One Night In Bangkok - Redux

I was recently told by a near and dear friend of mine that my first entry lacked … well, everything that should be present in a good work of non-fiction storytelling. I believe the exact quote was, “I felt jet-lagged after reading that entry, and it made me really question whether or not I was going to be able to commit to reading this blog on a semi-regular basis.” I quickly revisited this entry and soon discovered the horror that was my first journal entry. It lacks heart, emotion, wit, and basically sets you, the reader, up for sheer disappointment. After all, the first entry is my introduction to the remainder of my journal and if it leaves you feeling jet-lagged, it should be because the story was so vivid and exciting that you understand the sheer exhaustion of the experience. Therefore I have decided to revisit this post, and align it with the canon of work that is to follow. With that, here is my updated entry, “One Night In Bangkok.”

The day has finally come; the day I begin my departure for Lampang, Thailand, to be an ESL Instructor. Per my usual habits, I am still completely unprepared for my flight. I still need to make a trip to the Post Office, the Bank, as well as stop and say good-bye to LAMBS (my grandma). The day’s activities are quickly taken care of, and I find that it is nearly 10:00AM. I am planning to be at the airport no later than 11:00AM, as my flight leaves at 13:00PM. Anyone who knows me, knows that I am never ready on time, nor am I the most punctual of people. I usually find myself running late for most appointments, and I am notorious for keeping people waiting. It’s usually only for social circumstances, but occasionally it overlaps into my professional life as well. I quickly threw my bags in the car, and my mom and I raced to the airport, only to arrive around 11:15AM. I am very accustomed to traveling domestically, especially out of ORD or MDW. With that, I have also become used to the insanity of passengers being dropped-off or picked-up amid the cars and taxis galore; Chicago Police Officers, each armed with their thick south-side accent and over-used whistles trying to direct traffic. You can imagine my pleasant surprise when I arrived at terminal number 5 at ORD, and discovered that we are one of three cars unloading at the curb. No police, no shouting, no noise – almost peaceful, really. Now this is the way traveling should always be!

Arriving at the curb, I load up my bags and hug my Mutti one last time, before turning to enter the terminal. Reminiscent of those years she used to send me away to Bible Camp for weeks at a time, I still have tears in my eyes, but this time I refused to turn around, as I know I’ll immediately bust out crying. Unsuccessful with holding in my tears, I try to regain my composure and continue to get in line for Korean Air, my in transit home for the next 23 hours.

I think it’s my brother who always tells me I over pack when I travel. Mind you, this comes from the same guy who wears the same dirty-ass jeans, nasty old man Hanes 3-to-a-pack T-shirts, for a 3-week trip to a foreign country with a temperature swing of 40 degrees Celsius. I only assume the small backpack he usually packs has a few changes of maybe clean underwear, and enough cigarettes to last him throughout his trip. I, on the other hand, pack like my future destination will not have resources like textiles, water, or other natural resources. Needless to say, packing for a year in Thailand was quite a task. I managed to pack, filter, re-pack, filter, re-pack, filter, and re-pack. After this month-long process, I successfully reduced my luggage to a total of four bags. One normal-sized school backpack that I would be carrying on the plane with me; one laptop bag that I would also be carrying on the plane with me; one duffle bag that I would hesitantly check, as it contained ALL toiletries for the next 9 months; and one backpack that my family affectionately referred to as “my child.” Now, my planning wasn’t that effective because I never once considered what it would be like to move while carrying these 4 bags. If you can imagine my 6’2” stature and I am carrying a backpack on my back that extends past my buttocks and clears my head by a solid foot. On the front is another backpack that is packed to the hilt and gives the illusion of a pregnant woman who should not be flying in her condition. Additionally, in each arm there is a bag, one duffle, and one laptop case. When fully loaded, I felt like the fat kid at Boy Scout Camp; the one they make carry the canteens, silverware, kitchen stove, propane tanks, and tents; inevitably holding up the group because he’s moving with the speed of a snail on sandpaper. This was me as I moved through the terminal to find the line for Korean Air.

Standing in line, I soon discovered that my abilities of over-packing are amateur, at best, in comparison with my fellow Asian travelers waiting in line. I saw a woman with the entire Louis Vuitton luggage line in her possession and me, secretly wondering what her toiletries bag looked like. I saw another gentleman with several boxes of unknown goods, all taped as though he had 400 roles of packing tape, each with about 6 inches of tape left on each. Then there were the families who appeared as though they were fleeing the homeland, reverse-style. And what was even better, they all went to the ticket counter together. That’s right, 10 family members at a counter together – that really expedited the line when there were only 3 ticket agents. Needless to say, the relatively short line was compounded by the large amounts of Asian families all preparing for a much-needed trip back to the Far East for upgrades in their technology and electronics.

I finally reach the front of the line, and like all air travelers, I am secretly hoping that I have accidentally been booked in the First-Class Cabin. I cross my fingers that I get the Gaysian (Gay Asian) at the ticket counter, as I’m sure I can flirt my way to at least Business-Class. As my luck would have it, I get called up by the only white, middle-aged, female at the counter. Based on physical appearances, I’d guess single and bitter too. Armed with my vital ticket information in hand, I slowly move up to the counter with my bags. She quickly informed me that I have not been assigned a seat for the flight. SCORE! I immediately turn on the charm, smiling, batting my big blues, and anything else I have in my arsenal to score a good seat from this otherwise, angry-at-the-world woman. She stepped in back and came out to inform me that I have been assigned the Emergency Exit Row, as this should afford me some more legroom on the flight. Alright – could have been worse, and I’ve never sat in the Emergency Exit Row before. It could be a good experience. We weighed my bags and I quickly learned that the scale must be off, because it claims “my child” only weighed in at 25 pounds. Far be it for me to argue, I let them take away my two check-on bags, all the while keeping a watchful eye on my duffle bag full of toiletries as it slowly drifted away on the conveyor belt.

My load lightened, I proceed through security checkpoint. At which point I discovered that International flight or not, TSA is still lacking in all levels of customer service, proficiency, and effectiveness. Nearly naked, I make it to the other side of security and continue on to find my gate. Not realizing that the international terminal at ORD is relatively small, I find my gate quickly and situated myself to wait another hour and a half, until they begin to board the flight. At this point, I decided to look for something to eat , only to discover that the only food court option is on the other side of the security checkpoint. Not willing to get naked in public again, I decided to find something on this side of the wall. Feeling like a captive resident of East Germany, I soon discovered that my only options for food included duty-free alcohol and tobacco. Defeated with my options, I find a spot by my gate and wait it out.

As our flight begins to board, I quickly discovered that all cultural norms are out the window once you are boarding an international flight. For instance, the use of lines at Korean Air is nonexistent. They begin to call different groups of people to begin boarding, and it’s like a mad rush of people hoping to get the new Tickle-Me-Elmo at Wal-Mart the day after Thanksgiving. Not accustomed to this, me and the other conservative westerners proceeded to form a line, which basically means we were going to be dead last in boarding this plane. Knowing that I have 23 hours of travel ahead of me, I was in no rush to be on this plane any sooner than need be. Let the Crasians (crazy Asians) have their way!

After waiting in line like a normal civilized person, I finally reached the attendant at the gate. I begin to board the second largest plane I’ve ever been on. For my novice travelers, most international flights are on 777’s or 757 planes with a 3x5x3 seating arrangement, and there are usually about 437 rows of seats. In short, it’s a big-ass plane! In the event of a crash, you’ll be thankful for that 437B seat – otherwise, it’s just a pain in the ass to move all the way to the end of the plane with bags in toe, knocking into people and being ass to crotch the entire way to the end of the plane. Fortunately, I was seated in an emergency exit row, so I was only ass to crotch half-way through the plane. I had the window seat – great, something to do if I get board, watch the wing! I approach my row and quickly discover that this was someone’s idea of a sick joke. For starters, the emergency exit row also accommodates the big-ass emergency exit door. When you are sitting in the window seat, the emergency exit door quickly takes up any hope you have of stretching out for the flight. Additionally, the seat itself is smaller than the rest in the row; at least that was the case here. I soon discovered what it must be like to be a 300-pound man trying to travel in coach for 23 hours. First, I decided to put my computer bag up in the over-head bin, as this will probably not be needed during the flight. Just kidding, there is no under seat storage with the emergency exit row. I had to quickly take out my essentials and put my backpack in the over-head bin as well. Armed with my iPod, a book, and my Xanax, my next feat would be getting myself situated in this seat. Like a Great Dane trying to mount a chiwawa for mating purposes, I soon discover this will be tricky. The worst part about this, I have two Korean passengers sitting next to me. Mind you, they both barely clear the height requirement for the ride “It’s A Small World” at Disneyland. I manage to get myself situated for the flight, quickly popping my Xanax, I am sound asleep before the flight takes off.

Waking half-way through the flight, distraught and disoriented, I discovered that the way they keep you busy during international flights is by feeding you. Starving from having not eaten for the past 20 hours, I anxiously await the food cart that is on its way around the cabin. Not really thinking that I was on Korean Air, I was expecting the usual food tray of digestive binding products: cheese, toast, applesauce. Anything to keep you from filling that septic tank for the next 14 hours. Instead, I was served what can best be described as Ramen Noodles with Soy Sauce. Starving, I devoured the meal before she could even ask me what I would like to drink. Needing something a little bit stronger than Coca-Cola, I quickly agreed to have a glass of red wine. For those of you that are unaware, I had been sober for nearly 6 months, but my inner hypocrite argued that if it happened over international waters, then it didn’t count. A Xanax and two glasses of red wine later, I am back asleep for the remainder leg of the flight. Fourteen hours never seemed so blissful.

Upon landing, I quickly discovered that chaos and order are part of the Asian culture, and it didn’t end with racing to the gate. On a typical domestic flight in the US, most passengers stay seated until the plane comes to the gate. Sure they announce this over the speakers, but I thought it was a common traveling knowledge. Most people simply turn on their mobile phones while waiting for the plane to arrive at the gate, checking voicemails and calling rides. This was not the case on Korean Air. No sooner did we land, there were passengers standing and grabbing their bags from the over-head bins. I mean flight is still on the runway; not on the tarmac, not moving to the gate, still on the runway at a relatively top speed after barely touching the ground. It happened a few times throughout the landing with different passengers. If I was the passenger sitting next to someone doing this, my immediate response would be, “What the fuck are you doing?” Maybe that’s my inner-American, rude, crass, and lacking self-control. I argue it’s no different than racing to the gate with no semblance of order.

After we arrived in Seoul, Korea, I checked my next flight and discovered that I had a 5 hour layover until we would leave for Bangkok. Pumped full of Xanax, I slowly make my way through customs and find my way to my next gate. Not wanting to fall asleep and possibly be mugged, robbed, louted or raped, I decided I needed to keep awake. At this point, I quickly discover the international success of one Ms. Gloria Jean. Apparently the suburban entrepreneur had made it to Seoul. And here I thought she never left the safety of the Midwestern malls and shopping centers. Coffee in hand, I decided to peruse the duty-free shop. Looking like the cosmetic counter at Saks 5th Avenue, I quickly discovered that you can glamorize anything to make a sale. I actually found myself interested in L’Oreal face cream – something I wouldn’t look twice at in the States. I declined the overly eager Korean woman and moved on to my gate where I patiently waited with heavy eyes for my flight to board.

Upon the arrival of the ticket agents at the gate, I decided, when in Rome, do as the Crasians would do. Remembering that lines don’t mean a thing in this culture, I march right up to the gate, ticket in hand ready to board the plane as soon as they call the first set of seats. Sure enough, I am on with the first class passengers, the only jackass sitting in coach. I find my seat, place my bags, and set myself up for another 5 hours of transit. I awake toward the end of my flight with an older Thai lady leaning over me and looking out the window. Startled awake by this, she simply smiles at me and points out the window at Bangkok. Freaked-out by her proximity to my face, I smiled as politely as possible. She must have recognized the superficiality of it all and leaned back into her own seat, at which point she began to ask me questions about my trip to Thailand. Groggy and not in the mood for conversation, I am curt with my answers, and turn to watch the approaching city lights.

We land and I quickly discovered the massiveness of Bangkok Airport. Like a lamb headed to slaughter, I follow the rest of the passengers towards luggage claim and customs. Floating through the terminal on Xanax, I soon found myself magically at the customs counter, not bothered by a thing. I soon discovered that like any government position in the US, the Thais are also disgruntled and displeased with their government job. For this being “the land of smiles,” this Thai customs woman was anything but smiley. Doing my best to abide by the mantra of this new country, and with the added help of my prescription mood-enhancers, I was all smiles at the customs counter. She quickly informed me that they will be taking my photo for customs, and I am NOT to smile. Perplexed by the irony of the situation, I obeyed her commands and quickly moved through customs where I am greeted by the baggage claim. Like a mouse chasing cheese in a wheel, I finally retrieved my checked bags from the luggage carousel. I make my way toward the exit, where I am quickly over stimulated by offers for a taxi and trips to Ko Samui or other blissful Thai Islands. I found my ride and soon discovered that this is only the beginning of my travel experience in Thailand.