**To listen to me set-up and narrate this story, tap the Play icon above**
It’s an alluring hum that sings directly to my soul.
One that almost feels holy—and one I seek out in every Southeast Asian country I find myself in.
Before the sun rises, dark, desolate streets begin to stir.
Motorbikes sputter like alarm clocks, slowly revving life into the hollow, dimly lit atmosphere.
Like fireflies, embers from first-morning cigarettes flicker and float through the shadows.
One by one, the fresh morning market’s stalls awaken and begin to stretch their limbs.
Tarps get unknotted and unfurled. Stacks of plastic stools drag and scratch against gravelly concrete. Plumes of chili, garlic, and fish sauce begin to spiral toward the stars.
Tamed and quiet for now, these alleyways are merely minutes away from transforming into spectacular, uncut scenes of controlled chaos.
Fresh morning markets like this revolve around one thing, and one thing only—food.
However, at the heart of everything happening here are the Thai people.
Hardworking. Focused. Team friendly.
Seemingly unhurried—yet, every move purposely efficient.
Each one strategically playing their role in a centuries-old dance for daily ingredients. The same dance that’s been passed down for generations, the same dance that takes place every morning’s dawn.
And this is precisely where I choose to be—smack dab in the middle of the dance floor.
Roughly an hour earlier, I’d pedaled my way from my guesthouse, through the dark, empty, and dew-soaked streets of Chiang Mai’s “Old Town.”
After locking up my bike, I sat in the underbelly of the market’s vegetable stalls, sipping coffee at my friend’s makeshift coffeeshop.
As the morning’s first sunbeams began slicing through the canopy of tarps and umbrellas, I spotted him.
An aging Thai farmer, stout and sturdy, easily shouldering the brunt of numerous sacks of limes.
I watched as he went back and forth, making trip after trip, from the bed of his beat up farm truck to the feet of a several market vendors—each delivery drop-off done so with methodical precision and grace.
He was no spring chicken, and those bulging bags of limes were no small feat, but still, he didn’t once frown or miss a beat. It was clear to me that this gentleman took an enormous amount of pride in looking after his crops and his fellow Thai comrades.
I thought to myself, Now this is the textbook definition of ‘farm to table.’
Not some trendy restaurant’s buzzword, but an every-morning, before-dawn, back-breaking chore—powered by hardworking farmers just like him.
But it wasn’t only his work ethic that made him stand out.
There was something about the way he moved—calm, collected, unfazed by the the frenzy of wheelbarrows and motorbikes that danced around him.
On one of his final laps, he noticed me watching him and our eyes locked in.
I gently bowed my chin and, instantly, he cracked a smile.
He’d caught the look of respect and admiration on my face—and, in true Thai-fashion—he humbly returned the favor with a head-bow of his own.
Because so much of Thai culture revolves around food—and trust me, they eat 6 times a day, markets like these are the true lifeblood to this country.
To the untrained eye, bits and pieces of this place might seem dirty, messy, or unorganized—but spend enough time here, and you’ll quickly learn otherwise.
Sure, you might turn a corner a witness a live chicken meeting its end—or a flopping fish being gutted on the spot—but please, keep your eyes open.
Because around that same corner, you also get to see what it means for an entire community to lean in and rely on one another to survive.
So, if you’re someone who’s interested in tasting true Thai culture—my number one piece of advice is this: Find a market and set your alarm.
Wake up at an uncomfortable hour.
Walk, or pedal, your way through the quiet, empty streets.
Then, please—
Sit with your coffee in the heart of one of these magnificent mazes before sunrise…
And watch how an entirely different way of life begins to blossom around you.
With Gusto,
Adrian ⚡️
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