I Plead No Thai

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So, this is what the receipt looks like for a paid traffic ticket in Thailand.

Now, before you go calling me a speed demon and accusing me of misconduct and such, let me state my case.

I was driving home from the immigration office, where my friend Carla and I have spent seven blissful mornings seriously bonding over hours-long waits amid people of all age, race, color, and well, some pretty random smells – some particularly pleasant, like the cologne of the older European gentleman this morning, and some not so pleasant, but humbly forgiven, like the hard-working scent of 100,000 migrant construction workers coming in off the job to comply respectfully to Thai immigration laws. Chiang Mai is booming with industrial growth. Unfortunately, the immigration office maintains its same roughly 50-seat capacity and 20 workers as it did before the big influx.

So, anyway, Carla and I have made seven trips to immigration (Actually, I have made seven, and she has made six. I had to make an extra trip.) in hopes of obtaining a Thai driver’s license – normally a one- to two-day process.

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