The Overpacker

Dateline: Bangkok, Thailand – Wednesday, March 10, 2010

It rained this morning for the first time I’ve been in Bangkok. I lay in bed wondering if this was going to put a damper on my day. I had no plan. I’m a bit of a home body, so I could feel myself sinking back under the covers to laze the day away.

Just the thought of planning an activity made me tired. A museum? Massage? Shopping? A muay thai match? They’d all require research and planning.

I decided first thing I’d do is call Winai, the Thai American I’d met on the plane.

Using my broken Thai, I negotiated my way past a lady who answered the phone. Winai sounded tired so I kept telling him he didn’t have to come out if he didn’t want to. He kept saying he wanted to meet and asked if I’d had lunch. We decided to meet at 1p.m near On Nut station, the last stop on the BTS.

That gave me an hour to pick up the shirts from my tailor. Victor greeted me by name when I walked in the door. The shirts fit perfectly. I wrote a check out to “Cash,” thanked Victor, then dropped off my shirts back at Suk 11.

When I finally got to On Nut, I got turned around and ended up getting there a bit late. Winai, wearing a U.S. Postal Service t-shirt, greeted me with a handshake and smile. He donned his helmet and I hopped on the back of his small motorbike. He worked the manual transmission ably considering his feet were in special boots to help them rehab from surgery. The wind whipped through my head stubble as we darted through Bangkok traffic. He chatted casually, pointing out various landmarks.

I think that when people confront Asian traffic, they’re overwhelmed by the chaos. Cars are inches away from each other, scooters dart in and out of every traffic crevice, and drivers don’t bother with the suggested lane lines. Driving in Manila taught me that you have to simply survive. I like to call the overarching rule the “Two Corners Principle”: just take care of the front left and front right corners of your car and let everyone else worry about the rest. The principle works because no one drives faster than 35 miles per hour and, even then, that’s only in short bursts.

When you’re on a motorbike, however, it’s different. There are no corners to watch. Drivers can’t really see you. And, when you’ve got two people, the scooter drives heavy, making slow moves through tight spaces feel like you’re sitting on a row boat in a hurricane. There’s nothing like mortal danger to make you feel alive.

It was fun, especially since I didn’t have a helmet. Winai ended up picking up a green one from a Yamaha shop because he needed one for his girlfriend (not me). That should have made me feel better except I noticed that he only paid 150 baht ($5) for it. Slipping it on my head was like trying to sit in wooden rocking chair built for 2 year olds.

As we careened through traffic, I really wanted to pull out my camera to take video and pictures. That’d have spared me the thousand words I’d need to describe the experience. I decided that I liked holding on for dear life and couldn’t spare the hand.

We headed to Seacon, a large mall. Winai and I walked around looking for a noodle soup place that served halal (Winai’s Muslim). As I slowed to pace Winai’s hobble, we reflected on the differences between malls in Asia and the U.S. In Asia, the mall is a vibrant, crowded place. People just go to hang out. You’ll see kids running around, their parents in tow. People just sit around and talk. Stalls sell food and odds and ends just like on the street. It’s like, because of the heat, they’ve tried to fit all of outdoors inside. A typical mall in Asia is probably the same size as the bigger ones in America, but with twice as many stores. No one just goes to the mall to buy stuff. You have to eat, browse, and chat.

For example, even though Winai was hobbled by surgery, we stopped in a few shops just to look around. He chatted up people selling cars, home entertainment systems, and health products. There were a lot of people even though it was mid-afternoon on a Wednesday. When I was at the mall with Uncle Jesse on Sunday, there were so many people you couldn’t go more than a foot in a straight line.

In America, unless you’re in high school, malls are more utilitarian. You come to a mall to buy something. You may browse, but unless you’re female, you probably don’t hang out. Even then, women tend to go to the mall to “go shopping.”

The food’s different, too. Mall food in the U.S. tends to be corporate. In Asia, there are chains, but there are way more mom and pop stalls. The place we ate at seemed to be run by a Muslim lady. Winai ordered me fish ball and beef noodles. Even though he thought I was crazy, he snapped a picture of me and my food.

Afterwards, we headed off to King Rama XI park. Winai noticed a mosque on the way and we stopped so he could say his prayers.

Winai washed up and I took a seat on the large, empty marble floor. Sitting to my right was a guy swaying back and forth, apparently reading the Koran. Behind me a man lay on his back, head wrapped and snoring loudly.

Winai couldn’t kneel, so he said his prayers from a wooden chair. Another man joined him, knelt facing east, and said his prayers. I’m not real tight with Allah, so for all I know taking pictures of prayer is no big deal. I decided to play it safe and snap shots on the sly. Hopefully He didn’t notice.

When Winai finished up, we went to King Rama IV Park. The place is huge. Because he can’t move that quick, Winai insisted that I explore without him. I didn’t want to make him wait, so we hung around the entrance. He showed me where, on weekends, there’s a street market, free lessons for aerobics, dance, tai chi, kung fu, and muay thai. It reminded me of Golden Gate Park in San Francisco.

We headed to an internet café so I could e-mail. Note for all you gamers out there, if you thought PC gaming was dead, then you haven’t been to Asia. The place was filled with kids of all ages. I was the only person over 20 years old. They were mice and keyboards to play L4D2, MW2, other FPS’s, RTS’s, browser based games, and stuff I didn’t recognize. I have no idea whether these were all legit copies or not, but they were into it. Every kid was paying 20 baht ($0.60) per hour to play. A 4 year old (really) helped me start up the computer and enter my access code. I uploaded the previous day’s entry and was out of there.

Winai gave me the option of returning to my hostel via a nearby BTS station or a long boat through Bangkok’s canals to another BTS station. I was a little worried I’d get lost, but Winai said I’d be fine.

Long boats are those colorful, thin Thai boats with the long propeller shaft sticking out the back. They can seat four people across at their widest point. The driver sits at the back next to a large turbo diesel and works a metal rod that runs the accelerator, steering, and transmission. They’re surprisingly quick on the river. In the canals, though, they move slowly so more passengers can collect at each stop.

Winai wanted me to experience a part of Bangkok most tourists don’t see. We sat on the small dock under an overpass waiting for the boat to leave. He chatted about how much Bangkok had changed and how, when he was a kid, he’d swim off this very pier. There was no overpass or mall or neighborhood, just rice fields. He wasn’t sad, just nostalgic.

The driver sleeping in the boat stirred from his nap, fired up his motor, and started boarding passengers. I thanked Winai with a handshake hug, promised to e-mail pictures, and hopped on.

The boat motored past plywood, corrugated metal shacks built next door to large mansions with air conditioners sticking out of every room. Here and there people worked out of makeshift shops selling snacks or groceries, the mom and pop version of the ubiquitous 7-11’s. Occasionally, we’d pass someone walking on the elevated concrete slabs that serve as the canal’s sidewalk. People would wave down the boat and hop on. If you didn’t know exactly where you were going, you’d have no idea where to get off.

When we got to the final stop, the remaining passengers disembarked, paid the driver, and scattered. I walked a quarter mile through a cramped street market to the BTS.

After a brief rest at Suk 11, I fought off my laziness and decided to trek down to Thong Lee for dinner. It turned out to be an excellent mom and pop place further off the main road (Sukhumvit) than I expected.

Having stuffed myself with fried pork with shrimp paste and sweet crispy fried rice noodles, I decided to walk the mile or so to Buanthip Thai Massage, a place recommended by Lonely Planet.

A word about Buanthip. It’s located in a town crawling with sex tourists. When I first walked up, I thought I might have made a mistake. Masseuses in pink polo shirts advertised the place, showing passing tourists the price lists for a massage. Any doubt I had disappeared when I saw a prominent “No Sex” sign behind the reception desk.

This place takes its massage seriously. It’s the only place so far that’s taken a scrubber and soap to my feet. There’s no music. There’s little chatter. It’s just real good massage. My masseuse did a great job toeing the line between pain and healing. A bit of back of the envelope math suggests that since I opted for a 2 hour session, I spent 12% of my waking hours being massaged. You’ll get no complaints from me.

Walking out of Buanthip at around 10:30 p.m., I realized that my day had gone from empty to full to the brim. From the perils of being helmetless on a friend’s motorbike in Bangkok to a contemplative long boat ride through canals to a great meal at a hidden gem to two hours of quality massage. I can’t imagine a much better 18 hours.

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Don’t ever plan anything, it works out better that way.

Not So Stupid Travel Tip: If you’re going to be in Sukhumvit shopping (and you probably will), I can wholeheartedly recommend Buanthip Thai Massage and Thong Lee. Both are within walking distance of BTS stations. Buanthip is next to the Amari Boulevard Hotel on Soi 5. Get off at Nana station. For Thong Lee get off at Asoke station and use the elevated walkways to cross Ratchadaphisek road. The restaurant is a bit of a walk down Soi 20 across from a 7-11. I wish I’d had a group of people with me at Thong Lee so I could have tried more stuff on the menu.

Programming Note: Uncle Jesse called me today and cancelled Friday’s trip to the chicken factory. His company said he can’t bring family members on Friday because of the impending red shirt demonstrations in Bangkok. He may try to reschedule when I come through Bangkok later this month.

Apparently the red shirt demonstration this weekend is a pretty big deal. Depending on who you listen to, the red shirts may peacefully protest or get violent and set off bombs or stage a coup. The festivities start Friday. The government is already publicizing road shutdowns and extra security in the newspaper. In 2006, I left Thailand a few days before the last revolution. I won’t be missing this one. Guess there’s something about me and overthrowing governments. Call me Mervyn, “Bringer of Coups.”

Dateline: Bangkok, Thailand – Tuesday, March 9, 2010

The plan today was to get up early and visit the Grand Palace and Wat Phra Kaew (the Temple of the Emerald Buddha) before the day got too hot, then head back to Becca’s for a swim. I got up at 7 a.m., packed up my gear, had a quick breakfast, and headed out.

In my experience, Thailand is like the Philippines in that it doesn’t pay to be in a hurry. Not only does the heat and humidity punish you for walking quickly, public transportation runs on its own timetable (read: none). Come to think of it, San Francisco’s the same, too. All that’s to say that between dropping stuff off at Becca’s and waiting for various trains, ferries, and water taxis, I didn’t get to the Grand Palace complex until 10 a.m. By then, the tourists were in full form. I joined the herd.

When I was here in 2006, the tour guide our group hired rushed us through the place and didn’t really give us much of a tour. I decided that this time, I’d be more contemplative.

A bit of background. The Grand Palace complex houses Bangkok’s major tourist attraction, the Emerald Buddha. It’s also a Buddhist pilgrimage spot. The ground was consecrated in 1782, the first year Bangkok ruled Thailand. There are over 100 buildings on the 95 hectare grounds. Some buildings are ornate, some plain, some sacred, some with royal significance, and some just offices that house government administrations.

A few observations and random facts that I learned as I dorked it out with the camera.

• I could have walked in without paying. I bought a ticket and when I got to the entrance I noticed a sign that said “For Thais.” I walked through that entrance just to see what would happen. No one looked at me funny. No one stopped me. No one took my ticket. I briefly considered scalping the unused ticket in my pocket, but thought better of it. I still had a bad taste in my mouth from my ONE DAY PASS experience.

• I wish I’d gotten there a bit earlier because, by the time I arrived, the sun was high in the sky and the lighting for picture taking was pretty harsh. If I get a chance, I’ll come back right when the palace opens (8:30 a.m.).

• Statues of beasts and demons stand guard throughout the complex. Some look like cats. Some are chicken heads (snicker). Some are huge, some are human size, and some are in-between. I heard one guide say that a lot of them are monkeys and beavers. The monkeys always have their mouths open and they never wear shoes. “Do you know why the monkey does not wear shoes?” he asked. I’m pretty sure he said, “Because if the monkey wore shoes, it couldn’t climb trees.”

• Walking around taking pictures, I noticed a family of White people debating amongst themselves. “What about that guy.” “Maybe her.” “Ask him, maybe.”

The dad called in my general direction, “Do you speak English?” I looked around because I thought he might be talking to a official guide looking person behind me or something. Nope. Turns out they’re Canadian. Oh, and they wanted me to take a picture. I snapped one of them under a tree that their guide had told them came from the original Bodhi tree under which Buddha obtained Enlightenment. They took one of me in return. No Enlightenment for me, just got sweatiness.

• There’s a large replica of Angkor Wat, a highly revered temple in Cambodia. It was commissioned by King Mongkut (Rama IV). Nice of the king to go to all the trouble of giving me a preview of sites to come.

• Cameras aren’t allowed into the most sacred or revered places in the palace. You can, however, take pictures from outside the door. The Emerald Buddha is a special challenge since it sits at the back of a long dark temple, high above the ground atop an ornate throne. And the thing is only 2 feet tall. That means nearly every picture taken by a tourist is going to be a zoomed in, shaky thing that diminishes the grandeur of the experience instead of capturing it and inevitably leaves you wondering “Why didn’t he just buy a postcard?” Except for mine, of course. Mine was awesome.

• Incidentally, the Emerald Buddha isn’t. It’s probably jade or jasper. The statue used to be an ordinary Buddha until the 15th century when, after a fall, a monk noticed that under the chipped plaster exterior was green rock. He thought it was emerald and thus the legend was born. Perhaps I can find a monk here who’ll mistake me for Brad Pitt.

• There are Thai tour guides everywhere speaking every language on earth. I heard Chinese, Italian, Russian, Spanish, German, and even English. The guides seem to be pretty good, cracking jokes and making their groups laugh. You can almost hop amongst English-speaking groups to get a decent experience. Not that I’d ever do that or anything.

• The palace façade and temple murals are being restored. Same thing was happening at Wat Po when I visited a couple days back. These places must need constant work in the face of the corrosive heat and humidity. Sort of like Jerry Jones in the Texas heat.

• The Chakri Maha Prasat was built in 1882, the year of Bankok’s centenary. The buildings are used mostly for state visits. It’s an interesting mix of Western and Thai architecture. It was built by British architects using Thai labor. The bottom half looks Italian, the top half looks Thai. The central spire houses the ashes of Chakri kings; the princes’ ashes are under the smaller ones. The kings used to house their large harems in the inner palace area, which was guarded by battle-trained female sentries. That’s interesting and all, but I found myself enthralled by the tourists’ interaction with the palace guards. They’re like the stoic British guard at Buckingham palace, except they have to deal with stifling humidity year-round instead of just in the summer. Like their UK counterparts, they must endure the squawking, giggling tourists harassing them for pictures. It’s like being a celebrity, except no one gives a crap about your name and you can’t get them to stop even though you’re holding a gun with a bayonet.

I finished up with the palace and took a series of boats back to Becca’s.

As if to confirm my theory that Bangkok is a particularly international city, I met Ann, Becca’s childhood friend. Half Thai, half Swiss, she speaks English with a German accent. Besides English she speaks German, Thai, and I think a little French. She’s a chef who owns a small restaurant in a coastal village in the south. A village which she says is full of voodoo black magic. (She warned me to beware of the spell casting Thai girls if I visited.) She’s an outspoken red-shirt, shaved-head, lesbian smoker that swears like a sailor when she speaks English. I like her.

I spent the afternoon intending to go for a swim. My intentions succumbed to a series of naps in the heat on Becca’s couch. When I finally regained consciousness, it was time for dinner.

Becca’s mom had arrived, so Becca, Ann, and I headed out to the local outdoor market to grab food. That meant tons of eats in clear plastic bags. Dried fish. Steamed fish. Fish and egg and vegetable steamed in custard-sized banana leaf. Steamed chicken marinated in fish sauce. Chicken curry. Clams. Grilled pork in soy sauce and onions. Some spicy salad thing with “fish gone bad.” I thought I was going to explode.

Afterwards, Ann and I chilled on the balcony while she smoked and I messed with my camera taking pictures of the skyline.

She ended up driving me back to the hostel in her Isuzu pickup (I didn’t realize Isuzus still existed). We may meet up Thursday to go to a fair that’s been set up near Chit Lom. That’d be guaranteed good times.

______________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Buy a postcard of the Emerald Buddha.

Not So Stupid Tip: Get to the Grand Palace early. It won’t be as hot and you’ll probably have better light to take pictures. There are also free English tours if you get there at the right times. I noticed that a few started at and before 10:30 a.m., with the next few starting at around 1 p.m. Afterwards, you can grab lunch at the market near Th Chang pier, the pier closest to the Grand Palace, then walk down to Wat Po and do the itinerary I suggested on Day 3.

Dateline: Monday , March 8, 2010

I looked at my notes for today and discovered that it was going to be hard finding a narrative. Instead of fighting through to a creative narrative solution, I’m going to be lazy and just list random observations.

• Thais use plastic bags for food. Not ziplocs, just clear plastic bags. If you get street food to go, they’ll put it in clear plastic bags tied off with rubber bands. If you get drinks that aren’t pre-packaged, they’ll often put it in a plastic bag with ice and slip in a straw. The sauces for food are often packaged in plastic bags. Just walk the streets of Bangkok and you’ll see tons of people headed home for dinner with bags with little bags of food in it. The easy explanation is that it’s cheaper for shop owners to use these bags rather than something more substantial like plastic or Styrofoam containers. That and the plastic bags take up less storage space for the vendors. The question is, why don’t food sellers in the U.S. do the same?

• I think I figured out why a lot of Thai light switches are on the outside of bathrooms. I flipped on the light switch to my hostel bathroom and walked in straight away. I was a little startled by a lizard that zipped up the wall and out the ceiling. Still haven’t gotten adjusted to the tropics. When I lived in the Philippines, I wouldn’t have even batted an eye. For those people who hate tropical creepy crawlers, the outside light switch let’s them turn on the light from the outside and wait a second to allow the wildlife to scatter. Alternate theories anyone?

• Bangkok feels so international, much more so than San Francisco or Los Angeles. Could be that I notice this more because I’m a foreigner. I don’t think so, though. I thought of this when I visited Becca today. Four generations of people were interacting. Becca’s grandmother (White American), Becca’s mom (Thai), Becca’s dad (White), Franck’s mom (French) and little Ananda (a little bit of all of the above). Everyone was trying out everyone else’s languages. Everyone was learning either French, Thai, or English so they could communicate more easily with the rest of the family. It was pretty cool to watch.

• I talked to Franck about his trademark practice. We skipped the boring stuff (letter writing, research, memos, etc.) and jumped straight to a business trip he’s going on in China. He was going to learn how to spot faked goods for a food and beverage company. Counterfeiting operations like this require years of investigation. They have to hire people to be employees of factories, hire people to test fake products, and hire experts to run down the paper trail.

It’s also not enough to catch someone with fake product containers and faked labels and faked products. They have to catch them red handed. For example, a fake bottle sitting next to a fake label isn’t enough to prosecute the bottle maker for a violation. The label has to be on the bottle. They also have to make sure that the masterminds are there with the goods. It was very interesting, especially since the Chinese government seems quite cooperative, so long as a private investigation brings in the perpetrators. Franck also gets to go on trademark raids where they bust the makers. This isn’t that easy, especially when you’re coming in telling 1,500 factory workers that they’re out of work because of a trademark violation. He’s practicing trademark law where there’s a potential for violence. Who knew law could be so exciting?

• In the morning, I got back to the hostel late. Luckily, I have a cell phone. The courier called me and I called Auntie. She asked the courier to wait. I rushed into the hostel looking for the guy. I accidentally asked a security guard if he wanted my passport. After that embarrassment, I was a little gun shy. I called the guy on my cell. Turns out he was standing just to my right. We had a good laugh.

• I went to the roof of Becca and Franck’s condo and took some pictures of the night skyline. The view from the 32nd floor is pretty spectacular.

• I got an e-mail from Winai. We both have been recovering from jet lag. We’re still going to try to connect, but that might be a bit complicated. I’ll keep you posted.

• On a more positive note, Uncle Jesse called and said we’d be going to the chicken factory on Friday. It’s a 4 hour drive, so we’ll be leaving early and getting back late. Because I’m a little too excited about this, it’ll turn out that I can only tour the offices and won’t be allowed to take any pictures.

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: In Thailand, security officers are not couriers.

Not So Stupid Tip: This was a bit of a surprise; Urban Outfitter t-shirts make great travel gear. I brought two shirts that I don’t wear too often. I wash clothes every night. Because the shirts are a cotton/polyester blend, they dry in less than an hour. Who knew hipster clothing could actually be functional?

Dateline: Bangkok, Thailand, Sunday, March 7, 2010

Today’s 6 a.m. wake up means I’m conquering jet lag one hour at a time.

Uncle Jesse loaned me a shirt. It was yellow, which made it high profile for at least two reasons. First, it is the color of the sun. Second, in the last year, in Thailand yellow has come to mean opposition to former Thai leader Thaksin Shinawatra.  In the past, yellow signaled support for the king, a beloved Thai figure. In fact, on Mondays Thais would often wear yellow shirts to show their love of the king. (Yellow because of the year the king was born.) During the recent political unrest, however, people took to wearing yellow shirts if they opposed Thaksin and red if they supported him. Yellow Shirts tended to be more well-off and Red Shirts trended towards the lower class. The tension got to the point where Thais who were fans of certain English Premier League soccer teams had to seriously consider not wearing their team’s red colors in public.

If you’re a foreign tourist, this isn’t a big deal. The locals just figure you like to wear yellow shirts. Unfortunately for me, “foreign tourist” is basically code for “White.” I look Thai. I look Thai real good.

It’s still Sunday, so I haven’t experienced Monday in Thailand. Perhaps yellow’s back in favor. Maybe my shirt will only attract attention for its brilliance. For all I know, though, I’m making a bold political statement on a Sunday afternoon. This should be fun.

Breakfast with Uncle Jesse, Auntie Lee, and their daughter and son-in-law consisted of chicken rice, chicken-filled pastry, fried egg, and bread. I even got some fried sesame bananas. I washed it all down with warm soy milk with tapioca, grass, and rice jelly. We finished off with fresh papaya, cantaloupe, and honey dew. Good stuff.

There were two things on the day’s agenda: buy a cell phone and get a massage. Uncle Jesse’s become a bit of an exercise fiend and insisted that we also “go to fitness” beforehand. He loaned me some shorts and a t-shirt so I could join him at the gym. I actually kind of liked the idea. It’d been a week since my last run. It’d be nice to exert myself.

After some discussion with the family, though, the consensus was that I should get a cell phone with Chrisy and her husband first. They could help me find the best phone, especially since I was looking for something that could work in Cambodia, Vietnam, and China. I slipped my yellow shirt and my pants over the workout clothes and headed off to look at phones.

I’ll spare you the details, but note that I found out I needed a tri-band or quad-band phone. The phone, a Nokia, ended up being $75 dollars for a phone and a sim card with about an hour of minutes. I can re-up minutes by buying code cards at 7-11. Afterwards, Chrisy and her husband left to go to a Chinese temple and I went with Auntie to “go to fitness.”

Turns out I’m an idiot. The place is called “Fitness First.” “Going to fitness” is not some artifact of Thais speaking English, it’s a reference to a proper noun. Thai people 1, Mervyn 0.

I went for a run (more effortful than I’d like to admit) and hung out while Uncle finished his routine. After working out, we headed off to get massages.

Walking the through the mall to the massage place, I reflected on the Thai obsession with feet. In Thailand, feet are considered one of the dirtiest places on the body. Pointing your foot at someone seems to be the rough equivalent of whipping out your penis and waving at them. For example, while in the Coronation Room at Wat Po yesterday, a local guide noticed some Europeans sitting with their legs straight out in front of them, feet pointed at Buddha. “That’s not very respectful,” he said, and explained that it was okay since they didn’t know, but now that they did, they’d better quit it.

That distaste for feet doesn’t stop some Thais from having a good bit of contact with them. Every Thai massage, whether foot or body, begins with a foot wash where the barehanded masseuse gets between your toes. When we got to the massage place in the mall, foot massages, not body massages, were the crowd favorite even though they cost about the same. Uncle Jesse doesn’t like people touching him too much, so he doesn’t do body massages. That doesn’t stop him from enjoying a good foot massage.

Uncle, Auntie, and I all got Thai foot massages. I’d never had one, but, from the Amazing Race, I knew that they could be quite painful. I figured after years of jujitsu pressure point torture and shiatsu massage, I could handle it.

I did, but barely. The massage place gave me a tiny lady to work me over. She started off easy and I gained a bit of bravado. Then, she got serious. She took the knuckle of her thumb and started rubbing it on my foot bones. I tried taking the pain out of my face and relaxing into the pressure. Every once in a while, though, my body would flinch ever so slightly. The lady would notice and look up at me as if to say, “Really? Really you weak little farang?” It became a game. She’d drag her knuckle over a part of my foot that I didn’t know I had and I’d try to play off my twitch by not making eye contact or staring off into space. I tried closing my eyes, but that plunged me into a world filled only with darkness and pain. At certain points, she ripped across places that in jujitsu we’d use to get our opponents to submit. Too bad there’s no tapping out here. Spanish inquisitors had to use ropes and spikes and fire to do what this little lady was doing with one digit.

I thought I was doing pretty well until I realized that both Uncle and Auntie’s masseuses were men. From the flex marks in their forearms, I could tell they weren’t holding back. It only got worse when I heard Auntie start to snore softly a few chairs away.

My masseuse had a good chuckle when she switched out my foot rest for a stool and I tried to put my feet on it. She looked to my Uncle helplessly and he told me, “That’s for you to sit for your back.” Of course.

By that point, I was so sensitive and my back so screwed up that she when she touched me my body would wince. I could feel her shaking her head as she rubbed me down.

Reflexology says that a foot massage helps your insides. It’s supposed to be good for your liver, heart, lungs, etc. I don’t know about all that, but I do know that after the massage was over, my feet and legs felt fantastic. After some rest, I’d be willing to go for Round 2.

We had lunch at a noodle shop in the mall. I got seafood noodles with the Asian staple of compressed meats. For some reason the broth was an unholy pink. Spicy, but good.

We then went to Swensons for mango ice cream sundaes. Yes, that’s the same Swensons as in San Francisco. The water glasses even had “Coit Tower” and San Francisco landmarks strewn on the side. They had the old standards, but you could also order some different stuff. I got an “Island Breeze” which consists of mango ice cream, shredded coconut, and green sticky rice. The green sticky rice put it over the top. Swensons, get your act together and release this combination in the U.S. You could make sticky rice the new boba.

On the way back to the house, Auntie asked if I wanted to join her for a face massage. I’d never had one, so I said yes. I didn’t know Thais even had a face massage. Uncle doesn’t like to be touched too much, so we dropped him off to take a nap.

When we got to the massage place, I felt a tremor in the force. The staff and nearly every patron was female. The only guy was an older dude in the back getting his hair dyed. Everyone else looked at me funny as I walked in. I can’t be sure because I ended up on my back, but I think I got a facial. There was a lot of massage, but some cucumber-like strips got laid over my face. She rubbed in a lot of lotions and ointments. At one point I thought the lady was shaving me, until I realized it was some tool that sent little bits of electric current into my skin. I got massaged with hot things, then cold things. I got picked at with tweezers.

All in all, I actually had a good time. It was very relaxing and, with my mp3 player plugged into my ear, I banged out a few podcasts. We’ll just keep calling it a pleasant face massage.

Auntie and I drove back to the house. The day had passed without a yellow shirt incident. I did notice, however, that none of the hordes of people at the mall were wearing yellow or red. I was definitely special.

We had fresh green mango with chili sauce for a snack, followed immediately by a dinner of string beans with mango hot sauce, brown rice, fried sweet and sour fish, and steamed lemon grass and onion fish. I felt like I was going to explode. It was like the mini-food tours my law school friends and I would have in Oakland.

Auntie overheard me say that I was going to work this week to get visas for China and Vietnam. She kindly hooked me up with a friend of hers who runs a travel agency. Auntie acted as translator. Her friend is helping me out with visas to China and Vietnam. A courier is going to pick up my passport and other essentials tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. at the hostel. First visa (China) will take four days. I’ll get the Vietnam visa when I return to Bangkok from the south. Things are starting to come together for the post-Thailand part of this trip.

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: To prepare for a Thai foot massage, walk over shards of glass scattered over hot coals, then have your feet run over by an Asian elephant carrying a Volkswagen bus.

Not So Stupid Tip: Use a travel agency or other service provider if Vietnam or China require citizens of your country to get a visa prior to traveling there. I was going to do this on my own if Auntie hadn’t helped out. Note that you can’t apply for a Vietnam visa online unless you’re flying into Vietnam. If you enter Vietnam over land, you’ll need to apply beforehand. I’m told that, in Bangkok, the Vietnam visa typically takes 5 days and the China visa takes about 4. Rush service is available if necessary. This roughly matches turnaround in the U.S., though here in Bangkok it’s considerably cheaper.

Dateline: Bangkok, Thailand – Saturday, March 6, 2010

I woke up at 5 a.m., a full hour later than the day before. A small, but important victory. Couldn’t get back to sleep so I stayed up and wrote and e-mailed.

At breakfast, there seemed to be lots of French and Americans compared to when I was here in 2006, when everyone seemed to be Israeli or Italian. Perhaps it’s the time of year. Perhaps it’s a Saturday.

I was still a little sore after the previous day’s massage. When I learned shiatsu massage, I was taught that the day after getting a massage you often feel more sore than before you got the massage. That’s because your body has felt what it’s like to be relaxed; when your body returns to its “normal” state the next day, you feel it more. Makes sense. It could also be, though, that my body’s not used to getting the crap kicked out of it by a 5 foot, 100 pound, Thai lady.

After breakfast, I called my Uncle Jesse and arranged to meet him at 5 p.m. at the hostel. That gave me 7 hours to kill. I decided to do what every tourist does in their first few days in Bangkok. See a wat (a temple) and get a Thai massage.

I hopped a BTS to Saphan Taksin, the bridge I’d been at the day before, and headed to the pier to explore my options. I figured I’d take a boat up to Th Thien pier and walk to Wat Po, one of four tourist destinations in that area.

Then I remembered it was Saturday and I’d decided to do what every tourist does in Bangkok.

As I walked down the BTS steps to the pier, I kicked myself for joining the herd. I like slipping around anonymously. When you’re moving with a group of tourists, you don’t blend, even if you look like a local. For example, in San Francisco, a Japanese person walking down the street with a backpack and a visor is no big deal. But you gather 20 of them and have them move down the sidewalk together and locals can’t help but notice. Other people dressed even remotely like them and moving in the same direction also get lumped into the tourist group even if they don’t belong. And that’s all before you add the lady screaming into a mega phone and waving a colored flag.

I was going to be one of the sheep; a target for touts and heavy handed selling. I cringed.

By the time I got to the pier, though, I’d already started to focus on the upside. Since I try to blend in, I often miss out on taking pictures of stuff. In every culture, a camera around the neck screams “I am not from around here! Please rob me!” Since I would be grazing with the herd instead of alone, my chances of being a target would go down. Predators tend to prey upon the weakest of the herd and since I look like a local, I like to think I look less weak. Humor me.

Today, I’d embrace the tourist in me and go crazy with the camera.

At the pier, signs in English said that a 1-day pass on a tourist express boat would cost me 150 bht (~$4.75). After making it clear to the lady behind the counter that I didn’t speak Thai, I asked whether a 1-day pass was my only option. She looked at me like I’d smeared poop all over the word “option” and said, “ONE-DAY PASS. ONE-DAY PASS.”

A bit flustered and annoyed, I paid for my ONE-DAY PASS and sat down with the rest of the livestock to wait for our boat.

Then I remembered the last time I was here after taking the bar. I’d noticed that locals either took different boats or paid for one-way tickets once onboard. I only wanted to take two trips, Saphon Taksin to Th Thien and back. I didn’t need to get on and off at every stop. I didn’t need a tourist ONE-DAY PASS.

I was bitter at myself for not taking the time to think before I bought. Now I was stuck with an overpriced ticket.

Or was I?

After much internal debate (“It’s only $5, suck it up. But dammit, I’m paying 5x what I should be and five bucks is 10% of my estimated daily budget. Wah, just live with it and learn a life lesson: you’re an idiot. You’re going to look like a jackass if you try to force this ticket on someone. You’ll have to cold sell strangers.”), I found myself standing in front of the ticket booth gripping the inside of my pants pockets.

My first attempt to hock the ticket was about as ham-fisted as it gets. I approached what looked to be a German couple in their 20’s and said, “Are you guys planning to buy a ONE DAY PASS?”

“We were thinking that. . .” the girl said.

“Because, if you are, I have one I can’t use because I have to meet my friend and won’t be able to use it I just bought it and I’m willing to sell it to you for less. You can check with the people at the counter to make sure it’s real if you want,” I said, wondering where the “meet my friend” thing came from.

They took a step back and said, “Maybe.”

“If you do, you should buy it from me,” I said as they walked away.

Yikes. I must have freaked them out because I look like a local but spoke fluent English. And I’d bumbled my way through that like the first time a teenager tries to chat up a pretty girl; I’d put way too much on the table in the first few moments and I reeked of desperation. Unfortunately, this particular realization didn’t come until after my second attempt.

I spotted an Asian guy walking alone with a Lonely Planet guide book in one hand. He might as well have been carrying a megaphone-wielding, flag-waving lady under his arm. I pounced.

He too sort of backed away. His accent-less American English wasn’t that surprising. He seemed a bit more receptive though and I pressed on. He suddenly seemed to get exasperated and said, “Fine, fine!”

He only had a 500 bht note and I didn’t have the correct change. Then he pulled out a 100 bht note and a fist full of coins. I told him I’d take 120 bht, but he forced all the coins on me.

“Dude, I think this is more than 150.” I said, staring at all the silver in my hand. “I just wanted 120.”

“Just take it,” he said, tossing his hands at me and grabbing my ticket.

“Uh, I’m not trying to rip you off. You’re doing me a favor by buying a ticket I can’t use,” I said to his back as he walked away.

Weird. I came off the salesman high and walked off the pier to find the local boat. Did he think I was a tout with perfect “dude” English? Did he try to run game on me and get embarrassed, I mean how could he have not known he had the 100 bht in his pocket? Did I just make money on a stupid mistake?

As for the last question, I’m pretty sure I did. Can’t know for sure though because the coins were already mixed in with the change I had in my pocket. If I am stupid, (buying a tourist ticket) then I might was well be lucky (somehow making money off my mistake).

Then my luck turned, slightly. I headed off towards Wat Po, searching for an opening to a local pier through the buildings. I found the River City pier, but realized it was for tourists. I pulled out the guide, managed to locate the next pier a block over and down, then walked right past it somehow. I walked through the jewelry district. I stumbled across the massage place Becca had recommended the day before. I wandered through old Chinatown through narrow streets and past shop after shop of people fixing piles of car transmissions and transmissions only. I briefly considered flagging down a cab but the fact that it would probably cost me 60 baht and eat into my clever “no tourist ticket” gambit stopped me. I ended up on an inadvertent, prideful walking tour of Bangkok. Not bad, actually.

An hour and a half later and 1/3 of the way to Wat Po, I finally found a pier and ran smack into the German couple. Awkward, since I was alone and getting on a boat. No words were exchanged and they refused to make eye contact. Where the hell did the “meet my friend” thing come from anyway?

The boats were as I suspected, though. I walked up to a lady at a ticket counter, followed the lead of the Thai guy in front of me and handed her a green 20 bht note and got 7 back in change. Cost of ticket: $0.30. Victory, bitches.

By the time I disembarked, I was parched and starving. I knew, however, that, somewhere on the street in front of Wat Po, someone would be selling one of my local favorites: fried, sesame-battered banana. I nibbled on that and pounded water. I chose to embrace my inner tourist and, sitting on a little brick retaining wall with two schoolgirls and their mother looking over my shoulder, took a picture of street food. The sweet, crunchy, warm banana (20 bht) served as my lunch.

I walked in to Wat Po. I’d heard that foreigners had to buy tickets and Thai people did not. I watched carefully and decided I’d give it a try. I marched, head up, past the guy at the gate and he didn’t give me a second glance. I made a sizable donation to the 150 foot long, 46 foot tall Reclining Buddha to atone for my sin. That’s pretty much how Wat Po went. I wandered around trying to blend with the Thai tourists. I stood in their shorter lines. I put my shoes in their special shoe racks.

I was enamored with these statues of Chinese looking swordsmen and took a few too many pictures of those. Probably get sick of these by the time I hit China but, for now, they fascinate me. I meditated at the Coronation Room in front of a Buddha seated high above what would be the congregation. I came across a Thai massage school in the back where I’d had a few massages the last time I was at Wat Po.

Afterwards, I headed back to the pier. I couldn’t get on the local boat because it was full and decided to splurge on a one-way on the tourist boat (25 bht). I got off at Oriental Pier and headed off to the massage place I’d missed the day before. As Becca promised, it was much better than the place from yesterday. This time, I didn’t bow back, I rolled over mostly when I needed to, I stuck my arms out like I should. I gestured to the masseuse that I needed work on my shoulders and back. She obliged by forcing my arms over my head and trying to twist me into different kinds of Boy Scout knots. She kept asking me things and I’d just laugh or nod. She’d chuckle to herself and then jab me here or pull me there. I loved it.

One hour and 230 bht ($7.25) later my neck felt like it was finally coming loose. A few more days of this and my body will be where it should be.

I headed back to Suk 11 and waited for my Uncle Jesse. We went to dinner with his family. A lovely time at a nice European-style restaurant. His daughter and her husband joined us for dinner. There was even an awesome Thai jazz guitar trio. The guy had no accent when he sang. Of course, when I pulled out the camera to video him singing, they transitioned to all instrumental.

Ended up crashing at Uncle Jesse’s. He and his wife were so kind and generous. His daughter offered to help me buy a cell phone the next day.

By the way, Uncle Jesse sells chickens for a large Thai chicken company. I don’t want to get our hopes up, but he wants to take me to a chicken factory a few hours outside of town. His daughter was horrified; I was probably a little too excited. I’ve never been to a chicken factory, much less a Thai one. I’m not even sure how I’d ever have occasion to visit one. May not happen, but I like the idea.

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: If you try to sell another tourist your own ticket, don’t hyperventilate like an overanxious teenager on prom night. Be cool, honey bunny. Be cool.

Not So Stupid Tip: Don’t buy a ONE DAY PASS tourist ticket. Just pay one way fares and walk a bit. No need to wander like I did. Either wait for a local boat or hop on the tourist boat and pay 25 bht each way to Th Thien. From there, Wat Po is across the street and most of the Grand Palace and Wat Phra Kaew are next door (walk left till you find an opening in the white palace wall). Wat Arun is across the river and costs a few baht to get to. You’ll spend less on travel and see more since you’ll be walking. You won’t have time to get on and off the boat much anyway since I think it should take all day to go through the palace and the wats.

Then, take the money you saved and get a massage at Suanploo Thai Massage on the way back. It’ll help you recover from the day’s walk. Just get off the boat at Oriental instead of Saphan Taksin and walk straight till you hit Th Charoenkrung. Make a right and walk a few blocks down past Assumption Cathedral. Just as the road curves to the right, cross the street and look for the brown and white sign. Get the 2 hour one if you have time or just get the foot massage if that’s what ails you. I plan on going back and getting a 2 hour version. It’s a near perfect tourist itinerary in my opinion.

It’s the Little Things: For some reason, every Thai bathroom I’ve been to has the light switch outside the bathroom instead of inside. This includes the bathrooms in the hallway at Suk 11. That means you could be inside, door locked, quietly contemplating your humanity, and someone could plunge you into darkness. Not that I’d ever do that to you or anything.

The view from a balcony at Becca and Franck's apartment.

Dateline: Bangkok, Thailand, Friday, March 5, 2010

This morning I woke up at 4 a.m. and couldn’t go back to sleep. I stayed up for an hour writing and reading. I crashed again at 6 a.m. and got up for good at 9. I forgot that the second day of jetlag is worse than the first. Day 1 you’re wired that you’ve actually arrived. Day 2 you have to get to the business of living.

I headed downstairs for Suk 11 Hostel’s free breakfast, a buffet of toast, jams, tropical fruits, yogurt concoctions, coffee, and tea. The common area tables were packed with travelers from around the world. A surprising number were senior citizens or had kids in tow. Guess they couldn’t resist a good deal either. About $20 per night gets me two single beds, a private bath, a/c, and (surprise!) a hot shower. There aren’t much better deals in Bangkok.

I wandered until I found a table with an open chair. I made eye contact with one of the guys at the table and pointed at the empty chair, the international sign for “Excuse me, is this seat taken? If not, may I sit down?” I got the nod and plopped down to eat.

I chatted with Stephanie and Phooey (that’s what it sounded like to me), who turned out to be Malay adventure racers. They were headed up to the River Kwai for a 4 to 8 hour race. The time variance, they explained, depends on how good you are at the race. Apparently there is kayaking, running, swimming, puzzle solving, and other random stuff. Stephanie said that at one race she and her partner had to climb up one side of a navy ship, then jump off the other into the ocean. Stephanie and Phooey are much cooler than I am.

After breakfast, the pair headed off to catch a bus to their final destination. I headed off to see my tailor, whose shop is right around the corner from Suk 11.

Victor and his father Jesse run Dress for Success, a shopping destination for secret service, diplomats, and former lawyer backpackers who enjoy the fit of a good suit or shirt. I got there and found two Canadian Indians. Not the kind of Indians who didn’t name their babies; the kind that make 4 hour romantic-horror-comedy musicals. They turned out to be brothers from Toronto, one an i-banker and the other a doctor. I think they made their parents proud.

They gave me advice about traveling Cambodia. I told them about my decision to travel between jobs. The i-banker said he’d “changed jobs” three times in the past two years. He said he wished he had the “discipline” to take some time off and travel, but that he’d dove right back into working every time. I wanted to tell him that it’s easier than it looks, but thought better of it.

Victor eventually opened up the shop. He measured the brothers, then looked up my info in his files. He remembered that I had come in with a group of lawyers. Remarkable, since it’s been 4 years. I tagged a couple of bolts of cloth that I liked and shuffled over to Victor to be measured.

Victor assured me that it wasn’t as bad as I feared. My measurements (particularly my waist) haven’t changed much. What I didn’t tell Victor is that what’s under the inches has transformed (what used to be firm now jiggles). No matter. I’ll take the victory that I can get.

Victor said I could pick up the shirts on Tuesday. With that I raced off to Becca’s for lunch.

Becca lives across the Mae Nam Chao Phraya, the main river that runs through Bangkok. I took the BTS to Saphan Taksin Station and waited at the nearby pier for her condo’s complimentary boat service.

I marched confidently past security and took the elevator to her floor. Becca and her mom welcomed me in, showed me around, and introduced me to the newest member of the family, her baby boy Ananda. Franck, her husband, is French which means the baby will hold passports from France, Thailand, and the U.S. and be fluent in three languages. Franck and Becca’s plan to raise this kid seems much more effective than any government education reform plan.

The kid has the most awesome view from his crib. Becca said that the room and the view could have been mine if I’d gotten to Bangkok before Ananda was born. Selfish brat ruined everything. He is cute, though, what with his blue-gray eyes.

Babies don't have "awesome views." They have "opportunities to be claimed by gravity."

The last time I was in Thailand, Becca’s mom cooked me the best meal of my stay. She’d decided to cook another one for me today. It was fantastic. Spicy seafood and noodle salad. Fish-flavored tofu with Chinese mushrooms. A vegetable soup. All accompanied by fried pork from a street vendor. I sipped a French favorite of ice water laced with anise liquer. Magnifico (I don’t know any French.) I ate to the point of dyspnea and then I ate some more. Then I had dessert. A whole mango with sticky rice.

I kno rite? Where's all the bacon?

By late afternoon, I was fighting off an incredible urge to sleep so I decided to get a massage before dinner. Becca pointed me to a place round the corner. If I was sleepy, why would I get a massage? For me, a massage is relaxing, but not sleep inducing. If it’s done the way I like it, the massage kneads the tension out of me. That means it has to hurt just a bit. The hurt is where the healing’s at and Thais know how to put the hurt into their massage. Pain tends to keep me awake, so a massage posed no danger to overcoming jet lag.

My favorite part was where the lady repeatedly jabbed my calf and I got to practice not crying. My other favorite part was at the end of the hour, where she charged me $3. Good times.

I got back just in time for dinner. Tom yum noodles from a local shop.

Franck got off work a little early, so he was able to join Becca, Becca’s mom, and me for dinner. I think I’m the first of Becca’s friends from law school that he’s met. He spent much of the time teasing Becca until she threatened him with bodily injury. It’s like he was there with us at law school

Franck travels a lot for work, so he gave me some good advice on China. My favorite: When I mentioned that I planned on going to Beijing first so I could ease myself into Chinese culture by starting off in a place that had regular contact with the West, he said, “No cab driver in China speaks English, even those in Beijing. There are so many dialects in China that even if you spoke Mandarin, you wouldn’t always understand or be understood. Just travel where you want to travel and get used to being overwhelmed.”

Night skyline. Same view as lead photo.

We finished dinner with some French pastries that Franck had picked up on the way home from work. Afterwards, Franck dropped me off at the nearest BTS station since the complimentary boat service had shut down for the night.

I hopped on a train and headed home. I walked past the foreigners partying at the clubs and bars around my hostel and headed upstairs to my room to crash. The jet lag part of the second day got worse, but the food and the company managed to get much better. (Becca will now threaten me with bodily injury.)

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: A tripod is like hand sanitizer; it is more useful in your day bag than it is in your hotel room, especially if you want to take pictures at night.

Not So Stupid Travel Tip: When you sit down to get your Thai massage and the masseuse kneels, puts her hands together and bows, do not return the gesture. Just lie down on your back. Otherwise, the masseuse may look at you funny and you may imagine that everything she says to the masseuse next to her is about how strange it is that you look Thai but act all weird and stuff.

Turns out she’s not greeting you or thanking you (the typical reason Thais fold their hands and bow, which usually requires you to fold your hands and bow in response). The masseuse is just paying silent homage to her teachers, like many martial artists do before they pound their opponents into submission.

Dateline:  Thursday, March 4, 2010

The first day after crossing the international date line is like becoming a shark.  That’s because the goal is to keep moving lest you die, or in the case of the traveler, fall asleep.  Only way to quickly get over jet lag is to ignore your body’s cry for sleep and force it into the local routine.

I checked out of my hotel and lugged my mini-pasalubong to another place down the road that was half the price.  I was late to meet my friend Becca, so I hopped in cab instead of taking the BTS (the Bangkok skytrain).

The hotel, Suk 11, was late giving me my room, so I was thirty minutes late to our meeting.  That might not usually be a big deal (when have I ever been on time?), but Becca had had a baby a couple weeks back and she had a 1 p.m. appointment with her obstetrician.  By the time we met up, it was 12:45.  Instead of walking to the hospital, we flagged down a cab.

At the hospital, I was reminded that it’s the little differences that are the most surprising.  The hospital is one of the premier healthcare centers in Bangkok.  It is a popular destination for medical tourists.  No surprise there.  I’d heard people come to Thailand for medical procedures because the healthcare is both cheap and world class.  Becca told me that a friend of hers came here for an MRI.  In the U.S., it would have cost him $10,000 out-of-pocket.  Here, it was $350.  That can’t all be because of a favorable exchange rate and cheap labor.

It’s what I didn’t notice at first, that tripped me out later.  We walked into a pristine outpatient center, as professional as any in the world.  Becca checked in with the receptionists.  This was all in Thai so I zoned out and looked at the little tiny price list sitting on the counter.  In my jet lagged haze, I calculated (probably incorrectly) that a normal delivery would cost about $1,000 and a C-Section about $2,000. That seemed cheap to me, since I know that a routine bed at a U.S. hospital can run that much for one night.  The price list was itemized, showing what came with each procedure.  It included other types of deliveries, to which I paid no mind.

But did you catch it?  If you did, you’re a better super detective than I am.  There was a price list sitting on the counter.  It wasn’t hidden behind the counter or in a book.  It didn’t show up after the procedure.   It wasn’t something discussed verbally.  It was sitting on the counter, itemized and proudly displayed.  Now, I haven’t had a baby (that I bothered to stick around for), so this may be par for the course in the U.S.  I have a feeling that the actual cost of a delivery isn’t something most parents see up front.  They may see their out-of-pocket, but I’d bet their insurance company has a special negotiated rate with each facility.  I’d also be willing to bet a small amount of money that the cost isn’t sitting on the counter at the receptionist’s desk.  Regardless, hours later, when I realized the how weird the price list was, I wished I’d taken a picture of it.  That happened a lot today.

After Becca finished with her doctor, we took a taxi to a river pier so she could take a water shuttle to her condo and her husband and child.  She pointed me to a part of town where I could grab a mid-afternoon lunch and suggested a place where I could get a massage-and-nothing-else.  The shuttle dropped me off and I spent the next half hour trying to find the massage place.  No luck.  I grabbed lunch at a place filled with locals.  Nothing on the menu on the wall was in English.  Through monkey grunts and pointing, I ordered. . . something.  I ended up with a bowl of egg noodles and assorted compressed Asian meats.  It was good.  If I hadn’t been trying to keep a low profile, I’d have taken a picture of the meal.  Now, I wish I had.

I went back to Suk 11 for some down time.  I wrote for a bit and internetted.  By the time I was through, it was about 7pm.  Feeling lazy, I ate at the restaurant next to the hostel.  I ordered chicken wrapped in pandaan leaves as an app, chicken rice, and coconut juice.

As I sat on the matted, elevated floor, I noticed that there seem to be a lot more Germans and Koreans this time around.  Last time I was here, in September, it seemed like everyone was Israeli or Italian.  Perhaps it’s the time of year.

When the food arrived I had a mini-dilemma:  should I eat the pandaan leaf or peel it off?  I’d assumed I would peel it off when I ordered it off the menu but, now that it was in front of me, peeling it seemed like a giant pain.  The pieces were small and bite-sized and really intricately wrapped.  Almost like they didn’t want you to unwrap them.  I bit at the leaf and decided to go with my gut.  I peeled it off.  The chicken was moist, yet crisp, with a bit of sweetness from the leaf.  Good stuff.

Pity the poor soul who must peel these.

The rice wasn’t noteworthy.  The coconut juice was solid and served just the way I like it, straight out the shell.  I spent the last minutes of my meal digging at my dessert of fresh coconut meat.

I remembered to take a picture of that.

It was late so I headed back up to the room, the day’s mission accomplished.  As I drifted off to sleep, I vowed that tomorrow I’d aim higher than “staying awake.”  One step at a time, though.  And with that I passed out.

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Your hand sanitizer is useless in your hotel room; remember to take it with you when you head out for the day.

Not-so-stupid Travel Tip: The ticket dispenser machines at Bangkok’s BTS stations only take coins.  If all you’ve got is cash, twirl around and look for the glass booths where attendants will give you change in coins.  You don’t need to say anything, just hand them the cash.

Dateline:  Tuesday, March 2 thru early morning March 4, 2010

After months of starts and stops, I finally left LAX at 2pm bound for Taipei.  After a couple hour layover, I made my way to Bangkok.  Arrival time:  1 a.m. Thursday morning local time.  A travel day is tough, especially when that day is two days long.

As with every trip I’ve ever taken, I was up all night before departure doing all the little things a more anal person would have done days before.  Buying travel insurance.  Setting up this project.  Finding stored gear.  Writing e-mails.  Copying documents.

Bottom line is that, at the airport and in flight, I was delirious out of my gourd.  It’s all a haze of fade-ins and fade-outs and half memories.  In that spirit, here are some of the more interesting ones:

• I am a super detective.  Allow me to explain.  At the gate next to mine, an El Al flight was leaving for Tel Aviv.  As I watched the plane prepare for departure, I noticed that one of the airport workers watching the plane was surprisingly young and attractive.  This does not make me a super detective; this just confirms that I am a man.

This photo is better if you are a super detective. Super detectives can see at least three beautiful women here.

As I stood there, fascinated by the intricacies of airport procedure, a few more people gathered around her to chat.  These men and women were also surprisingly young, attractive, and fit.  Then I noticed the clothes.  The first girl wore Gucci-like sunglasses.  One guy was wearing designer jeans.  Overall, their clothes were more fitted and stylish than the normal, baggy, coverall stuff airport workers wear.  That’s when it hit me:  they’re extra security provided by the Israeli government and they’re probably young Israelis doing their requisite military stint.  This was no ordinary observation.  This was the observation of refined investigator.  I am a super detective.

• When you’re old, you don’t give a damn.  This Chinese grandpa across from me at the airport shamelessly lifted his leg off of his seat and repeatedly unleashed 5 second nuclear farts — while making eye contact with me.  He didn’t even flinch when the seats around him cleared.  I sat in wonder at the power of the aged…

The box seems small until you learn that it is filled only with bacon.

• If you’ve ever been at the airport as a Philippine Airlines flight is leaving, you’ll have noticed that nearly every Filipino in that PAL check-in line is dragging two, large, rope-wrapped boxes behind them instead of luggage.  That’s because of a Filipino custom called pasalubong which basically means you have to buy every one of your relatives a gift when you travel.  Since about 95% of Filipinos are devout Catholics, that adds up to a lot of relatives.  You can’t buy every relative a gift without maxing out the baggage weight limit (50 pounds permitted, plus an unspoken extra five pounds).  That max also doesn’t fit well in any normal-sized luggage.  Thus, the two boxes.  The rope is wrapped around to make the boxes easier to drag.

On this trip, I’m bringing some of my friends and my dad’s friends some stuff from the U.S.  I didn’t want to bring an extra bag just to abandon it.  The stuff wouldn’t find in my backpack.  So, my dad prepped a little box, and wrapped it in string.  And that’s when I found myself at the airport, with a bite-sized pasalubong box doing my own mini-reenactment of a time-honored tradition.  Guess your heritage goes with you, no matter where you go.

• As I entered the Taipei terminal to catch the second half of my flight, I came across a Taiwanese airport security checkpoint.  I hesitated and almost pulled my laptop out of my bag and nearly took off my shoes.  I was just tired enough that I said, “F*** it.   I’ll play the stupid American and make them make me.”  I put my bag on the x-ray machine and marched through the metal detector.  The guard immediately stopped me.  He motioned for me to remove my baseball cap.  “Crap,” I thought to myself.  “Guess I can’t get away with everything.”  As I pulled it off and started to walk back through the metal detector to put the hat through the x-ray machine, the guard waved me through.  Apparently, he just wanted to make sure I had a head.

Taiwan reminded me what it’s like to feel human at the airport and just how dehumanizing U.S. airport security is.  There, you have to do an elaborate dance of shuffling in and out of your shoes, pulling laptops and clear plastic bags out of your bag, shrugging in and out of sweaters and coats. You’re scrutinized and poked and prodded along like cattle for sale at the county fair.  Only thing missing is if the TSA forced you to open your mouth and so it could look at your teeth. Would you be surprised if it soon came to that?  (Admit it; you’re a little disturbed that you didn’t flinch when you said, “No.”)

• Did you know booze is free in business class?  I do because I got upgraded from economy to business class for the Taipei to Bangkok leg.  The airline put someone else in my seat and the only spot left was upstairs with the bourgeoisie.  Movin’ on up!  I took this as a good omen.

• Between LA and Taipei I met Winai, a Thai-American recovering from double foot surgery.  He was flying to Thailand to pay a surprise visit to his mother.  His high school age daughter would join him in a week.  He was very friendly and I suggested we hang out while I was in Bangkok.  Even though he’s on crutches, he offered to take me around town on his motorscooter.  He’s Muslim and when I mentioned I’d never been in a mosque, he offered to take me.  With a little luck, I’ll meet up with Winai in the next week.  We shared a cab out of the airport to save a little cash.  When I dropped him off at his place, he literally yelled up to his mom from outside the family house.  When she came down to let him in, she looked way sleepy and not at all surprised.

• The cab driver couldn’t find my hotel and I couldn’t learn fluent Thai on the cab ride to help him out.  I didn’t get in until 3:30 a.m.  I quickly hand washed some clothes, set them out to dry, then crawled into bed without even taking the obligatory “after-flight” shower.

A new friend and good omens all around.  Tomorrow looks to be a good day.

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Make sure your airline puts someone in your seat so you can get upgraded to business class.

Not As Stupid Travel Tip: Thai immigration and customs is very easy.  I made the mistake of reading the Thai embassy website which informs you that if you want a tourist visa you’ll have to jump through a couple of hoops.  Something like mailing in two passport pictures, a bank statement, and/or a copy of a booked round trip ticket.  I stressed out a bit wondering if Thai immigration was going to give me a hard time for not having a round trip ticket out of the country (currently, I’m scheduled to return to the U.S. from Taipei in July).  I was not stressed enough, however, to actually send the docs in to the Thai embassy.  I figured I’d just charm my way in at the airport border.  Turns out I’m an idiot.  Thai immigration didn’t ask about my return trip.  Didn’t look for my bank statement.  Didn’t ask for two passport pictures.  Hell, the customs lady didn’t even bother to make eye contact with me.  Grab, flip, type, stamp, fold, staple, flip, hand me my passport with visa.  So, don’t stress about Thai immigration unless you want to be stupid.

Dateline:  Tuesday, March 2, 2010

In elementary school, I heard that a certain Indian tribe didn’t name its babies right away after they were born.  The tribe would use a temporary name until the child was six.  Then, the tribe would give them the name that they’d use for the rest of their lives.

As a kid, I always liked the idea that the tribe took the time to learn something about the kid, so that it could choose a name that actually fit. The tribe didn’t try to fit a ”Man Who Hungers” into a “Light Foot” or a “Bears His Teeth” into a “Little Rabbit.”   Maybe I liked it so much because I thought I’d have been called something even cooler than “Mervyn.”  Something like “Kills with His Eyes” or “Mighty Skinny.”

I thought of this last night while I was trying to come up with names for this project.  I’d been back and forth on it for a while and couldn’t come up with anything I liked.  I knew I’d be traveling a lot over the next few months and that I wanted to write about it.  Because I like to eat, it’ll have food talk.  Because it’s me it’ll be disorganized, last minute, and random.  I have an idea of what it could be, but I don’t actually know what it is.  It’s an Indian baby situation.

So, I’ve decided to follow the tribe and let this thing do what it do.  Then, when it’s developed and got some character to it, I’ll give it a name that fits.  For now, though, the Still No Name Blog will have to do.

Enjoy.