Bangkok story Part 1
I arrived in Bangkok.
Jesus H fucking Christ was that a long plane ride, I thought to myself. I had the window seat next to a cute Taiwanese girl, and that ain't bad, all in all.
'Self', I said to myself, 'You watched a lot of movies, and your legs are very, VERY cramped'.
16 hours in a metal tube with recirculated air. Ouch. Was it going to be worth it?
As I was getting off the plane (could that be called deboarding?) and walking thru that makeshift corridor thingy, I began to imagine what I was about to see. I had never been anywhere else except for Cuba.
Somehow, I expected Bangkok to be different from Cuba. I've always had excellent deductive reasoning.
So, I'm walking down the corridor thingy, and this guy, younger, fresh-faced, but tired at the same time, is walking along side of me with his 2 ton duffle bag over his shoulder. And it's a piece of shit duffle bag. It looks like 6 or 7 people took a crap on it, at some point and time, and left it in the woods for a while.
He looks like every single traveler from Europe that you've ever seen. Perhaps that's over-generalizing.
He's walking right next to me at exactly the same speed, so, of course, we strike up a conversation.
He goes first.
"How ya doin,?" he says in an unmistakably Dutch accent.
"I hate the Dutch.," I say, and he chuckles.
"Where ya headin to?...do you have a place booked yet?" he asks. It's 2am, so it's a very logical question. I was a bit nervous about it myself.
"No. But I'm going to this place called the Atlanta Hotel because my loony friend Brandise recommended it."
"Is it expensive?," he asks.
"No. That's the other cool part about it. It's 8-15 US dollars per night depending on what kind of room you get. I'm not sure how much that would be in Kroogerands or in weed or whatever the hell you guys have over there for currency. Don't you guys still use beads and hand-made jewelery to barter for goods and services?"
"Worked pretty well for us when we purchased New York City! Mainly, I convert everything in my head to Euros. Perhaps you've heard of them since the dollar can't buy a stick of gum anymore."
"Touche, mon frere."
"Right," he agreed, smiling.
We entered the airport proper, and there was a crowd of people touting this and that...so much at one time, you couldn't even think of anything to do except assiduously avoid making eye contact. But they would still shove the glossy brochures of god knows what in your face. There were droves of them. And it was 2 in the morning!!
We went to an ATM machine and my new-found travel partner got some local money. I already had mine from the LAX exchange booth at the Bradley terminal. That's how we do it in Laker-land, baby. We is PREPARED.
“Where is this place…the Atlanta?,” he asked as he quickly snatched the strange looking bills from the machine.
“How the hell should I know. Do I look Thai to you? Let’s give it a try, though, we’ll split a cab.”
“That sounds like a good idea.,” he said, visibly brightening at the prospect of saving some money.
“What’s your name?,” he asked me, as he picked up his tennis pro size duffle bag that had been left in the woods, again…all I had was a backpack.
“Scott.”
“My name’s Youris.”
“I figured it would be something like that. Nice to meet you, Youris.”
And with that, we headed thru the sliding glass exit door of the airport, and I felt a wave of humidity and smell like I’ve never experienced before. It made Cancun look like bone-dry heat. It sort of knocked you back a step, even.
And...again! with the line of brochures, and touts, and yelling for attention and what-not.
"You guys American?!"
"God Bless America!!!!"
"Yay for George Bush!!!! We love him!!!". That last one was too much. I hit that guy over the head with a beer bottle that suddenly appeared in my hand for short story purposes.
We were getting started!
We headed to the taxi queue, but before we made it there, 3 guys approached us offering a ride to our hotel for “very very cheap….much cheaper than those other guys”.
We picked the most nicely dressed of the 3 and took him up on his offer. After all, when someone's nicely dressed, what possible harm can they do?
“Where are you two gentleman going?,” the Thai taxidriver said in better English than a lot of the LA people I meet.
“The Atlanta Hotel,” said I.
Next thing, Youris and I are racing down the highway in an air-conditioned (thank God) taxi, and everything I see is fascinating because it’s Thailand.
Even things like sideways stoplights, and these digital crosswalk signs that actually count down from 45 seconds so that you know how long you have left to cross the street without getting run over by 40 motorbikes.
We make it to the hotel, pay the man, and he’s off like a rocket down the thin, dark street where individual street vendors are still selling Thai food at what looks like those makeshift lemondade stands that kids use in suburban neighborhoods.
As soon as we’re standing out in the night air, looking at the hotel, beads of sweat are forming on our faces. Jesus, I wonder how hot it’s going to be during the DAY, I thought to myself.
Jesus H fucking Christ was that a long plane ride, I thought to myself. I had the window seat next to a cute Taiwanese girl, and that ain't bad, all in all.
'Self', I said to myself, 'You watched a lot of movies, and your legs are very, VERY cramped'.
16 hours in a metal tube with recirculated air. Ouch. Was it going to be worth it?
As I was getting off the plane (could that be called deboarding?) and walking thru that makeshift corridor thingy, I began to imagine what I was about to see. I had never been anywhere else except for Cuba.
Somehow, I expected Bangkok to be different from Cuba. I've always had excellent deductive reasoning.
So, I'm walking down the corridor thingy, and this guy, younger, fresh-faced, but tired at the same time, is walking along side of me with his 2 ton duffle bag over his shoulder. And it's a piece of shit duffle bag. It looks like 6 or 7 people took a crap on it, at some point and time, and left it in the woods for a while.
He looks like every single traveler from Europe that you've ever seen. Perhaps that's over-generalizing.
He's walking right next to me at exactly the same speed, so, of course, we strike up a conversation.
He goes first.
"How ya doin,?" he says in an unmistakably Dutch accent.
"I hate the Dutch.," I say, and he chuckles.
"Where ya headin to?...do you have a place booked yet?" he asks. It's 2am, so it's a very logical question. I was a bit nervous about it myself.
"No. But I'm going to this place called the Atlanta Hotel because my loony friend Brandise recommended it."
"Is it expensive?," he asks.
"No. That's the other cool part about it. It's 8-15 US dollars per night depending on what kind of room you get. I'm not sure how much that would be in Kroogerands or in weed or whatever the hell you guys have over there for currency. Don't you guys still use beads and hand-made jewelery to barter for goods and services?"
"Worked pretty well for us when we purchased New York City! Mainly, I convert everything in my head to Euros. Perhaps you've heard of them since the dollar can't buy a stick of gum anymore."
"Touche, mon frere."
"Right," he agreed, smiling.
We entered the airport proper, and there was a crowd of people touting this and that...so much at one time, you couldn't even think of anything to do except assiduously avoid making eye contact. But they would still shove the glossy brochures of god knows what in your face. There were droves of them. And it was 2 in the morning!!
We went to an ATM machine and my new-found travel partner got some local money. I already had mine from the LAX exchange booth at the Bradley terminal. That's how we do it in Laker-land, baby. We is PREPARED.
“Where is this place…the Atlanta?,” he asked as he quickly snatched the strange looking bills from the machine.
“How the hell should I know. Do I look Thai to you? Let’s give it a try, though, we’ll split a cab.”
“That sounds like a good idea.,” he said, visibly brightening at the prospect of saving some money.
“What’s your name?,” he asked me, as he picked up his tennis pro size duffle bag that had been left in the woods, again…all I had was a backpack.
“Scott.”
“My name’s Youris.”
“I figured it would be something like that. Nice to meet you, Youris.”
And with that, we headed thru the sliding glass exit door of the airport, and I felt a wave of humidity and smell like I’ve never experienced before. It made Cancun look like bone-dry heat. It sort of knocked you back a step, even.
And...again! with the line of brochures, and touts, and yelling for attention and what-not.
"You guys American?!"
"God Bless America!!!!"
"Yay for George Bush!!!! We love him!!!". That last one was too much. I hit that guy over the head with a beer bottle that suddenly appeared in my hand for short story purposes.
We were getting started!
We headed to the taxi queue, but before we made it there, 3 guys approached us offering a ride to our hotel for “very very cheap….much cheaper than those other guys”.
We picked the most nicely dressed of the 3 and took him up on his offer. After all, when someone's nicely dressed, what possible harm can they do?
“Where are you two gentleman going?,” the Thai taxidriver said in better English than a lot of the LA people I meet.
“The Atlanta Hotel,” said I.
Next thing, Youris and I are racing down the highway in an air-conditioned (thank God) taxi, and everything I see is fascinating because it’s Thailand.
Even things like sideways stoplights, and these digital crosswalk signs that actually count down from 45 seconds so that you know how long you have left to cross the street without getting run over by 40 motorbikes.
We make it to the hotel, pay the man, and he’s off like a rocket down the thin, dark street where individual street vendors are still selling Thai food at what looks like those makeshift lemondade stands that kids use in suburban neighborhoods.
As soon as we’re standing out in the night air, looking at the hotel, beads of sweat are forming on our faces. Jesus, I wonder how hot it’s going to be during the DAY, I thought to myself.