And then We Ate Ice Cream

I got home today and had my first amazing, home-cooked, Thai meal. It was the first time I wasn't afraid of anything on the table, and everything was so delicious I actually couldn't decide what I wanted to eat. Except for the pork rinds. I could have passed on those. I think the trick was to ask Ma Noi to cook “phet nit noi” (a little spicy) instead of “mai phet” - I think mai phet Thai dishes are all thin, salty, fish-sauce-related soups with mystery meat floating in them. Thank God those days are over with.

During dinner, I asked about the party we drove past on the way home. They were confused. “Party,” I explained. “Flashing lights. Music.” Still confusion and “mai khao jai.” Miming dancing doesn't help. “Is there a wedding?” I ask, pointing to my ring finger. We understood wedding, but still, confusion about the party tonight. About five minutes later, one of the younger cousins had a revelation. “Oh,” she said, “one of Ma Noi's neighbors died.”

Oh.

I put on my black shirt, and Ma and Paw put on their Sunday finest, and we take a quick motorbike ride over to the “party.” We park and walk under a tent with hundreds of people milling about and talking. There is musical chanting coming in over the loudspeaker. In the middle of the tent, there is an enormous temple-like centerpiece constructed from restaurant chairs, a table, layers and layers of flowers, and about 600 flashing, colored Christmas lights. And a coffin. A bright gold, intricately detailed, impossibly small coffin barely poking through the center of the decorations.

We sit, and while Ma and Paw talked to friends around us, I am mesmerized by the flashing Christmas lights. The whole centerpiece is a little makeshift, but overall it is really nice and pretty classy, except for those damn lights, which just don't make any sense. Those were the lights I saw from the road – it looked like somebody hired a budget DJ for a backyard Bar Mitzvah. And for some reason, the big surge protector is right there, front and center, about six inches below the coffin. The lights keep flickering in different patterns, and the little red switch on the surge protector flickers along with them, lighting the adjacent plugs with a soft red glow. I'm trying to be open-minded, but I can't be the only one who is bothered by the surge protector, let alone the lights. She was 82 years old – I wonder what she thought.

The crowd goes silent and folds their hands in front of their hearts to wai as monks from the local wat began their chant, which is broadcast to those of us in the cheap seats over the PA. The whole crowd is solemn and still, but the lights just dance on, inappropriately unaware of exactly what they have gotten themselves involved in.

The monks finish up, and it seems like it might be time to go home. I turn to Ma Noi, and she just says “Ice Cream!” which takes me a second to process, because I think she must be speaking in Thai. “Ak-skreem? Is-cruum?” I think. I turn around to follow her gesture, and sure enough, headed our way is a short, plump Thai woman carrying a tray of ice cream cups and tiny spoons. I take one. It is mango-flavored and delicious.

Maybe we could learn a thing or two from Thai funerals, after all.