Once we untangled ourselves from the jungle thicket, we dropped into the valley below to find small villages of traditional Thai houses, each with Roosters at the mouth of their driveways, herb and vegetable gardens, and beloved motorcycles and cats lounging in some patch of shade. We find ourselves raising dust along narrow village roads our map app couldn’t find. So, we wander along hoping one or another will link up with a main thoroughfare.

“I’m hungry!” Andrew says, his cavernous belly already working its way through the sticky porridge and sausage from the morning. “This must be a good place.”

He is pointing toward a house streaming a banner across the eves with photographs of noodles or soup dishes. “It looks like someone’s house!” I say.

I stop, and Andrew swings his gangling legs out of the passenger side door as he stands and stretches with an anticipated victory. “Exactly.” We walk into the yard and meet a woman just on her way with her own “takeaway” container of food. A pot of broth steams in the corner, and a young girl’s eyes grow wide with the new set of patrons darkening her door.

“No English!” The girl says, but we smile and say “No problem!” in what is likely a terrible approximation of Thai. I point to the pot of broth and make a bowl with my hands. She shakes her head, and disappears into a back room. We stand and wait. There is a coffee/tea cart, a banner with food, a woman leaving with takeaway and a kitchen with food waiting at the ready....we know this is a restaurant. You can't hide from us. Soon, a man follows her out from the back room and says, “Thai food only.”

Are they telling us they only serve Thai food?

“Perfect!” We nod voraciously, and I point to the pot of broth and make a bowl with my hands again.

He shakes his head. “Spicy.”

Now, I realize we were taking a big risk, here, but we smile again and nod. “Okay! Spicy, okay. Just a little?"

He shrugs as if to say “if you say so...” then proceeds to tug noodles from one hot, dry pot. He arranges them in the bottom of two large bowls, scoops pork from another hot pot, pulls local greens and sprouts from a bowl, pours a ladle of broth, and tops it with green onions. We sit at a plastic table to eat.

I don't even know what this soup is, but it is delicious. The meat is good, though it also includes more liver and at this point I’m starting to be sure I don't like liver. The broth is rich and flavorful, and of course spicy. The greens are bitter, the onions bite. I like it. The man and the young girl are standing to the side, watching with concerned looks as we poke around our dishes. “Ao Roy!" I say, (which means “delicious” in Thai, pronounced Ahhh, LOY!) They break out in smiles and laugh. They say something longer in Thai that I suspect meant “Oh, that’s a relief! We really didn't think you would like it.” They bring us water and lime juice, still all smiles.

I suspect word has gotten out all around Thailand that spiciness of the Thai level makes travelers cry. They always offer us spiciness with a measure of trepidation, and with good cause. The Thai level of spice is far beyond my skillset. But, if they go easy on us, we usually enjoy a touch of heat and the longer we are here, the more our spice pallate conditions.

“You know you’ve made it out of the tourist town when you terrify the girl serving you lunch.” Andrew says as we make our way back to the car. He is growing more and more cheerful that he has found his way to the Thailand of his dreams.

We drive higher into the mountains passing through working rice fields occupied by men and woman sloshing around in knee high rubber boots. We roll our windows down, and the cooler air is pleasant on our face. We find our hotel, then walk into the smaller neighborhood behind the main road until we get lost.

We meet a woman who greets us at our gate, curious about our unfamiliar faces. “I have studied all my life, and now I can see everything. I can see the future, even.” She taps the center of her forehead with one finger. We do not know the proper response to such a revelation, so we smile and take our leave further into the rice fields and rubber forests.

The dirt is dry, and smells like fall for me. Plastic ribbons tied to barbed wire fencing shimmer in the dropping sun, warning to the cows and humans alike not to run afoul of the rusting wire barbs.

At the time, it was only February, but it felt and looked like fall. It is dry season for Thailand and the leaves of these high mountain trees are turning red, orange and brown. Birds perch on the tips of stiff, and the whole area buzzes with the sounds of cicadas in the trees. We walk past rows and rows of rubber trees, releasing their sap into small bowls wired to their trunk - the drips slid from their straw so slowly, you cannot see any movement until gravity wins out and the syrup falls from its place. We watch for a bit, but never see one fall. It reminded me of the Giant Tortoises breathing in the Galapagos.

It’s dark by the time we get back to where we came from, and it’s time to find dinner. Dinner #1 is a bit of a bust. They bring us a slab of chicken, french fries, and a salad with Kraft Thousand Island Dressing. They are doing a hot business, though, so it seems the Thai crowd likes to go out for the “Nebraska special.”

We explore further and find a night market lining the main street. We were neither satisfied, nor particularly hungry after our chicken slab, but a banana roti for dessert seemed just the ticket to top us off. So, we pull over and park. We pass through a circle of gentlemen drinking whiskey and offering Dim Sum with a Thai Flare. Pad Thai, Fried Rice, Curries, Noodle Soups - all the options are there, but we turn them all down, looking for our dessert.

We walk the full gauntlet of the night market all the way to the other side of the line before we find the Banana Roti Man. We order the thin dough that is poured over a griddle like a crepe. The man places butter on the griddle, pours a ladle of the batter, slices bananas over the top of the dough as it grills and fries. Then, with swift twists of his wrists, he folds the dough over itself into a square and tops it with sweetened condensed milk. It is salty and sweet, chewy with the dough, soft with the bananas.

We devour it, and think that will hold us for the night. But, on our walk back to the car, we are harangued into some barbequed squid. “You will like this, you will.” The cart keeper says, pulling the scragly, flattened and dried squid away from the rope it is pinned to with laundry pegs. He places it on a grill glowing with the aromatic smoke of coconut husk charcoal. Once it is smoky, hot, and starting to crisp up on the edges, he rolls it through a press that flattens the squid even more. He fills a cup with a homemade sweet chili sauce. To be polite, we take it and dab. We tried dried squid in Indonesia, and it was okay, but not something we would seek out as Dinner #3 on a day already filled with more than enough food.

We put this version of squid in our mouths and immediately change our tune. This dried squid is different, somehow, from the one in Indonesia. Less salt brine? Not as dry, not as crisp, not as flat. It’s chewy, smoky, tastes like the sea, and when paired with this sweet chili sauce it is sownright addictive. We buy two more rounds and chomp away. As I write this story today, I can say: I regret nothing. While dried and flattened squid seemed to be available everywhere until this moment, it has not been offered to us since! Woe to us had we let this flat squid opportunity pass.

When we cannot fit another bit of squid down our gullets, we call it and roll ourselves further down the block until we are forced to weave our way around the Dim Sum Circle. Instead of leaning out of our way, they open the circle and close the gap around two extra chairs. “Join us!” they say. I suppose we are in the mood for a party, so we take a seat and make more new friends.

These guys are school teachers by day, friends by night. The man who actually makes the Dim Sum does it for fun because he loves to cook. Another in our group likes to run, another is dressed in full roadbike paraphernalia - helmet included - despite having been sitting here drinking with his buddies at least as long as we’ve been at the night market. They offer us their local brew, a distilled alcohol of some kind (rice?) poured over woodchips for the briefest of moments before exiting the caraf and being tossed back on the side of the road. We give it a fair shake. I can honestly say I’ve had worse, but I let Andrew do the drinking for the both of us. (I'm the designated driver, fellas!) We spend a couple more hours chatting and hanging out with our friends until the night market closes. Then, they crack open some leftover Dim Sum.

“You have to try this, his Dim Sum is the best!” The man in the bicycle helmet explains.

Maybe just a taste.... not to be rude.

It’s a slippery slope into gluttony, but I shook out my hollow leg and took another bite.

And his Dim Sum really was the best.