Hot in Here
Holy crap, is it ever hot. Walking the streets of Bangkok is like trying to run wind sprints in a sauna. I shower multiple times a day and stay inside in the afternoons.
I feel out of sorts. Like my body and my soul are not in agreement, like I am stretched across several continents simultaneously. A piece of me is roaming Kits Beach in Vancouver, hugging a latte and planning my escape (my editor Mike calls it my "get the hell out of dodge" itch). Another part of me is riding the Yamanote line in Tokyo, sipping lemon iced tea and watching all the Japanese teens feverishly text messaging each other. Another is holed up in a hotel room in Hong Kong, feeling lost. And then my actual physical self is wandering around Bangkok, stomach churning violently, trying to pull together all of these threads, bridge all these gaps, feel whole again somehow. The experience reminds me of William Gibson's latest book Pattern Recognition. His description of jet lag is my life right now.
I have been spending time with family friends who are staying in the most luxurious hotel I have ever seen, The Oriental. We pass hours in the cool lobby, watching the international glitterati glide by. Had dinner on the deck at dusk last night, overlooking the Chao Phraya river. Turquoise waves, warm glowing lights, cascades of orchids. Lobster tails, spicy mango salad, sesame grilled fish, deep fried bananas, sweet sticky rice.
This whole backpacker chic thing is not working for me. My clothes are rumpled; my shoes scuffed. Everything I own has a thin film of grime on it. And my hair has been impossible since I left home. (In Canada, it's straight. Japan was limp and gummy. Hong Kong, frizzy. In Thailand, it's ringlets that pop out of ponytails at odd angles.) Went to the beauty parlor yesterday and had my hair and nails done. My hair was nice after I left the salon, but it's a mess again already. And the polish on my nails actually melted. I don't know how Thai women manage to look so immaculate all of the time.
I feel out of sorts. Like my body and my soul are not in agreement, like I am stretched across several continents simultaneously. A piece of me is roaming Kits Beach in Vancouver, hugging a latte and planning my escape (my editor Mike calls it my "get the hell out of dodge" itch). Another part of me is riding the Yamanote line in Tokyo, sipping lemon iced tea and watching all the Japanese teens feverishly text messaging each other. Another is holed up in a hotel room in Hong Kong, feeling lost. And then my actual physical self is wandering around Bangkok, stomach churning violently, trying to pull together all of these threads, bridge all these gaps, feel whole again somehow. The experience reminds me of William Gibson's latest book Pattern Recognition. His description of jet lag is my life right now.
I have been spending time with family friends who are staying in the most luxurious hotel I have ever seen, The Oriental. We pass hours in the cool lobby, watching the international glitterati glide by. Had dinner on the deck at dusk last night, overlooking the Chao Phraya river. Turquoise waves, warm glowing lights, cascades of orchids. Lobster tails, spicy mango salad, sesame grilled fish, deep fried bananas, sweet sticky rice.
This whole backpacker chic thing is not working for me. My clothes are rumpled; my shoes scuffed. Everything I own has a thin film of grime on it. And my hair has been impossible since I left home. (In Canada, it's straight. Japan was limp and gummy. Hong Kong, frizzy. In Thailand, it's ringlets that pop out of ponytails at odd angles.) Went to the beauty parlor yesterday and had my hair and nails done. My hair was nice after I left the salon, but it's a mess again already. And the polish on my nails actually melted. I don't know how Thai women manage to look so immaculate all of the time.
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