PicoBlog

It’s been a minute since I’ve been to Bangkok and I like it even more than the last time—a lot more. As a travel journalist, I feel like I get swept into the notion of gravitating toward new territory as the world is a massive place, but as of late, my rhythm has been revisiting places and lingering. I want to try to understand what makes a city or an island’s heart beat, much like mine, and feel like a local at a coffee shop by the end of the journey.

Two things remained the same about Bangkok: the hot ass weather and the chaotic traffic. One steamy Friday evening I left my hotel in a Grab, giving myself 45 minutes to get to my reservation at Ms. Maria & Mr. Singh, which maps out at 25 minutes away. I was originally predicted to be early, then barely on time, and in the end, 15 minutes late. LOL. I hate being late so I was sweating so hard once I arrived. In Bangkok, I realize there’s a buffer of at least 30 minutes tacked into a reservation. The reality: you’re most likely never going to be on time and that’s okay.

I’d long awaited chef Gaggan Anand’s Ms. Maria & Mr. Singh, originally described on his social media as his “curry house dream,” which opened days before the pandemic took over the world. The restaurant has since moved to Phrom Phong neighborhood, sitting above Gaggan, in a quirky, playful setting where buzzy love tunes a la Phil Collins, Fine Young Cannibals, Depeche Mode, Christopher Cross, Prince, Simple Minds, and more, played throughout dinner. I couldn’t help but bop and sing while eating. I batted an eye at sommelier Milan Rukavina, to see if there was *wink wink* anything else lingering around that wasn’t a by-the-glass option down at Gaggan. He shook his head no, only to resurface a few moments later with a glass of liquid gold, better known as Baša Vino Tamjanika, an amber-hued skin contact wine from Serbia. It was the best companion to my feast.

The restaurant is based on a fictional love affair between Ms Maria, a Mexican woman, and Mr. Singh, an Indian man, with the result of the love affair yielding “fantasy dining.” I’d imagined my friend, also James Beard-nominated chef, Preeti Waas, sitting beside me as I delusionally ordered for two. I can’t not. In front of me plops the salsa set with mixed chips, seasonal pickles and spicy cheese sauce that was reminiscent of gas station nacho cheese out of the metal pump, but way more intoxicating with the spice addition. I then ordered golgappa, aguachile verde, and tacos pork vindaloo. “Is it overdoing it if I add the crab curry,” I ask? I laugh at myself as I am well aware of the answer but I had to have it. “We can send you away with leftovers,” my waiter says. “There will be no leftovers,” I reply.

Death by food kicks in and out comes Gaggan’s crab curry. The succulent chunks of Thai swimmer crab meat were swimming in a coconut curry broth reminiscent of the texture of your grandma’s best attempt at gravy in the South. I still think about this dish at least once a week. And then, I slurped down a surprise order of Dal made with Mexican beans which allegedly, according to the menu, is a tool of seduction. I was sweating from overeating. It was a mind fuck of flavors, and while I couldn’t finish the curry, I ate every last bite of the crab meat doused in what I now call ‘seductive broth.’ To end, a mysterious glass of unfiltered, unpasteurized Junmai sake—Terada Honke Daigo no Shizuku—crafted using the primitive bodaimoto method of brewing from the 15th century.

I returned to my hotel so giddy, immediately falling on my back into the bed, moaning by way of food coma discomfort. At 3am I woke up with my heart racing, gasping for air from a whacky, vivid dream. On an idyllic beach with white sand and water so clear it will make you thirsty….I ran along the beach chasing a bright orange crab with giant cartoon-like eyes popping out of its head. In a blink the crab morphed into a flamboyant Thai person who appeared more like a genie, lying sideways in the sand like a mermaid.

“Have you ever been in love in this lifetime?,” they ask (in a high pitch, crackling voice).

“I have not,” I reply.

“You were 1,000 years ago and you will be soon again,” they say.

Heart still racing, I travel back to 2018, sitting on my teal-colored mid-century modern sofa in Jackson Hole with Rosie Cutter, a famous astrologist, trying to figure out why my marriage was failing so hard. We took swigs of tequila and smoked a joint and she ended up staying way longer than the hour I'd booked. I admired her saucy demeanor, wearing a revealing white bodysuit with her gorgeous, unruly red locks. She noted I was a warrior in my past life and that my then husband and I were such negative matches that we’d been trying to kill each other in many past lives. 2018 was allegedly the year it all ended—and it ended as dramatically and traumatically that it could. But it’s finally over and I feel safe and happy again.

This was also the aha moment I realized I’d never been in love, not even in my marriage. I loved my wedding, the party that is, but I cried hysterically, out of fear after walking down the aisle. I was always scared of him—and scared of being someone’s forever object. Most recently, I wanted to love Roberto but based on my curry crab fever dream I can say it’s not that kind of love I tried to have or give.

Fast forward back to Bangkok, where I was certain Gaggan’s crab soup was an actual psychedelic love trip. I woke up early the next morning to catch a flight down South to Phuket, for an 8 day “Cleanse Life” retreat at Aleenta. By the time I reached the resort I’d had another flare up of some weird manifestation happening underneath my eyes. I’d masked feeling like complete shit for months prior and was prepared to get a death sentence from the bloodwork and body panel results. “I’m sorry to break the news but your results all check out great,’” the doctor tells me. My face turned flat into a look of disappointment. “It’s your heart and root chakras that are what I’m most concerned about.” In a nutshell, she tells me that I have a lot of love and give a lot of love but don’t love myself—and I suffer from a cold heart. I broke down in tears. “Working on yourself is a lot harder than a death sentence,'“ she said, after giving me a hug.

The next day I cried a lot. And after hours of chakra and energy work, I was sensitive to the world. I walked along the white sandy beach, where the water was crystal clear—and where hundreds of itty bitty crabs surrounded me. I rubbed my eyes. Was my crab curry-induced dream a reality?

One week later, and after the not-so-charming teddy bear hotel, where I learned what a joiner was, I decided to change scenery and make way to Koh Samui. The flights were booked so I did the gritty backpacker style travel via a $30 (total!) bus-to-ferry situation. I was stupid and didn’t get cash out prior to the 8-hour journey so I was starving for both something to eat and for the South African, who was also arriving on the island with two friends later that day. I knew I was in trouble when he sent me Nine Inch Nails’ ‘Closer’ on the bus.

My old ass said yes to a full moon party invitation on Ko Pha Ngan for the sole factor that he was the first man to satiate my appetite for sex and I selfishly wanted more. I was (and still am) trembling at the thought of the yellow hotel and what kind of wizardry he practiced to keep me at a steady, nonstop orgasm for thirty f*cking minutes. I was a total poltergeist floating out of my body and to be honest, I am not sure I ever came back down from that high. I asked him how he got me to surrender. “You wanted to,” he says.

While my inner 21-year-old-self was hyped to go my 41-year-old-self was trying to ponder what someone my age wears to this type of….occassion. I had one outfit that didn’t smell like sweaty death. I dressed myself and slung my Gucci bag around my shoulder, eager to pop in a taxi for a pre-party snack. “You have 15 minutes until I arrive, you can pick where you want to put it” I text him. I was in control of his pleasure at the time, in a game of working on uncovering my dominant side. I hop out of the taxi and wait for him in the lobby. “It’s not polite to keep your joiner waiting,” I say to him, trying to not grin from ear to ear.

In his hotel room I slowly kissed him, unzipping his shorts, simultaneously asking why he had trouble napping in my most sweet sounding voice. His lips are perfect amongst other features I quickly learned to love. Foreplay was interrupted by his friends knocking on the door, ready to leave for the party. “I need 10 more minutes,” he says to them. I kept thinking I’d die if we didn’t finish what we started. “Want me to bend you over the bed?” he asks. The oversized boxy tv stand, placed in the middle of the room in order to fill a giant space gap, was my surface of choice ...and a stellar one at that. I lost my dominance but I didn’t mind surrendering again. And again. And again.

A race down to the taxi, four 40-something strangers subject themselves to face painting and taking a boat to an alter universe on an island—where a bunch of wasted 20-somethings over indulge on weed and buckets filled with sugary alcoholic drinks. It was the best-worst time we’d ever had.

Getting off the island was stressful; we were like sweaty sardines pressed up against one another, funneled into a line where we were let out one by one—only every person on the island was pushing and shoving us against the railing in an attempt GTFO. It got a little dramatic and heated in the end, with every drunk person screaming and yelling—and in a moment of complete exhaustion I became too vulnerable to keep fighting my way through. The South African, wearing a sweaty, loosely fitting gray tank, blocked a pathway with his arms for me to safely exit towards the boat that was about to depart for Koh Samui. A close second to the mind-blowing sex is this moment

We made it off the island around 4 am, and so did my Gucci bag, slightly wrecked with glow-in-the-dark neon face paint that was now anywhere but on my face. I can now state that I don’t recommend wearing a designer handbag to a full moon party but it was a night I’ll never forget. My twenty-something self can now rest peacefully.

****In totally honesty it’s so hard to write about someone when you know they’re reading but I’m starting to character build for the book. I like to stroke his ego so this excerpt was quite fun to tell, although these chapters on the pages will be way more explicit. I can promise you that!

xxJenn

ncG1vNJzZmiamamwqbHNZ6qumqOprqS3jZympmegZK5usNGemKaxXaXAuq%2FHnpuepJmYerW%2ByKlkn6qfonqorcagmKc%3D