Slippery

"Slip into silent slumber

Sail on a silver mist

Slowly but surely your senses will cease

to exist" -

Trust in Me (The Python Song), The Jungle Book

"Pleez," says the grey-eyed French chef with a boyishly round face, "move inside. I 'ave opened ze wine and would like you to stay. I will feed my snake."

If I were any kind of sober, I would employ the wisdom all my past experience and ask a few questions to verify that he is not referring to a euphemistic snake, but after taking a nap, shower, eating a plate of chicken penang, taking a wander through the night market trying to figure out how to use my camera, I have chosen one of the innumerable wine bars - oh yes, I love Thailand- and sipped my way through three large glasses of ridiculously affordable wine. When he speaks all I hear is more free wine.

He pours me a glass and drops a small gecko into the snake's glass aquarium. He assures me, when I ask, that it's not a poisonous snake and, in fact, after I ask a few more questions, I determine it's something akin to garter snakes back home, but with yellow stripes rather than green. When I explain that I will be camping later in the week and am somewhat anxious about snakes he gives me a lesson on what to look for and how to avoid them altogether. When he asks me where I'll be camping and I explain that I'm actually kayaking more than camping he becomes concerned.

"It eez not ze snakes you should be worried about," he says wide-eyed, "it eez ze sharks." He walks over to a small bookshelf in the corner of the restaurant, searches the titles, pulls one down and lays it in front of me: A Pocket Guide to Sharks. dead eyed sharks stare back at me from the cover their jagged toothed mouths opened wide waiting to rip me in two.

He tells me of a surfer friend who died surfing this sea and another who was left crippled by an attack. I glance back at the lethargic snake who has shown no interest in his dinner. I must agree that snakes do seem the less formidable encounter to contend with even if they are more likely.

After two more glasses of wine the Chef leans forward and, placing his hand on top of mine looks into my eyes and says, "You 'av ze most beautiful eyez, when I look in zem I feel like a spaceman looking at eart from ze moon." I can feel the mortification registering on my face and it's all I can do to resist asking him the only thought my wine slogged brain can produce: Does that actually work for you? Are there women in the world who might still respect themselves in the morning after falling for that? I can only assume the answer to both these questions is yes, but I take it as my cue to leave.

"Don't forget your book," he says, after I thank him for his good company and the wine.

I turn back for the book and note, on my way out the door, the snake still hasn't touched his dinner.