Sunday, 03 April 2005
Bangkok
What a comfortable train! Apart from the odd wake-up at the odd stop I sleep right through, waking just in time for a lousy breakfast. We pass through more villages and small towns, some with remarkably neat railway stations, before rolling into Bangkok slightly ahead of schedule after a 20-hour trip.
I still get a kick out of how easy travel has become. It never ceases to amaze me that Mr Hertz will toss me the keys to a new car when I stroll out of the airport terminal. I always feel delighted when I can just pull my mobile phone out and call home (or call my lawyer, as I had to do from KL) when, back in the bad-old-days, that would have required queuing for hours at the post office, filling in forms in triplicate, paying a deposit, coming back six hours later and then not being able to understand a word of it. So I'm equally delighted when I leave the train at Bangkok's Hualamphong Station, walk out into the entrance area and within minutes have extracted a pocketful of baht from an ATM. This is too easy!
At my hotel I dump my bag, grab a shower, walk out to the street and at the first junction I'm jerked straight back to the old Bangkok. A young man grabs my arm and flips open his portfolio to illustrate the sexual delights I could be indulging in before lunchtime. Why have I bothered with the shower when I could have been having a bubble bath with half a dozen beautiful girls? (Of course in Bangkok the adjective will certainly be correct, but it's wise to check carefully before accepting the noun is accurate.) Round the corner I'm grabbed by what must be the young man's mother, who has a similar brochure to show me, just in case I didn't get the message.
I spend the afternoon on other traditional Bangkok pursuits: an excellent and ridiculously cheap lunch at a pavement street stall, much more expensive tea and biscuits in the Author's Lounge at the Oriental Hotel (where I'm pleased to see I have several guidebooks on the bookshelves), and then a visit to Jim Thompson's ever-delightful house. In the evening I make a pilgrimage stroll down Patpong Road, a shadow of its old self. These days the emphasis is much more on fake watches than on sexual gymnastics.
I still get a kick out of how easy travel has become. It never ceases to amaze me that Mr Hertz will toss me the keys to a new car when I stroll out of the airport terminal. I always feel delighted when I can just pull my mobile phone out and call home (or call my lawyer, as I had to do from KL) when, back in the bad-old-days, that would have required queuing for hours at the post office, filling in forms in triplicate, paying a deposit, coming back six hours later and then not being able to understand a word of it. So I'm equally delighted when I leave the train at Bangkok's Hualamphong Station, walk out into the entrance area and within minutes have extracted a pocketful of baht from an ATM. This is too easy!At my hotel I dump my bag, grab a shower, walk out to the street and at the first junction I'm jerked straight back to the old Bangkok. A young man grabs my arm and flips open his portfolio to illustrate the sexual delights I could be indulging in before lunchtime. Why have I bothered with the shower when I could have been having a bubble bath with half a dozen beautiful girls? (Of course in Bangkok the adjective will certainly be correct, but it's wise to check carefully before accepting the noun is accurate.) Round the corner I'm grabbed by what must be the young man's mother, who has a similar brochure to show me, just in case I didn't get the message. I spend the afternoon on other traditional Bangkok pursuits: an excellent and ridiculously cheap lunch at a pavement street stall, much more expensive tea and biscuits in the Author's Lounge at the Oriental Hotel (where I'm pleased to see I have several guidebooks on the bookshelves), and then a visit to Jim Thompson's ever-delightful house. In the evening I make a pilgrimage stroll down Patpong Road, a shadow of its old self. These days the emphasis is much more on fake watches than on sexual gymnastics.
Once while Travelling: The Lonely Planet Story
