'The Queen of Sheba'

Long ago.
In the series 'stumbling through Thailand'.

After a months-long stay in Thailand, the time had come.
I went to appear before the balloting committee in order to obtain an extension of this stay.
The expiry date of my Non-immigrant visa was rapidly approaching, so action had to be taken.
But was that wise to apply for an extension on the 13th?
After all, thirteen is considered an unlucky number.

Being born on the 13th, I thought it wouldn't be too bad, and I was counting on a completely different birth.
Namely that of an 84 kilo heavy, 1,85 tall and very poor Thai-speaking new resident of Thailand.
Because until now I had actually been nothing more than a Dutch tourist, albeit on a long holiday.
But that wasn't the intention, as much as I love holidays.

So full of good courage, but also somewhat worried, I enter the shiny glass bunker at Chaeng Watthana together with my wife Oy, where they will decide about my near future.
Will it be a stamp of approval in my passport, or a cool message that I can join that clay swamp behind those dikes again?
That last part was something I didn't even want to think about.

An extremely disinterested counter lady asks Oy what the farang is for, takes a quick look at the stack of papers and then scribbles the number of a counter next to the paperclip.
Please join us there.
Only to find out, after waiting for more than an hour at the same counter, that Balie-Akela has given us the wrong number, and so we end up back at her empty-handed for another attempt.

Accusing me that I should have paid more attention, she sighs and gives up another counter.
While my farang blood pressure rises to levels that shipyards recommend for sandblasting rusted drag anchors, Mrs. Oy still manages to thank her kindly for her efforts.
You have to be Thai for that, and I can't do it either.

Also because I think back to that other strict lady, who worked at a green bank in Pattaya. Who told me in an amiable tone that I would first have to obtain a one-year visa before I could park my eight tons of Thai baht with her.

My own idea that I needed that bank account to get that same visa didn't scratch her smiling armor of ignorance.
Her boss also assured me that this was the correct procedure, and also asked me to bring a work permit with me the next time I enter. After which I staggered out of the building, desperately searching for meaning from the Thai banking system and their staff in particular.

Unfortunately, I could no longer tell them that they were happy with my business at the yellow-colored competitor a little further away.
I was so busy digitally funding my newly acquired account.

After an hour and a half of growing sitting meat and coming up with doomsday scenarios, we are allowed into the operating room. Which pillar we will be sent from to which wall in the coming hours is a question that concerns me greatly, given the Thai hurdles that have been thrown before me so far.

A stern-looking and somewhat military-looking young lady looks at the stack of paper I place in front of her. Not, however, after she had first received the most respectful wai of my career from me. Quite a task if you already have both hands full, believe me.
A less than encouraging nod from her follows, after which I can continue breathing and worrying.
By the time it's our turn again, I have single-handedly elevated nail biting and ballpoint pen chewing to an Olympic sport.

But the lady does a long shuffle with the A-4 sheets, asks for some signatures, takes a detailed look at the brand new bank book and then stamps my passport.
After which all the adrenaline drains away.

Once outside, I propose to Oy to celebrate this joyful occasion with a cooling drink.
Across the very busy road is a small coffee bar, right next to the sidewalk.
Oy walks in for our order, just as relieved as I am.
Also because she doesn't have to listen to my steamy rants about stupid bank employees and empty-headed counter clerks.

While I busy myself supporting the shaky table with a found beer mat, the Queen of Sheba strides past in the sweltering heat.

A beautiful young woman dressed in a spotless white blouse and tight black skirt.
Her shapely figure leaves little to be desired, while she waves her long black hair with a graceful gesture of her slender hand.
At the same time treating me to a long, unmistakable look from her intense coal black eyes.
My heart, no longer even the youngest, skips a beat because of this unexpected supermodel moment.

Because for a second time on this Monday the thirteenth I was found suitable.
So, thank you Beauty.

For stamping on my ego.