I’ve just eaten a large, triangular plate filled with wonderfully delicious – albeit slightly spicy – Pad Prik King Moo Krob, served with a steaming bowl of Khao Suay.

Across the table sat Charlotte, eating Khao Pad Gung Rad Pak Phad. The food was so good that we were almost reverently silent during the meal, despite the otherwise incredibly noisy food court where we sat on our respective wobbly metal stools.

Stopping over in Chiang Mai for a few days before our plane to Europe departs from Bangkok turned out to be a smart move.

From 15–17 °C in Osaka to a heat that reminds me of a nice Swedish summer day. A pleasant 23 °C, my phone’s thermometer app informed me, is the current temperature here in northern Thailand.

My first visit to Chiang Mai was in 1988 with my old scout friend Magnus Ekström. We hiked between mountain villages for a couple of days, floated down a gently rushing river on a shaky bamboo raft for a few hours, and rode through the jungle on female elephants one afternoon. All according to my diary from that trip.

Charlotte and I were here and did roughly the same four-day trek during our honeymoon in 1998 – although that time we weren’t offered any opium.

My most recent visit to Chiang Mai was in 2019 when I attended a Qigong teacher training. Those were fairly tough weeks. I stayed in a small cabin owned to a local police officer and his kind wife.

Chiang Mai has probably doubled in size, and the number of buildings, motorcycles, and cars may very well be ten times more than during my first visit almost 40 years ago.

Yet the charm and friendliness of locals remain. You encounter them at the markets, in the alley restaurants of the old town, and in the shops along the leafy backstreets of Nimman.

The food served by the street kitchens here in the north is just as magically good as I remember it.

Tonight’s dinner was no exception – it cost SEK 35 but tasted Michelin-worthy.

Sometimes I wonder whether change actually adds anything meaningful – or if it’s just there to fuck with my brain.