By Shannon
Date: 26 March 1999

One Flight To Bangkok

     

     It was finally here.  My two week paid vacation allotment for the year was
 tucked safely in my checking account.  I was ready to walk down the gangplank 
and board a Boeing 747 with a wink, a smile, and the glint of my ATM card. 
Nothing could keep me away from the ninety-seven degree weather in Thailand 
after the record breaking deluge of rain I had put up with for the past ninety 
days.  Not even the horror of sitting in a cylindrical airline tube with 
recycled air being forced into my lungs could sway me from the adventure
squirming at my feet.

     Anyone who tells you "getting there is half the fun" never anticipated the
 eighteen hours it takes to fly to Bangkok.  No one even takes that into 
account after the travel agent assures you your plane tickets will arrive 
sometime next week in the mail.  We are all under the impression that we can 
hop into a transporter room, as if we were in a Star Trek episode, and then
instantly beam ourselves to the vacation spot of our choosing.  My naiveté soon 
left the airport along with my overstuffed suitcase.  After the ten-hour jaunt 
to get to Norita, Japan, I was hoping the next eight-hour imprisonment would be 
assuaged by stirring intellectual discussions with a new seatmate or at least 
the welcoming arms of a red wine induced coma.  

     No luck on either count.  My seatmate fell into a deep relationship with 
his headphones and the three movies they showed us to keep our cramped legs 
from reminiscing about roomier days.   Then I fell prey to my mother's dire 
predictions of airplane alcohol dehydration coupled with a rousing description 
of jet lag.  The only explanation for such cowardice lies in my recent recovery 
from the "Seattle crud."  I was still weak in the knees after a bout with the 
terminal wet housed deep in my lungs and my energy sapped after wrestling with 
appropriate holiday attire to throw into my suitcase just hours before my 
departure to the "Venice of the East."  I did finally manage to fall asleep 
(unaided by the sweet liquid of Bacchus) for an hour or so.  How I managed to 
contort myself into a fetal position against the airplane's window will forever
 be highlighted among my résumé's list of accomplishments.  

     Eighteen hours of sheer bliss aside, our flight finally touched down on 
the humidity steeped runways of Bangkok. The sunset was every color of the 
spectrum. The orange, purple, blue, and reds all meld into one another 
surrounding the sun's yolk until it quickly surrendered to the cloud cover 
lounging on the horizon.  I sat enthralled and bleary eyed as my neck craned 
for a better view of the mammoth Thai characters mounted on the arrival gate. 
 The characters were oddly graceful compared to the blocky English translation 
below, which read "Bangkok International Airport."  I imagined the Thai 
lettering slithering down off the rooftop to greet me.  "Welcome to the City of 
Lights," it sighed.  I was sure that the English lettering was just a silly 
attempt to coddle its Western audience.  It's like those dubbed Japanese 
movies; I am almost sure the lengthy pause between English words and the 
Sensai's Japanese mouth must translate into much more than "Stop, or I'll lop 
your silly head off!"  I knew better, even if my counterparts sat calmly in 
their seats oblivious to the nuance. 


     Sleep deprivation can make even the most welcoming view transform itself 
into a Salvador Dali inspired canvas.  At the very least, it conjures up an 
internal dialogue you're hard pressed to stifle.  If seized at the right moment 
and translated from your full head to parchment, the gold flakes of your psyche 
could shower the greediest of miners with wealth. While my travel journal lay 
neglected, (gold miners abandoned and sent to find a wealthier patroness) my 
struggle to run the gauntlet through baggage claim, customs officials, and taxi
 drivers had just begun.  I slipped past the throng of drivers clutching signs 
with names like "Edward Jones party" and "Hilton Shuttle."  Over my shoulder 
the taxi driver feeding frenzy had yet to abate.  I couldn't help but pause; 
stifling the urge to give them all a short bow, I clambered into the plush 
velvet of night instead.  

Bangkok.  

Bangkok.

 I swirled the name around on my tongue as the city regarded me with 
undisguised curiosity and I lowered my eyes in admiration.