The layout is part of the charm. Fiction anchors the first floor. Books about Southeast Asia get their own domain upstairs. Higher still, you'll find photography, design, and an impressively eclectic mix of foreign-language titles—French, German, Swedish—because why not?
Back when I lived in Bangkok, DASA was a monthly ritual. I'd show up with a bag of books to sell or trade, and inevitably end up spending hours browsing. The staff was always welcoming, happy to point out new arrivals—especially those not yet cataloged, which felt like a sneak preview of hidden treasure.
One day, though, something was different. Behind the counter sat a foreigner with a laptop, chatting easily with the Thai staff. I'd always suspected DASA had an English-speaking owner. Turns out, I was right.
The usual atmosphere was in full swing—coffee brewing, cool music playing, a fresh stack of books waiting to be shelved. I asked the man—who I assumed was the boss—about the song drifting through the speakers.
"Excuse me, this music seems familiar. Who is it?"
"Believe it or not," he said, "it's The Monkees. A lesser-known album from after their breakup."
"The Hey, hey, we're the Monkees from the 1960s Monkees?"
He grinned. "That's the one. I've always had a thing for quirky, obscure music. I owned a used record shop back in the States for many years."
Now he had my attention.
"Where?"
"Orlando, Florida."
Stunned, I blurted out, "Murmur or Retro?"
Stunned, he blinked and said, "Sorry—what did you just ask me?"
"Murmur or Retro Records? If you had a used record shop in Orlando, it had to be one of those two."
"Murmur," he uttered in disbelief.
I just stared at him in disbelief. "I bought a James Brown album, Live at the Apollo, at your shop, and an Elvis gospel record for my mom's birthday. Your shop was way better than Retro."
And just like that, we weren't in Bangkok anymore.
We spent the next two hours swapping stories—high school memories, dive bars, terrible jobs. The kind of conversation where you keep realizing your paths must have crossed a dozen times without you ever knowing it. After a quarter century in Thailand, I've had a few "small world" moments. That one ranks near the top.
His name is Don Gilliland. He arrived in Southeast Asia in the late '90s, around the same time I did. He loved Thailand but found Cambodia a bit easier for a foreigner starting a business, so he opened his first bookstore there.
In 2004, he partnered with a Thai friend and opened DASA Book Cafe in Bangkok. Since then, it's become a steady hub for expat readers buying, selling, and trading books. Don runs a tight ship—no raggedy or damaged books–everything cataloged daily and posted to their website. Regulars browse online, reserve the books they want, and then drop by for an afternoon coffee to pick them up.
At one point, I asked him if he ever regretted leaving the US. After all, Orlando isn't exactly a hardship posting.
He gave me a sideways look—the kind that says you can't be serious—then glanced around his shop. Smiling, he said, "I'm in my favorite place doing my favorite thing. How could I have any regrets?"
I nodded in agreement and said, "Pom hen Jai, pi Don." In Thai, it means "I feel ya, brother."
These days, I live a couple of hours outside Bangkok, but I still make the trip to DASA whenever I can. Partly for the books, partly for the ritual—and partly because every now and then, a narrow little shop reminds me just how ridiculously small the world really is.
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