnames, flights, phone numbers, and email addresses before agreeing to reveal even a crumb of personal information in return.

In the end, it turned out our tickets were perfectly healthy. The airline had simply changed the departure date, flight time, and layover duration. The gentleman also attempted to sell me extra legroom and an upgrade to Business Class.

But no matter how stressed I may be, my natural stinginess remains remarkably resilient, so I politely declined. We finally relaxed when the updated tickets arrived in our inboxes with all the new details already in place.

Throughout the entire ordeal, I was profoundly grateful that I had once decided to make English a part of my life.

Otherwise, far greater numbers of my nerve cells would have perished, because neither the chatbots nor the support staff of that infernal ticket aggregator managed to provide a single coherent answer in Russian.

Once we'd informed our friends that our forced separation had been postponed for several days, an emergency plan was assembled at lightning speed.

The proposal?

We were going to a military base (!) to look at turtles (!!).

If you've just imagined some classified Thai naval bio-weapon project, I'm sorry to disappoint you.

We were not planning to observe mutant turtles armed with laser cannons mounted on their shells (although that would have been totally sick!).

We simply wanted to see ordinary sea turtles that happened to favor the same beach as the military.

It's actually rather fascinating that even completely civilian people can drive up to the checkpoint of a strategic military facility, put on their best Puss in Boots eyes, and when asked,

"What exactly are you doing here?"

reply with:

"We'd like to look at the turtles!"

Denis and I more or less followed that exact strategy when we appeared before the local officer in charge.

Unfortunately, our luck ran out just short of the finish line.

It turned out that internal regulations required every group of foreigners to have at least one Thai citizen willing to surrender either a driver's license or a passport as collateral, guaranteeing that somebody would come back for them later.

No matter how sadly we sighed or how expertly we deployed those famous eyes, we were firmly informed that no other passports or driving licenses would be accepted.

So, the turtle mission was a complete failure.

However, we stubbornly refused to surrender to adverse circumstances and immediately decided to head for another beach instead. It was near a military area as well, though sadly lacking in turtles.

About ten minutes later, we found ourselves trapped in an absolutely monstrous traffic jam composed of tourists just like us and locals equally eager to plunge into turquoise waves and lounge on pristine white sand.

Waiting around sounded deeply unappealing.

So, in a maneuver that would have impressed even seasoned politicians, we instantly reversed course once again and decided to visit Nong Nooch Garden instead.

And what a park that turned out to be, let me tell you.

Imagine you're a family of four.

Every single one of you has completely different interests, meaning that almost any outing carries a significant risk that at least one member of the expedition will return dissatisfied.

Your youngest son is six years old and hopelessly obsessed with dinosaurs.

Naturally.

Your fifteen-year-old daughter has chosen to express her teenage rebellion in a surprisingly peaceful way. Her hobby of choice is dendrology. Everything else, of course, is mainstream rubbish for unimaginative people.

Meanwhile, Mum has been ambushed by an identity crisis and decided that life without collecting clay pots and developing a passion for landscape design simply lacks sufficient personality.

As for Dad, he never really got around to growing up, so cars remain his one true love.

At first glance, the situation appears hopeless.

But!

Should fate ever bring you to Nong Nooch, you may consider it one of Lady Fortune's rarer smiles.

Because within its sprawling 240-hectare grounds—roughly 2.4 square kilometers, thank you very much—the founders have somehow managed to cram in so many attractions and activities that their enthusiasm becomes impossible not to admire.

Just think about it.

Where else can you casually visit a two-storey car museum housing more than forty vehicles lovingly collected and maintained by Madam Nong Nooch's son?

Cadillacs.

BMWs.

Nissans.

Lotuses.

Fords and Subarus.

The whole mechanical menagerie.

A short stroll later, you'll find yourself in the Blue Garden, famous for its extraordinary collection of palms and ferns. The garden already boasts nearly two thousand species of palms, many of which exist nowhere else outside their natural habitats except right here.

Considering that the entire world contains only around 2,800 palm species, and the people behind the Blue Garden clearly have no intention of stopping, any self-respecting dendrologist would lose their mind at the mere opportunity to visit.

While you're agonizing over whether to head for the Bonsai Garden or the Water Plant Garden next, you'll inevitably stumble across dinosaurs.

Lots of dinosaurs.

Life-sized dinosaur statues are scattered throughout the park in numbers that border on the unreasonable.

I don't know what Jurassic ecosystems were actually like, but Nong Nooch appears to be operating under the assumption that the correct number of dinosaurs is "all of them."

Allosaurs grin predatorily from behind hedges.

Pterosaurs spread membrane wings and proudly display crests painted in colors best described as "radioactive nightclub."

Styracosaurs and Triceratopses cast suspicious glances your way, apparently trying to determine what exactly you're doing in their geological era.

Meanwhile, Brachiosaurs tower majestically above the treetops, while Ankylosaurs and Stegosaurs stand their ground with distinctly unfriendly body language, lazily swinging tails that look less like evolutionary adaptations and more like medieval weapons destined to appear several million years later in the hands of enthusiastic knights at royal tournaments.

To fully appreciate the fact that evolution thoughtfully arranged for you and these creatures to miss each other by several geological epochs, I recommend a stroll through the French Garden.

Built in the late 1990s, it is said to bear a strong resemblance to the gardens of Versailles.

The one near Paris. Granted, it's somewhat smaller. Quite a bit smaller, actually. But the aristocratic flair is undeniably present.

And if you happen to believe that a single hectare isn't nearly enough garden for one day, there is always the Cactus Garden.

Or the Orchid Garden.

Or both.

Though I should warn you: the Orchid Garden possesses humidity levels so oppressive that after about five minutes of wandering through it, I began swaying noticeably and formally requested mercy and air conditioning.

Otherwise, I risked perishing in the prime of my life and becoming fertilizer for some carnivorous Dendrophylax lindenii.

Absolutely not.

That is not what I spent all those years growing and improving myself for.

Incidentally, while exploring the grounds, you may stumble upon one of the park's more unusual attractions: the Pottery Garden. The pots are clay. They're handmade in traditional Thai style. They're kiln fired.

And apparently somebody looked at thousands of beautiful clay pots and thought:

"You know what? Arranging these in rows would be far too sensible." So instead, they wove them into the shapes of cars, trains, and entire buildings. The sheer creativity involved is honestly impressive.

As you've probably gathered by now, seeing Nong Nooch properly requires an entire day.

At the absolute minimum.

Even though we essentially sprinted through the place in sightseeing mode, that was more than enough for me.

The entire drive back to the hotel was spent complaining about life, feeling deeply sorry for myself, and staring in horror at the thousands upon thousands of steps recorded by my fitness tracker.

Since all things should exist in balance and harmony, we dedicated the following day to maximum chilling and relaxation.

Once the cortisol that had been flooding our bloodstream during the Great Flight Cancellation Crisis finally dissipated, Nastya and I accepted the shocking reality that our holiday was continuing whether we liked it or not, the pace of our vacation seemed to slow down naturally as well.

Much as I occasionally enjoy sightseeing at a rate of roughly four parks per day, there is something undeniably pleasant about simply lying by a pool and periodically throwing yourself into it to avoid turning into a human kebab.

And what activity could possibly complement relaxation better than epic quantities of local food?

That day Marina, Denis, and Alisa took us to sample the Thai interpretation of Japanese shabu-shabu.

At this point, culinary snobs everywhere are dropping their forks loaded with Piedmont truffle and objecting:

"But surely! Shabu-shabu is merely a variation of Chinese hot pot. And besides, it is simply a form of nabemono, which bears a striking resemblance to sukiyaki."

Didn't understand a word of that?

That's because they're snobs.

Let's take this one step at a time.

Hot pot is essentially a Chinese cooking pot that once dreamed of evolving into a kettle but gave up halfway through the process and decided it was good enough already. The upside is that it now comes equipped with a divided base and its own built-in heating system.

Nabemono is the Japanese umbrella term for dishes cooked communally in a pot, somewhat resembling fondue.

Sukiyaki is one particular member of the nabemono family, traditionally centered around thin slices of beef, accompanied by vegetables and various other ingredients. Modern versions are perfectly happy to substitute pork, duck, lobster, or crab if the mood strikes.

Its defining feature is the preparation method. One by one, ingredients are lowered into the simmering broth. They cook briefly. You fish them out. Then in goes the next ingredient.

While waiting, you may happily devour whatever has already finished cooking.

Or you can demonstrate uncommon patience and eat everything at once.

Shabu-shabu refers specifically to this style of cooking meat and vegetables.

The name itself comes from onomatopoeia—the process of creating words based on sounds, like "meow," "tick," or "quack."

To Japanese ears, the gentle swishing and bubbling of ingredients cooking in hot broth sounds exactly like "shabu-shabu."

And if all the meat and vegetables somehow fail to destroy your appetite, the final stage involves adding rice or noodles to the rich broth that remains.

At which point overeating becomes less of a possibility and more of an inevitability.

Only one thing could properly conclude a day like that. A few bottles of local beer. An unreasonable quantity of snacks. And a table on the rooftop of our hotel.

Pattaya's skyline may lack the overwhelming illumination and grandiosity of Bangkok after dark, but that wasn't really the point.

The pleasure came from something much simpler. Just sitting and talking with the person you love. Or even sitting in silence, each lost in your own thoughts. Sharing a life. Trusting your partner completely. Being profoundly grateful for that trust.

I first experienced those feelings with absolute clarity during our honeymoon in Cuba. Since then, I've confessed to Nastya more than once that, at least by my own reckoning, I've had my fill of solo travel. These days, I want every new journey to be shared with her—my wonderful multiplier of happiness.

And that evening on the rooftop became yet another piece of evidence in an already overwhelming collection proving that I absolutely did the right thing when I dropped to one knee—the right knee, mind you—on the balcony of that hotel in Turkey.

Our involuntarily extended holiday was finally approaching its end. That night we would be heading to the airport, desperately hoping that Iran wouldn't decide to launch yet another round of missile-related excitement.

Rather than spend the morning nervously refreshing the news, we decided to make one last trip to Koh Larn—this time just the two of us.

The others honestly admitted that they loved us dearly, but not dearly enough to wake up that early.

As a man who is personally quite fond of remaining horizontal in bed for as long as circumstances permit, I understood them one hundred percent and judged them exactly zero percent.

This time our ferry came equipped with an outstanding first mate: a ginger cat with a face that radiated advanced levels of audacity. With the rolling gait of a veteran sailor, he wandered authoritatively among the tourists seated on the benches and periodically stopped in front of selected passengers. By a completely accidental coincidence, those passengers always seemed to be carrying something edible.

Alternating between the roles of stern harbor customs officer and starving shipwreck survivor, he attempted to extort snacks from our small international community. Having completed his gastronomic protection racket, he stretched out in the middle of the deck and appeared to offer departing passengers three options:

walk around him,

step over him,

or remain exactly where they were until further notice.

He immediately reminded me of a certain Istanbul cat I once encountered, proudly occupying the entrance to a bookshop. Believe me, the sea did not part before Moses as dramatically as human traffic parted before that furry scoundrel.

By our second visit to the island, we had settled onto the beach with all the confidence and efficiency of IT specialists who had been wintering in Thailand for years.

Somewhere between my second and third expedition into the perpetually inviting turquoise water, I sat on a sun lounger and watched the beach life unfold around me.

One particularly enterprising Thai gentleman had decided to reinvent the classic "photo with a monkey" business model.

Instead of a monkey, however, he possessed a drone and a tiny transparent boat made from something resembling industrial-strength cling film.

The man clearly understood what makes the hearts of TikTok and Instagram enthusiasts beat faster.

I am by no means a great photographer, and my sense of composition is questionable at best, but even I could tell that with the slightest amount of editing those photos would turn into pure social-media gold. Not posting them online and collecting a mountain of likes would practically qualify as a criminal offence.

His services were obviously in high demand, as demonstrated by the small queue of people waiting for their turn. Seizing the moment, the local Mario Testino earned every single baht. He sprinted across the beach like a cameraman. He rattled equipment around like a lighting technician. He scolded obstructive tourists like a film director berating an incompetent extra. And he taught posing techniques like...

Actually, I'm not entirely sure who.

Remember the music video for "Buttons" by The Pussycat Dolls? The one where six impossibly glamorous women bend and pose with such dedication that the average male heart has no choice but to surrender? Well, I would not be surprised in the slightest if the choreography had been created by this very Thai gentleman.

The day would not have been complete without a familiar cameo appearance.

Our old multilingual merchant friend—the man with an almost supernatural understanding of the Russian language—had once again launched an offensive against the wallets of Pushkin and Tolstoy's descendants.

He was still decorated with every imaginable bead, bracelet, trinket, and shiny object known to mankind, but this time he had slightly adjusted his tactics. The dominant theme of that scorching Thai afternoon was pressure.

Pure pressure.

Relentless pressure.

Without giving his chosen target even a second to recover, he unleashed what was clearly a marketing script of professional origin. Possibly even neuro-linguistic programming.

Having attached himself to a woman who was watching him with an amused smile, he launched his assault:

[seductively rattles beads]

"Madam! You need?"

[one-second pause]

"Think carefully! You need?"

[increasing pressure]

"Use your head! Think!"

[waits a moment before delivering the finishing blow]

"Stop thinking—buy!"

The woman had been smiling indulgently up until that point. Then she laughed so hard that beer came out of her nose. When she finally recovered, the crafty Thai salesman was four hundred baht richer.

As for me, I spent a considerable amount of time after his departure reflecting on the true meaning of the phrase: "finding your calling."

As evening fell, it was finally time to pack our suitcases.

Again.

The main difference from our previous attempt to say goodbye to Thailand was that this time we checked our flight status roughly seventy times, just to make sure nobody had moved it again.

The entire drive back to Bangkok I kept waiting for some fresh disaster to reveal itself, but praise be to the travel gods—nothing did.

Saying goodbye to Denis, Marina, and Alisa felt strangely difficult and unbearably sad.

Those couple of weeks we spent together had briefly returned us to something resembling normality—to those times when friends weren't scattered across half the planet, and sharing a bottle of wine and a few songs on a guitar didn't require an international passport.

Still, Nastya and I are incredibly grateful that everything came together the way it did, and that we got the chance to hug our friends beneath the blazing Siamese sun.

Those memories and experiences are worth more than any amount of money.

What happened has happened.

No one—and nothing—can ever take it away from us.

Well...

Except perhaps Alzheimer's disease. Although, seeing as I'm writing these words right now, this adventure will survive not only in my memory but on paper as well. Even if that paper happens to be digital.

So there.

Take that, Alzheimer's.

To the Moon and back! And back! And back again!