Since being back to Chiang Mai, Cole has been asking us to go for a ride on the motorbike, usually right before he falls asleep at night.  He’s like, “I’m tired, you know what would be relaxing?  A ride around the old city.  Seriously, let’s go right now.” But what he really says is:

“SHOES!!! SHOES!!! GO! GO!”

Then Drew and I scramble from whatever position of repose we were enjoying to take a 10 PM jaunt around the city.

On this night, we’re driving around, Cole has already fallen asleep and everything it’s dark and quiet.

Drew: Look, there’s the Chiang Mai Writer’s Club*.

Me: Ooh we finally found it.  We should go there.

Drew: And drink Hemmingway style!

Me: Drew I can’t, I’m pregnant.

Drew: Oh. If you can’t drink what’s the point?

Me: What’s the point of anything?

We laugh.  Way too much.

Drew:  [after a pause] Wait, does this mean we’re nihilists?

Me: No, it means we’re alcoholics**.

*Google tells me it’s the Chiang Mai Writers Club & Wine Bar, and Lonely Planet notes, “There’s also English pub grub to help anchor a liquid meal.”  I’m pretty sure writer’s club is just a classy way of saying, “I like to get hammered but without the loud music”.

**We’re not really alcoholics but I do miss wine. Just this week. I’m daydreaming about frozen margaritas too, it’s unsettling.

Photo by Sergey Puzin