Looking Back on a Bus

This is the fifth morning in my Bangkok home and I use the word Bangkok in its loosest sense, which is not a bad thing. I wanted to stay in a spot with no memories attached, which proves difficult since I taught all over this city for years. My little condo is within spitting distance of a bank HQ where I spent a lot of my time. Unfortunately my memories don't include what bus I took to get there from Bangkok. I do remember that it carried me far enough away from the river that I then had to take a motorcycle taxi to get me back to Kasikorn Bank HQ. Now I take taxis to get me to and from the skytrain to the tune of 200 baht a day roundtrip and an hour each way by train and taxi to Dasa Books and other places I love. I look back on the days when the skytrain was almost empty--too expensive for many Bangkok residents and less useful than taxis for others. Now the train is often as crowded as Bangkok buses used to be, without the conductresses who bullied people into taking up as little space as possible. I miss those little dictators. I took a bus yesterday, one that I used to sit on regularly, the 117 that runs from Nonthaburi to Huay Kwang. I knew it would take me back to my old neighborhood and I steeled myself for that. I'd forgotten that it also ran through the area where I first taught in 1995. Bang Po used to be a lumber town and the girls I taught were the daughters of an affluent sawmill magnate. Pracharat Sai Neung was a street that was filled with the raw, sweet odor of freshly cut wood and the market had many stalls where men made dollhouse furniture from scraps of lumber. For years I had a tiny chest of drawers whose drawers opened and closed smoothly. One entrepreneur made Thai alphabet letters and I bought them all for tactile learning. The 7-11 was the only retail game with any claim to sophistication--it sold bottles of Johnny Walker Blue, which I couldn't afford. Now this street has at least one sushi joint, a place called Chic Burger, and a lumberyard that proclaims a Passion for Wood. I gaped, a Rip Van Winkle on an ordinary bus--no aircon, no fare. I got off at Saphan Kwaii, immersed in more memories than I could handle. But this part of the city is unchanged and that was just what I wanted to see. Food lined the sidewalk, along with fresh flowers. Fabric shops and drugstores filled the opposite border. I didn't find the Bangkok I was looking for but I found a garland of jasmine, rose, and chumpee (don't know what this is in English but it is so fragrant that I bought a small posy of it contained in a cone of banana leaf and sniffed at it all the way home.) The vibrancy of Saphan Kwaii has always invigorated me and I left it knowing I was back in the place that I love. For a minute or fifteen I was far from the Starbucks that is eating this metropolis, even the riverbanks, and the ostentatious shopping palaces that I detest and that take up more and more of Bangkok's space. Next time I'm staying there. This time I'm wrapped in emptiness, which is a state that carries no memories at all for me in this city.

Where I Hang My Hat This Month

There are over thirty stories in the building that I'm living in this month and there are two others of the same size in the Chapter One compound. One of them directly faces the two wall-to-ceilng windows that bring light into my place, which feels peculiar. Luckily I may be the only inhabitant who opens my draperies when I'm home.

The apartment door leads into a space large enough for a loveseat (Ikea Ektorp) and a big TV which sits on a built-in shelf unit, and a desk/dressing table. A glass wall with sliding doors separates this from the bedroom, which has just enough room for a double bed and two night stands. It also has a built-in closet with an ample supply of drawers. The kitchen holds a table for two that is too small for the pair of place mats that rest on it, and a long kitchen counter with a sink, drainboard, and a microwave. The bathroom is just off the kitchen and is in direct line with the glass wall, whose Roman shade remains drawn most of the time. In Thai fashion, there is a shower only with no tub. There is a shower curtain, which used to be an unusual Bangkok apartment feature.

If I sit on my bed or walk out onto the narrow shelf that poses as a balcony, I can see the river and part of the city skyline. If I turn to the opposite direction, I see buildings that are low enough to allow a full look at the sky. Sometimes a scrap of cerise sunset shows up between the gap between the two facing towers.

In none of my Bangkok years have I ever had a view of the river and I've always wanted that. This complex has built a little park on the riverbank, with benches and two outdoor swimming pools. There are trees scattered about in it and little pockets of lawn bordered by carefully manicured hedges. A ferry for the complex's private use is moored at the end of a small pier and a rusty freighter keeps this tidy little craft company.

The entrance to Chapter One, as this place is called, is a double boulevard lined with trees. Under the towers are cozy little blue houses with peaked roofs and white dormer windows. The base of the towers is also painted blue and white, with shops, restaurants of sorts, laundries, and of course beauty shops and a massage spot. The theme is Modern Dutch and three pretty little white windmills sit in the park.

It is extremely quiet although below me are areas for children to play in, and there are no stray dogs anywhere. A little blue house shelters security guards at the entrance and there is an army of cleaning ladies, mopping and polishing in true Dutch fashion. It's comfortable and charming out in the middle of nowhere, a fine place to visit but I could never live here. It 's too far removed from the clutter and chaos that makes me love Bangkok.

Getting What I Want

I just finished cleaning the sink in my bathroom-for-the-month and realized this little task is part of what I wanted in this latest trip. I wanted to live in Bangkok for a month, peacefully and quietly enjoying everyday living in this city.

Even in my last stint of living here, I didn't have that and it certainly wasn't a hallmark of my last trips, or in my final years of living here. I was often scrambling for a way out of a place that had become immersed in turmoil and occasional violence. This year, after the bombing in late August, all is calm, all is bright.

I hate myself for enjoying a peace that has been imposed against the will of the majority but I do, all the more because I know it's temporary. Flashpoints in Thailand come without warning--right now the beach paradise of Phuket is in the aftermath of a night of riots that blocked the roads to the airport and set at least one street aflame. It could happen here in the next minute; I know that and I would cheer that on. But I'm human and I like the comfort of a city at peace. I'm not taking one second of this tranquility, artificial as it may be, for granted.

I won't come back to Thailand until this situation has changed, but in the meantime I am going to walk and observe and taste and engrave every area that I'm lucky enough to inhabit for a while into my memory. I want it all--or as much as I can encompass in a month, half of which is almost over. I want to relive a tiny bit of the life I loved here in the last century, to remember and cherish. I want the brief conversations that I'm capable of having with the convenience store clerk I see every day, the river views that I can see from my bed, the street meals that I blunder into, yes even the goddamned mosquito that woke me up with a bite on my eyelid. I want it all, all the dailiness, none of the sightseeing. And that's precisely what Bangkok is giving me this October.

La Vida Loca Encore

It is easy for me to forget that this city isn't defined by the skytrain or subway. The alarming thing is finding that nothing has really changed for people whose lives are off the map when it comes to mass transit of the 21st-century kind; huge amounts of this sprawling city aren't served by rapid transportation. Many people in Bangkok still crowd onto small, dirty buses that lurch at glacial paces down traffic-clogged streets.

The one I took yesterday when I left the Indian district at 2 o'clock had six little fans whirring away above the heads of passengers. As the bus filled up, the fans were less delightful and by 3:30, when we reached Victory Monument, I tottered off to the skytrain, feeling tattered.

The skytrain took me across the river and after a brief walk, I was back at a bus stop with several other women. We waited and waited and finally along came another tiny, dirty, basic bus. We crowded onto it and every time it stopped more people crammed inside.

A man gave me his seat and I gratefully took it. Even so, the trip had the quality of a fever dream and when at last I saw familiar landmarks, I got off the bus. A long, sweaty mile later, I was home, drinking an entire large bottle of very cold water at 6:00 in the evening.

I'll do this again, but not today. This morning I woke up after a fitful night's sleep, knowing in every muscle that I'm 66, not 46. Today I'll stick to the skytrain, go to Dasa, buy some books, and come back home to read. But tomorrow I'll be ready to look at the real world from an open bus window, reminding myself that most of Bangkok's population lives back in the 20th century, far from luxurious shopping malls and clean, cool transportation.

Vida Loca Ratburana Style

Yesterday wasn't the best choice for me to begin living the local life in Ratburana. It began well enough with a successful bus ride that took me within walking distance of the skytrain, but that walk was interrupted by a brief and violent downpour. When the rain stopped, I found my way to the train, tracked down a copy of the ever-more-elusive Bangkok Post, bought a lovely guidebook that focuses on flowers by the floral artist of international fame, Sakul Interkul, had a mammoth lunch of catfish lahb, cucumber somtam, grilled pork neck, and sticky rice, and then waddled my way back to the skytrain. By the time I reached Ratburana, the rain was bucketing down with no intentions of stopping.

Still I was determined to break out of my taxi bubble and swam to a bus stop. I sloshed on to the first one that stopped, ignorant of the harsh truth that it wouldn't stop again until it was over the river and back on Bangkok soil.

It stopped within walking distance of a skytrain station but the streets that took me there were flooded and my shoes may never forgive me. I was well-soaked when I got back to my starting point, the rain was inexorable and heavy, and yes I took a taxi to get home. Unfortunately the driver was the friendly, chatty sort. (Memo to self: Speak only English in taxis and when necessary invent a mythical husband)

Today was a dryer one and I took the correct bus home. One small step...however this part of the city isn't the most fascinating when it comes to street life. Thank goodness for buses and skytrains that take me to other neighborhoods and for the deep quiet that envelops me when I return to Ratburana.

Bangkok Riverine

This is one of the few times that I've awakened in a hotel on my first morning in Bangkok and this may be one of my best first mornings in this city. The Ibis Riverside really is right on the river--it's like being in an immobile commuter boat. I could easily spend the entire day sitting here and watching water traffic float past my window--my favorite sight so far is a tugboat painted in a variety of carnivalesque colors, pulling three big barges down the Chao Phraya.

And the Ibis, apart from its riverside location, is one of my favorite hotels ever. It is unassuming, comfortable, clean, and friendly--what more could I want? The electric sockets in my room need no adaptor, the buffet breakfast has the papaya and rambutan I've been craving (plus BIG coffee cups), and you can get food when you check in past midnight.  Nice, very nice indeed.

I'm 90 minutes away from my check-out time and at least three hours away from the time when I can take possession of the apartment that will be my home for the next thirty days. I'll watch the river from this window until just before noon and then do the same thing over a glass of fruit juice on the hotel terrace. It's almost as though this is a whole new city instead of one that I've lived in and visited for twenty years--funny what a change of perspective and neighborhood can do.

This morning's piercing sunlight that woke me early has faded behind gathering clouds, big puffy ones that may hold thunder as well as rain. But the river still sparkles and I am very happy.

Luxury’s Lap Is Not My Seat of Choice

If  I had come straight from Monkey Mountain, as I had planned, my stay in the Royal Park Hotel would have been quite a different experience. I would have been reduced to a gibbering, groveling, grateful woman and the bland anonymity would have been complete bliss. ("What! A bathroom that is all mine? A walk without wildlife to get to the MTR?")

But the massive monkey on the trail, immovable and inscrutable, sent me off to the best neighborhood in Hong Kong, where I had five days of therapy before I came back to Shatin. I can't and won't say that I haven't appreciated this space that is almost as large as my Seattle apartment. However travel is a learning process and this weekend taught me a lot.

Wherever I go, I try to immerse myself in my surroundings and I have given myself up to luxury for the past two days, hot baths, Cinemax movies, sitting on the window seat staring at the view of trees, river, and buildings, trying to impersonate Scarlet Johansson. When I went out beyond the mall that serves as the hotel's neighborhood streets, the contrast jolted my teeth. This comfortable capsule is isolated to the point of being alienating.

Travel for me is other people and in the past weekend, two people have spoken to me—a doorman who said good evening and the waiter who brought my room service breakfast. I think of the receptionist at the Lander Hotel who engaged me in a long conversation about skin color aesthetics and the wonderful conversation I had with Michael Tam, the owner of Cafe Sausalito, and the laundryman who knew my name after my first visit. Then I think of the Christmas Eve twenty years ago when I went to the Oriental Hotel's Bamboo Room and watched bored, affluent faces sipping their cocktails. Now I know why they were poster children for ennui. Not my bag--

Insula

I am far removed from Starbucks in this hotel, far from the Filipinas in their Sunday clusters on pieces of cardboard in public spaces, far from the monkeys and the people who are trying out sofas at Ikea. I am lightyears from the shop that sells portions of roast pig's head, complete with eye. All of these things are minutes away and in another universe.

A screen of bamboo shields the hotel's smoking area from the street. A high wall separates lounging bodies near the swimming pool from alien eyes, although I can see them from my window above. Not for long though; they aren't very interesting.

I went out this morning to buy a paper (thank you 7-Eleven, because this hotel has no newsstand), to have coffee at Starbucks as I did every morning for three weeks (this is the first time that I didn't use the free wifi), viewed the Swedish grocery store at Ikea (yes, they sell Swedish fish, in bulk), and looked for neighborhoods that were on the ground (there was a little winding lane that looked promising but also private.)

I thought about taking the train back to Tai Nan Street and spending the afternoon there, but I am in this hotel, in this town, and this is the experience I'm living today. I doubt I will ever do it again. I'm no more a denizen of a semi-posh hotel than I will ever be the Queen of the Jungle. (I say semi-posh because the minibar contains four cans--one Coke, one 7-Up, one Carlsberg, and one San Miguel. Emptying it would set me back less than twelve USD.)

If I were this kind of traveler, I would never know where I had been once I came back home from my trips. Viva low-end hotels in quirky neighborhoods.

Hermetically Sealed and Enjoying It

This surprises me. I could be anywhere in the world right now, so removed from life around me that I feel as if I've entered the Twilight Zone--and for right now, that feels good. For the past five days I've been enveloped in the vibrancy which I've craved and loved, but there was no downtime. Every time I looked out my window or went into the street, there was something new to see. I didn't realize how exhausting that is until I checked into this hotel and was instantly removed from Hong Kong. Even the green, jagged hills have dissolved behind a heavy veil of rain.

There is no sound at all. Having listened to street sounds and the voices of other hotel guests through the thin walls of the Lander for several nights, I am feeling my eardrums relax at last. I'm on a small sofa after days of sitting on my bed and I’m wearing a cotton pique bathrobe, feeling immaculate after a long bubble bath. Sipping a Bordeaux that swears it's French, I'm almost ready to see if there really is Fox Sports on the TV and if so, will I see the Royals?

I am not in Hong Kong. And by the time Monday rolls around, I will be more than ready to leave and go back to my real life. But at the moment I feel luckier than Cinderella--she had to share her good fortune with a prince, poor child. I have this all to myself and as I eye the pristine white bed with its four pillows, I feel no pangs of loneliness at all. God, it is so great to get old and live life on your own terms-- monkeys, fabric shops, and anonymous comfort-- it is all so good.

There are no stories waiting for me in the Royal Park Hotel, which is why I will be happy to leave it in two more days. But right now my story-clogged mind is happy to take a break. And perhaps another bath...

Where There is No Starbucks

Of course there is; this is Hong Kong after all where Starbucks is almost as plentiful as in Seattle, but I have yet to see one in my new neighborhood. It is full of small businesses, and men with blowtorches are not an uncommon sight. Many of the buildings are still of modest height and splotched by weather. When I look down at the street, people pushing handcarts are already at work by daybreak. I really, really like it here.

Yesterday I went back to Sai Kung after picking up a refund for my unused nights at Ascension House. Sai Kung has an alley filled with Thai restaurants, and after having sampled grilled pork and Isaan sausage (both very good with a fantastic dipping sauce), I was hungry for more. Sawaddee Restaurant had a little row of tables in the alleyway that drew me there and I ordered grilled pork neck, papaya salad Lao style, rice (sadly not sticky, but steamed) and Thai lemonade. It was all good, infinitely better than anything I've had in Hong Kong's Thai Town at Kai Tak, with real Thai flavors in every bite. It was also around 20 USD, reminding me that I was still in Hong Kong, where high rents demand high prices, but it was worth it after three weeks of subtle Cantonese meals.

Sai Kung is pretty and completely user-friendly, with a town square, a park with shade trees, sweet little streets, Western-style restaurants with English menus, and even a bookstore with books in my language and the best magazine section I've seen in this corner of the world. But today and for the following two days, I want my full measure of Kowloon grit and noise and prickly sweetness. Bring it, Sham Shui Po.