This week I got the preliminary information about my teaching load for the coming semester. As it turns out, I'm scheduled for 5.5 more contact hours than I'm contractually allowed to work. I could do all this work. I could even do it well; but the university would have to pay me overtime, and they're never, ever going to do that.
The solution is to find me a TA to take some of the work--it would put me right at the maximum number of contact hours, the university can pay this person a lot less than they'd have to pay me, and the TA will get all of the much-talked-about benefits of being a TA.
I remember these. "Experience." "Real-world teaching." "Career preparation." "Mentoring."
All of which translate to "Working for almost no pay."
Not sure how I feel about that. It will really be good for this student--I will do my best to help him out, observe him, give him materials, do a lot of prep work for him, that sort of thing--but it's still going to be a lot of work and a lot of pressure for not a lot of reward. And he could definitely be using his time for practicing.
I hope it works out.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Friday, May 26, 2006
here on wild kingdom...
Can you tell what that is? It was curled up next to our door yesterday. (In the hallway, not in the apartment.)Look closely.
It's a bat.
We got home from work yesterday, and as I was putting the key in the door I noticed our friend on the floor. I really couldn't tell what it was--it was dark, and the little guy was scrunched up pretty tight.
I asked Husband (who saw it immediately and knew what it was), "Is it alive?" Not wanting me to have some kind of girly-squealy freakout (and who does he think he's dealing with anyway?) he said he didn't know. I said, "Did it used to be alive?" Again, he said he didn't know. Mind you, I still can't tell what it is at this point--he knows very well that it's a bat.
I opened the door, and the bat revealed itself by lifting its head and watching the door open. "It's a bat! It's a bat!" I said. Husband at this point revealed that he'd known all along. We decided that the best course of action was for us to go out and do our errands as planned; certainly the bat would be gone by the time we got back. If, however, it was still there, Husband said he'd "deal with it." Sounded ominous.
Boring haircut, boring shopping, life-threatening taxi ride.
On the way back to the apartment in the elevator, we said to each other: "Bat...or no bat?" (in the menacing voice of that guy from the TV show "Deal or no deal" that Uncle likes so much).
The answer was "Bat."
It was still there.
Husband went out into the hallway with a broom, hoping to shoo it away. After a moment or so, he called me. "Hey honey! Come take a look!" Not at all sure I really wanted to know what he was doing, I went out to join him.
He had the bat clinging to the straws of the broom, swiveling its little head around with its ears perked up, scared out of its wits, I"m sure. I have to admit, it was sort of cute. But I didn't let that affect my knowledge that this was a BAT. A bat that could FLY AROUND IN OUR APARTMENT. I'm not sure why I thought that would be so awful, but I did.
Husband brought the bat down seven floors in the elevator, still clinging to the broom. On the way down one of the maintenance guys got on to the elevator, took one look at the bat, and burst out laughing. Of course, as this is the default response of Thai people to anything and everything farang do or say, it may not mean much.
Husband gently released the bat into a bush by shaking the broom until it let go.
Think it will be back tonight?
Monday, May 22, 2006
wives' tales
Recently there was a small gathering chez maikaojai. I proved definitively that, while I can lay out a good spread (and I was particularly pleased with the salsa I made), I am no kind of judge of the amount of beer that some of our friends can drink. I guess I'll have to stop using myself as a guide ("let's see, I'm good for about half a bottle*, and there are ten people coming, so that's five bottles").
*Beer in Thailand is sold in largish bottles that are roughly equivalent to two cans in the U.S.
Said gathering was a success, despite the quick trip to the convenience store to buy more beer. It did divide rather sharply by sex, though: while the men huddled intently over the Risk board, either playing or "helping," the women retired to what would be the kitchen if we had one. We sat around the table, ate most of the food, and chatted. Since one of our number is pregnant (rare enough in this cohort--to the shame of the Second Wavers, I'm sure, very few of us are currently trying to "have it all"), our conversation centered around the blessed event to come. We talked about ultrasound pictures, about nutrition, about names, and of course, how to determine the sex of the baby without the aid of modern science.
First I learned that in Japan, it's considered best for the first child to be a girl and the second child to be a boy.
Then I learned that in Asia (or in Japan and Thailand anyway), if the mother-to-be carries the baby straight out in front of her, without gaining much weight in her sides, she's generally supposed to be having a boy. If her belly doesn't stick out so far, but she expands at her sides, she's supposed to be having a girl. Interesting. Time will tell. The particular baby we were speculating about is due in September--time will tell.
*Beer in Thailand is sold in largish bottles that are roughly equivalent to two cans in the U.S.
Said gathering was a success, despite the quick trip to the convenience store to buy more beer. It did divide rather sharply by sex, though: while the men huddled intently over the Risk board, either playing or "helping," the women retired to what would be the kitchen if we had one. We sat around the table, ate most of the food, and chatted. Since one of our number is pregnant (rare enough in this cohort--to the shame of the Second Wavers, I'm sure, very few of us are currently trying to "have it all"), our conversation centered around the blessed event to come. We talked about ultrasound pictures, about nutrition, about names, and of course, how to determine the sex of the baby without the aid of modern science.
First I learned that in Japan, it's considered best for the first child to be a girl and the second child to be a boy.
Then I learned that in Asia (or in Japan and Thailand anyway), if the mother-to-be carries the baby straight out in front of her, without gaining much weight in her sides, she's generally supposed to be having a boy. If her belly doesn't stick out so far, but she expands at her sides, she's supposed to be having a girl. Interesting. Time will tell. The particular baby we were speculating about is due in September--time will tell.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
how to get a job as a professor, part 2
February.
The search committee starts calling the references of those candidates whose applications haven't already been thrown out. They call everyone on my reference list. Then they start calling everyone they know at the schools I've been associated with, regardless of whether or not I've listed these people as references. Then they start calling other people whom they think might know me for some other reason. If I'm one of the candidates being asked about, my references generally call me to let me know. Those candidates whose references manage to paint a sufficiently rosy picture make it to the short list.
If I'm one of the shining few shortlisted candidates for a job, I receive my second communication from the search committee. (If not, I wait by the phone with my hands folded neatly in my lap.) The communication I receive is a request for a telephone interview.
A week or two later, the telephone interview takes place. Sometimes this is with the entire search committee on speaker phone; sometimes the committee divides up the short list of candidates and each committee member calls two or three people. It lasts about a half hour and is quite possibly the most difficult part of the whole process, at least for me. The search committee compares notes on the telephone interviews and shortens the list again. Those who remain are finalists.
I wait.
March passes into April, and interview season is upon us. The search committee may make a second round of calls to the finalists' references (who, at this point, have now written a letter and taken two phone calls in my praise--are they really saying anything new?), after which they decide which two or three finalists they'd like to interview. By this time, some of the top candidates may no longer be in the running, having gotten orchestra jobs, so there are generally one or two other "finalists" in reserve to be interviewed if necessary.
If I'm one of the chosen few, I receive my next communication from the search committee. This is to set up an on-campus interview. I pull out my credit card and book a flight and hotel, for which I am promised reimbursement at some vague future date. I pull out my suit (yes, I have one) and cry because the pants don't fit anymore. I make an emeregency shopping trip for new, larger pants. I amass more paper proof of my excellence: worksheets I've made, an academic paper I've written, programs from recitals I've played. I have this neatly bound at Kinko's and copied for each search committee member.
I get on a plane. I get on another plane. I arrive at a Holiday Inn. I sleep, maybe.
Then, the interview begins. Generally there are several things that need to happen during an interview day: an actual face-to-face interview with the search committee, another one with the dean, sometimes (if it's a small school) yet another with the president or another high-level administrator. A recital, performed by me, for which I am given half an hour to rehearse with the university's staff accompanist. A sample lesson with a member of the university's studio. A sample lecture on another topic I'm prepared to teach (for example, music theory). An "informal" meeting with students. And, of course, breakfast, lunch, and dinner with the search committee.
I return to the hotel. I call Husband and cry tears of exhaustion. I fly home, and I wait.
I wait and wait and wait.
May.
The search committee, the dean, and the provost agree on which candidate should receive the offer. That person is called with the good news, and is given some time (usually 2-3 weeks) to make a decision and to negotiate an offer. The rest of the finalists hear nothing.
Finally the chosen candidate accepts or rejects the university's offer. If s/he accepts, the department secretary sends a form letter to all rejected candidates (including those who didn't make it to the phone interview, and who haven't heard anything since December) informing them that the pool of candidates was exceptional; however...
If, though, the chosen candidate rejects the offer, the negotiation process begins again with the second choice. The third interviewee continues to wait. The rest of the candidates have been assuming they were rejected for months now.
The search committee starts calling the references of those candidates whose applications haven't already been thrown out. They call everyone on my reference list. Then they start calling everyone they know at the schools I've been associated with, regardless of whether or not I've listed these people as references. Then they start calling other people whom they think might know me for some other reason. If I'm one of the candidates being asked about, my references generally call me to let me know. Those candidates whose references manage to paint a sufficiently rosy picture make it to the short list.
If I'm one of the shining few shortlisted candidates for a job, I receive my second communication from the search committee. (If not, I wait by the phone with my hands folded neatly in my lap.) The communication I receive is a request for a telephone interview.
A week or two later, the telephone interview takes place. Sometimes this is with the entire search committee on speaker phone; sometimes the committee divides up the short list of candidates and each committee member calls two or three people. It lasts about a half hour and is quite possibly the most difficult part of the whole process, at least for me. The search committee compares notes on the telephone interviews and shortens the list again. Those who remain are finalists.
I wait.
March passes into April, and interview season is upon us. The search committee may make a second round of calls to the finalists' references (who, at this point, have now written a letter and taken two phone calls in my praise--are they really saying anything new?), after which they decide which two or three finalists they'd like to interview. By this time, some of the top candidates may no longer be in the running, having gotten orchestra jobs, so there are generally one or two other "finalists" in reserve to be interviewed if necessary.
If I'm one of the chosen few, I receive my next communication from the search committee. This is to set up an on-campus interview. I pull out my credit card and book a flight and hotel, for which I am promised reimbursement at some vague future date. I pull out my suit (yes, I have one) and cry because the pants don't fit anymore. I make an emeregency shopping trip for new, larger pants. I amass more paper proof of my excellence: worksheets I've made, an academic paper I've written, programs from recitals I've played. I have this neatly bound at Kinko's and copied for each search committee member.
I get on a plane. I get on another plane. I arrive at a Holiday Inn. I sleep, maybe.
Then, the interview begins. Generally there are several things that need to happen during an interview day: an actual face-to-face interview with the search committee, another one with the dean, sometimes (if it's a small school) yet another with the president or another high-level administrator. A recital, performed by me, for which I am given half an hour to rehearse with the university's staff accompanist. A sample lesson with a member of the university's studio. A sample lecture on another topic I'm prepared to teach (for example, music theory). An "informal" meeting with students. And, of course, breakfast, lunch, and dinner with the search committee.
I return to the hotel. I call Husband and cry tears of exhaustion. I fly home, and I wait.
I wait and wait and wait.
May.
The search committee, the dean, and the provost agree on which candidate should receive the offer. That person is called with the good news, and is given some time (usually 2-3 weeks) to make a decision and to negotiate an offer. The rest of the finalists hear nothing.
Finally the chosen candidate accepts or rejects the university's offer. If s/he accepts, the department secretary sends a form letter to all rejected candidates (including those who didn't make it to the phone interview, and who haven't heard anything since December) informing them that the pool of candidates was exceptional; however...
If, though, the chosen candidate rejects the offer, the negotiation process begins again with the second choice. The third interviewee continues to wait. The rest of the candidates have been assuming they were rejected for months now.
how to get a job as a professor, part 1
Check out this link for an accurate description of an academic job search--this is a search for a dean, so it's a little more high-profile than the searches I've been involved in.
This is what happens when I apply for an academic job.
In about October, the advertisements begin to appear for faculty vacancies for the following academic year (e.g. in October of 2006, I will start to apply for jobs for 2007-2008). New ads continue to run through about the end of December.
When I decide to apply for a job, I amass the following things:
I wait. I wait and wait and wait.
Several weeks after sending the application, I receive the Equal Opportunity form from human resources. I disclose my age, sex, race, non-veteran status, lack of disabilities, and hope like hell this stays in human resources like it's supposed to.
I wait.
Several weeks after returning the Equal Opportunity form, I receive my first communication from the search committee. It's well into December at this point. It's a form letter that tells me that either (a) my application has been received and is under consideration, or (b) items are missing from my application, without which it cannot be considered. These "items" are always letters of recommendation. Whenever possible, I ask my letter writers to send their letters directly to me so that I can mail everything off at once and retain a little control over this process. However, when the hiring university demands it or when (like now) I'm very, very far away from some of my letter writers, I ask them to send my letters directly to the search committee. Somehow these letters just don't make it as often as they should.
So, I act. I call the department secretary at the hiring university to inquire about the "missing items." I need her (it's always a woman) to tell me which letters arrived, so that I know which letter writer to call and ask to re-send. Sometimes she tells me, sometimes she doesn't. When she doesn't, I have to call all of my letter writers and explain that they've got to re-send their letters.
I wait.
January passes. More ads appear, from search committees whose administrators only now approved the budget to hire a new faculty member. These deadlines give me less time to amass my packet, but since I've already gotten it into fighting trim from the fall applications, it's really just a lot of printing. And calling of letter writers.
I wait.
This is what happens when I apply for an academic job.
In about October, the advertisements begin to appear for faculty vacancies for the following academic year (e.g. in October of 2006, I will start to apply for jobs for 2007-2008). New ads continue to run through about the end of December.
When I decide to apply for a job, I amass the following things:
- an updated copy of my CV
- a cover letter explaining why I, and only I, can possibly fill this position
- a CD recording of my playing, usually including about an hour of music
- transcripts from every institute of higher education I've ever attended
- three letters of recommendation, preferably written by close colleagues and former advisors who have high profiles in the small world of academic music
- a standard job application form from the university's human resources department, which looks like the kind of application one fills out for a retail or food-service job. For example, the "education" section always asks if I graduated high school, then leaves one blank for me to detail my higher education.
- a statement of teaching philosophy
- sample syllabi for courses I'm prepared to teach
- copies of student evaluations of me
I wait. I wait and wait and wait.
Several weeks after sending the application, I receive the Equal Opportunity form from human resources. I disclose my age, sex, race, non-veteran status, lack of disabilities, and hope like hell this stays in human resources like it's supposed to.
I wait.
Several weeks after returning the Equal Opportunity form, I receive my first communication from the search committee. It's well into December at this point. It's a form letter that tells me that either (a) my application has been received and is under consideration, or (b) items are missing from my application, without which it cannot be considered. These "items" are always letters of recommendation. Whenever possible, I ask my letter writers to send their letters directly to me so that I can mail everything off at once and retain a little control over this process. However, when the hiring university demands it or when (like now) I'm very, very far away from some of my letter writers, I ask them to send my letters directly to the search committee. Somehow these letters just don't make it as often as they should.
So, I act. I call the department secretary at the hiring university to inquire about the "missing items." I need her (it's always a woman) to tell me which letters arrived, so that I know which letter writer to call and ask to re-send. Sometimes she tells me, sometimes she doesn't. When she doesn't, I have to call all of my letter writers and explain that they've got to re-send their letters.
I wait.
January passes. More ads appear, from search committees whose administrators only now approved the budget to hire a new faculty member. These deadlines give me less time to amass my packet, but since I've already gotten it into fighting trim from the fall applications, it's really just a lot of printing. And calling of letter writers.
I wait.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
oh, these computers! they're so naughty and complex!
No, I don't know why the text in the previous post is so small. I can't get it to change. I suggest you adjust your browser. Maybe I should go back to clay tablets and a stylus.
we don't need no stinking sidewalk
This is the sidewalk outside our condo.*
The sidewalk has not always looked this way. Just a few short weeks ago it was smooth and easily traversable on foot, bicycle, or motorcycle. Then, unobtrusively, a major project started.
Parallel red lines were painted along the length of the sidewalk. We didn't know why they were there. They didn't impede us in any way, although Mom insisted that we should walk between them. The lines remained for several days, perhaps a week.
The next phase was really, really loud. A worker was using some vile piece of machinery to cut grooves along the lines. The purpose of the red lines was clear! They were there to guide the worker in his use of the extremely loud groove-cutting machine! The purpose of the grooves, however, was not at all apparent. Did I mention this part was loud?
At a certain point, the grooves veered away from their course parallel to the sidewalk, seeming to point into the khlong (canal). This led us to believe that the red lines and the grooves were some kind of preparatory work for the laying of a pipe of some kind, perhaps a drain.
The next phase was, unbelievably, quieter than the cutting of the grooves. I say "unbelievably" because this phase was carried out with a jackhammer. It was the jackhammer that produced the sidewalk as it looks today. As before, the purpose of the previous phase was revealed in the execution of the current one. The grooves were put there to guide the jackhammer operator, as the red lines guided the groove-cutter. This definitive tearing up of the sidewalk strengthened our belief that some kind of subterranean pipe was forthcoming.
However, no further changes of status have occurred for quite some time. Could it be that this is the end? Is nothing else planned? How long will the sidewalk look this way? More importantly, how loud will the next stage be when it comes?
*Avid readers with sticklerish leanings will have noted before now that I use the words "apartment" and "condo" interchangeably in this blog. This is because (a) I don't understand what the difference is supposed to be in the first place, (b) it sure looks like an apartment to me, and (c) it's officially called a condo.
Monday, May 15, 2006
sigh of relief
The horrible, horrible heat seems to be over. During the past few days it has clouded up and stormed almost daily, and although once the storms are over the sun comes out and scorches us again, there is an appreciable difference between the temperatures now and the temperatures several weeks ago.
While Mom was here, it was really hot. You know how I know? Not because of the sweat that dripped from me at all hours. Not because of the heat waves that shimmered over the ground at all times. No, I know it was hot because my mother the sun-worshipper was heard to say that it was too hot for her. She actually looked at the sky and hoped for a cloud. During our trip to Phuket, she repeatedly sat in the shade. My mother.
While Mom was here, it was really hot. You know how I know? Not because of the sweat that dripped from me at all hours. Not because of the heat waves that shimmered over the ground at all times. No, I know it was hot because my mother the sun-worshipper was heard to say that it was too hot for her. She actually looked at the sky and hoped for a cloud. During our trip to Phuket, she repeatedly sat in the shade. My mother.
magic bus
This is the bus we rode to get to the pier where we got on the boat that took us to the reef where we went snorkeling.
back in the saddle again
It seems like every other post I make is an explanation of why I haven't been posting. This time it's because right at the end of Mom's visit, I fell prey to some kind of evil microorganism.
There was a lot of lying in bed.
There was a lot of complaining.
There was a lot of blogging not done.
But I think I've finally fought it off, and so here I am.
There was a lot of lying in bed.
There was a lot of complaining.
There was a lot of blogging not done.
But I think I've finally fought it off, and so here I am.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
confessions of a delinquent maikaojai
When I was visiting family in the U.S. last month, Aunt Who Bakes Cookies made a special batch of cookies shaped like musical notes. She entrusted these cookies to me and asked me to bring them back to Thailand and feed them to my students. I was then to report back to this blog with my students' impressions of American homemade cookies.
I stashed the cookies in the freezer until it was time to leave, then (predictably) forgot them there. Aunt Who Notices These Things promptly packed them up and shipped them to Mom, thinking she could bring them with her when she came to Thailand to visit.
Mom is here now, but the cookies are not. Apparently the post office didn't treat them with the gentleness that was their due, and they arrived at Mom's house in smithereens. She decided not to bring the smithereens halfway around the world, subjecting them to overhead compartments and airport jostling, and likely demolishing them further.
Thus, despite the quick thinking of Aunt Who Notices These Things, Aunt Who Bakes Cookies will never know what the average Thai university student thinks of her cookies.
I'm sorry.
I stashed the cookies in the freezer until it was time to leave, then (predictably) forgot them there. Aunt Who Notices These Things promptly packed them up and shipped them to Mom, thinking she could bring them with her when she came to Thailand to visit.
Mom is here now, but the cookies are not. Apparently the post office didn't treat them with the gentleness that was their due, and they arrived at Mom's house in smithereens. She decided not to bring the smithereens halfway around the world, subjecting them to overhead compartments and airport jostling, and likely demolishing them further.
Thus, despite the quick thinking of Aunt Who Notices These Things, Aunt Who Bakes Cookies will never know what the average Thai university student thinks of her cookies.
I'm sorry.
cinco de mayo it's not
Yesterday was May 5. I know that the date at the top of this post says May 5; if I was a more intrepid explorer of this software I probably would have figured out how to tell it that I don't live on Pacific Time; but I haven't, so you'll have to imagine with me that it's already May 6. Which it is.
Yesterday morning Husband, Mom, and I were awakened at the ungodly hour of 5:30 AM (they've got a 5:30 in the morning now?) by the music which, avid readers will recall, is often to be heard coming from the loudspeakers at the police station across the street. It's not usually so early, nor is it so loud, and I won't even mention the horrible bone-rattling thumping bass.
Husband grumbled something about a noise ordinance. I reminded him that even if it existed, such an ordinance probably wouldn't deter the good folks at the police station, the boys in brown, if you will, from playing music. What are they going to do, arrest themselves?
Because the music (which had actually begun the previous night but had stopped at a reasonable bedtime hour) was so early, so loud, and so persistent, I wondered if it might not be a national holiday that we didn't know about. It's happened before, I have to admit. We know about the ones that fall during the school year, but since it's still summer break here and will be for another 3 weeks, we don't have the (decidedly mixed) blessing of constant administrative memos. These are only occasionally in English and often irrelevant, but they do serve to keep us informed of things we'd already know if only we had the slightest idea what was going on around us most of the time. Like national holidays.
Anyway, that was my suspicion, so I went online and checked the Bangkok Post. Surely if it was a holiday there would be some mention of it in the newspaper.
There was nothing in the Bangkok Post, so we decided the music (which was still playing) was just there for the enjoyment of the town. We proceeded with our plans for the day: Mom and I were going to head into Bangkok for some sightseeing and a Thai cooking class. Husband was going to go to the office and continue working on the piece of music he's writing. Mom and I got into a taxi...and arrived at the National Museum half an hour before we expected to. There was no traffic. None. I don't think I can convey how strange that is, especially during what should have been the heart of morning rush hour.
We walked around the neighborhood until the museum opened, noting what looked like the preparations for a celebration in Sanam Luang: pavilions, tents, and lots of people walking around setting things up.
Finally we saw it.
A sign, posted in English, stating the following: "The National Museum will be open on May 5 (Coronation Day)."
Coronation Day. The commemoration of the coronation of King Bhumibol, Rama IX, longest-ruling monarch in the world and beloved of the Thai people. Big holiday.
It's been at least a week since I felt that stupid.
I called Husband to let him know: not only did this explain the music, but it was a pretty safe bet that the air conditioning wouldn't be turned on in his office today, so I thought I'd save him the trip. Mom and I saw the museum, went shopping, and went to our cooking class. Luckily not even a major holiday can stop commerce in Bangkok. Husband had a more difficult time of it: we know from experience that our small town shuts down on holidays, so when we know one is coming we try to plan so that we won't have to go out for food (though we've gradually improved the kitchen situation, it's still easiest and cheapest to go out for most meals). This one, however, caught Husband unaware. After biking around town and finding that all of our usual places were closed, he ate a lot of peanut butter sandwiches, and by the time we met him for dinner at the night market in Bangkok he was really hungry for something more substantial. Poor guy.
Yesterday morning Husband, Mom, and I were awakened at the ungodly hour of 5:30 AM (they've got a 5:30 in the morning now?) by the music which, avid readers will recall, is often to be heard coming from the loudspeakers at the police station across the street. It's not usually so early, nor is it so loud, and I won't even mention the horrible bone-rattling thumping bass.
Husband grumbled something about a noise ordinance. I reminded him that even if it existed, such an ordinance probably wouldn't deter the good folks at the police station, the boys in brown, if you will, from playing music. What are they going to do, arrest themselves?
Because the music (which had actually begun the previous night but had stopped at a reasonable bedtime hour) was so early, so loud, and so persistent, I wondered if it might not be a national holiday that we didn't know about. It's happened before, I have to admit. We know about the ones that fall during the school year, but since it's still summer break here and will be for another 3 weeks, we don't have the (decidedly mixed) blessing of constant administrative memos. These are only occasionally in English and often irrelevant, but they do serve to keep us informed of things we'd already know if only we had the slightest idea what was going on around us most of the time. Like national holidays.
Anyway, that was my suspicion, so I went online and checked the Bangkok Post. Surely if it was a holiday there would be some mention of it in the newspaper.
There was nothing in the Bangkok Post, so we decided the music (which was still playing) was just there for the enjoyment of the town. We proceeded with our plans for the day: Mom and I were going to head into Bangkok for some sightseeing and a Thai cooking class. Husband was going to go to the office and continue working on the piece of music he's writing. Mom and I got into a taxi...and arrived at the National Museum half an hour before we expected to. There was no traffic. None. I don't think I can convey how strange that is, especially during what should have been the heart of morning rush hour.
We walked around the neighborhood until the museum opened, noting what looked like the preparations for a celebration in Sanam Luang: pavilions, tents, and lots of people walking around setting things up.
Finally we saw it.
A sign, posted in English, stating the following: "The National Museum will be open on May 5 (Coronation Day)."
Coronation Day. The commemoration of the coronation of King Bhumibol, Rama IX, longest-ruling monarch in the world and beloved of the Thai people. Big holiday.
It's been at least a week since I felt that stupid.
I called Husband to let him know: not only did this explain the music, but it was a pretty safe bet that the air conditioning wouldn't be turned on in his office today, so I thought I'd save him the trip. Mom and I saw the museum, went shopping, and went to our cooking class. Luckily not even a major holiday can stop commerce in Bangkok. Husband had a more difficult time of it: we know from experience that our small town shuts down on holidays, so when we know one is coming we try to plan so that we won't have to go out for food (though we've gradually improved the kitchen situation, it's still easiest and cheapest to go out for most meals). This one, however, caught Husband unaware. After biking around town and finding that all of our usual places were closed, he ate a lot of peanut butter sandwiches, and by the time we met him for dinner at the night market in Bangkok he was really hungry for something more substantial. Poor guy.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
sudsy bliss
Yes, it's true. I've bought a washing machine. I'm ecstatic in a way that's really unwholesome from the viewpoint of my anti-housework worldview.
Up to now we've taken our laundry down the street and paid to have it done for us. It's cheap, it's fast (usually only 24 hours), and they know us there so we never have to try to explain ourselves in Thai anymore. But many, many of our things have been shrunk. Many others have been mixed up with the laundry of other farang, to be sorted out later by us. It's a long, sweaty walk with a full laundry bag. After our visit home last month, I decided I was ready to indulge in the luxury of my own washing machine.
What's a luxury? It's hard to define. Our apartment comes wired with cable TV and high-speed internet, neither of which we had in the U.S.
However, some purchases we've made mark us as veritable libertines among our neighbors. These are such extravagances as:
What's a necessity? What's a luxury? What's an extravagance? It's all a matter of point of view, I guess.
But I can tell you that, necessity, luxury, or extravagance, I LOVE my washing machine.
Up to now we've taken our laundry down the street and paid to have it done for us. It's cheap, it's fast (usually only 24 hours), and they know us there so we never have to try to explain ourselves in Thai anymore. But many, many of our things have been shrunk. Many others have been mixed up with the laundry of other farang, to be sorted out later by us. It's a long, sweaty walk with a full laundry bag. After our visit home last month, I decided I was ready to indulge in the luxury of my own washing machine.
What's a luxury? It's hard to define. Our apartment comes wired with cable TV and high-speed internet, neither of which we had in the U.S.
However, some purchases we've made mark us as veritable libertines among our neighbors. These are such extravagances as:
- a kitchen sink, which sits outside on the porch.
- a water heater for our shower.
- the aforementioned and asidepictured washing machine.
What's a necessity? What's a luxury? What's an extravagance? It's all a matter of point of view, I guess.
But I can tell you that, necessity, luxury, or extravagance, I LOVE my washing machine.
it's been the ruin of many a poor boy
Taxi rides in Thailand evoke many sensations, from relief (the air-conditioned taxi is a wonderful refuge from the heat) to terror (lane markers, speed limits, and other niceties go by the board as the driver propels you to your destination at the maximum possible velocity). However, they are generally not occasions for merriment: Husband and I converse in low tones in English, occasionally leaning forward and attempting to communicate directions in wretched Thai and with what we hope are universal gestures. Our recent ride home from the Bangkok airport was an exception.
When we got into the taxi, the driver asked us in English where we were from. This is not too uncommon—in fact, many taxis have signs in the windows that read “We love farang. We can speak English.” Often this is a filthy lie, but frequently enough there is some truth to it—many drivers know enough English to have a rudimentary conversation. Combined with our unholy attempts at Thai, we can sometimes get along quite well. Topics of conversation generally include: the fact that we like Thailand, the fact that we are teachers of music, and the fact that it is hot. And no taxi conversation would be complete without the following exchange:
Me: “Something totally wrong and unintelligible in Thai.”
Taxi driver: “Arai na?” (WHAT?)
Me: “Sorry!” (Most people understand this English word.)
Me again: “Puut passa tai yaak.” (Thai is difficult.)
Taxi driver: “Mai yaak! Passa tai ngaai! Puut angrit yaak!” (No, Thai is easy. English is difficult.)
Me: “Mai chai! Angrit ngaai!” (No, English is easy!)
This can go on for quite a while.
Anyway, with this particular taxi driver we covered this familiar ground, but we soon moved on to a topic dear to his heart: music.
American and British popular music of the 1960s and 1970s, to be exact. He listed for us all of the rock concerts he attended in Bangkok in the 1970s (quite a lot), told us that he plays guitar, affirmed Elvis’s status as the King, and expressed his admiration for Paul McCartney’s left-handed bass playing.
And then he started to sing.
Actually I think it was Husband who began it. The driver was waxing poetic about the time when Elvis Presley shook the hand of the King of Thailand (what a moment!), and at a suitable pause, Husband started to sing “Hound Dog.”
The driver was delighted.
He joined in, of course, then started naming other songs and ordering Husband to sing them. They did “Love Me Tender,” among others. We moved on to the Beatles, whose songs I know better than Husband does. The orders passed to me. We did “I Saw Her Standing There” and “From Me To You.” The driver declared “P.S. I Love You” to be his favorite, but for some reason he didn’t care to favor us with that one. All together the three of us sang “Hey Jude.”
And then, out of the blue, he said, “The Animals. The House of the Rising Sun. You sing.”
Well, you don’t have to tell me twice!
The driver started humming the guitar part and I came in with the vocals. I did the first verse in what I considered to be a polite, unassuming undertone, but come on folks, you know this song! It’s just crying to be sung loudly. I couldn’t help myself. By the time I got to “My father was a gamblin’ man” I was delivering the words in what can only be described as a bellow.
The driver was having the time of his life. I have to admit that we were too. It may have gone a little too far, though, when he took his hands off the wheel to play air guitar.
We did get home safely, though, and I can only hope that he had as much fun as we did.
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