It's all pretend, Part I

March 11
It comes served to us under the neon glow of false morning light.
An all-American breakfast: fruit, sausage, eggs, toast. Shrink-wrapped sustenance with a smile. The perfect orange circles of yolk on the perfect round disks of white next to perfectly square sheets of toast- it looks like plastic food, like toy replicas we played with in kindergarten during "meals" or at Friend's houses, playing "house."
"It looks like the shit you see in windows at restaurants," Kyle says, before I can even comment. He's right, except we're not at a restaurant, hungry gawkers staring in, potential members of the dining elite allowed to feast with mouths and stomachs, not just eyes. And we're not playing "house," either, although the booth we fill reminds me of a 50s era kitchenette. It's a breakfast nook leftover from years gone by, as aged as the rest of our surroundings. And there is no play for us now, not really. Even if it feels that way.
We're on the No. 51 Express train heading north from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. Maybe we'll be able to play there.In the meantime, breakfast has been served under shallow lights as we creep along through countryside that is hilled and treed like that of anyplace U.S.A., not palmed and tropical as I'd imagined Thailand to be.
This is the second eggs and sausage breakfast I've had. More all-American than the breakfasts I eat at home. I didn't fly 23 hours to eat eggs and toast everyday. I don't know what I DID come for; not this.
I didn't come for upset stomachs, traveler's diarrhea, no, but that's to be expected, isn't it? Yes. And after my last meal on the streets, yesterday afternoon, I've got both the upset stomach and riled innards that will probably only mean one thing once I make it to the silver hole in the train's floor that serves as the toilet.
I had eaten several types of yummy, mini doughnuts; lots of varieties of pad Thai, tom yum, chicken dishes, fruit and all manner of noodley dishes and soups off the Bangkok streets. I wanted to immerse myself in culture through the cuisine. So I dug right in, better than homefries and comfort food anyday. But I hadn't tried the meat balls on a stick, all colors and shapes and types. And I'd been craving them. So I balled up and got a selection: chicken, pork, beef. I was leery of them each day because I wasn't sure how long they'd been sitting out in the sun at any given street stall, and my better judgement told me to avoid them. Since I generally ignore my better judgement, I decided to skip it and take a chance on the culinary curiosity before leaving the city.
The beef balls were delicious. Spicy and tender and just smokey enough to cover the heat and decay that had already begun to set in when I purchased them. Dipped in a hot chili paste, they were fine.
The pork balls, white and almost spongy, tasted fine, it was just the consistency that gave me pause. Dipped in the same sauce, they proved edible. Reservations would come later.
I knew with one bite that the chicken balls would be my undoing, that the meat had long since gone home to roost. Eating these will make me sick, I thought to myself, soaking them in the cilantro red sauce they came with. It wasn't until I bit into a piece of feather that I gave up on the spheres of white meat; I didn't want to find the beak or bit of scaly leg piece. All behind me now, the meal on the tiny tray in front of me was my present concentration.
Filling and just barely enough to hold me over for another five or so hours, these small home style breakfasts are good enough to eat, but that's it. Just enough. Walking around and hauling a 25 pound (yes, really) pack in this heat is enough to make one want more than three squares a day. But it was all I had, so I ate it, jumped out of the robin's egg blue booth as often as possible and loaded up on the tea to fill my tummy when done. I'll just pretend that I'm full.

Empty now, our car (No. B) is devoid of all human conversation, all life save Kyle and I. When he's in his seat and not out smoking in the space between cars or talking to someone in the sink area, that is. I sometimes wonder if we're just acting here, just going through the motions, just making it all up as we go along, not sure of the right words or actions or staging.