I can't decide if I should go for a play by play recount of my misadventures (and yes, my days were all misadventures) in Bangkok, or a piecemeal recount of my impressions. Misadventures are funny, the impressions are slightly less so. So I'm pretty well forced to go with a mix of both.
After I landed, I spent an hour inside Suvarnabhumi Airport before realizing I didn't need to fill out additional immigration forms (unlike those poor suckers from the Balkans and, more recently, the Egyptians). After strolling through customs, I stepped outside to have a quick smoke and reset my bearings (I have an almost unerring sense of direction, but only if I can see the sun and/or a compass). It was like stepping nose first into the humid sweat glands of Armageddon's equestrian riders. I thought Bangkok would be chilly this time of year. I should know by now that thinking isn't really my strong suit. After smoking a quick one, I strolled down to the taxi level (because I couldn't find the van my hotel was supposed to send me).
The taxi stand at the airport had a pre-printed complaint form. I didn't take that to be a good sign, but I tossed my bag into the back and agreed to take the highway to my hotel. The ride took a little longer than expected, mainly because there was a car accident (a flipped SUV and a Nissan pickup with a shorn bed). Other than the gristly accident scene, the view from the taxi was beautiful. Vibrant green plants everywhere, strong rooted photosynthesis machines overpowering pavement and temples and the bitter acidic air. I saw tin roofed shacks, supported by twine strung between palm trees and surrounded by bicycles lacking wheels; I saw food carts hiding from the sun under Coca-Cola emblazoned umbrellas, and all of the tired and holed umbrellas looked as if Pepsi-Co financed a purge in the near past but had failed. Because every red and white scripted banner...was. Each one was, and that was amazing. The slumping buildings fancied up as we got closer to the city's center, and then we popped onto Suhkumvit Road, where the buildings' facades are glass but their foundations are the cloth covered stalls housing the poorest of people.
Digression #1:
I'm very used to the diatonic musical scale. It's normal, it's coherent to me, it sounds pretty. It's based on the idea that there are equally subdivided steps between notes, and so one can play chords which sound tonal. On the other hand, almost all of the ambient music I hear in Dubai is based on the atonal scales of India or other mid-eastern notation and/or rhythmic beats. I know what the true difference between the scales is: harmonics. Harmony was first identified by Pythagoras, but he was just a little off in terms of his math (stupid Greeks and their lack of calculators). (If you are truly interested, this very dry article about Pythag's miscue in the harmonic world is interesting: http://ray.tomes.biz/alex.htm).
Indians, Sri Lankins, Persians, Arabs, etc use a very different, very terrible scale when playing. It sounds so unpleasant. The women singers sound as if they are being eviscerated by a pissed off goose with a chronic cough, while the male singers are apparently mimicking the death throes of bull elephants.
Thai, Malay, Laotian, and Korean pop music reminds me of good ol' 'Merican pop music. Thus, the Thai song. Also, the lilt of the Thai language is literally eye-watering. (And though I have no idea what she's singing about, I really like it.)
--End digression--
I got dropped by the curb of S15, my hotel, and as soon as I stepped out of the taxi, I started sweating like a whore in church. The humidity was dreadful. Upon walking into the lobby and looking like an American, I got a sweet, nonsmoking (important) room on the 6th floor. So I deposited my bag in my room and started exploring Suhkumvit road. I got no further than the Korean Barbecue across the street (literally...across the street) when I was approached by Roy. A down and out Englishman, drinking a 40 of Singha beer, he initially asked me what time it was, then he asked me if I'd ever been to Bangkok. Upon hearing my answer ("no"), Roy regaled me with stories of the wonders and the beauties of Bangkok. Because I'm retarded, I listened to him. It wasn't until he asked me how much I was paying for my hotel that I realized something was....weird. Roy said I was too white to be an expat (I still have a tan), that I was staying in an excessively expensive hotel, and then he asked me for 100 Baht. I gave him 20 Bht and said I had to go.
--Digression 2--
Every ex-pat I met in Thailand was friendlier, yet more willing to steal, than anyone I've met in Dubai. I don't truly know which is worse: being aloof, or being friendly for gain.
--End--
I wound up in a small bar, sitting next to a completely drunk Zimbabwean. (I don't think that's how his nationality should be spelled, yet...there it is.) He had the gin-blossoms I'm scared of, the weird hair, the ability to really drink and think that nothing around him was strange. I knew I was in trouble.
Then, while I was walking back to S15, I came across a little girl and her dog. Begging. The dog was awesome. It had a cup in its mouth, and the girl knew the dog's face was how she was getting her money. It made me think: what the fuck is so terrible about my life, when the truth is I've never had to worry about anything? A roof, a kiss in the morning, a book to read? I've either worked for, suffered through, or paid for everything. I realized the "woe-is-me" syndrome is a pharmacological lie sold to the west. What the fuck is so wrong with me? I can tell myself my parents were distant, that I moved a lot, that I can't understand stuff but I've never had to beg for dinner.
Day #2
I slept in, luxuriated in the huge shower, thumbed through the phone book, and finally exited S15. I stepped into the languid arms of Suhkumvit road, sweltering and homey, and decided I should go left. I walked away from my hotel, and got mixed up with the weird traffic signals and the fact that Thailand, like its previous colonizers, demands driving on the left side of the road. Certainly it isn't wrong, but it always adds to the fun whilst attempting to cross a street. I found a small side street populated with noodle vendors and beautiful children holding balloons. At one of the carts (the one with the oldest person), I pointed to noodles, vegetables, and vague meats (yeah...double meat...that's what I like). After she cooked it, she gazed at me and whispered something I didn't understand. I offered her 500 baht (the smallest denomination I had in my possession), but she shook her head. I thought I had found the dream: a free meal and a smiley-faced cohort to eat with. Then she gave me a bottle of Pepsi, and whispered something else to me. I offered her 700 baht (because a bottle of Pepsi is about 150 baht), but she shook her head again. I looked around for salvation, for something/someone to tell me what I was doing wrong. I found no such help and started to walk away, but she grabbed me by the arm and escorted me to the single plastic chair she had set up in front of her cart. I tried to physically ask if I was being too cheap (hands high with the baht bill, then low with the bill), but she wouldn't answer me with any sort of hand signals other than pantomiming that I should eat. I stood up from her chair, but she put the softest hand (ever) on my shoulder, rubbed my hair, and pushed me back into the chair. So I ate. And I was so thankful and grateful and so willing to believe in the beauty of people. Until the girls came out, 20 minutes later.
Day #3:
(From journal)
The taxis here are painted garishly and haphazardly, unlike the sterile desert tones of the cabs in Dubai. The sidewalks are crowded with foodstalls, grim-faced women hovering over an eternally bubbling oil and every cart cooker offers the same thing. The variety of meats and vegetables is stunning. The cart ladies don't speak english, and apparently the worst thing I could've done was to try and pay for a bag of noodles with a 500baht note. Because the noodle lady I offered the 500baht to dragged her daughter out for me and threw her into me.
Gross. Then I looked at her (the daughter) face; I looked at her ( the daughter) body...and I remained strong. I've never fucked children and I think those who do should be chemically castrated and then killed.
So I went back to S15 (my hotel), and sat in front to have a cigarette (no smoking in the room, and I don't screw around with that rule). I was approached by My Le (or Mi Lia) while I was sitting there on the plastic chairs of S15. Mi Lia, a 40 year old Cambodian woman, asked if she could sexy me. I, ever being trapped between the gentleman and the grossly "fucking for fuck's sake" beast, asked for more information about this "sexy" she was offering. She showed me her breast, and I showed her into my room.
After I landed, I spent an hour inside Suvarnabhumi Airport before realizing I didn't need to fill out additional immigration forms (unlike those poor suckers from the Balkans and, more recently, the Egyptians). After strolling through customs, I stepped outside to have a quick smoke and reset my bearings (I have an almost unerring sense of direction, but only if I can see the sun and/or a compass). It was like stepping nose first into the humid sweat glands of Armageddon's equestrian riders. I thought Bangkok would be chilly this time of year. I should know by now that thinking isn't really my strong suit. After smoking a quick one, I strolled down to the taxi level (because I couldn't find the van my hotel was supposed to send me).
The taxi stand at the airport had a pre-printed complaint form. I didn't take that to be a good sign, but I tossed my bag into the back and agreed to take the highway to my hotel. The ride took a little longer than expected, mainly because there was a car accident (a flipped SUV and a Nissan pickup with a shorn bed). Other than the gristly accident scene, the view from the taxi was beautiful. Vibrant green plants everywhere, strong rooted photosynthesis machines overpowering pavement and temples and the bitter acidic air. I saw tin roofed shacks, supported by twine strung between palm trees and surrounded by bicycles lacking wheels; I saw food carts hiding from the sun under Coca-Cola emblazoned umbrellas, and all of the tired and holed umbrellas looked as if Pepsi-Co financed a purge in the near past but had failed. Because every red and white scripted banner...was. Each one was, and that was amazing. The slumping buildings fancied up as we got closer to the city's center, and then we popped onto Suhkumvit Road, where the buildings' facades are glass but their foundations are the cloth covered stalls housing the poorest of people.
Digression #1:
I'm very used to the diatonic musical scale. It's normal, it's coherent to me, it sounds pretty. It's based on the idea that there are equally subdivided steps between notes, and so one can play chords which sound tonal. On the other hand, almost all of the ambient music I hear in Dubai is based on the atonal scales of India or other mid-eastern notation and/or rhythmic beats. I know what the true difference between the scales is: harmonics. Harmony was first identified by Pythagoras, but he was just a little off in terms of his math (stupid Greeks and their lack of calculators). (If you are truly interested, this very dry article about Pythag's miscue in the harmonic world is interesting: http://ray.tomes.biz/alex.htm).
Indians, Sri Lankins, Persians, Arabs, etc use a very different, very terrible scale when playing. It sounds so unpleasant. The women singers sound as if they are being eviscerated by a pissed off goose with a chronic cough, while the male singers are apparently mimicking the death throes of bull elephants.
Thai, Malay, Laotian, and Korean pop music reminds me of good ol' 'Merican pop music. Thus, the Thai song. Also, the lilt of the Thai language is literally eye-watering. (And though I have no idea what she's singing about, I really like it.)
--End digression--
I got dropped by the curb of S15, my hotel, and as soon as I stepped out of the taxi, I started sweating like a whore in church. The humidity was dreadful. Upon walking into the lobby and looking like an American, I got a sweet, nonsmoking (important) room on the 6th floor. So I deposited my bag in my room and started exploring Suhkumvit road. I got no further than the Korean Barbecue across the street (literally...across the street) when I was approached by Roy. A down and out Englishman, drinking a 40 of Singha beer, he initially asked me what time it was, then he asked me if I'd ever been to Bangkok. Upon hearing my answer ("no"), Roy regaled me with stories of the wonders and the beauties of Bangkok. Because I'm retarded, I listened to him. It wasn't until he asked me how much I was paying for my hotel that I realized something was....weird. Roy said I was too white to be an expat (I still have a tan), that I was staying in an excessively expensive hotel, and then he asked me for 100 Baht. I gave him 20 Bht and said I had to go.
--Digression 2--
Every ex-pat I met in Thailand was friendlier, yet more willing to steal, than anyone I've met in Dubai. I don't truly know which is worse: being aloof, or being friendly for gain.
--End--
I wound up in a small bar, sitting next to a completely drunk Zimbabwean. (I don't think that's how his nationality should be spelled, yet...there it is.) He had the gin-blossoms I'm scared of, the weird hair, the ability to really drink and think that nothing around him was strange. I knew I was in trouble.
Then, while I was walking back to S15, I came across a little girl and her dog. Begging. The dog was awesome. It had a cup in its mouth, and the girl knew the dog's face was how she was getting her money. It made me think: what the fuck is so terrible about my life, when the truth is I've never had to worry about anything? A roof, a kiss in the morning, a book to read? I've either worked for, suffered through, or paid for everything. I realized the "woe-is-me" syndrome is a pharmacological lie sold to the west. What the fuck is so wrong with me? I can tell myself my parents were distant, that I moved a lot, that I can't understand stuff but I've never had to beg for dinner.
Day #2
I slept in, luxuriated in the huge shower, thumbed through the phone book, and finally exited S15. I stepped into the languid arms of Suhkumvit road, sweltering and homey, and decided I should go left. I walked away from my hotel, and got mixed up with the weird traffic signals and the fact that Thailand, like its previous colonizers, demands driving on the left side of the road. Certainly it isn't wrong, but it always adds to the fun whilst attempting to cross a street. I found a small side street populated with noodle vendors and beautiful children holding balloons. At one of the carts (the one with the oldest person), I pointed to noodles, vegetables, and vague meats (yeah...double meat...that's what I like). After she cooked it, she gazed at me and whispered something I didn't understand. I offered her 500 baht (the smallest denomination I had in my possession), but she shook her head. I thought I had found the dream: a free meal and a smiley-faced cohort to eat with. Then she gave me a bottle of Pepsi, and whispered something else to me. I offered her 700 baht (because a bottle of Pepsi is about 150 baht), but she shook her head again. I looked around for salvation, for something/someone to tell me what I was doing wrong. I found no such help and started to walk away, but she grabbed me by the arm and escorted me to the single plastic chair she had set up in front of her cart. I tried to physically ask if I was being too cheap (hands high with the baht bill, then low with the bill), but she wouldn't answer me with any sort of hand signals other than pantomiming that I should eat. I stood up from her chair, but she put the softest hand (ever) on my shoulder, rubbed my hair, and pushed me back into the chair. So I ate. And I was so thankful and grateful and so willing to believe in the beauty of people. Until the girls came out, 20 minutes later.
Day #3:
(From journal)
The taxis here are painted garishly and haphazardly, unlike the sterile desert tones of the cabs in Dubai. The sidewalks are crowded with foodstalls, grim-faced women hovering over an eternally bubbling oil and every cart cooker offers the same thing. The variety of meats and vegetables is stunning. The cart ladies don't speak english, and apparently the worst thing I could've done was to try and pay for a bag of noodles with a 500baht note. Because the noodle lady I offered the 500baht to dragged her daughter out for me and threw her into me.
Gross. Then I looked at her (the daughter) face; I looked at her ( the daughter) body...and I remained strong. I've never fucked children and I think those who do should be chemically castrated and then killed.
So I went back to S15 (my hotel), and sat in front to have a cigarette (no smoking in the room, and I don't screw around with that rule). I was approached by My Le (or Mi Lia) while I was sitting there on the plastic chairs of S15. Mi Lia, a 40 year old Cambodian woman, asked if she could sexy me. I, ever being trapped between the gentleman and the grossly "fucking for fuck's sake" beast, asked for more information about this "sexy" she was offering. She showed me her breast, and I showed her into my room.
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