Saturday April 24

 

Packing and prep were easy this time, principally for lack of heavy clothes. No sweatshirt, which I’ve never used now that I think about it. No coat, not even a jacket.  I figure it will be hot enough without any of that shit, regardless of the rain.

 

The reasons behind this trip were almost completely spontaneous, formulated a mere three weeks before departure.  The situation at work had deteriorated intolerably. When I started, the company I worked for had about dwindled from 1700 souls to around 500.  During the course of it, I’d gotten my MBA and been promoted, but seen a relationship with a coworker deteriorate, and eventually, the very same coworker’s promotion to my manager.

 

Her contempt for me was thinly veiled at best. It was obvious to the guys working with me, even though I denied it for the sake of my own sanity.  I found myself with the title of manager but doing the work of a high school drop out:  packing boxes, crating and driving a forklift to dump scrap wood.  “A working manager” she called it.  I called it vindictive punishment.

 

Imagine my surprise when I reached my limit and gave my notice I found that she wanted to argue with me.  The first words out of her mouth, and they came very quickly, were, “What would it take to change your mind?”  But none of her promises of better days, aggressive, argumentative posturing or antagonistic baiting could possibly convince me to stay.  The job wasn’t me, and even if I had to take a job pumping gas I would be happier.  So I bought a ticket to Thailand the day of giving my notice, prompted by my office mate’s glowing review of the place.

 

Things were interestingly complicated the night before and the morning of departure.  I had dinner with Mi-ja, who as usual, filled me in on the gossip around and then proceeded to drop a C note on me, much to my surprise.  We had a beautiful dinner chatting away, but why she felt like she needed to give me money was beyond me.

 

Mi-ja was one of my conversation partners from Marylhurst.  We developed a long friendship out of it, although what we really had in common was a little mystifying.  Mi-ja must have been stunningly beautiful when she was young, and was still attractive in her mid forties.  She married a Korean man from whom she separated by coming to America, and we enjoyed low stress company with nice dinners and conversations often. 

 

Andy arrived at 7:30am to do our traditional breakfast on time, dependable as always and I treated him to a bon voyage breakfast at Elmer’s. We chatted about work things mostly, before moving on to the airport.

 

I was nominated for special attention at PDX.  After a quick check in, I was directed to the luggage check, after having the large bag opened and inspected during the initial check in.  The line for luggage x-ray was long but perfunctory.  After I headed to the gate, where I was de-shod and wanded and the small pack was opened and thoroughly searched by a woman.  I had to laugh while I was wanded, seeing her deal with the first aid kid with all kinds of unmarked pills, my personals and especially, the gag bag.

 

I stocked up on the meds before going, since I figured there was a chance I’d need a drugstore on the road somewhere in Thailand.  I stocked heavily on the Kaopectate, Pepto Bismol, Vivarin and plenty of others. I had no idea what to expect, and could only imagine myself lying in a jungle hammock dying of malaria without any Bayer aspirin.

 

The gag bag this time was a little more creative.  Aside from the usual magic shit I had the bright idea of swinging through the toy section at Fred Meyer and picked up some things that would make any ten year old proud:  A giant grasshopper I nicknamed Bob, a bag of miscellaneous rubber body parts, and a crazy rubber tasseled ball that was screaming for tossing and pulling.

 

After a long wait next to a pissed off Frenchman that somehow failed a security check. I did some puzzles and hopped on the commuter flight to SEA. The flight was full and I was squirming but occupied myself with thoughts of the none-too-beautiful attendant’s rosy nipples and the nice green scenery and mountains that passed me by.

 

I worried that I was on the wrong flight for a bit when we passed downtown Seattle before turning back south for the runway.  I deplaned and caught a shuttle to the international terminal which I remembered from my Scandinavian trip. 

 

Damn! On my way to Yellow Knife by accident!

 

 

Saturday/Sunday April 24/25

 

The flight to Narita was agonizingly long but mercifully quiet, much to my surprise, especially for a packed flight. I would have been fine had not a teenage Filipino goober fidgeted and squirmed next to me the whole flight.  He encroached upon my space more often than not, making me want to scream “Line of Demarcation!” at him.  He did not seem as anxious to gyrate on the lap of Adam Takayoshi on his opposite as he did me.  His dandruff speckled T shirt grossed me out to the nth degree.

 

God, I hate being obviously racist, but what is it with Filipinos that sets me off?  Half of the ones I meet seem to be from the stone age, and look like it too.  This guy was just too much.  Adam Takayoshi was a white guy I worked with who was adopted by a Japanese family as a child, and the guy on the other side of Neanderthal Ned was his double.

 

Being too crowded I didn’t partake of the movies and music on the flight. I passed the time with the puzzle book I bought in Seattle and delving into Treasure Island, which proved to be a fast and energetic read.

 

Arrival at Narita was welcomed and I took in Japan as much as I could in the short blink I was there.  Flying in, much of the land seemed to be flat flooded rice fields dotted with golf courses and houses smashed together in random clusters.

 

Deplaning and making through the security check seemed to take forever, but matters were helped by variously cute Japanese inspectors in navy skirts, white gloves and red berets.  Some had irresistible dimples, as they motioned passengers forward and through the gauntlet.  It really made me want to tour Japan.

 

Nevertheless, Narita was surprisingly chaotic to get through.  I had expected Japanese efficiency, but had found Japanese mismanagement.  Well, it’s good to know the Japanese are fighting the stereotypes, at least.

 

After escaping yet another inspection, I wandered around and looked at the terminal a little.  Interesting was the Cartier shop, primarily because it was something that would never interest me anywhere else. Across was a display of prohibited imports, including many examples like fake Rolexes and curious snake skin products.  I decided to take advantage of the layout to test the area facilities, so I hit the loo to take  a #2.  There’s nothing like a cultural experience. As I expected, the restrooms were quite clean, but I did not expect the squat, aim and flush process, which took me a second to conceptually grasp.  But I got it…uh…down.

 

Afterwards I broke out the magic for an 11 year old Thai boy who spoke English well and his friendly mom and sister.  I grooved on the kooky Japanese.  A Northwest airline employee who seemed to tower over her countrymen helped people in front of the NW counter exuberantly and expressively laughing and smiling engagingly.  Although she wasn’t a beauty, I was smitten by her.

 

I boarded the plane and sat by a sixty five year old pony-tailed Pat Morita, who was friendly enough, even though he spoke no English to me.  I fidgeted intermittently in 61A, the same seat I sat the last 11 hours, but managed to nod off for a stretch. When I awoke, we hadn’t even taxied to the runway!  I shuddered at the thought of another six hours of flight time.

 

To commit to this sixteen hours of transit excursion, plus layovers, I really needed to have my head examined in advance. Always flying seems like torture, and always while suffering in flight I think that if I maintain just a little longer, everything will be worth it.  It always is, but the flights are a high, high price to pay for the adventure and rewards for traveling.  Mercifully, the flight to Bangkok wasn’t as full, and the late local hour made it perhaps a little more civilized than it would normally be.

 

Finally we got going and I admired the figure of the Thai flight attendant but passed on most of what she pushed.  My shoulder ached and I shifted constantly in deference to Pat Morita.  Despite this, the flight was quiet, civilized and uneventful.  I eventually tired out, thankfully, and obtained a few stretches of nods throughout the flight.

 

Coming over Bangkok, it was apparent how huge and spread out the city was.  Making it off the plane and through customs and immigration was no problem, although I wondered about declaring the camera.  It appeared that technically, I should have.  It was well after midnight and the place was hopping. I took a leak and hunted down an ATM to drain B5000 (about $125) off of each of the cards I had.  I got hit up for a taxi amongst the crowds, but opted to get a coke and assembled myself for a bit. A Thai mom fed her daughter ice cream in the same café.  The daughter, who must have been about 2, gave me the Thai wai, and said hello in English, and then ‘bye bye’ when I left.

 

Even though the airport was far from the slick modern styles of Kastrup in Denmark, or even PDX, I felt a strange sort of comfort as soon as I had assembled myself.  The traditional ‘wai’ is the Thai equivalent of shaking hands.  It involves clasping the hands together, as if in prayer and perhaps a small head bow.  To see the little girl wai me was both funny and charming.  I wish I’d gotten a picture of her.

 

I headed out for the taxi stand and got hit up again for a taxi.  The woman quoted me B650. I said it was too much and she offered B500.  I told her I’d do it for B400, but we left it like that.  I got in the line for a taxi and the swelter hit me as soon as I exited the terminal. I swooned in the wet heat of the middle of the night, in the long line waiting for a ride. I chatted with an older guy from Arkansas who had a ton of luggage. He gave me some confidence about taking a taxi.

 

Holy shit, I’d never felt anything so hot.  I think the closest I’d come was in the south of France in the summer, but this was a new game entirely. This hot and dark thing was entirely new to me, although not unexpected. Everyone was sweating, and me more than anyone.

 

I didn’t work out exactly what the Arkansas guy was doing in Thailand. He looked as if he was married and traveling with his wife, but there was no woman to be seen.  In any event, I enjoyed the brief and relaxed chat we had.

 

I was nervous about taking a taxi, since I’d read that nearly everything had to be bargained in Thailand, and taxis were liable to cheating stupid foreign tourists.  Luckily this ride, and most of the other rides I had in Thailand, was a metered cab, so there was no problem getting around.

 

Just before I got to the front of the line, some guy pushed his taxi to the front of the taxi line.  And I do mean pushed.  The American looked at me and said ‘there’s one not to get into.’  I got to the front of the line and I gave my destination at the desk.  After pushing his taxi up front, the driver ran up to the window where I was and handed the person in the booth something.  I looked at the American and shrugged my shoulders, wondering if I was going to break down midway to the hotel, in the wee hours, in a strange city, not knowing anyone.  I could only hope for the best.  I hopped in and off we went to the Sheraton Sukumvit.

 

For the first time since I slithered off the plane in London in 1997, I was officially overwhelmed. The distance of the flight, the tyrannical tropical heat, the odd looking people and the impossible script really brought back that far away from home feeling I first had on my way to Scandinavia. The difference this time was that no one really spoke English, I knew nothing about where I was or what I was going and there was no Stash to come meet me, set me right and get me on my way.

 

I think the guy was just saving gas by pushing his taxi.  Throughout this trip I saw incredibly hardworking people and heroic attempts to save pennies, and this might have been the first example slipping past me, although not many more did these first few days.

 

The taxis were all Toyota Corollas, or some derivation of that, right hand drive and mostly painted red and baby blue, or green and yellow. My driver was quiet and I paid the extra expressway fees and marveled at the number of high rises everywhere, all the way from the airport to the hotel.  The road was mostly clear and the driver did a zippy 100-120kph.  Turning off the freeway, he whipped through town like a skillful maniac.  Driving on the left, in general, made me uneasy and set me on the edge.

 

The trip to the hotel took about thirty minutes.  Although the freeway was more or less deserted, it was hard to get a sense how big the city really was.  Portland’s downtown was about twenty blocks long and fifteen deep.  Clearly Bangkok was at least 200 times the size of Portland, because the entire drive to the hotel was punctuated with skyscrapers and neon.

 

Eventually he whipped around and pulled up a ramp. A security guard ominously gave the car a once over and indicated to open the trunk.  I signed a receipt and tipped the driver about B100, which really seemed to surprise him.  In I went to the hotel.

 

The driver about shit his pants with that $2.50 tip on a $5 (B200) fare.  I was glad to make someone’s day, or night as it were.  Honestly, I did not understand the economics ofThailand taxis, but I laugh thinking of his ‘what the fuck is this’ expression. 

 

The guards were my first taste of being outside the safe world. They belonged to the hotel, I realized later, and represented the hotel’s answer to a bombing of a western hotel shortly before, possibly in Indonesia.  Not knowing what was going on freaked me out a little, but it makes sense now that I think about it.

 

The Nehru suited desk clerk took care of me and pointed me in the direction of 1419, which excited me briefly, until I discovered the absence of floors 4-9 and 13 in the building, plus I started out on 2. So instead of 14 I was really on about the sixth floor. Still the joint was nothing less than top notch.  Wood, gold and marble were tastefully scattered everywhere.  1419 was at the end of a long hall, very much to my approval.

 

Well, if I didn’t have a Cesar’s view of the city I was about to conquer, at least I’d have a quiet room.  The Sheraton was a five star job. I suppose the closest I’d come to a five star hotel was when I got caught in Copenhagen and had to stay at the Hilton.  But I chose this place, figuring that I’d never be able to afford such luxury anywhere else. The place wasn’t cheap by my standards, around $130 per night as I recall, but I could never find such a place anywhere else for less than twice that, so I splurged.

 

It took me a second to figure out the lights, but I did so and got comfortable. Nehru had said the room had two queens, but instead it had two twins, unless all Thai royalty happens to be the size of Tom Thumb. I pondered the breakfast menu and the freebies littered around the place.  The bathroom was magnificent, with a tub large enough for me (and perhaps a friend) and a separate walk in shower, all nicely tiled and arranged. And thank the lord, no squatting for my next symphonic movement.

 

After getting the breakfast order out on the door knob and surfing the assortment of channels, I put in the earplugs, which were probably not necessary, and tried to sleep about 2am.

 

Well, this was opulence. I felt like a king, and I probably needed it.  My friend Shannon told me I was depressed, which really helped me make the decision to quit my job.   If you’ve gotta jump out the window, why not land in a place that has A/C and a mini-bar?