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As I travel, I tend to make the (usually wrong) assumption that all white people speak English.

That’s precisely how I found myself tangled in an awkward moment with a French woman on the bus. I blurted out a few questions, trying to engage her in conversation. She shrugged and smiled.

She only knew a few English words. I speak high school preschool French. We didn’t have much to say beyond hello. I dove deep into my brain for every possible French thing I could muster and emerged with “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” and the les poissons song from “The Little Mermaid,” neither of which were appropriate.

There was no way to continue this conversation. Instead I attempted to bury my head in a Kindle, which is très difficile.

After we arrived in Bangkok and unloaded our luggage, the woman approached me.

GIGI (I am making up this name): Please. I do not speak English. Guesthouse?

ME: I no stay guesthouse.

GIGI: Merci. I stay with you.

And suddenly, we were crammed into a tuk-tuk together.

Normally I wouldn’t mind being accompanied by a fellow traveler, but I wasn’t heading to a hostel or guesthouse. I had a friend from home meeting me in Bangkok, and we reserved a nice hotel for a few nights. I knew this place was beyond the typical backpacker budget, but I had no clue how to express that to my new French friend.

Instead we had a patchwork of pleasantries, sewn together with scrappy bits of each language.

GIGI: Hmmm. Where do you from?

ME: America. How long do you travel?

GIGI: Vietnam. (Long pause.) My English is unhappy.

ME: My French is very sick.

And then because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I busted out the only other phrase I know en Francais.

ME: I would like to buy some socks today.

She nodded.

GIGI: D’accord.

When we arrived at the hotel, Gigi nodded her approval. It was slick and fancy, with a modern lounge that frightens you into standing up and keeping your hands to yourself. The walls were brushed metal and spotless glass. The chairs were somehow lit from within. A bellboy handed me a blue cocktail.

The receptionist asked if I needed an additional bed in my room to accommodate Gigi, and the French lady looked at me expectantly. As much as I wanted to help her out, it wasn’t my place. I would hate for my friend to fly halfway around the world, walk into her hotel room and find a stranger there — especially since my friend booked the room.

I did my best to explain.

ME: Mi amiga — er, mon ami is coming ici.

GIGI: (French words, French words, French words).

ME: I’m sorry.

GIGI: Oui. No good. I go.

Before she left, I held out my blue cocktail. That gesture needed no translation. She downed it with a grin, then disappeared into the elevator.

Songkran is a funny beast. The Thai new year festival is a celebration of cleansing and rebirth, marked by water throwing.

The tourism bureau would have you believe it is something adorable, like this.

But this is closer to reality.

People line the streets with buckets and hoses, armed with water guns. Every passerby is a target, especially the people actively trying to stay dry. It’s loads of fun — as long as you’re the person throwing water. When you’re not, it can be fairly miserable.

This tradition began with the cleansing of the Buddha statues, which are washed in honor of the new year. That water was then captured and used to bless elders and family members. The holiday has evolved into the world’s largest water fight, complete with wet T-shirt contests, shucking buckets of water into open vehicles and surprising strangers with a fistful of ice in the face.

There is no escaping this festival. I spent several hours yesterday tossing buckets at the unfortunate souls who tried to sneak past Hopf Coffee House in Chiang Mai. When I was done for the day, soggier than the last cornflake in a cereal bowl, I headed home on the back of a scooter. That’s when karma took a big chunk out of my ass, and I was stopped at a traffic light for what felt like hours. I was pelted from all sides with warm water, ice water, probably even a beer or two. I also had the pleasure of a garden hose down my pants.

This morning I snuck over to the ATM, where I got treated to a Super Soaker in the back while I was removing cash. As I was paying for a squirt gun and Diet Coke at the 7-11, the employee was packing his own heat — he shot me in the neck with warm moat water. During a coffee run, I was ambushed by a child hiding behind a potted plant. And I was cornered in a dark alley by 40 tiny kids with water balloons.

I seriously haven’t been dry for more than a few hours during the past three days.

While this is the biggest and most popular festival in Thailand, it’s also the most unpopular festival for my camera. I’ve been wrapping my poor little Lumix in plastic bags, sealed inside of Ziplocs, contained inside waterproof bags, and somehow my stuff is still getting wet. (I took a couple videos, but they don’t do Songkran justice.)

So sadly, I don’t have too many images to share. Instead I have to rely on the kindness of friends, like the good folks over at JDMesh, who took this awesome photo … while dumping a bucket of water on my head.

One of my favorite Songkran moments happened yesterday when some friends and I posed in the street for a seriously waterlogged photo. The guy snapping the picture was taking a long time, and we thought he couldn’t figure out the camera. Turns out he was waiting for the people across the street to run over with buckets. Sneak attack!