Tasks

My days are usually quiet, particularly the mornings.  By quiet, I mean literally quiet.  The walls of the this modest apartment are the boundaries of a sanctuary.  Morning is the time for work.  Up until last week, the quiet of the morning was dedicated to sending out submission packages to prospective literary agents.  Looking for a literary agent is a bit like knowingly having sex with the devil after buying him (or her) dinner.  Back to the devil and his due:  forty-four submissions were sent out, exposing my second novel's soul to the prying eyes of the world.  Grow a thicker skin, Son, you're going to need it.

One less thing to wait on.

It has been a time of waiting.  I wait for rejections from literary agents, for my residency title to be approved, and for a care package from the Boyos back home.  And then things begin to happen.  My package arrives, stuffed full with lovely cigars from the states.  New things, new things!  And then, miracle of miracles, I receive news that my title application had been approved, that a letter should be on its way any day.  And Lo!  Arriveth the letter at my box:  Please come pick up your title on December 23rd.  Now there is a first rate Christmas present.

  Cornbread, my attempt to bring Down-home to Vienna

Regardless of whatever writing project that I might be engaged in, the Hausmann duties remain.  Meals to make, dishes to wash.  Before enlightenment: chop wood, carry water.  After enlightenment:  chop wood, carry water.  

Steak salad was another novelty, particularly the warm mushrooms and peppers above the cool greens. 

I simmer, I taste, I stir.

Outside the walls of my sanctuary, the world is not so quiet.  In Europe and the Americas the Fascists push back the light, trying to crawl from under their respective rocks.  Sometimes they emerge fully, as in the United States.  It is the same message, always the same message.  I hear it, I see it emblazoned across the headlines and the websites.  The message these benighted creatures bear is that we should fear the Other.  It is the Other that is to blame for everything that is wrong, everything that is keeping us from being "Great."  The Other comes in many forms, for there are many brands of fear.  Whether it is your Muslim neighbors, your Gay or Lesbian neighbors, your Brown or Black neighbor, or just someone who was born in another country, the message is that you should be afraid of them.  The Fascists are selling fear.  And folks, it's moving off the shelves like fried-food-on-a-stick at a county fair.  

This week afforded me time for reading.  I am back to devouring books.  This week I re-read The Crucible by Arthur Miller.  Always a powerful work, it once again resonated when viewed against the current events of the world.  For me, Miller's words take on new power.  Written during the red scare of the cold war, it is a chilling tale of the Salem witch trials and the penalty of swimming against the tide of public hysteria.  Perhaps even more pertinent now, this play was written in response to the 1950's witch hunt against anyone who might be tainted by the touch of communism (read: any heterodox views).  As world political views become ever more Us vs. Them, With Us or Against Us, it is important to remember the consequences of blind adherence to an orthodox belief structure.  The consequences are that people die.  Not literary characters, real human beings.  If they ever come for me, if I ever find myself confronted with the choice between joining them or paying the price, I will remember Giles Corey:  "More Weight"

The holiday season is upon us and there is nowhere on earth I would rather be at Christmas than in Wien.  Okay, yes, it is cold and gray and the gloom of the winter seems to bite from across the years of the little ice age.  But the lights shine and the Christkindlmarkt calls.

I do not believe that the Viennese are fully prepared to embrace simple happiness.  Thus the custom of standing outside in the freezing (no exaggeration) cold merrily sipping hot Punsch and smoking.  It is my theory that the bite of the bitter cold brings enough suffering to buffer the joy of drinking and smoking.  The the Viennese love to drink and smoke.  But better to suffer for joy.  Who knows what mischief could result from unbridled happiness.

My favorite stand.

The drink menu for a frosty night at the Spittelberg Christkindlmarkt.  One of the reasons that this is my favorite stand is the owner's sense of humor and literature.  Check out the penultimate selection on the menu.  When living in an absurdist world, it is a good idea to have a reference point.  This particular reference is to Douglas Adams' A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.  The Donnergurgler is the Viennese version of the Pan-galactic Gargleburster, the most wonderful and dangerous cocktail in the known galaxy.  Oh, for you non-math folks, the price is 42 times 10 to the negative power of one.

That's 4,20 Euro.  In case you were wondering.

Outside the walls, outside the walls.  Last weekend we were at a Christmas market in Vienna.  This week, a homicidal maniac plowed a tractor-trailer lorry into a crowded Christmas market in Berlin.  What madness is this?  Innocent people, people warming themselves with Puncsh on a cold winter night, just as I was.  It cleaves my heart.

More and more I feel that I have entered a world that is governed by absurdity.  Or un-governed by absurdity, if you will.  As if I were caught inside of Terry Gilliam's film "Brazil."  Periodically things explode, but not-to-worry, not-to-worry, things are under control, we've got the blighters on the run.  Hogwash.  But an excellent example of art mirroring life. 

And so it is Christmas and what have I done to make this world a better place?   Not enough John, not enough.  That is the hard answer.  My world, inside these walls, is a place of love and quiet strength.  I am blessed.  Outside these walls, I carry that love and quiet strength with me.  Fear has less and less power over me.  That is the greatest gift, I suppose, a lot more important than my little worries about a residency title.  So, for Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa,  or whatever other holiday tradition you embrace, I wish each of you personal freedom from fear, personal freedom to be happy, and the courage to reach out to your neighbors and wish the same for them. 

Creativity and Chaos

There has been a dearth of blog entries on my part, but no dearth of writing.  And there has been no shortage of momentous events, some jubilant, some catastrophically dark.  So it goes.  As Kurt Vonnegut had Dr. Swain say:  "Hi Ho."  Not nis best novel, even by his own reckoning, but I love the Hi Ho bit.  And like Vonnegut, in my blog I can and will write anything I damn well please.  So, a preemptive warning:  What follows may piss you off.  If it does, tough shit.  "Hi Ho!"  I'm not in a mood to play nice.

 

Okay, i lied.  This first part is pretty nice.  My Heart and I returned from Thailand six days prior to our scheduled "Second" wedding, the official Austrian wedding, the ceremony that binds us together in the sight of the law.  Serious stuff.  Food was ordered, last minute crises averted, and sickness overcome.  (I almost lapsed into The Big Lebowski's What makes a Man shtick.   Oh, screw it...  "Funny, I can look back on a life of achievement, on challenges met, competitors bested, obstacles overcome."  Okay, whew, I feel better now.

The ceremony came off without a hitch and at the end of it we most certainly were hitched.

Our officiant did her best to interject romance and sentiment into what is basically a civil ceremony and she did a fine job.  

Our little wedding party retreated to the quieter warrens of Vienna for a private dinner at a local Trattoria.  We were welcomed, then showered with food, drink and congratulations.  All was well.  

Backtracking in time: I am standing on the Jetway getting off the plane in Vienna.  Next to me, a large woman is coughing and sneezing in all directions at once, without the benefit of a hand over her mouth.  Picture Linda Blair from The Exorcist, except with a stream of biotic nasties instead of that, um, other stuff she was spewing out.  Three days later, just before the wedding, I felt the twinges, that about-to-be-bad feeling in the back of my throat.  The day after our O-fficial wedding, it struck.  Racing through time to the present:  I am just getting over this monster head cold, which has made everything else over the last two weeks that much weirder. 

Welcome to Austrian Bureaucracy.   It's a lot like the American version of same, but in a different language.   And see there on the ticket, they write the dates funny over here. 

And only a few more folks ahead of us.  This was the line to get a ticket to go upstairs to sit and wait in line for an interview with the real Bureaucrats, the ones that mattered.

Sick, out of sorts, and trying to be patient:  sure, that's a good combination.  Hi Ho.  With our stack of documents cradled in our arms, we rushed to the magistrate on the first business day after our wedding.  It was a Monday, cold and sunny.  Waiting, waiting again, then into the office for paper sorting, finger print scanning, and fee paying.  Shortly after lunchtime, we emerged with a partial application and a request for three more documents, documents that were listed nowhere on the website or the printed instructions.  Breathe in, breathe out.  Hi Ho.

The problem is that there is a large ticking clock in the background.  Can you hear it?  It's like the giant crocodile hunting Captain Hook.  Tick Tock, Tick Tock.  I am back in Austria on a 90-day tourist visa, my "D" visa having expired at the end of August.  So, ninety days from my arrival, I have to leave Austria.  Not only do I have to leave Austria, I have to leave all Schengen countries as well.  That is, of course, unless, of course, our friends at MA35, the Magistrate, approve my residency title.  (How many fragments can be smashed into a single sentence?  Writer Joke.  Sorry.)  Then I can stay.  Simple, no?

So My One and I get busy.  We contact people, collect the requested documents, print them, copy them, and ready the forms for submission.  By Wednesday evening, everything is ready.  Thursday morning, flying solo, I'm back on the U6 riding all the way across Vienna.  My Mission:  Get past the gatekeeper and hand these document directly to the person working on our case.  My One says I don't stand a chance.  

Step One:  Get a number to queue up for the run at the Gatekeeper.  Use this time to practice game faces.  Game face One:  Lost Puppy Look.  Game face Two:  Overly Earnest and Concerned Idiot.  Practice alternating between the two game faces without appearing to do so.  Ready, set....

I am at the window and the only thing the Gatekeeper wants is to get rid of me and move the queue along.  She looks at the documents and the cover letter.  "Yes, I see.  Well, I will give these documents to my colleague."  Remember, this is all happening in German.  Game face One, STAT!!  Do NOT leave the window!  Puppy Dog - Puppy Dog - Puppy Dog!!! Okay, Switch to Game face Two:  "Ich habe angst uber diese Dokuments."  I have fear (distress) about these documents.  Yeah, that was me, in Deutsch!  Pretty good, too!  You should have seen the annoyingly earnest look I had plastered on my face.  Deeply troubled but idiotically vacant eyes, pleading for some respite.  I was just about to switch back to Game Face One when the young woman got tired of my antics and returned the documents with a new waiting ticket for upstairs.  Ha Ha!  Victory is Mine!!  I get to wait in the Big Line!!

Upstairs, at the original office, the documents were eventually handed off in person.  I sat at that woman's desk while she double-checked the documents, noted the documents, and told me three times that documents were in order.  Finally, on the third assurance, I reluctantly stood up from the desk. 

We have done what we can do.  Seventy days from today, if I don't have a Title, I will be retreating to another locale.  Croatia might be nice.  I hear that Zagreb is a fine town in January.

Okay, so by now, I've become really sick and, of course, My One is sick as well.  This is the time that the Chicago Cubs, the team that broke my heart as a child, as an adolescent, and as an adult, choose to make it to the World Series!!  That, in and of itself, is unbelievable.  More unbelievable still, I am unable to watch a single game of the series.  Between the time difference, lack of viewing options, and being now seriously ill, I miss every game.  I did not watch a single game of the entire goofy let's-push-it-to-the-last-game World Series.

I suck.  And I had RP McMurphy's words pounding in my head, telling me that even in jail, man, even in the joint they let us watch the World Series.  I mean, you're talking about the World Series here.  They woulda had a riot on their hands.  But I didn't watch it and I suck and the Cubs will probably never win again and it will all be my fault.

What happened next was self-inflicted.  Mea Culpa.  A writer friend of mine dared me to take up the National Write a Novel challenge.  The task is to write a new novel, from scratch, in the month of November.  Sure, what could go wrong.  Fifty thousand usable words of prose by the end of the month.  And, idiot me, I missed a day.  Now, eleven days later, I have over 29,000 words of a brand new novel logged into my laptop.  While I was seriously ill.  I'm telling you, don't try this at home Kids.  And no, in case you are wondering, this new novel has nothing to do with my previous novel, Serial-Z.  I'm just using Serial-Z as my pen name.  Putting it in perspective for a reader, a 3000 word chapter takes about eight hours to write, if I am on my game and the words are flowing.  That doesn't count time for actually inventing the story, characters, plot line, etc, etc.  

My proof reading team members (You guys Rock So MUCH!!!!) are chasing me as fast as I can write, waving corrections at me.  Besides being an ace proofreader, My Heart has been supportive and understanding in the face of my writing obsession.  I'm a lucky man.  By the end of the month, I will have written a second novel.  For me, that is a good thing.

But...

 

Good Going, you poor deluded maniacs.

But none of this really matters, does it?  I mean, who cares if I get married to the most amazing woman on the planet, write a novel or two, or get kicked out of the Austria.  In s single month, the Cubs won the World Series and Trump won the Electoral College Lottery in the USA (sort of).  That means that the world is going to come to an end and no one will read my novels because, duh! the world will have ended.  If I wrote this crap into a novel, no one would believe it. 

Okay, speaking of which...  People of the Untied States of America:  Have you lost your collective minds?  Really?  A reality talk-show host, narcissist, racist, inciter of violence?  That is the best that our collective American will could conjure up?  Fear, hatred, brute force, divisiveness?  This is what we chose to lead our nation?  More guns, more walls, more fear, is that going to make America great?

So, it won't matter if I write books.  Books have become superfluous.  Ideas seem to diminish in meaning as the world is bombarded with lies and hatred spewed from the mouths of the collective Down-Pressor Man.  By all that could be considered holy, we need to wake the fuck up!  Just because some clown says a thing Three Times (it's the magic manipulation number), that doesn't mean the thing is the truth.  Well, good luck to all of us, all over the world, because we are going to need a lot more than luck to survive this catastrophe.  Maybe, just maybe, four years of Trump's vitriol will galvanize some of us into fighting for real change, real election reform, real reform of the lobbyists and corporate interests that are running America.  Not long ago, Jimmy Carter had the courage to say that the Untied States of America is no longer a democracy, but rather an oligarchy.  I agree with him. Here's a link to one of those articles.

Carter Link - UK Mail

An Oligarchy, as you remember from civics class, is the rule of the many (us) by the few (those with money and, hence, power).  It is NOT a good thing.  Democracy is the rule of  the many (us).  We must wrest our very ailing shreds of democracy back from the monied powers that are currently holding it hostage.  It may already be too late, but we have to give it another go, don't you think?

I don't want to live in fear, so I don't.  When I hear dangerous minds preaching the gospel of fear to others, I hear those words for what they are:  Lies.  Fear is never the answer, fear causes the problem.  My neighbors are not my enemies, be they Black, Brown, White, Woman, Man, Gay, Straight, Muslim or even Hard-Shell Baptist.  They are not my enemies.    They are simply my neighbors, here in Vienna, in America, in SE Asia, in Mexico, Panama, Colombia, Ecuador and Canada.  Those hard working folks in India and Sri Lanka, they are me neighbors as well.  All over the globe, all of those people, they are my neighbors.  They do not scare me.  I am not afraid of them. 

The Enemy, the darkness that extinguishes the light, is the person who stands in front of a crowd, any crowd, anywhere, and espouses hatred, espouses violence, or sows the seeds of fear into the hearts of those listening.  The Fascists have always risen to power on their ability to sell the idea of fear of the Other.  Allow me to reiterate that statement, just to be clear about this point.  The Fascists rise to power by selling the idea of fear.  They will tell you that you should be afraid of your neighbors, of anyone that is different from you, of anyone with any ideas other than your own.  By selling you fear, they attempt to divide and conquer. Do not listen to the voice of fear, it will enslave us. 

So, I urge you, man the barricades, raise the call, donate, get active, do what you can, but Fight the Power.  The Down-Pressor Man is laughing today, and it is not a pretty sound.  Push back, it is all we can do.

Lastly, Leonard Cohen died today.  Another strong voice silenced, yet another strong voice that lives on.  I will leave you with his words, so much more powerful than mine.

Anthem by Leonard Cohen

The birds they sang at the break of day
Start again I heard them say
Don’t dwell on what has passed away
or what is yet to be.

Ah the wars they will be fought again
The holy dove she will be caught again
bought and sold  and bought again
the dove is never free.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

We asked for signs the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood of every government –
signs for all to see.

I can’t run no more with that lawless crowd
while the killers in high places say their prayers out loud.
But they’ve summoned, they’ve summoned up a thundercloud
and they’re going to hear from me.

Ring the bells that still can ring …

You can add up the parts but you won’t have the sum
You can strike up the march, there is no drum
Every heart, every heart to love will come
but like a refugee.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

Thailand Redux

Thailand:  It ain't all lotus blossoms.

Folks who travel to Thailand will tell you amazing stories about the "Land of Smiles."  Most of these tales will be true.  Even some of my blog posts about Thailand are true.  What is also true about Thailand is that it is a real country and, as such, has real problems.  If you have read any of my former blog posts about traveling in Southeast Asia, you will know that I love it here.  The journey I have just returned from marks my fifth trek across various combinations of Thailand, Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam.  While Thailand remains one of my favorite destinations on our planet, I thought it would be a good idea to write about some of the less than wonderful aspects of being in Thailand.  So, in no particular order, let's get down to it.

While it may not be overtly apparent to a casual traveler, Thailand is not a democracy.  Ostensibly a constitutional monarchy, Thailand has been ruled primarily by a series of military strong men since the end of World War II.  Until 1932, Thailand was an absolute monarchy.  The monarchy was overthrown in an almost bloodless coup brought about by a group of civilians and military officers.  A constitutional monarchy was established in place of the absolute monarchy.  Since that time Thailand has been ruled by a series of military leaders with the exception of brief periods of democratically elected governments.  There have been seventeen constitutions, the last one being established in 2007.  His Majesty Bhumibol Adulyadej was the King of Thailand until his death this month.  While the King exerted some moderating influence over the military leaders, the juntas remain the true power in the kingdom.  The current ruling group is the National Counsel for Peace and Order.  As a ruling power, they have partially repealed portions of the 2007 constitution.  

What does all of this have to do with a traveler to Thailand?  The answer to that depends on where one goes in the kingdom.  Years ago, I was in Bangkok during the Yellow Shirt-Red Shirt upheaval.  I visited the protest encampments, talked with lots of folks, and I had no issues with anyone including the police.  I would not recommend overt involvement in Thai politics, but as an observer I was not molested in any way.  Quite the contrary, I was welcomed at the encampments in true Thai fashion.  Still, it is important to remember who is running the country.

Thailand is a huge tourist destination and the Thai authorities are not going to do anything to jeopardize the very lucrative flow of tourist dollars that make up a large percentage of the Thai economy.  Having said that, the next year might not be the best time to visit the kingdom.  The government has ordered a one-year period of mourning for the King.  Public celebrations, parties, and consumption of alcohol are to be "toned down."  This month's notorious Full-Moon party was cancelled as part of the mourning observances.

But back to the government and how it might impact a traveler.  If you are in Bangkok, it will be very difficult to notice any strongly overt military or police presence, especially if you have not been in the city prior.  The same will generally remain true if a traveler stays on the tried and true tourist trails that lead to the islands of the Andaman Sea or the cultural tourist mecca of Chiang Mai.  Venture out into the Thai countryside or less-traveled provincial cities, however, and the story may be different.  As we traveled deeper into Isaan, the northeastern region of Thailand, we were more often the only Farrang (foreigners) in sight.  The police, or military police, frequently asked us for our tickets and questioned us about our destination.  While we were treated with great respect during these encounters, this has not been my experience in the past.  Still, this is Thailand.  After taking our photos as part of the track-side "interview," we were then politely asked if we would pose for a group photo with the two police officers.  

Another issue to consider is whether or not one wants to travel in a country that is under military rule.  That would be a matter of personal conscience.  As a traveler, I tend to discount governments in favor of a particular country's citizens.  In this regard, Thailand is a very rich place indeed.  If one were to strike all countries with dubious governments off of one's travel list, the world would be a much smaller place.  I would venture to add that even nations that are held up as beacons of democracy might not stand up well to the scrutiny of a traveler with a serious human-rights sensibility.  So I leave this choice to the individual.

One of the things that I love about Thailand is the crazy street scene that springs up every evening in almost any town.  One of the things that drives me crazy about Thailand is banging my head or risking a broken leg every time I go for a walk into that crazy scene.  First of all, Thai folks are not tall.  Awnings, food cart signs, street signs, and random pointy bits are all of just the right height to catch a six-foot Farrang a good whop on the noggin.  One minute you are walking down the street looking at the next great food treat and the next minute the Thais are laughing as the big foreigner

 is rubbing his head after banging it on some low-hanging hazard.  While you are looking out for things threatening your brain pan, it will be a sure thing that you will miss the multitudinous hazards at your feet.  Broken pavement, open drains, gaping holes in the sidewalk (really!) and noxious puddles of ick all conspire to trip, soil, or maim an unwary walker's feet.  And remember, you are wearing flip-flops.  Not exactly serious toe armor.  One gets used to it, but when you bang your head or bruise your toes (or worse), don't say I didn't warn you.

Another aspect of the obstacle course is Thais on scooters.  While they will not run you over, as a rule, they will form a phalanx of plastic and steel right in front of the very stand from which you wish to purchase a delectable treat.  The Thais don't really walk.  They ride scooters, ride them right up to the stands and stores.  Transactions are carried out without the scooter pilots even dismounting.  The added annoyance of the scooter traffic in the heart of the markets and street scene is the heavy layer of scooter exhaust that hangs in the air. 

Speaking of the markets, one of the curses of Thailand is the culture of the plastic bag.  Everything one buys seems to come in a plastic bag.  Just try buying a bottle of water and declining the plastic bag that the clerk is sure to place it in.  It is very perplexing to the clerk.  The same is true in the market stalls.  Buy some pork skewers, for example.  The skewers go into a small plastic bag and then the chili sauce is spooned over them.  The vendor then puts the first plastic bag into a second plastic bag.  Eventually plastic bottles and plastic bags are going to cover the Kingdom.  You can do your small part to help.  Water stations are available to fill bottles.  Try to use them instead of buying a new bottle of water.  Backpacker-style water filters allow for filling your own bottle using tap water.  Save money, save the Thais from themselves, even in a tiny way.

Quiet sleep.  This is not what you are generally going to get in Thailand.  Not in the city, not in the countryside.  Geckos, Tokays, Hoo-Ha Birds, traffic, roosters (oh, the goddamn roosters!) all conspire to make sure that a traveler is up bright and early after a very noisy night of not sleeping that well.  Bring earplugs.  You will thank me.  

Speaking of sleeping, be forewarned that Thai beds are generally on the firm to rock-hard end of the spectrum.  And the pillows can tend to be giant.  It takes some getting used to.

Thai food is great.  The food is one of the main reasons I return to Thailand.  Even with my immense tolerance for noodles, twice a day if I can get them, there will come a day on a journey when a traveler just cannot look at another bowl of rice or noodles.  It's okay, but remember that tourist food is the most dangerous food.  Try going for a nice Halal or Indian meal to break up the steady diet of Thai dishes.  Pizza and hamburgers:  Danger Young Will Robinson!!

Although coffee is slowly becoming more of a part of Thai culture, it can still be a real pain to get a decent cuppa joe.   If you are a serious coffee drinker, beware.  Even more difficult is to get a cup of coffee without sugar.  Thai folks love sugar.  They will be very puzzled when you are displeased that they have politely pre-sugared your coffee for you.  

Toilets.  Yes, squat toilets are the norm in most of rural Thailand.  Your guesthouse or hotel will have a western-style toilet.  Lots of other places will not.  Mind where your loose clothing is.  The plastic bowl floating in the bigger tank is the flushing device.  You'll figure it out.  Besides, the New-Age folks will be happy to tell you that squatting is a much healthier posture for taking care of business.

On the topic of hygiene, feet are a big deal in Thailand.  The head is clean, feet are not.  You will get used to it, but one must remove their footwear before going into private dwellings or temples.  Please, if you are traveling in the Kingdom, here are a few things that you just should NOT do.  Do not point your feet at a Buddha image.  Do not touch Thai folks with your feet.  And Yo! Backpackers!  Do NOT tie your boots on the outside of your backpack and then bang them into Thai folks on trains and buses.  This is very, very rude by Thai standards!  Every guidebook out there talks about this.  Stop it already!  

So your feet, they are going to be dirty.  Get used to it.  It is way too hot for shoes anyway.

Thailand is a huge tourist destination.  If you really want to find that quiet spot or that secluded beach, you are going to have to work for it.  November, December and January bring hordes of tourists and travelers to the Kingdom.  If you venture to a popular tourist spot during these times, expect the prices to be at their highest, the Thais smiles to be strained, and any attraction to be swarmed.  Tour groups following their leader's little flag will run right over you.  Work a little harder, travel a little farther, stretch your openness to the off-season, however, and those quiet beaches or uncrowded ruins can become a reality.  

If you have never been to Thailand, I would urge you to go.  I would also suggest that perhaps 2017 might not be the best year to do so.  Everything is not perfect in the Kingdom of Smiles, but push the edges of the tourist trail and you will most likely find great rewards.  I will warn you that the riches of Thailand may come at a price.  This is the sort of place that can steal a piece of your heart and not give it back.  Thailand, warts and all, is still a worthy destination for an open-minded traveler.

Paying the Piper

Those left behind.  Saying goodbye to an pair of old friends.

Four years, four continents, the odd sub-continent.  Faithful to the end.

There comes a time to pay the Piper and our time has come.  We had drawn the 8:35 PM flight out of Bangkok, which would seem like a good departure hour.  It is not.  Arriving at Suvarnabhumi two hours ahead of time is not only a good idea, it can end up being just enough time to make an international flight.  That means arriving at Suvarnabhumi at 6:30 PM, the insane curve of rush hour in Bangkok.  There will be more to write on that.

With a whole day to kill, we made arrangements for a late checkout and then basically lolled around.  I sat on the terrace and smoked whilst My One dozed under the breeze of the fan.  We had no desire for anything more.  We discussed the most pressing conundrum:  how to get to the airport.  From the secret lair, there is public transport directly to the airport.  Public transport at rush hour, however, is no place to be with a full complement of bags.  I was packed far heavier than normal with the stuff I was schlepping from the US.  Lots of stupid luggage, just the kind I always advise against.  An aircon taxi to the airport is the easy way to get there.  The problem is, will you get there?  It is reasonable to assume that one will eventually arrive at the airport, but between 3 PM and 7 PM it is not reasonable to expect a taxi ride to take less than say, two hours.  Or maybe three.  Or maybe one.  Those horror stories you may have heard about Bangkok traffic, they are true.  The choice was thus:  Rush Hour on the MRT and Airport Train, wrestling with bags and turning into a ball of sweaty dough -- or -- an aircon taxi ride of dubious and uncertain length.  We finally opted for braving the trains, a route we know well.  

People often ask "How do you do the long flights?  I would love to go to Bradslavoktransia but I just can't do those 12 hour flights."  The only answer I have for this is to say that the flights are the price of admission to the bigger world out there.  And, yes, the flights mostly suck.  I try to make a game out of the whole thing, but it is difficult to do more than shift the brain into neutral, try to be empty-headed and/or entertained in some way, and just get through it.  What I have discovered is that my break line is ten hours.  A ten hour flight from Europe to the USA is a piece of cake, relatively speaking.  Movies, sleep, airline food, repeat.  Past ten hours, the body starts to rebel.

The easy train ride.  It got so bad I could not get my camera out of my pocket.

Four-thirty PM and off we went, out of the tiny Soi and down into the MRT.  We were departing four hours prior to our flight departure.  It would prove to be just enough time to accomplish the mission without undue stress.  The MRT ends at Hua Lampang so we were able to get decent positions near the doors of the train.  By the time we got to Petchaburi station, the train was packed cheek-to-jowl.  Even wielding a duffel bag, back pack and large carry-on, the Thai people are pretty gracious, rush hour notwithstanding.  With a bit of help from our fellow passengers, we found ourselves deposited on the platform, all bags still with us.  Okay, slow and steady, it is time for the non-aircon slog up and out of Petchaburi and across the 300 meter pedestrian bridge to the Airport Train.  This is Bankok and it is hot.  Haste is a silly and foreign concept.  Steady on, we made it to the Masakan station and took our place at the end of a longish line for boarding the next train.   Packed, the train arrived packed.  Defying the basic laws of physics, the line of passengers scooted, squished and squashed their way onto the train, ourselves included, though only just.  I wedged my bags against a pole and did a precarious balancing act against them.  Somehow, it works.  The train stops and it is so packed that people cannot move, yet they find a way to make it off the train and do so in a polite manner.  The train disgorged more and more people as we rode further out of Bangkok, easing the burden inside.  We finally arrived at the airport station and disembarked.  Loading our bags onto the free luggage carts (FREE!  FREE!  Are any of you SeaTac Airport Officials reading this?!?!?!  The carts are FREE!!! ) was a most welcome relief.  

I stowed my pack into the big checked bag, mourning the state of my good suit that was now a ball of wrinkles, and we set out for baggage drop.   We rode up the ramped escalators that allow a traveler to wheel his or her FREE CART (They go up the escalators you SeaTac Ninnies!!!  It is possible, you see??) from the bottom floor of the airport way up to the departure deck.  And there things sort of stopped.

Yikes, the baggage drop and check-in line.

Okay, dead stop.  The line for Etihad Air was, well, huge.  I stood on queue while My Baby got us some snacks.  She stood on queue while I went shopping at the Booths Pharmacy.  The line crept along.  So it goes.  Eventually we were free of bags, checked in on both flights, and left the queue with boarding passes in hand.  Then it was security, passport control, and the long moving walkways through the massive terminals of Suvarabhumi International.  Finally sitting down to a quick aiport meal that cost us more than some of the bungalows we enjoyed on this trip, we realized we had one-half hour until boarding.  So there it is, four hours lead time and none wasted.  

From here on, routine takes over.  It's the Zombie shuffle onto the plane, find the seats, sit down and wait.  Six hours to Abu Dhabi and six hours to Vienna.  Movies, airplane food, dozing, repeat.  Abu Dhabi is a strange place judging from the airport.  Cramped and packed, this has become a major hub for international flights.  We toyed with the idea of hopping a flight to somewhere else, anywhere else.  There was almost no place we could not go from here.  But no, we must return to cold and grey Yurp.  

Purgatory, otherwise know as Abu Dhabi.

And then we were airborne again.  No movies on this smaller Airbus, so it was food, dozing, keep the mind sifted into neutral.  The time passes, you pay the Piper.  It is always harder on the return flight.  Tray tables up, seats in their upright position, it is just dawn over Vienna as the lights come under the wing.  And then we are back.  The good folks at the Austrian passport control deign to allow me back into the country, our bags are actually the first ones down the chute, and it is over.

They have this thing in Vienna called "cold" which takes some getting used to.  Here is how I recover from a long flight.  Chose what works for you, this is my method.

Two months of traveling has come to an end.  We are home, back in our apartment, our oasis.  A familiar bed, familiar surroundings, those small blessings of returning.  I know that I have balance when I am eager to leave and, at the end of the journey, thankful to be home.  The scales of leaving and returning are very delicate, tipping at the slightest variation.  I cannot claim that there is no danger in the initial setting out.  I will be the first to tell you to go, to leave the familiar and venture forth into the world.  At the same time, it is important to know that the returns are not without cost.  Travel can bring about many, many changes.  One of the most insidious changes is that prolonged travel may unravel the mooring lines to one's home.  The unfamiliar becomes the familiar and vice versa.  Distinctions blur between that which is known and that which is unknown.  The urge to set out once again burrows deeply into the heart and will not be dislodged.  I urge you to recall the words of J.R.R. Tolkien as spoken by Bilbo Baggins:  "It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door.  You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to." 

And so, Friends and Neighbors, the journey is done.  Travel well, travel often, be kind when you do so, and maintain an open heart.  The world will reward you handsomely.  As always, I bid you Ciao for Now!!

The Big Mango Redux

A trackside interview by the local school kids.  "What is your favorite food?"

Time has run out on this journey. Under yet another blazing sun (remember that sun, My Lad, you will regret its passing) we set on on yet another train, the last short ride into Bangkok.

The views of a watery countryside were replaced by the gritty entry into Bangkok.  A huge sprawling city, to enter Bangkok by train is to see its seamy side, the shanty towns and riverside hovels.  Bangkok is a massive collection of neighborhoods and not all of them are the Palace and the Reclining Buddha.  Taking the train in from the north is a very good way to see another aspect of this city.  Along the freeway construction site are the workers quarters made of corrugated roofing without windows.  There are whole neighborhoods of shacks on stilts leaning chock-a-block against each other.  Wooden duck boards take the place of sidewalks.  Dark and dirty water swirls along next to, under, and through these living areas.   It is another world, separated altogether from the groomed grounds of the main temples that are the big tourist destinations.  

 The "other" Bangkok from the train window.

Welcome to the neighborhood.
 

Crossing the Klong into the heart of Bangkok.

The Royal Station draped in mourning.

Crossing the Klong, the shanty towns are replaced by administration buildings draped in mourning for the King.  The concrete gives way to vast green garden tracts as we enter the government district.  The royal train station is a very pretty and seldom used spot on the main line.  Today it was somber, laid out in the black and white of mourning.  Many people on the train were wearing black ribbons on their shoulders or breast pockets.  Reaching Hua Lamphong station at last, we saw crowds of people sitting everywhere.  The waiting area was full of Thai people, crowds of a size I have never seen there before.  The queues of people for public transport were so long that the police were directing the line.  People had come from all over the country to pay their respects to the King.  We had returned to Bangkok as it became a city in mourning.  

It is a short walk from Hua Lamphong to the secret guesthouse.  Down into the metro and up the other side avoids the death-crossing of Rama V.  Back up on the sidewalk, a few quick twists and turns leads us to my hideaway.  The soi (alley) has fallen on hard times of late.  It was a busy and happier place in years gone by, but perhaps it is just the season.  Still, it is my refuge in this busy city.

My One had a single request:  Indian Food.  It happens on journeys.  Suddenly Thai food, or Sri Lankan food, or Vietnamese cuisine is simply the last thing one wants to eat.  Last night in Bangkok, what do you do?  You find your Heart some Indian food.  

Our Guy in Bangkok for Indian Food.  Okay, Bangladeshi food to be more precise.  

We set out on foot for a small neighborhood near Silom, a Muslim enclave tucked against the overhead expressway.  Here was a place to find Indian and Halal food.  It is dark and hot along the sidewalks of the city.  Rush hour traffic creates a solid mass of steel on the streets.  We slid past sidewalk stalls and diners, dogs and low hanging signs.  Another night walk in The Big Mango.  Then there was the small soi (alley) that turned right off the main street.  This was our spot.  Peering down the lane, many a traveler would turn away quickly and beat feet for the bright lights of Silom.  Muted light spilled from windows and fell across the sidewalk.  Small signs hung over shops and cafes'.  The lane died out at the pillars of the expressway, which rumbled overhead.  Some shadowy folks stood here and there, talking in groups.  It was as if one had looked into the Hollywood cliche' of the "Street You Do Not Walk Down."  But hey, this is Bangkok.  In we went.

"Oh, no, so sorry, but we are closed tonight."  Our would-have-been-hostess was a broad as she was tall, which she wasn't, and with a smile even broader.  Taking us in tow, she led us several doors down to another tiny cafe'.  Calling through the door, she ushered us in.  We were greeted and seated, the only customers in the place.  A smiling discussion was a prelude for a tour of the kitchen and introductions to the staff, all young men.  This was our spot for the night.

 First up, Daal with Chapati and Naan.  It was a holiday from rice.

The next course was a Beef masala which packed a long slow burn.  Wonderful!!
 

 Yummy bready goodness, such a nice change under the teeth.

And no meal complete without cardamom laced milk tea.  Eating and laughing, we planned a trip to Bangladesh, encouraged by our host.  Local men came in for take-out orders, but we remained the only seated customers.  Everyone else was somehow related to the operation.  It was a great evening and a great meal.

Back through the labyrinth of Bangkok to our secret soi, but not to fear, for this is Mi Barrio.  Our last night in the city.  Every smell and sound seemed amplified with longing.  The leaving weighs heavy on our hearts as it always does, and heavier with each leaving.  I have a compatriot who talks about not having any "leavings" left in himself.  He fears that one more trip to Thailand will cut through his last moorings.  Not Bangkok, as much as I love this place.  I could never live here.  That is not the danger my compatriot talks about, or that My Heart knows.  But Isaan, or Soppong in the north?  Yes, those places could be the undoing of a traveler.  

For now we are safe from these dangers, if not from these longings.  We must board the plane and fly back to grey and cold Vienna.  So it goes, another journey done.  There will be a bit more to say about this last month, but not now Friends and Neighbors.  I bid you a melancholy Ciao for Now!

Monkey Business

Welcome to Monkey Town.

Unlike the groomed grounds of Sukhothai, Ayutthaya, or Chiang Mai, the old town of Lopburi is built right on top of and up against the ruins of building that date back to the 11th Century.  Noodle stands and shop-houses butt up against Khmer Empire ruins or later remnants of the Ayutthaya regime.  This gritty little town is not picturesque.  The old city of Lopburi is, for most travelers, a photo-op.  Hop off of the northbound train, snap a few pictures of the monkeys, make it back onto the next train and head for the big attractions at Sukhothai.  Oh, yeah, did I mention the monkeys?

Lopburi ain't called Monkey Town for no good reason.  The little furry buggers are everywhere.  Local legend has it that the monkeys are here because of Rama.  It all goes back to that great Hindu epic, The Ramayana.  As I am sure you remember, Rama's great love, Sita, is kidnapped by the bad guy named Ravana.  Ravana runs off with Sita to an island that is probably modern day Sri Lanka.  In the very long and incredibly epic battles that follow, the monkey god Hanuman aids Rama in recovering Sita.  As a reward for his help, Rama gives the Hanuman the city of Lopburi.  That is one possible explanation for the monkey population.  Another plausible explanation for the simian hordes is that the monkeys are fed, twice daily, at several of the ancient Wats.  

 

 Essential Monkey Gear.

The monkeys don't just hang around the temple grounds.  They dangle from overhead electrical wires, ledges of buildings, and awnings over shops.  In fact, when walking the town, it's a good idea to keep one eye up and one eye down.  Monkeys and monkey poo adorn the sidewalk while overhead, the aerial monkeys love a good target.  The local shopkeepers have monkey poles, six-foot long bamboo staves with rubber flails on one end.  When the furry beasts get too bold, the merchants chase them down the sidewalks.  The only thing more fun than watching the shopkeepers is watching a tourist run screaming from the monkeys.  The Macaques, as the monkeys are more properly named, have a comfort radius that varies with their mood.  A camera-wielding tourist who trespasses into that comfort zone may experience the instantaneous transformation of a cute furry photo-op into a fanged and furious demon.  Then comes the running and screaming, the dropping of cameras, and a smug looking monkey hauling a shiny new Canon G-16 back to the monkey family.  On my honor as a Homo Sapiens, I have seen it happen.  I love this town!!

One of the coolest and strangest ruins in Lopburi, or the rest of Thailand for that matter, is Ban Wichayen.  Back in the late 1600's, the Ayutthaya Kingdom was at it's zenith.  A Greek trader, one Constantine Phaulkon, became a favorite of King Narai.  Phaulkon was eventually promoted to high office at the court of Siam.  When the King fell ill, however, Phaulkon lost his head to some jealous Siamese ministers.  Literally lost his head, as in they chopped it off.  To wander the ground of Ban Wichayen is to be transported from Thailand to a medieval ruin in northern England or France.  Except for the heat, there is nothing to remind one of exotic tropical locales.  Before Phaulkon lost a foot off the top, Ban Wichayen served as a residence for foreign traders and the occasional dignitary.  I marvel at what it must have been like to be a European trader dealing with a Siamese kingdom in 1680.  Just the effort it would have taken to travel here boggles the mind.  I am really, really jealous.  

Dipping nets on the river.  Drop them on the bottom, have a nap, raise them up.

When one tires of monkeys (yes, it can happen) or ruins, there are the small lanes that lead outside the crumbled city walls to the river.  The quiet streets and alleys are lined with old teak shop houses baking in the sun.  Before the rise of the modern concrete shop-house, these old teak buildings were the standard structure for most Thai businesses and dwellings.  

 

Phra Prang Sam Yod, the City Icon.  Try saying that name three times in a row.  This ancient Khmer-style (Angkor Period) building was originally a Hindu temple until the Ayutthaya kingdom turned it to Buddhist uses.  This place is monkey-central.  The monkeys are not allowed inside the ruin, but visitors are.  This offers a traveler the strange vantage point of looking out through the bars at the monkeys, rather than the other way round.

Inside Looking Out

Here is a link to a video from inside the temple (Warning:  There is a bit of Monkey Porn in the video):

https://youtu.be/X9McReupu8U

Yeah, you want monkeys?  They got monkeys.

The coolest guys in Lopburi, the ice crew and their custom ice cruncher-upper.

The Nett Hotel.  You don't really want to stay here.

Lopburi does have ruins and it does have monkeys, but other than that, this is not the most luxurious of destinations.  The accommodations are basic at best, even by my standards.  The town is dirty and gritty (hello, monkeys running everywhere!?!) and it doesn't smell very nice (see previous parenthetical comment) so why go?  More to the point, why return?  I don't have a great answer to that question except to say that something about Lopburi pulls me back.  It's a silly place, weird and quirky, unlike any other town in Thailand.  I suppose what I like most about Monkey Town is that the folks here live right up against the history of the ruins and right amongst the damn monkeys and they act like none of it is any big deal.  Ruins?  What ruins?  Monkeys?  What Monkeys?  Something like that.  I don't have a better explanation.  

 

So, that's it, no further insight available.  Sorry, that's all I've got.  I just like it here, furry thieving bastards included.  Later on today it will be the afternoon train to the Big Mango, closing the loop on this incredible journey.  Our time comes to an end.  Travel well, travel often, be well, be happy, and Ciao for Now!