Cousin Pinky wakes me at 6:30 am. "Come on, we're getting breakfast."

"What, now?"

"YES! We have a long day today."

Pinky lives off Sathorn Road in the heart of Bangkok. She never has to cook. Her kitchen is a minute's walk from her apartment, to the local food market.

The streets are lined with food stalls and fruit stands. Everthing is fresh, cheap and calling your name. Barbeque pork? No problem! Rambutans? Over here! Durian? None for me, thank you, but they're there if you want them!

They even have frogs! I turn to Pinky and ask how they taste like, but she's run off for some fried rice. Meanwhile, I do a fantastic job of standing still and getting in everyone's way. I can't help it. I love local markets. There's so much color, noise and aroma. It's a blissful assault on the senses. And to think that this happens every morning, and once again in the evening for dinner. It's enough to make me think about relocating. Or at least start a dragonfruit stand back in L.A.

I think I can pull it off.

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