Patong Ping-Pong

January 30, Phuket, Thailand

Beach day.

We lounged at Patong Beach as paragliders floated overhead, each one with a local guide suspended behind on a wire, somehow steering them into safe landings on a crowded strip of sand. Jet skis roared past like buzz saws. A year earlier, I’d been in the same Indian Ocean, in the Bay of Bengal off Chennai, where the waves rose and crashed with such force I’d thrown my arms wide and ridden them like a child. Thailand, by contrast, looked almost tame. The water lapped at the shore like a kiddie pool. 

I would soon learn there was nothing G-rated about Patong. 

The beach was pristine, with white sand glistening in the sun, while beachgoers of every nationality carefully laid out towels. Bending over to expose a side of diplomatic relations I didn't care to engage in, I tried to focus on my sunscreen application - not the fact that half the crowd appeared born for thong bikinis. The Russians with tattoos, cigarettes, and Speedos, were first in line at the jet skis. An occasional stray dog darted in and out of the food stands, eyeing the children dropping scraps. The same souvenir shops on repeat, lined both sides of the one-way artery crowded with cars, scooters, and sunburned tourists, across from our hotel. 

A five-star splurge for the holiday, though our 18-year-old boys of legal drinking age in Thailand groaned when they learned it wasn't an "all-inclusive resort," as if their first-world privilege traveling with their parents wasn't already an upgrade. 

Which brings me to one of many lessons learned in Thailand - never send an 18-year-old to the bar for a bucket of 3 beers. 

First of all, the drinking age in Thailand is 20, but lucky for him, the ocean breeze and palm trees felt like Mexico, and we were none the wiser. The kid was gone so long it was almost time to reapply our sunscreen before our three sons - ages 15 to 20 - came back with shit-eatting grins and only two beers, one for the 18-year-old and one for his 20-year-old brother. Never mind, the third was supposed to be for his paying parents. 

Back in the hotel room before dinner, I cornered my youngest, Mr. Mango Smoothie, and deployed my tried-and-true lie detector test: place your palms flat, look me in the eye, and let me rest my hands on yours while I ask the questions. Crude but effective. My maternal fieldwork remains undefeated.

Guilty.

It was the 20-year-old who gave my youngest a sip of beer for a sip of mango smoothie. Who am I kidding? It was more like a gulp or chug. Turns out my behavior assessment and elicitation skills were still intact - the best kind of operational intelligence for parenting teens. And I made a mental note to inspect the bar bill at checkout to confirm it was only one bucket of three beers that we paid for, not three.

I beat the bros to the lobby, having showered first for dinner. The front desk manager recommended Restaurant No. 6. 

"There are two locations," he said. "Main street and up the hill. You want up the hill, I think. Nicer view," he assured me. 

By the time I arrived with my oldest son to get our name on the list, a line was already snaking down the block, which I took as a good sign. In my experience, a packed Thai restaurant lowers the odds of food poisoning. It was then that I spied a shorter line on the other side of the concierge stand, so I asked. The shorter line was for No. 6 up the hill via free tuk-tuk.

By the time the rest of my testosterone-laden crew caught up, the tuk-tuk had arrived, and we zipped through the streets of Phuket in blind faith, presumably driving to a food destination up the hill. 

We sat opposite two drop-dead gorgeous 20-somethings from Norway who were the life of the tuk-tuk. They looked anything but Norwegian in their string bikini tops, dark complexion and hair. "We're Iranian and Pakistani," they chimed in, having noticed my husband gawking. It was obvious they had hooked up with two guys they hoped would pay their bill. A Somalian from the Netherlands and a British couple from Liverpool, celebrating their 10th anniversary, rounded out our party truck. 

"Marry your best friend," their advice to the Norwegian bombshells who asked the secret to a happy marriage. 

My boys were wagering I'd pipe in with "We're celebrating our 30th anniversary." 

Spoiler alert, I did not. I did, however, bite my tongue rather than blurt out, "ditch the teenage years." Children are conducive to great sex and alone time - said no mom ever.

At the top of the hill, Phuket glittered below us, the city trailing into the darkness like Christmas lights tossed toward the sea. We scored an outdoor table, near the back, without the million-dollar view, and where the mosquitoes were as spicy as the curries. This time, mango smoothies were on tap for the boys. No lie.

The real highlight of the evening came on the ride back down. Our tuk-tuk tore through the streets and into Bangla Road, where Patong dropped any remaining pretense of family friendliness. The whole district throbbed with neon and club music. Women in doorway after doorway waved, beckoned, laughed, and blew kisses as we passed. Men hawked Muay Thai tickets. Bars spilled onto the sidewalks. Everything flashed, pulsed, and shouted for attention.

We were dropped at the lower Restaurant No. 6 on Rat Uthit Song Roi Pi Road, right back in the thick of it. Bars, massage parlors, restaurants, souvenir shops, traffic, noise, bodies, lights. It was Times Square on steroids, 1980s style.

Lesson number two: keep a short leash on your boys in Phuket. The massage parlor ladies in high heels and fishnet stockings, faces caked with make-up and bright red lipstick, were cat-calling and touching my boys as we squeezed through the crowd. My three sons couldn't help but start an over-under bet.

Who won the most attention? I’m fairly sure my youngest, with his reflective shades and entirely unjustified confidence, took the prize at seventeen interactions, though he insists the number topped thirty.

"Ooooh, he's so cute, Mama," was not what either of us was going for in that situation, though totally hilarious in my opinion, and a definite buzzkill for him.

“What’s the legal age of consent?” He asked during dinner our first week in Bangkok. After our two-week vacation, I wouldn't be surprised if he learned to speak Thai.

My husband, meanwhile, lingered a beat too long at one corner, surrounded by cheerful solicitation. The ladies draped over his shoulders were waving to me, praising him as a manly father of three sons. Smiling, I waved back. Frankly, I'm not sure he'd know what to do with that if pressed any tighter, so I had little fear in leaving him to fend for himself.

Pretty sure it was all four of my boys for the win that night among the giggling ladies. As for me, I was just relieved no one disappeared into a ping-pong show and that we all made it back to the hotel intact.

Patong was a clinic in contradictions. Sunscreen, mango smoothies, and shallow water by day, and neon temptation, testosterone waves, and risky propositions by night. A master class in why parents of teenage boys sleep lightly. For once, "Forced Family Fun" in a shared hotel room felt less like a vacation fail and more like the best parenting decision I made all day.