'A Flemish person looking for a second life full of simplicity and beautiful moments'
Every morning he sat there in his usual spot by the beach, under a large thatched parasol that always looked as if it could collapse at any moment. Jules, a retired Flemish man of sixty-eight, looked at the sea with a broad grin and sipped his coffee, which he had given a little something extra with a dash of whisky. He had ended up in Thailand in search of a kind of second life, a second youth perhaps, and you could hardly blame him. The sun was shining, the days were long and life seemed to flow more smoothly here than in the wet Belgium he once left behind.
“I just had to do something different,” he often said. “Every day that rain on my roof, that didn’t make a person happy. And my ex-wife, she didn’t like me either,” he would add mischievously, with a wink as if he was sharing a secret that everyone already knew about.
Jules did not regret his choice. Thailand was exactly what he had hoped for: a land of milk and honey, where life was lived and worries rarely stretched beyond the horizon. And yes, the beautiful women had also played a role in his decision. “I have always had a weakness for a beautiful smile,” he said, nodding to the girl at the coffee bar, a young Thai woman in her early twenties who returned his charms with a polite smile.
He once told me how he spent his days: walking along the beach, chatting with other pensioners, and often going to the same bar in the afternoon, where he would drink a bottle of Singha beer and play cards with a few other old guys. It was a simple existence, but Jules seemed happy with it. “In Belgium you always have to go somewhere,” he said. “Here I don’t have to go anywhere. Everything comes to me.”
Yet sometimes I noticed a glimmer of melancholy in his eyes, a moment when the joy seemed to seep away. It happened especially when he talked about the past, about his days as a French teacher at a secondary school in Antwerp, about his first wife, whom he always mentioned with a certain tenderness in his voice. “We were happy, I think,” he once said, “but that kind of happiness wears off. One day I looked at her and thought: who is that woman who uses my toothbrush?” He laughed when he said it, but I sensed that there was more to it.
Jules had a girlfriend, a Thai woman named Noi, who kept him company every few days. “We’re not a couple,” he explained with a mischievous smile, “but we do make each other happy, if you know what I mean.” Noi was small, delicate, and could giggle like a schoolgirl. Sometimes she would play a little piano in the bar, and Jules would look at her with a look in his eyes that I didn’t often see: a mixture of admiration and something that might have been sadness, as if he knew that this life, however good, was only a temporary spell.
One day I was sitting with him again under the parasol. He told me that Noi had been with her family in the countryside for a while and that he now had the house to himself. “It’s nice for a change,” he said, “but it’s also quiet, you know?” He took a big sip of his coffee and sighed. “Silence can be a beautiful lady, but she can also have sharp teeth sometimes.”
When I asked him if he ever felt lonely, he waved it away with a broad wave of his arm. “Well, being alone and being lonely, they’re not the same thing, are they? I’m not alone here; I’ve got the sea, I’ve got the sun and the occasional glass of whisky. That’s enough company for an old man.” He paused, looked at the waves lazily washing up on the beach, and then said with a little laugh, “And there are always pretty ladies to brighten up my day.”
We chatted for a while about this and that, then he stood up, stretched, and tapped me on the shoulder. “Come on, boy,” he said, “it’s time for a pint.” We walked together to his favorite bar, where the fans were slowly turning and the barman had his beer ready. There he was, chatting happily with the other regulars, a pint in his hand and a smile on his face. He was joking, telling stories that were probably half made up, and clearly enjoying the attention. But if you looked closely, you could sometimes see him wander off, his gaze fixed on a point far away, where the horizon and his thoughts seemed to touch.
Jules is still there, every morning under that parasol, with his whisky coffee and his chatter. Life glides past him like the waves on the beach, he takes it as it comes, without worrying too much about what the future holds. “You know,” he said recently, “it’s not always paradise here. But if you compare it to a cold Belgian winter, it comes damn close.” And then he laughed again, as if life had given him a personal wink.
As the afternoon sun slowly descended, I realized that perhaps Jules understood more about life than he himself admitted. Perhaps his happiness was nothing more than a series of small moments; a sip of coffee, a chat with a friend, the sun warming his skin, and a woman who, if only for a moment, made him feel like he was still a young man.
About this blogger
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My age officially falls into the category of 'elderly'. I've been living in Thailand for 28 years - try to do that. The Netherlands used to be paradise, but it fell into disrepair. So I went looking for a new paradise and found Siam. Or was it the other way around and Siam found me? Either way, we were good-natured.
ICT provided a regular income, something you call 'work', but for me it was mainly a pastime. Writing, that's the real hobby. For Thailandblog I'm picking up that old love again, because after 15 years of hard work you deserve some reading material.
I started in Phuket, moved to Ubon Ratchathani, and after a stopover in Pattaya I now live somewhere in the north, in the middle of nature. Rest never rusts, I always say, and that turns out to be true. Here, surrounded by greenery, time seems to stand still, but fortunately life doesn't.
Eating, especially lots of it – that’s my passion. And what makes an evening complete? A good glass of whisky and a cigar. That’s about it, I think. Cheers!
Photos, I don't do that. I always look ugly in them, even though I know Brad Pitt pales in comparison. It must be the photographer, I think.
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Beautiful story.
Thank you.
Very nicely written.
Jules' psyche is laid open to us and translated into winged words, as always bordering on poetry.