good to be back
The walk down the gangway was like experiencing a complete seasonal change in the span of fifteen seconds. It’s as if you walked from the leaf-strewn sidewalks of fall, to the humid cicada buzz filled nights of summer in twelve paces. The cool air of the cabin rapidly dissipated into the night sky as we stepped through the Remora like mouth of the enclosed stairway, resembling a giant parasite now attached to the body of the airplane. Down its throat we ascended and soon spit out onto the wet tarmac, our luggage ladled shoulders already aching. We were successful but weary time travelers, having now flown into the future, leaving yesterday with our friends and family back in the States.
Like astronauts back from a trip into the outer stratosphere we were ushered into quarantined shuttle buses, each passenger of flight 881 packed like pigs in the back of a truck. A short drive later, the doors opened, releasing us into the main concourse where the familiar smell of musty conditioned air permeated our senses. We ascended a second set of stairs like brain-starved zombies, anxious to be finished with the familiar ritual of immigrations. After handling over our passports and posing for a bloodshot portrait before the iris of an electronic camera perched on the officer’s desk, we soon found ourselves standing next to the luggage carousel, memorized by the dizzying effect of the moving conveyor belt. It soon yielded our bags, magically birthed from the belly of the time machine from which we had just arrived on.
“Nothing to declare” at least nothing within our baggage, but if given the opportunity I would have declared that I was not in the mood to be propositioned for a taxi, which began soon after passing through the throngs of people awaiting other passengers and holding signs with scribbled sir names on them. Like a red carpet reception, we passed the onlookers like celebrities for an imaginary film premier.
Boonlien, our driver, emerged from the crowd, a classic Thai smile on his face. We mustered enough energy to respond with a “Sawadee,” and a “Sa bai di Mai?” He grabbed what he could of our baggage and led us to where the van was parked. It was about midnight. A mere 22 hours and some odd minutes later, we were officially back in Bangkok. Far from the heady experience I’d had in January during my initial arrival here, but happy to know a soft bed was not in our distant future.
Turns out the bed was incidental; ten minutes into our drive from the city down to the coastal town of Sriracha we were past REM sleep, in a world neither here nor there. An unconscious stupor, a dreamless passing of time. The house was as we had left it. Perhaps less cluttered, as the cleaning lady tends to simply put things in piles – more the illusion of tidiness than actually being so. Our 5am wake up call this morning seemed to sound just minutes after closing our eyes. To her credit, Natalie was up and showering moments later. I on the other hand, like most mornings needing a bit more incentive. It’s mid afternoon now. My eyes are blood-shot and threaten to stay closed the next time I blink. My brain protesting every thought. I guess that’s where this ends. In short, it’s good to be back.
Like astronauts back from a trip into the outer stratosphere we were ushered into quarantined shuttle buses, each passenger of flight 881 packed like pigs in the back of a truck. A short drive later, the doors opened, releasing us into the main concourse where the familiar smell of musty conditioned air permeated our senses. We ascended a second set of stairs like brain-starved zombies, anxious to be finished with the familiar ritual of immigrations. After handling over our passports and posing for a bloodshot portrait before the iris of an electronic camera perched on the officer’s desk, we soon found ourselves standing next to the luggage carousel, memorized by the dizzying effect of the moving conveyor belt. It soon yielded our bags, magically birthed from the belly of the time machine from which we had just arrived on.
“Nothing to declare” at least nothing within our baggage, but if given the opportunity I would have declared that I was not in the mood to be propositioned for a taxi, which began soon after passing through the throngs of people awaiting other passengers and holding signs with scribbled sir names on them. Like a red carpet reception, we passed the onlookers like celebrities for an imaginary film premier.
Boonlien, our driver, emerged from the crowd, a classic Thai smile on his face. We mustered enough energy to respond with a “Sawadee,” and a “Sa bai di Mai?” He grabbed what he could of our baggage and led us to where the van was parked. It was about midnight. A mere 22 hours and some odd minutes later, we were officially back in Bangkok. Far from the heady experience I’d had in January during my initial arrival here, but happy to know a soft bed was not in our distant future.
Turns out the bed was incidental; ten minutes into our drive from the city down to the coastal town of Sriracha we were past REM sleep, in a world neither here nor there. An unconscious stupor, a dreamless passing of time. The house was as we had left it. Perhaps less cluttered, as the cleaning lady tends to simply put things in piles – more the illusion of tidiness than actually being so. Our 5am wake up call this morning seemed to sound just minutes after closing our eyes. To her credit, Natalie was up and showering moments later. I on the other hand, like most mornings needing a bit more incentive. It’s mid afternoon now. My eyes are blood-shot and threaten to stay closed the next time I blink. My brain protesting every thought. I guess that’s where this ends. In short, it’s good to be back.
posted by Joel at 3:58 PM
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