This is the kind of day that really determines whether or not you can live in the moment. We know upon awakening that this is our last kind of vacationy vacation day; we're leaving the natural environments for a big, filthy city. But, we are zenfully unfazed as we enjoy our last half day on the beach. It is sunny and the water is fine (though it is hard to stand on the sandy bottom of the Andaman shore without occasionally considering it's naked exposure just before the tsunami hit).
The car to the airport is wonderfully air conditioned and the driver is uncharacteristically cautious.
Landing in Bangkok is much more fun when you've spent a week or two sparring with other cities. And, at this point, Julie is a bartering fool. She is spiraling into a dangerous mental state wherein the sufferer is convinced that anything can be acquired for exactly what you think you can get it for and not a penny more. She wants the "local price," not the "tourist price" on everything. She probably snapped after the third time she overheard a vendor cackling as we walked away having just paid them "a favorable price" on an item. It's an odd habit the sellers have and she'll be their fool no more. Our cab ride from the airport to our reserved hotel goes from 1200 baht at the official-looking airport kiosk down to 900 baht at the very whisper of an objection, down to 700 baht when we are approached outside by an official-looking guy outside after declining the kiosk hustler's offer, down to 450 baht - tolls included (that's not a gimme) - when we just go to the regular old taxi line.
Driving into Bangkok from the airport isn't too different from driving into NYC on the Expressway. The traffic is similar, the billboards, etc. The city itself is like a cross between NYC and LA; sprawling with some big buildings here and there, like LA and concrete and weather-worn like NYC. Since our reserved hotels have by and large blown this trip, we don't even check into this last one, we just go in like strangers and sak for rates and to look at a room. It sucks and the street is dead, so we are off!
As you might imagine, we have gotten accustomed to dropping into a city and finding a hotel (or a replacement hotel, in most cases), so sussing out Bangkok is not too difficult.
A short walk finds us in the Banglamphu district during a busy night market. The street is closed to traffic and the place is packed. The street is festooned, yes fully festooned, with food, clothing, souvenirs and bootleg everything joints and the storefronts are a neon machine gun blast of restaurants, massage places and guest houses. In among the churning, slow motion chaos we identify a couple of hotels covered in the Rough Guide book. These books, generally referenced by the same category of traveler as Lonely Planet make a similar mistake. Recommendations are relative; the from whom must match the to whom. The from whoms in these two books clearly have a desire of discomfort in the course of penny-pinching frugality. A traveler desiring cleanliness and ambiance can very frequently find it independently for a negligible addition expenditure...like the difference being $3 USD! (One thing that you constantly have to remind yourself of is the value of the currency. A hotel room can be 1000 baht and another 1200 baht. The difference is $6 USD but the 200 baht feels like a lot more money. Tipping with a 20 baht bill feels like $20 USD, but it's really about 70 cents.) Long story short, we do that.
The place we stay in is brand new and it's called the Villa Cha Cha (do everyone a favor and keep your lips tight about it. It is a gem.) The lobby restaurant area butts up against the pool area, which is overlooked by the loft area all of which is festooned (the word festooned has yet to been used in these diaries and lost time must be made up) with great lighting fixtures and statues. Techno music beats softy against the edges of our long day as we absorb the vibes, the pool, the food and the Chang and its neck-messaging 7% alcohol...in a coffee mug.
Chic room, crisp sheets, G'night Bangkok.
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