There was something in the insistence of the ticket seller that there was no longer a one-way river taxi ticket to the National Palace that conjured up the feeling of memory. Something akin to the flavor of years ago getting detoured by a commission seeking tuk-tuk driver who insisted that I go to visit the temple of the Black Buddha as Wat Po was closed for a Buddhist holiday. He then took the scenic route through several jewelry stores and tailor shops hoping for a spiff, before ditching this Bangkok greenhorn for a fresh mark.
In Chinese, they say 吃一塹， 長一智, sometimes you have to learn things the hard way.
When unsure what to do, it is best to watch and see what the locals do, then fall in line with them.
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The delight of travel is that unless there is a train, bus or plane that defines your day, there is nothing that must be done. There is something deeply healing in being able to follow the rhythm of the moment, move slow enough to notice what catches your interest and let that open the next door.
Wat Po is on the way to Palace; its ceramic dot-matrix of green and blue is like the waft lime and smoke. Today there are no obstructing tuk-tuk drivers, we follow the crowd that trickles through the side gate.
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It is a curious mix. Mirror and ceramic Thai temples, white walled with roofs carpeted in green and orange tile, Buddhas in gold, and statues and gates that speak of a connection to China.
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Wat Po is considered a temple of healing; the art of Thai massage is taught there. Not surprisingly, the medicine of Asia includes channels and points. The images painted are foreign, but not unfamiliar.
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One gates leads to another, leads to a Buddha, leads to an altar, another gate, incense, a cloister of more buddhas, spires and stupa. Like walking a labyrinth, time folds into a non-linear dimension; the inside and outside lose their boundaries as the National Palace falls into the agenda of another day.
