There are corners of the street that seem empty. They belong only to the city. But sometimes they do not. Over the course of day and night they transform, only to return to silence, just as they always were. They have no name, no signs. They exist for a few hours, then disappear — returning, and disappearing once again.
In Nong Khai — as in many other places — there are countless examples of them. They change already at first light, sometimes even before. A shack, a cart. Assembled in silence. A stove, a few brightly coloured plastic stools, so low they make you feel like a child again. Perhaps it is a way of not wanting to disturb that keeps them so close to the ground — knees drawn up to your chest.
It is all very different from the world I come from — a world in which we are often compelled to assert our presence, rather than take part in that of others.
In the morning, the coffee is sweet, often iced. Sticky rice is kept warm. Some people stop for ten minutes, some for less. You eat sitting on the edge of the pavement, your gaze already turned elsewhere.
Children, in their school uniforms and with sleep still on their faces, seem to search for the night’s dreams in the soup they clutch jealously in their hands. Adults too.
Then everything is dismantled. The ground carefully swept. The corner returns to emptiness — as if nothing had happened. Footsteps return where there had once been only low, brightly coloured stools and steaming bowls of soup.
By midday it reappears, but as a different place. Another shack, different hands, different smells.
People arrive and do not even get off their scooters. Plastic bags are quickly filled and sealed with a small rubber band. A swift, skilful gesture, the result of countless bags once filled with air and food, closed with the mastery of a movement that marks a time not to be wasted, only used. Hands moving through the air like a dance — accompanied by a smile. Always. By those who serve — and by those who are served.
And then, after just a few hours and hundreds of swollen bags, everything disappears. Once again. And once again. No trace remains. The street absorbs everything — the voices, the steam, the pauses. Emptiness returns. Dust lifted by a passing scooter. A car driving by without slowing down.
A corner of the street.
But it is in the evening that everything changes. The rhythm, the lights, the voices shift. The corner seems to widen. Tables multiply, chairs take up space. Conviviality stretches out, people talk.
The lights are warm, imperfect. Someone laughs, someone waits. Time loosens its grip, as if in no hurry to leave. Even the dogs are relaxed, standing by the edge of the shack like privileged regulars: what will you have? The usual, thanks. Woof.
Young couples on their first date, disoriented tourists with smartphones in hand, trying in vain to translate an unfamiliar language. In Isaan, even the food seems to carry a primordial flavour — simple, essential. There is no need to understand; it is enough to take what the shack offers. It will be an experience unlikely to end up on social media, but one that will remain in memory.
And then night arrives. It always does, even in the most beautiful stories.
What remains are the traces of what has been. Lingering smells, a small bowl left behind for a four-legged soul delayed in some other corner. Dogs pass by, sniff, search. The corner is no longer for people, yet it still holds their imprint.
At dawn, everything begins again.
The same space, the same dust —
and yet, each time, different.
They are places that hold on to nothing, yet remember everything. If they could speak, they would not tell extraordinary stories. They would simply tell of life passing by — sometimes returning, sometimes not. Sometimes returning in a different form. Without asking to be seen.
