In praise of the long route

I take a somewhat circuitous and back route to work in the morning, even if I'm tight on time. If I'm late enough that time's an issue, the main routes are clogged and the back alleys are quicker. But what's neat is that when I'm on good time, I catch groups of monks out... I want to say “foraging” but don't know if that's permitted... for their food.

One group in particular strikes me: there's an older middle-aged man, a middle-aged man, a youngish man, and a teenage boy. Every day, they pass down a street where half a dozen ladies have set up food stands, ladling grub from hotel pans or woks of bubbling oil. And if I time it right, I catch an old, old woman—withered and wrinkled and stooped but up and about without the repose of the ancient—in a deep wai, handing a baggie of food to the boy in ochre robes. I am entranced, not the least by the fact that I'm the only one so blown away by an utterly mundane morning street scene.

Welcome to Thailand.