Mop-induced Memories
It’s taken me 12 years to be able to write about the 5 years I lived in Thailand in my early 20s. Here’s the first of what I hope is more stories from a very important time in my life.
May 2014, 5:30 am
I wake up before sunrise. The street lamps are still on, and though the dark sky is similar to when I went to bed, there’s a difference. Twilight might be the in between of night and day, but it feels different depending on what direction the sun is coming from and whether it is coming up or going down. My body can feel the pull from the glowing orb in the east, coaxing me awake, inviting me to start my day, sending energy for what is to come.
I clumsily pull on the pair of shorts and shirt conveniently left in a pile next to the bed, a mattress on the ground atop a large straw mat. The large lump on the other half of the bed remains, deep in slumber and unbothered by my bustling.
“I’ll be back,” I whisper gently as I prod the lump a little less than gently.
“Mm-hmm,” the lump responds and I retreat upon the acknowledgement.
“And start the soup!” I whisper, less softly as I move towards the doorframe.
“MM-HMM!” I hear in reply and see a hand uncurl from the sheets and give a thumbs up before diving back underneath an armpit for a last moment of relaxation.
I turn and traipse down the stairs, navigating the steps deftly in the morning darkness. I grab my wallet, phone, and helmet and slip on a worn but sturdy pair of sandals. The roll top door clangs loudly as I open it just enough to pop under before tugging it back down and closed. I don’t lock it. The sleeping lump from upstairs will soon be down to light the big burner and begin the preparations for the day. I mount my motorcycle, fasten the buckle on my helmet, and head out to the morning market getting there just as the sun has come up.
My first stop, as always, is the coffee stand. I wait patiently for my turn to order, watching the seasoned coffee maker pour the deep, dark liquid into a long cloth bag with a metal handle attached. They fill a small glass with a heaping spoonful of sugar and another with condensed milk before filling the rest up with the dark liquid. For a moment the ingredients are separate, a layer of milky white beneath a rich almost black brown. But as soon as the coffee maker dips their spoon into the glass, the layers swirl and mix until they become one singular light brown color. What was once separate, is now combined. The mundane yet potent magic of coffee making. A small plastic bag is filled up with ice, then the coffee mixture, and finally a straw and then handed over to me. I pay the 15 baht and commit to myself to not finish it all before I get home. But I already know that’s a promise I can’t keep.
I take a sip, and any last remnants of sleepiness are gone. The market, too, is starting to come alive.
I make a bee line for the meat stand. A large middle aged woman with a fierce presence and a boisterous demeanor stands behind her stall. It is filled with links of sausages, heaps of soon to be ground meat, pig heads, pig hooves, liver, intestines, cows blood. She smiles and greats me and asks if I‘ll have the usual. Just the ground pork today I tell her, and she hands me over a heavy plastic bag. See you next time! She smiles, nods, and waves the next customer towards her as I give one of the pig heads a pat on the head in gratitude for their sacrifice in feeding us.
On my way to the lime man, I am distracted by a good price on greens. I buy what is sure to be too much, but it’ll be shared. It’s just part of how things are done. I reach a small bamboo platform, atop which sits a small old man who is perched barefoot, cross legged, and smiling next to a huge pile of limes. We greet each other and exchange how are yous as he loads up a plastic bag with limes. He asks what we’re making today and I tell him. He adds in a couple extra. I thank him and wish him a good day before turning towards the noodles.
The stall that sells noodles also sells other things. Lots of other things. Spices, vinegar, dried garlic, fish sauce, bouillon cubes, sugar, and more. The dried goods and the flavor for the meat and vegetables now loaded up in my arms. I grab two packs of egg noodles and one pack of rice noodles. Lately the former has been more popular. I consult my now crumpled list before asking for a bag of garlic vinegar and a pack of bouillon cubes, when I realize that my arms have just about hit their capacity to hold things. I can perhaps fit one last bag, if there is something special that I spot on the way out.
After repositioning all my goods so that I am more properly balanced, I take several long swigs of coffee and convince myself not to buy a hefty looking bag of mangos. They are pricier than what I’ve budgeted. Plus, the neighbors have been sharing their bounty with us, so there really is no need. I’m just hungry now, and being driven by my belly over my brain. Perhaps a snack is in order, it’s just not a whole bag of mangos.
I make my way out of the now bustling center of the market back towards my motorcycle. Suddenly the smell of grilled meat meets my olfactory system and my stomach rumbles in response. I have just enough baht left over for a couple meat sticks and some sticky rice. I teeter over to the vendor whose grill is on wheels (and in fact attached to their motorcycle) and hand them over some coins in exchange for breakfast.
Somehow, with a mix of grace and pure hunger, I am able to maneuver the skewer into my mouth despite an arm weighed down by groceries. I follow up a bite with a swig of the iced coffee, pleased that I have left some to enjoy. I continue this pattern, walk, bite, drink, walk, bite, drink until I reach my vehicle. I carefully loop the handles of the bags onto the handle bars, making sure that the weight is evenly distributed for the ride home. I take one last gulp of my iced coffee before looping those handles next to the others. I put on my helmet, flip up the kick stand, and kickstart the engine. I give one last check to my parcels before taking off back towards home, the sun now fully in view above the horizon.
When I get back home, the energy has shifted. The sleeping lump is no longer sleeping nor a lump, but is busy chopping and dicing in the back kitchen. Out on the front porch counter, a gigantic silver pot is bubbling atop a lit burner turned to high heat. The smell of garlic frying in chili oil wafts from the kitchen out to the open porch. I lug the bags through the row of heavy wooden tables and plop them onto the one at the end nearest the kitchen. The former lump stumbles out from the kitchen to see the haul and their eyes light up at the sight of the two meat skewers I decided to save and bring back rather than eat all myself, which in my opinion is a deep act of love. They give me a gentle kiss on my forehead, stick one of the skewers in their mouth, grab the bag of meat and vegetables, and head back into the kitchen to continue the morning prep. There is still plenty to be done before the lunch rush.
I look down at the floor and notice that it definitely needs a mop after last night’s late night visitors, the usual crew of former classmates and neighborhood friends who come just for a beer or two which more often than not turns into a dozen. I look over at my watch and realize I don’t have much time to do that and get ready for my morning class. But before I can begin to panic, I see a small bespeckled figure descending down the stairs with a big smile on their face and a mop in hand.
Good morning, love!
Good morning! I wai in greeting. You’re here early! I reply.
Thought I’d come to help. Dad’s in town for work, and I didn’t want to be alone at home. Don’t you have to get to school?
Yes! But, I need to mop….I’m running a bit late.
Don’t worry, you get ready. We’ll take care of it. That’s what I came for.
Are you sure?
Of course! Now, come on, go get ready for work!
Thank you! We exchange a tight hug, and I run up the stairs, less frantic.
After a rinse and a change, I’m back downstairs and a hardy spread lay out across the table where I’d put the groceries. Egg omelet, spare rib soup, boiled cabbage, spicy green pepper spread, fried chicken wings, a basket of sticky rice. I don’t have much time before class starts, but I can’t pass up morning sustenance, especially when it tastes so good. Make sure you eat before you go! I am scolded. They know my propensity for unintentional fasting. P’Dtik made the naam prik just yesterday and wanted to make sure you got some. I smile, feeling a deep sense of gratitude and awe at such thoughtfulness, such effort, such care.
I mold a ball of rice into a spoon shape and scoop a generous proportion of naam prik onto it and take a bite. The lingering taste of iced coffee is replaced with a burst of tangy, smoky, garlic spice that tingles my nose and makes my eyes water at first bite. Mmmmmm, it’s soooo good, I say trying to acknowledge the craftsmanship of the dish. But I know that the words I have don’t do it justice. It is one of those recipes not written on paper, but rather memorized in the rhythm and practice. It is an embodied ritual that comes with time and repetition. It is a perfected spell made perfect by all the trial and error that came before it. It is passed on not just through words, but through action. One of the many mundane acts of love.
I look at my watch and shove a last big bite into my mouth, not even waiting to finish swallowing before standing up and running to wash my hands.
I’m so sorry to rush, but I’m running late. I’ll see you at lunch!
It’s okay, love! Go, go! We’ll see you at lunch. Have a good morning at school!”
I stop and turn back toward the table and its occupants. I lean down and give the littler bespeckled one a hug. Thank you for all your help.
She tenderly pats my arm Of course, child. Now get to work! I release the embrace and she smiles and dives her hand into the sticky rice basket.
Drive safe! I hear as I slide across the floor to where my shoes lay by the roll top. As I pull my shoe over my heel, I notice that the floor looks different than when I had taken my shoes off from the market. Shoe prints and dirt streaks had been wiped clean, and I can see my reflection shining back at me from below.
I turn back to the breakfasting duo and yell a last good bye. Thank you for mopping! See you in a bit!
I see a hand raise in acknowledgement and then move back down to grab a piece of boiled cabbage.
For the second time this morning I walk across the street to where my motorcycle is parked. It’s almost 8 o’clock and I seem to have just enough time for a second bag of coffee if I stop at the little stand down the street. I start my engine, kick up the stand. And off I go.
Snippets of early adulthood
(Me in front of our Noodle Shop: The Little Pig)
(Across the Mekong in Laos for my annual visa renewal trip)
28 May 2026
Perspective. Expansion. Knowledge. Things we get when we shift to a wider view. When we grow up. When we look back on our lives, our history. Hindsight is a potent teacher.
This story asked to be written after I returned from driving my partner to the airport for an early morning flight. We left when it was still dark, and I returned just as the sun was starting to bring light to the sky. Having had a cup of coffee on the drive, I was too awake to go back to sleep at 5:30 am. So I decided to sit and write. But before I could sit and write, I had to move my couch over closer to the window so I could feel the morning air and hear the morning birds. And after I moved the couch I noticed a patch of dust on the floor so I had to quickly mop the area with the brand new mop I recently purchased. And while mopping in the twilight of early morning, I had a flashback to my early 20s when I often did just that (among other things). That crazy time in my life now over a decade ago where I ran a noodle shop out of the house I rented with my former partner. Where I was also teaching and tutoring and working on a Masters degree, because I am a sucker for overworking myself driven by endless curiosity and a willful ignorance of my body’s boundaries and my emotional limits.
It brought me back to the quiet morning moments, when the air smelled like garlic and fish sauce and a hint of floral floor cleaner. To a time that feels so drastically different but also very familiar. It’s one of the reasons why I am so fond of sunrise. One of the many happy memories I have of twilight adventures.
I love bb Cait!