We arrived at the train station a little shaken (and confused) by the speed of our driver but no worse for the wear. We still couldn't decide whether he thought we were going to miss the train (we had plenty of time) or if he was determined not to miss the arrival of the princess. We assumed the latter. We entered the train station, looking forward to our first train ride of the trip, always a slightly roomier and more comfortable ride than the buses.
"Rebecca, lets just get on the train, have a beer, and relax. It should be a nice train ride up," I said, as I approached the window to get two tickets. "Two tickets to Bangkok, please, on the 10:30 train."
"The train is full."
I looked at Rebecca, confused. It almost sounded like he said the train was full.
"I'm sorry?"
"Full train."
Confused, I turned back to face this awful man telling me of the full train.
"The train is full? The whole train is full?"
He confirmed. We stood, blown away. I didn't even know trains got full, but here was this exceedingly friendly man, telling us that, yes, trains do fill up. Every car. Every single seat. And because the train ride to Bangkok was almost a full 10 hours, the next train was an overnight route leaving in the evening, 6 or 7 hours later. We briefly considered hopping the train, and
nestling up to some hay bales in the cargo section. I assumed if we did, we would certainly have the time of our lives drinking whiskey with meandering hobo intellectuals, some young Thai Jack Kerouac cavorting from town to town on trains, unseen and unpaid. It would be great. Then I thought of our two smaller backpacks and our two large, wheeled backpacks. I'm pretty sure we don't travel as light as the beatniks did. But we do have shampoo, facewash, half of a library, two masks and snorkels, extra shoes, headphones, computer, pillows, sheets, towels and all of our clothes. You know, just in case.We stood in the station for a few moments, feeling good and sorry for ourselves, when a taxi driver who had overheard our problems sauntered up.
"A bus leaves in one hour for Bangkok, I can take you there now."
So our options were:
1. Wait in the train station for six and a half hours for the next train, putting us in Chiang Mai at 9:00 p.m. the next night.
2. Go get on a bus. Which, depending on the vehicle and driver, range in quality/comfort from "not bad" to "pretty terrible" to "white knuckled, bouncing, hot, malodorous death-traps."
An hour later, we boarded the bus for Bangkok. To be quite honest, I don't remember anything
about the ride to Bangkok, which means it must have been closer to the "not bad" variety. We have found that the trains and buses are the same way: it's luck of the draw whether you end up in one from 1965 or a new one. And, obviously, you don't find out until the ticket is purchased and you are boarding. We arrived in Bangkok in late afternoon, back at the Southern Bus Terminal where we had spent the day two weeks prior. It seemed like ages ago, until I heard the faint sound of Bingo/Old Macdonald drifting through the doorway. Terrified, we jumped in the first taxi we saw and made our way to the train station.Trains, as I said previously, are like the buses. Some are nice and new, some, well, some are older. We boarded the train and almost immediately (Rebecca really has an eye for this stuff) my bride informed me that the train had been built in 1957, per a faded and stained silver plate on the wall. We had four options for the train ride:
1. Air conditioned bunk room (the nicest)
2. Fan bunk room
3. Air conditioned seats
4. Fan seats
We took the fan bunks, saving ourselves almost $12 in the process. Woo hoo! (Some might say it would be worth the $12 to be comfortable for the 20-odd hours we spent on the train. Not us. Hardcore). As we slid through the narrow passageways of the train cars, turning sideways to navigate the tiny openings, we sought out car 10, which we presumed to be a car containing several rooms of bunks. We were wrong. We walked into the correct car, and were hit with the unmistakable stench of backpackers. Not that we aren't backpackers, (though, we have been told that we are "flashpackers," an ambiguous term that may or may not be derogatory) but when you cram 30 backpackers in a room with all their stuff, spreading out clothes, taking off shoes, well, the odors can be strong. Some of the windows opened, some not. Some of the fans worked, some not. The car consisted of a very narrow passageway bisecting the middle of the car with rows of tops and bottom bunks on either side. It was close, cramped, hot, and smelled bad. And it was built in 1957. But hey, we saved $12.
We deposited our bags in the proper bin and made our way to the dining car, determined to avoid the close quarters of the sleeper car until the train had some air going through it. We spent
the next couple of hours hanging out and drinking beer with the train employees. They showed videos from Southern Thailand, played very loud Thai music, kept cracking beers, and we all had a grand time. We stayed up late, and actually slept pretty well that night. Some of the trains may be old, but being able to get up, walk around, spread out in the dining car and avoid being crammed into a small seat for a day is very nice. It was late afternoon when our carriage puttered into Chiang Mai.Chiang Mai is the largest city and beating heart of Northern Thailand. It's a very nice size: large enough to stay interesting but small enough to be easily navigable. A large university calls it
home, and it reminds one of the front range of Colorado in its convenient location in the middle of beautiful mountain ranges. The "Old City" lies slightly west of the geographical center, and is delineated by a large moat and crumbling wall that encircle it. One must enter the old city via a bridge. Chiang Mai struck us as a wonderfully balanced city: modern with a bit of frontier town, older but with some young people, just big enough, just lively enough, very friendly. We loved it, and we're not alone. Many ex-pats call Chiang Mai home. As soon as we entered the old quarter a friendly young German happened by and saw us perusing the map."Are you new here, are you looking for a place to stay?" We were.
"I stay in a nice place on Soi 5. It's quiet but central."
We nodded appreciatively and headed in that direction. The "sois" in Chiang Mai are the plentiful yet narrow alleyways connecting all of the larger streets. We found a nice, reasonably priced guesthouse, and his characterization of our street proved accurate. We had an early first night, happy to be out of buses, trains, taxis and all other forms of public transport.
The next morning we rented a motorbike and headed out to explore the beautiful environs surrounding the city. The first journey was up Doi Suthep, a mountain and National Park just west of town. The very friendly folks at the British-run Tony's Big Bikes gave us a lot of great
advice (and maps and wheels) to explore the area. We wound our way up the steep road, blown away by the beauty of the place. We stopped off at a beautiful viewpoint overlooking the city and eventually found ourselves in a small market area at the base of an enormous set of stairs leading to the Wat (temple) at the top of the mountain. We trudged up the stairs (complete with dragon-backs as railings) and took in the beautiful temple at the top. The temples tend to be 
relatively similar to one another, but beautiful nonetheless. We laughed at the tourists posing for pictures with the monks, and, as always, admired the elephant replicas. Because, without question, elephants kick ass. Walking through the temple reminded me of one shrine we passed every day while staying on Khao San Road in Bangkok. The shrine itself was common enough to the area: a post with bungalow replica attached to the top, like a birdhouse. Most Thais will put offerings on the "porch" of the 
miniature bungalow: bowls of rice, small cups of water or milk, whatever they are eating or drinking at the time. This particular bungalow was inhabited by the largest rat I have ever seen. The couple who ran the shop behind the restaurant would put out their offering, and moments later, the rat (seemingly yawning and stretching on the way out) would exit his little nest and begin happily munching away. Reba decided to test his resolve one day by walking right up and looking him in the eye. He looked right back, unfazed, and returned to his eating. I'm not sure who those offerings were for, but I do know that fat, happy rat was thankful.We continued up the little mountain road after visiting the temple, stopping off for several beautiful waterfalls along the way. These were proper waterfalls, loads of water tumbling down
the side of a mountain. The road was a blast to drive on, narrow and winding, good for leaning into the curves. Two small Hmong villages, separated by around 15 kilometers of gravel roads lay on the other side of the mountain, and we 
were determined to see them. The first village was slightly disappointing, constituting nothing more than a large, touristy market, with vendors hawking wares that I was pretty sure were coming from China. The second village, much farther away and off the beaten track, was really cool. We left the pavement behind about 10 kilometers before the village, and the road in was one lane and rocky, and wound its way along a mountain ridge and down into the village itself. Because of how narrow and winding the road was, mirrors hung on the trees at most of the turns, and signs were posted every 100 meters or so advising that:"You please horn."
Rebecca and I spent a great deal of time dissecting this simple statement and wondering what exactly it would take to really please your horn. I'm going to stop now. This is a family blog.
No horn-pleasing around here.
Although I have been known to tickle it every now and then.
/biting my tongue, biting my tongue
Okay, that's better, we're good. We pulled into the little village and, after driving the length of it, parked the bike beside a coffee stand. We saw more farm animals than people: pot-bellied pigs, chickens, dogs, cats, ducks. After thoroughly antagonizing every last one of them (we only
wanted to pet them), we sat down for a coffee. We learned that the village had long been dependent on opium production, and an initiative in the late 1980's had attempted to replace the poppy plants with coffee beans. We drank a fantastic cup of coffee, hand ground, freshly brewed and so strong the straw just about stood straight up in the cup. Coffee beans surrounded our little table, 
and at the risk of calling too many things "the greatest ever," that was the greatest cup of coffee I have ever drank. We polished off two cups while we watched a teenage girl across the dirt road. She sat silently in her little shop, weaving colorful threads into pillowcases, handbags, and other items. It was a wonderful moment, standing out in a trip full of wonderful moments.
Feeling dusk creeping in, we gathered ourselves and headed back down the mountain and into town. Though a relatively small city (170,000), Chiang Mai houses some hellacious traffic in the
evenings. Normally, traffic is no big deal. You settle in, turn on some tunes, and take what comes. Traffic on a motorbike, however, in a city full of motorbikes, is a different animal altogether. We found out that evening. The first thing you notice is that motorbikes don't follow traffic laws of any kind. At red lights, all of the bikers veer over to the shoulder of the road and squeeze through the small space between the line of cars and the sidewalk until they reach the intersection. As soon as the light turns green (or really just before) all of the motorbikes take off like they've been shot out of a gun; dozens of helmeted, masked, fearless drivers aiming their bikes for the same narrow bottleneck of road at the opposite end of the intersection. And the 
masks: when we first got here, we wondered why so many people wear the flimsy cloth respirators over their faces. We know now. The fumes, dust, and grit combine to form a toxic sludge that festers in your eyes, nose and mouth for days. It's why, despite my best intentions never to do it, I've been wearing sunglasses at night while driving here. And not breathing. We have gotten pretty good at navigating traffic on the motorbikes by now though. At first glance, it seems like total chaos, but with some experience one finds a method to all of it, a code. But watch out for the trucks. Their code is: "I'm bigger than you. Get out of my way."That night we went to the Muay Thai match. It was a lot of fun, a cultural experience to be sure, but Rebecca was not a fan of the violence. I'm not quite sure how she expects a kickboxing match to go off without some contact, but she told be a few minutes after the first match started,
"This is great, I just wish they would stop hitting each other."
"That would be called dancing."
And they do dance. They kind of hop around the ring and hold their gloved hands in front of them, rhythmically moving and shaking to the live music coming from the three man band. They move faster as the music gets faster. It was great fun, and I resisted gambling on the match like we saw several people do, taking the bait of the well-dressed men walking around holding money
in the air. I'm no gambler anyway, but here's my rule: if you're in a strange country, watching a sport you have never seen, performed by fighters you have never seen or heard of, and the man taking bets is a local- it's probably not a good idea to bet on the match. That was apparently not the rule of the other travelers, who were bleeding money throughout the eight bouts. How long do you think it would take one of those men to fix a match? 3 minutes? 4 minutes? Really, people. We had a blast, though, and saw no blood and only one hard, clean punch. We were both kind of relieved.We headed back to the room, happy and fulfilled from our day, but tired, and up past our bedtime. We needed sleep too, because tomorrow?
We're getting a real motorcycle...
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