I still haven’t told you about my visit to the Grand Palace. I just can’t bring myself to write about it. Maybe because I don’t have much to say?
Today, I’d rather talk about my discovery of Chinatown on January 23rd—just a few days after I arrived—because in my exotic fantasies, I thought this would be my favorite part of Bangkok.
I didn’t know yet that there was a metro station serving this area. I had taken the word of my residence’s owner, who had declared with absolute certainty:
- Only option: taxi! 🤑
Fortunately, I knew you could also get there by boat, getting off at Ratchawong Pier.
Let me tell this story in the present tense, as if I were experiencing it live. It saves me from wrestling with the passé simple and the outdated, slightly pretentious imperfect subjunctive in a travel journal.
As soon as I step off the boat, I enter a world I expected: the Chakkrawat district. First, a street wide enough to be called a street, yet still a narrow alley, lined with stalls overflowing with colorful fruits—the dream of any photographer: oranges, mangoes, pomegranates, apples, cherries, grapes, bananas, pineapples, dragon fruit, mangosteens… A fireworks display in broad daylight dazzles your eyes: yellow, orange, ruby, vermilion, blue, violet, every shade of green… Not to mention the bright red Coca-Cola parasols, shielding all these people from the sun, already scorching by early morning. Meanwhile, Chinese lanterns—like thousands of cherry-red hot-air balloons—float in the air, inflated with the hope of an upcoming celebration: the Chinese New Year on January 29th, promising enchantment and imminent festivities to passersby.
But what are these huge transparent bags revealing what look like dry, oddly shaped doughnuts?
Should I try one? They can’t fill you up much—they’re so light… I don’t like it much. Tastes like fish, not great.
Now I’m walking down another alley, this one very narrow, reminding me of India—cluttered with motorcycles, scooters, bikes, and street vendors pushing or pulling their makeshift carts.
I don’t know where that guy is headed, but his rickety mobile kitchen-dining room carries a stove, assorted dishes, jugs, a blender, buckets, containers, and even a mini display case. Not to mention two plastic stools hanging on either side of his “kitchen-restaurant-vehicle,” plus bags—bags everywhere—plastic, brown, blue, white, green, red, yellow, floral…
Now it’s dried fish—just as many varieties as the fruits I just left behind: round, long, oval, flat, smoked. Squid with tentacles, tentacles without bodies, bodies without tentacles…

Next come shops selling dried vegetables and various condiments. Then, without warning, clothes, shoes, handbags, trinkets for women—hair accessories, bracelets, anklets, earrings, foot jewelry. A tall tourist with an impressive tattoo and skin-tight black shorts barely covering her butt bumps into me, nearly knocking me over as she’s glued to her phone.
Across the way: plates, bowls, glasses—long, round, shallow, fluted, scalloped, floral, gilded… Meanwhile, squeezed between a toy store (balls and balloons) and a shoe shop, a tiny restaurant with a few tables lined up along the facade offers a menu so overwhelming it kills your appetite. The sheer variety of dishes plastered on the walls is staggering, despite the cramped space. Always this abundance, this excess—even on a restaurant menu.
But whose prehistoric scooter is this? The shoe seller’s, or some kind of “delivery truck” to beat the traffic? It’s equipped with a huge cargo platform…

Now I’m in the heart of Samphanthawong. I’m swimming in a sea of red and gold.

Hmm, this little temple is practically begging me to come in with its dazzling glitter. And I don’t regret it.

I’m much happier and more satisfied with this modest, authentic visit than with those tourist spots described in every guidebook.
Take Wat Traimit, for example, which I just visited. As thrilled as I was by everything I’d seen in the previous hours, this so-called solid gold Buddha leaves me indifferent. Besides, it’s a big lie—just like the Emerald Buddha, which is actually jade. Only “the upper part is cast entirely in pure gold, particularly the hair and the top ring (the flame? 😄). The head and chin are 80% gold, and the lower part is 40%.” So much for a solid gold statue…
Aesthetically, the statue is beautiful and delicate, but wasn’t I going to see other equally dazzling ones, just covered in a layer of gold?
They say only faith saves. For example, it’s said that all the jewels Queen Elizabeth II wore were copies, with the real ones kept in a safe place. And no one was the wiser—especially not the people who couldn’t get close to her…
I had a similar feeling when I saw the Taj Mahal, and I really regretted getting up so early to avoid the crowds and paying the hefty entrance fee.
I can’t help thinking about Wat Mangkon Kamalawat, which charmed me just hours earlier with all its red lanterns and the sincerity of the worshippers—far more numerous than the tourists, who seem to ignore this photogenic temple.


On the other hand, the museum on the second floor of Wat Traimit really interested me. Though right now, as I write this, I couldn’t tell you what I saw—since photos weren’t allowed, I have no memory of it except that it was magnificent, and I spent a long time admiring those wonders.
I’m struck by the commercialism of the monks, whose stalls offering all sorts of tempting deals for devout Buddhists spread out in every direction around the temple. “The Merchants of the Temple.” At least the monks are setting an example. Always under the protection of Saint Donatien. Buddha, come see this! Though he didn’t fly into a rage like Jesus did.
I choose to leave this place, reeking of hypocrisy and lucrative business disguised as religion.
I like Yaowarat Road for its constant buzz, but the flow of vehicles on the road and tourists on the sidewalks quickly makes me want to get away.
I prefer to lose myself—literally and figuratively—in the maze of its side alleys.
That’s the heart of Chinatown, where the real lives of the people who live there unfold.


I literally stuff myself with fruit—especially since you don’t even have to peel them. They’re ready to eat, already cut up. So convenient for tiny pineapples and huge pomegranates. I love this fruit from my childhood, but I’m usually too lazy to dig out the seeds.
I wander another 15 kilometers, and I’m surprised to feel the fatigue in my feet but not really in my body. Probably the intoxicating effect of discovering new curiosities every day.
I’ve never felt so comfortable with improvisation as on this trip, but due to my lack of “geographical” preparation, I realize that while I was in the north, I then headed south—only to later find out that another site on my list was actually close to where I’d been in the north. So, out of laziness or fatigue, I didn’t go back, and that place slipped through the cracks. Or, conversely, I sometimes ended up in the same place twice. Any travel companion who relied on my “organization” would’ve been in trouble. That’s why I love traveling alone more than ever. I savor the solitude of my trip in small, delicious sips.
And that’s how my steps lead me to Talat Noi, which I hadn’t planned to visit today at all. Not in a rush, not at the end of the day when I’m tired. I wanted to spend more time in this neighborhood. But since I’m here, nothing’s stopping me from taking some unusual photos of all these mechanics who’ve made it their domain, piling up tons of old spare parts.


Once there, I bitterly realize that my host really didn’t go out of his way to provide useful tips—just a bunch of leaky, hole-ridden advice.
I won’t say more about Talat Noi today.
I’m now realizing I completely lacked organization, memory, and time to stick to the semblance of a plan I’d set for myself to avoid going in all directions.
In the past, I’d buy maps, mark sites, group them. With the rise of all things digital, it’s become hard to find a paper map where you could check off everything you wanted to see at a glance.
I understand why I might’ve confused those who tried to help me—with my indecision and lack of geographical knowledge about Thailand. But those who helped me also confused me with their contradictory advice. So the keyword became improvisation: I’d see when I got there.
I also realize that the years have passed, and I’ve changed—both as a person and as a traveler. For one, I (almost) never complain anymore when faced with a setback or disappointment. And there were plenty of those during these 45 days in Thailand.
In my early trips to India, I prioritized temples, palaces, museums… Now I don’t care much—especially in Thailand, where so many travelers had the same idea. What motivates me now are the people, their way of life, their poverty or wealth, their mindsets, beliefs, clothes, habits… That’s why I prefer wandering on foot through a city rather than stuffing myself with temples, palaces, and museums. So I walk slowly, eyes, nose, and ears wide open… Observing everything that moves.
After a few days in the tourist district, I was starting to overdose on temples. I’m not knowledgeable enough about Asian art to spot the differences in architecture, interior decoration, or Buddha styles.
Oh, that Buddha—I got so tired of seeing him everywhere! Always so big, always so gilded.
He must be laughing at seeing himself covered in so much gold, when he’d renounced honors and luxury.
I rarely crossed paths with solo travelers. Tourists (especially Asians) prefer to move in groups. I almost want to say in packs. I’ve seen entire buses unload their cargo onto a site, immediately overrun by a thousand people. They arrive, visit at a gallop, take selfies—but never of the building they’re posing in front of. Because yes, it’s pure theater—those ridiculous, completely artificial poses. It can go on for dozens of minutes. Puppets: three little turns and then they’re gone…
But I’ll talk about that in another post.