Mike wants to go to one of her bars and tell her his story of last night. He is about to suggest they do this, go to a bar, when she says that Thailand has expanded her consciousness and brought her closer to God. Not really God, but the state of truly organic being. She can actually feel her aura expanding, right now.

Mike goes back to his room and writes this down in his notebook. He realizes Bangkok is probably full of these people.

There is no message for Mike on his cell, no message on his room phone, nothing from Bishop. He wants to tell Bishop about his night with the backpackers and how, maybe, Hardy is the center of the story. But Bishop is not in his room. Mike knocks, waits for five minutes, and knocks again to be sure.

No surprise, thinks Mike, as walks back down to the lobby. Bishop told him he’d be making up for lost time with his girl. Mike thinks she must be Thai. He imagines a woman putting on her best yellow dress and red lipstick and rushing in white high heels to meet Bishop at a bar he has gone straight to after dropping Mike off at the hotel. Maybe they know Bangkok very well and love it together, and take long walks through the winding streets that smell of peanut and sweet smoke. But Mike knows, from the way Bishop said “best girl,” that this is not how it is. Mike hopes the woman in the yellow dress makes good money, whoever she is. This is what Mike is thinking as he crosses Khao San Road.

The road is crowded, always. It is crowded with farangs. It’s famous for this. “A farang,” Bishop told Mike, “is a Caucasian. Especially like you,” he said.

Mike is not hungry, but for something to do he orders a bowl of noodles from a street vendor and watches the lady crack an egg into boiling water. Bishop had warned him about street noodles. “Sometimes they get you and sometimes they don’t,” he said. “It can take a couple days. But that’s how Bangkok is, it sneaks up on you.”

Behind the street vendor, the motorcycle taxi drivers are lounging, smoking, and looking at backpacker asses browsing the cheap hemp clothing. Next to the motorcycle taxis an old man sits at an easel, the way an old painter might sit along the East River in New York. He is making fake IDs. These are not driver’s licenses—like the ones Mike’s friends back home get so they can buy beer—but international student IDs, passports, and documents to get discounts or through borders in the north. Very poor fakes. As the woman hands over the egg noodles, Mike realizes that he should have checked at the desk for messages. He eats his food quickly and returns to the hotel.