Lost in Translation

20 THB: The cost of change.

The first few days of a move—any move, but especially an international one—have a way of undoing you. California to Georgia, Poland to Japan, it doesn’t matter. No matter how seasoned or prepared you feel, you still end up standing in the middle of an unfamiliar kitchen, blinking, thinking: I used to know where the forks were.

The disorientation isn’t in the big stuff—it’s in the mundane. The quiet, familiar rituals that made up the shape of your day suddenly vanish. Back “home,” you’d wake up knowing exactly how to work the shower, what time the market opened, and how to order a coffee. But here? Nothing’s labeled. The light switches are in the wrong place. The fridge hums differently. You find yourself Googling things like “best way to cut a mango” and “laundromat Chiang Mai with WiFi.”

It’s absurd. It’s a little thrilling. And it’s wildly unglamorous.

But here’s what I’ve learned: the same small things that undo you are often the ones that stitch you back together. A cheap spoon. A generous stranger who offers directions. A bottle of obscure wine and a candle that smells vaguely like orange rind and Windex. These are the things that remind you—you’re not lost. You’re just… translating.

I moved into an apartment in Nimman on Saturday morning, less than 24 hours after arriving in Thailand. Friday had been a whirlwind—a story for another time.

The apartment was clean, simple, and brightly lit—my mom said it looked like a hospital room, and she wasn’t wrong. But for a same-day rental, it suited me just fine. A bed, a desk, a fridge, a broken TV, and a balcony that overlooked a busy street and a motorbike-packed parking lot.

It took me less than an hour to unpack. I tucked everything away in the cupboards and drawers, save for three books I couldn’t part with and my computer.

Okay—not exactly cozy. A quick supplies run, I thought, might help. But for now: just the bare necessities.

I sat at the desk, counted my remaining cash, and wrote a “To Buy” list:
– Toilet paper
– Wine
– Wine key

Thailand isn’t known for its wine. But I am. And in my experience, a glass or two can dress up anything. Even a hospital room.

On a coworker’s recommendation, I set off for the infamous 20 Baht store inside Central Kad Suan Kaew, a mall with a muddy facade and dark windows. It was a 25-minute walk from my apartment, but worth it. I found more than I was looking for—and everything I needed.

For 20 THB apiece, I scored a yellow wine key, two plastic bowls, a knife and cutting board, one fork, one spoon, dish soap, a two-pack of kitchen towels, and three small orange-scented candles. I also picked up a bottle of wine (a rare find!), two bath towels from Central department store, and toilet paper from Tesco.

With full arms—no, I didn’t think to bring a bag—I waddled back to my building. Then promptly uncorked the wine.

Over time, the 20 Baht store became more than a store—it was a comfort, a constant. It’s where I bought my wine key. Sarah picked up a charging cable with a 20% success rate on any given workday. Nung bought squirt guns for Songkran. Noor found bunny ears for Halloween. The corner shop became an unexpected throughline in many of our stories. So when a rumor surfaced eight months later that it had closed, I refused to believe it.

By then, I’d moved into a quieter part of town with a friend. One weekend, we decided to investigate. We climbed the familiar escalator to the third floor of Central Kad Suan Kaew—and sure enough: doors closed, lights off. Gone. Just like that.

Hot on the trail, my flatmate stopped a Thai woman passing by and asked if she knew what had happened to the shop.

We had enough Thai to ask, but not enough to understand the full, fast-paced response. So my friend handed her the phone and asked her to type it into Google Translate.

The woman typed vigorously for what felt like ten minutes—pausing now and then to think, nod, then type some more.

Finally, she turned the screen around.
“Shut up.”

I let out a sheep-like baa, followed by a wheeze, as I fought with every ounce of will to suppress a melt-to-the-floor belly laugh.

My flatmate looked at the woman, then at me, with the same mix of disbelief and hysteria.

The woman, displeased by our reaction and confused by our gratitude, shook her head, handed us back the phone, and walked away.

When she was out of earshot, we roared. Tears streamed down my face. I tried to squeak out, “I mean, the store is shut up.”

We cackled all the way home.
A home I could now find without thinking.
A home with a familiar spoon, a hum I’d stopped noticing, and an orange candle that still smelled of mild regret.
Not everything had translated.
But I had—
and a yellow wine key, cheap and unremarkable, opened the door to all of it.

Author’s Note: The 20 Baht store reopened a few months later. No notice, no explanation. One day it was gone, the next: candy, candles, and phone cords back in their bins like nothing had ever happened. We never found out why. We didn’t ask.

We just went back.

photo by @danfreemanphoto