Marigolds in Siam

We came up the river to Bangkok in a heat that made the paper curl. I took the train north to Ayutthaya with a borrowed umbrella and a sketchbook wrapped in oilcloth.

The old capital is mostly brick now, and fig roots, and quiet. At every spire there were marigolds: strings of them, bowls of them, single heads tucked into cracks in the stone. Someone had lit incense at the foot of a weathered figure. Marigold, resin and warm stone. I painted until the light went orange.

On the way back a woman at a station stall sold me iced tea that was blue. It stayed blue until she squeezed lime into it, and then it turned violet. She laughed at my face. The flower is called butterfly pea, and she grows it along her fence. I pressed one in the book.

In the market by my lodging, the herb sellers bruise lemongrass with the back of a knife so you can smell it from the next stall. I bought a bundle only for the smell and kept it by my bed.