Brave(ish) by Margaret Davis Ghielmetti

Author:Margaret Davis Ghielmetti
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2020-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

We’re sending greetings to say hi. Regretfully, we don’t speak Thai.

We trust you’ve found a birthday frock to strut your stuff in old Bangkok.

We wonder if you both are grooving, with the thought that you are moving.

Holy Cow and Sakes Alive: You have reached the forty-five. HAPPY HAPPY!

Yes, I realize, I am grooving. I’m relieved about this move. Not that it’s not stunning in Chiang Mai; it’s a paradise for honeymooners—and for Patrick. But I can admit it now; it’s not my paradise. We’ve already had a few years in remote resort locations. I need some city!

I separate out what will go into long-term storage in Bangkok, as the GM’s apartment there is not nearly as large as Residence Eight in Chiang Mai. We’ll only be taking cat and clothes, books and laptops, jewelry and Very Important Documents (discovered in a “safe place” after all). While I feel like I’ve only just unpacked the last box of our stuff, the movers come and pack it up again. Lastly, I place my turquoise-blue journal in my carry-on.

On the day of the actual move, the staff bids me farewell; Patrick has flown on ahead to Bangkok. Now, Nadia and I are in the resort’s Mitsubishi to be driven south. The first few hours of the trip are a Postcard of Southeast Asia: rice paddies glow green; chickens peck at the side of the road. We make a stop along the way at a roadside restaurant for a slice of jackfruit pie.

When we reach the outskirts of Bangkok, our car is pulled over by highway patrol. The hotel driver is visibly nervous as the officer approaches the car. I roll down the window in the back passenger seat. The officer smiles and greets me, “Sawasdee Khap, Madaam.”

Then he says something to the driver, who translates, “Khun Margaret, he needs to know what’s in the car.”

I respond, “Please tell the officer that he’s welcome to look in the trunk or to search my bags.” The driver relates this back to the policeman, who then peers inside through the car window.

“What’s in the green bag?” he asks the driver, who responds Meow. The cop tells the driver, who translates again, “I’m sure Madaam’s husband is a very important man. If Madaam would give me his business card, you can be on your way.” When the driver relates this to me, I’m thinking, Oh, hell, no. I am definitely not going to give Patrick’s card to this guy—who will show up at Four Seasons in the blink of an eye.

In a flash of righteous anger and in a fit of out-of-body inspiration, I take one of my own calling cards and a pen out of my purse. On the back of my card, I draw a paw print. I hand the card to him through the car window, saying “For you! From Meow!” The cop looks at the card. He looks at me. I can tell from his astonished expression that he now believes he has a crazy foreign lady on his hands—and not the easy mark he may have thought.

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