So, I have this good friend back from the States. When I knew her a few years ago (before I left for Thailand), she was so great. Young, beautiful, bright, energetic, and fun. She worked as one of my assistant’s at my last job in the U.S., and I always stated that she “was the best assistant I ever had.” And I still mean it today.
So, when a few months ago she wrote me, looking for a job, and I just HAPPENED to have an opening, it seemed perfect. In a frenzy of excited emails and lots of paperwork and preparation, the friend arrived! (Let’s just call her “Rory”). I was so excited to see her at the airport, and we talked of things we might do. I found her a little bit more reserved than I’d remembered her, but 1) she was a couple years older now and 2) she’d just got off one of the most hellish things a person can do – fly transcontinentally.
As the days went forward, strange things began to surface. I was a little surprised at her immediate need to be in luxurious western malls, hanging out in Starbucks and downing Dairy Queen on a daily basis (usually you don’t need your “western fix” until a great deal of time has gone by and the veneer of Bangkok begins to rub off). I was also surprised by her insistence that she live in a “foreigner” area. This is Thailand after all, filled with….Thais. Sure, there are a couple foreigner areas, pockets really, and very expensive (the people who live there are often paid Western salaries which enables them to live like emperors and emperoresses here. I didn’t really yearn to be around Westerners until like a year and a half had gone by and I started to fantasize about Mexican food, Barnes & Nobles, and speaking English how I normally would (and not slowed down or dumbed down). I think that’s when I started watching a lot of movies here (something I still enjoy a great deal).
Yet, she was very determined to do certain things like finding a dream apartment, locating a long and beautiful place to walk, and using her new job here to quickly dig herself out of debt. Quickly, I tried to tell her that all three things were a little far-fetched for Bangkok unless you work for the U.S. Embassy, Unocal, or a drug lord.
“There is NO ‘Target’ in Bangkok.”
This my own personal saying, and what it means is this: in Bangkok, there are usually only two tiers to things – really cheap and fairly shitty quality, and super expensive and fantastic quality. The “Target Department Store” genre (cheap to mid-priced items of fair to good quality) is not readily available. I’ve found this annoying myself, especially when it comes to clothes. I am not fat, but I am big (tall with a medium build). Considering most Thai women have narrow shoulders, tiny chests, and could fit their entire body in a shot glass, you can imagine how finding clothes to fit my Nordic frame isn’t so simple. I’ve only found two places to buy clothes easily “off the rack,” and at both of them I spend much more money on something like a t-shirt, than I EVER spent back in the U.S. That’s just the way it is.
Rory had a very difficult time finding her dream apartment (1-bedroom with all the foreigner stuff that are considered treasured amenities here, i.e. a large room, air-con, hot water, pool, work-out room, etc.). Also, she was disappointed by the location of our school (Northwest Bangkok, a bit of a distance from the “foreigner” or “farang” areas which are in the south and southwest part of Bangkok).
Also, she realized (this one surprised me) that she wasn’t going to get rich teaching in Thailand (no one ever does…this isn’t Japan or Korea five years ago!). Admittedly, I have more disposable income than I have EVER had in my life due to the incredibly cheap cost of food and relatively cheap cost of living overall. And, during my three years here, I have JUST managed to pay off all my evil credit cards back in the U.S., and this was with me wiring a very hefty chunk of my paycheck home each month.
Rory was taken around to five apartments in the immediate area (we have long since learned that a teacher living too far from school is a VERY unhappy teacher). Dealing with Bangkok’s early morning traffic can send anyone over the edge. Rory wasn’t too pleased, or couldn’t afford them, and looked further. It became a rabid quest with her, and consumed her day and night, leading to hours on the internet searching out websites, and calling brokers. Luck wasn’t with her, and as the days slowly crept buy, she became increasingly frantic. I didn’t know what to do since we always offer our new teachers the five local apartment complexes and that’s about it. I myself am a teacher, and not an apartment broker, and my limited Thai doesn’t enable me to find out where the good places to live are.
During all of this, I kept urging Rory to come to work. We had an interim course which is basically like a light-hearted summer school course until the next semester begins. This was her chance to teach a no-failure class and get her feet wet before the next semester began and it got real serious. After being denied several days in a row for various reasons (I was being pretty patient, wanting her to be able to do her own thing), finally the final day of interim courses arrived.
I informed her cheerfully that this was “the big day” as I woke her up that morning (she’d been staying with me). She asked what I was talking about, and though a little surprised and annoyed, tried to keep my chipper exterior and remind her that this was the last day to teach. She asked if she could “come later in the afternoon,” and I felt myself sink inside. I felt I had been patient long enough, and had felt quite alarmed at her lack of “get up and go.” She’d always been so take charge back at the previous job. I never had to tell her anything twice, and she worked by herself well. This time, she seemed to grudgingly drag herself from event to event. She informed me that she had a meeting at 10am with the broker again. I firmly asked her to change the appointment. This was the last day and there wasn’t time for her to show up late in the day (most classes are taught before noon). She reluctantly got up, showered, and then came out solemnly in a towel and sat on the couch. After a moment, she said,
“Um, I have something I need to tell you. You may be angry.”
Oh fuck. So many times in Thailand I have had “the talk” (in its various forms) with many people. It is never good, and it’s always dramatic. I waited tensely. I was informed that she really wasn’t going to see the broker, but in fact was scheduled for an interview an ANOTHER school that was paying about 10,000 baht more ($250 USD) a month.
I felt a wave of anger wash over me like rapid lava. I felt my hands begin to shake. I was shocked at how angry I was. I was simply shocked. I had given my FRIEND a job which had made me feel a little weird, but since she was such a good person and such a fantastic worker, I thought I could be fully justified. I had pulled strings to get her here. We had done tomes of paperwork justifying hiring her from the U.S. I was letting her stay in my home (until the arrival of my mother two weeks later). I had let her avoid work, (something I would have been firmer with another new employee), and I had ignored her distant, sullen nature in telling myself that it was jet lag, new country jitters, homesickness, etc. I kept thinking she’d snap out of it once she found this coveted apartment. I was a fool. Again.
She spluttered that she probably wouldn’t get the job anyway, that she “MIGHT not take it,” and that she “might not like the school.” Ha, fat chance. An American girl here is like a golden nugget. It’s probably the most sought-after teacher of all native English speakers. American accents are often preferred and women are a rarity (and deeply desired, especially in international kindergartens). It just happened to be an international kindergarten. Fuck.
Not to be overly dramatic myself, but I felt rather betrayed. I guess there’s so much background she couldn’t have known – how fantastically difficult it is to find good teachers in Thailand. How excited we were to have a happy, energetic woman on board (the school will be all male after my departure). How there was only a week and a half until the next semester began! Whoever we desperately found to replace her would be rushed into writing long plans for the entire semester in a short amount of time (unfair to him/her). And of course, this was my friend. Someone who had come all the way across the U.S. For me to give her a new life, for her to take a position teaching position she was well-suited for.
A few more days went by, and there was no apartment. She was leaving early in the morning to seek out long walks, and coming back with meat on sticks (she’s into the no-carbos diet which was intriguing and yet mystifying to me! There’s nothing like that here, especially with the required quota of rice each Thai must intake in a day). Finally, this morning while entering a local internet café to search for apartments again, she was suddenly bitten by a small, stupid, yippy dog (I hate these fucking things. Thais love them and will pay through the nose to own the snobbish little overly-breeded rats). This was the last straw. She was in tears. She was utterly miserable. First, she called home. Then, she asked to talk about it with me. She was so sad, which I felt terrible about, but didn’t really know how to deal with. At some point she began to lash out at me for my lack of assistance, caring, understanding, etc. (another stunning moment). I was immediately defensive, as I thought about how hard I had tried to do everything right. Giving lots of advice when needed (often feeling like I was annoying her with too much), and backing off when she was hinting how much she needed to be alone.
I tried to calm myself down after that and explain to her that I wasn’t trying to be critical or negative (wow, she’s REALLY sensitive about any criticism about her no-carbs diet), but was trying to keep her realistic. Her expectations really were only going to give her future grief (like living far from work or pining for the perfect pad). I think she …kind of… understood after that, and though she said she wasn’t “blaming” or “accusing” me, I had the distinct feeling she really was.
Within minutes she was on the back of my motorcycle on what would be a lengthy and exhausting dash across town to purchase her a plane ticket back to the U.S. (and later another lengthy wait at the hospital to get a just-in-case rabies shot). That’s right, a week after her arrival, she was packing it up and shipping it out. God. I have to admit, after all this, I was a little relieved. I have been here awhile and have seen people like this again and again and AGAIN. The best thing is to let them escape as soon as possible. If you try to keep them “to the end of the semester” (to please parents or make things cleaner), everyone ends up unhappy, including the children.
So, tomorrow as the sun is rising over the Chao Phya river, Rory will be soaring toward the Pacific, back the “comforts” of home (she has her own demons to face back there). As much as I hate how this all ended up, I know it’s really for the best. “It’s something unpredictable, but in the end was right. I hope you had the time of your life.”
A Star Called Henry by Roddy Doyle -- A-
This book follows the life of "Henry," a strong, street smart child who grows up in the slums of Dublin, and later becomes involved in the formation of the IRA and the revolution surrounding it. Though slow to get into, the book is a fantastic read and is more than the typical "God, nothing could be possibly more miserable than being poor and growing up in Ireland" book. It delves into so many areas, explores so many issues, and was so intertwined with real historical events (including the many appearances of Michael Collins), that I kept wondering if Henry Smart was a real historical figures (nope). Good historical fiction, as well as a good look at poltiics, family relationships, feminism, and the effectiveness of violent revolution.
Sunday, October 19, 2003
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Crash Into Me (Again)
I’ve been riding my motorcycle for a couple years now and have felt utterly comfortable and confident about it. One thing I particularly like about riding my motorcycle is how I am able to focus like an air traffic controller. Having an annoying case of ADD all my life, it’s nice to be able to focus so completely on something and feel alert and not sleepy as a result.
It was Saturday and time for French class. The French embassy is quite a distance from my house and I decided to ride the motorcycle the whole way to save some time. The great thing about riding a motorcycle here is that it can cut travel time in a half, and often even more so. I was about halfway there and making a right turn at a major intersection. There was a taxi on my left, who suddenly decided he had to be in my lane RIGHT NOW! Sometimes you see this in Bangkok – a car makes a sudden and violent turn into another lane – pushing their way through a small spot that opens up. I GUESS he did not see me. I don’t know. He sure felt me, for he hit me like a…well, I’d like to say a mack truck, but it was really “just” a taxi.
I felt the taxi slam into the side of my body and felt my body bounce a few times against the taxi. It’s amazing how you can recall minute details and at the same time, things all seem hazy. It’s also amazing on how a pasty, soft human being like myself can have all “natural” instincts for survival kick in less than a single second. Soon, I was on the asphalt, my bike revolving on top of me, and I quickly extracted myself from it. And yet, at the same time, I quickly looked up, just in time to watch that fucking asshole of a taxi sail off into the sunset, without a care in the world. At that moment, I think my heart sank to my now-scuffed shoes. It’s one thing to be hit, it’s another thing to watch the thug race away in a cloud of disgrace. I laid there for a moment in disbelief, and then looked around to see if anyone was coming to help me.
No. No one.
I slowly limped and led the now, slightly-bent bike to the side of the road. Traffic, relieved to see me clearing the road finally, resumed. I sat there on the defunct motorcycle for a moment taking it all in. I had just experienced a hit and run. No one stopped (unless I was blocking the road). No one helped me. And the taxi drive was probably halfway to China by now. I looked at what appeared to be my only immediate injury – a bloody and banged up elbow. As time wore on, I would be happy and unhappy to find my only other injuries were minor – cuts and scrapes on my arms and legs. Good thing I was wearing my giant helmet.
I have to tell you, being the ‘victim’ of a hit-and-run is rather heartbreaking. That may be a dramatic term, but it was how I felt. The first time I was hit, it was very different, with several people offering to help and being kind. Now, I felt as if I was simply a temporary and annoying road block for the Bangkokians.
Luckily, a police hut (small little huts that sit at major intersections to do traffic duty and such). I slowly made my way over to him on the other side of the road. He was polite, but completely unsympathetic. He informed me that I was “unhurt” (Ha!) and that the taxi driver was long gone, so there wasn’t anything he could do. Obviously, he was going to do nothing.
I called my Thai friend (roommate) and told her what happened. I have noticed that no matter how calm you may feel, once you begin telling someone you care about it, all your emotions flood out. Yup, that’s right, I was crying like Jimmy Swaggert (he would’ve loved Bangkok!). Now, Thais are polite and kind, but they’re not always known for their compassion (like when I was told on September 11th to “shake it off”). My roomie was laughing at my crying, though she did let me know she would be on her way immediately. I spent the next hour sitting in the tiny, though thankfully air-conditioned, cubicle with the cop. At least my roomie would come and play translator (my Thai only gets me so far), and sort of take care of me. I didn’t want to do jackshit but maybe have a bit to eat and sleep.
My roommate arrived – with a friend! Although I knew and liked the friend, I have to tell you, the last thing I wanted at that moment was to socialize. (I’m not great at it even in the best of health). I spent the next couple of hours treating them to some “strange” (to them) food at Outback Steakhouse.
Oh well.
It was Saturday and time for French class. The French embassy is quite a distance from my house and I decided to ride the motorcycle the whole way to save some time. The great thing about riding a motorcycle here is that it can cut travel time in a half, and often even more so. I was about halfway there and making a right turn at a major intersection. There was a taxi on my left, who suddenly decided he had to be in my lane RIGHT NOW! Sometimes you see this in Bangkok – a car makes a sudden and violent turn into another lane – pushing their way through a small spot that opens up. I GUESS he did not see me. I don’t know. He sure felt me, for he hit me like a…well, I’d like to say a mack truck, but it was really “just” a taxi.
I felt the taxi slam into the side of my body and felt my body bounce a few times against the taxi. It’s amazing how you can recall minute details and at the same time, things all seem hazy. It’s also amazing on how a pasty, soft human being like myself can have all “natural” instincts for survival kick in less than a single second. Soon, I was on the asphalt, my bike revolving on top of me, and I quickly extracted myself from it. And yet, at the same time, I quickly looked up, just in time to watch that fucking asshole of a taxi sail off into the sunset, without a care in the world. At that moment, I think my heart sank to my now-scuffed shoes. It’s one thing to be hit, it’s another thing to watch the thug race away in a cloud of disgrace. I laid there for a moment in disbelief, and then looked around to see if anyone was coming to help me.
No. No one.
I slowly limped and led the now, slightly-bent bike to the side of the road. Traffic, relieved to see me clearing the road finally, resumed. I sat there on the defunct motorcycle for a moment taking it all in. I had just experienced a hit and run. No one stopped (unless I was blocking the road). No one helped me. And the taxi drive was probably halfway to China by now. I looked at what appeared to be my only immediate injury – a bloody and banged up elbow. As time wore on, I would be happy and unhappy to find my only other injuries were minor – cuts and scrapes on my arms and legs. Good thing I was wearing my giant helmet.
I have to tell you, being the ‘victim’ of a hit-and-run is rather heartbreaking. That may be a dramatic term, but it was how I felt. The first time I was hit, it was very different, with several people offering to help and being kind. Now, I felt as if I was simply a temporary and annoying road block for the Bangkokians.
Luckily, a police hut (small little huts that sit at major intersections to do traffic duty and such). I slowly made my way over to him on the other side of the road. He was polite, but completely unsympathetic. He informed me that I was “unhurt” (Ha!) and that the taxi driver was long gone, so there wasn’t anything he could do. Obviously, he was going to do nothing.
I called my Thai friend (roommate) and told her what happened. I have noticed that no matter how calm you may feel, once you begin telling someone you care about it, all your emotions flood out. Yup, that’s right, I was crying like Jimmy Swaggert (he would’ve loved Bangkok!). Now, Thais are polite and kind, but they’re not always known for their compassion (like when I was told on September 11th to “shake it off”). My roomie was laughing at my crying, though she did let me know she would be on her way immediately. I spent the next hour sitting in the tiny, though thankfully air-conditioned, cubicle with the cop. At least my roomie would come and play translator (my Thai only gets me so far), and sort of take care of me. I didn’t want to do jackshit but maybe have a bit to eat and sleep.
My roommate arrived – with a friend! Although I knew and liked the friend, I have to tell you, the last thing I wanted at that moment was to socialize. (I’m not great at it even in the best of health). I spent the next couple of hours treating them to some “strange” (to them) food at Outback Steakhouse.
Oh well.
Saturday, September 13, 2003
Someone finally tries to bribe ME!
Okay, well, sort of. During my few years in Thailand, I believe I have handed out a total of three bribes (two in Thailand, one in Burma). That's about one a year. Not too bad, I guess. Still I usually carry a 100 baht bill (about $2.50) in my pocket when on my motorcycle just in case. You never know.
So, I'm eating at one of my favorite "farang" or foreign food restaurants. I've gone a few too many times, especially since the manager greets me with a warm greeting of recognition and informs the waiter to put me in my usual table. After a typically satisfying meal, the waitress, who has been especially attentive, brings me the check. She happily announces that she has deducted 10%. Thinking this was just part of the frequent-eater-appreciation comments I'd been getting that day, I smiled and told her how nice that was, thank you, etc. etc. Then she promptly plunks down a piece of paper and a pen next to me.
It takes me a moment to realize just what exactly this is -- a ballot. Ahhhh okay. *mild amusmant, though no surprise*
It's for one of these "Best Restaurant of" that you have in nearly any city over 10,000 people in the world. The waitress kindly pointed out exactly where I could fill in the name of her restaurant and informed me how she'd happily collect my ballot as soon as I'm finished.
*snicker*
Is my integrity worth 10% off of some chicken fingers and french fries (and a damn fine fruit smoothie!)? Not exactly, but it did give me the opportunity to vote for a lot of my other favorite restaurants (like the fantastic "Bourbon Street Grill" for Cajun food). And yes, this bribing "American" restaurant was one of my favorites as well. Why else would they greet me like Norm in Cheers?
Quickie Book Review: The Four Feathers by A.E.W. Mason
I really enjoyed this book, written surprisingly back in 1905. Despite a) it's slow beginning and b) it's potential at first to be some boring, 'how glorious men, war, and camaraderie are' book! It does have that whole "honor Honor HONOR!" theme suffocating you throughout, and the romantic aspects in it are a bit idealistic, but in the end, it is still a beautiful book about personal redempetion, zen-like patience in achieving a noble goal, and maybe the most realistic part -- overcoming the anvil-like issues our parents can thrust upon us. I recommend it! I've already acquired a copy of the film, which in the trailer seems fantastically different from the book (sigh), but still am anxious to see it (and still waiting for Pride and Prejudice to arrive too!).
So, I'm eating at one of my favorite "farang" or foreign food restaurants. I've gone a few too many times, especially since the manager greets me with a warm greeting of recognition and informs the waiter to put me in my usual table. After a typically satisfying meal, the waitress, who has been especially attentive, brings me the check. She happily announces that she has deducted 10%. Thinking this was just part of the frequent-eater-appreciation comments I'd been getting that day, I smiled and told her how nice that was, thank you, etc. etc. Then she promptly plunks down a piece of paper and a pen next to me.
It takes me a moment to realize just what exactly this is -- a ballot. Ahhhh okay. *mild amusmant, though no surprise*
It's for one of these "Best Restaurant of
*snicker*
Is my integrity worth 10% off of some chicken fingers and french fries (and a damn fine fruit smoothie!)? Not exactly, but it did give me the opportunity to vote for a lot of my other favorite restaurants (like the fantastic "Bourbon Street Grill" for Cajun food). And yes, this bribing "American" restaurant was one of my favorites as well. Why else would they greet me like Norm in Cheers?
Quickie Book Review: The Four Feathers by A.E.W. Mason
I really enjoyed this book, written surprisingly back in 1905. Despite a) it's slow beginning and b) it's potential at first to be some boring, 'how glorious men, war, and camaraderie are' book! It does have that whole "honor Honor HONOR!" theme suffocating you throughout, and the romantic aspects in it are a bit idealistic, but in the end, it is still a beautiful book about personal redempetion, zen-like patience in achieving a noble goal, and maybe the most realistic part -- overcoming the anvil-like issues our parents can thrust upon us. I recommend it! I've already acquired a copy of the film, which in the trailer seems fantastically different from the book (sigh), but still am anxious to see it (and still waiting for Pride and Prejudice to arrive too!).
Thursday, August 28, 2003
Pride and Prejudice (and Snobbery) by Austen - A
Pride and Prejudice (and Snobbery) by Austen - A
You know, if I were to be honest with myself (and the rest of the world) I would admit that I have at times had "issues" with the English. I think the main reason has to do with snobbery. I hate it. I am a snob about snobs, I guess. Maybe it's because snobbery is so connected to class. Maybe it's because snobbery has to do with being cruel to usually innocent people (another thing I have trouble accepting). Maybe because snobs just fucking suck. Anyway, I've never been a big fan of English lit, especially since anything written before 1930 seems to talk about the rich rich English with their pretty dresses and horse carriages and fine ways. *puke* I finally read Austen's Persuasion several months back, and though I didn't think it was a work of staggering genius, did find it entertaining.
Of course, Austen pokes fun at snobs. I had a debate with an English friend whether she is playfully poking fun or more subtly calling the upper class a bunch of self-obsessed assholes (I leant toward the latter argument). So, anyway, I just recently picked up and finished Pride and Prejudice and found that I really loved it.
Maybe that will make some people groan, but it's true. Maybe it has something to do with the idiotic romantic in me I keep imagining long dead, or maybe it's the old cliche that all women envision themselves as Elizabeth (though don't we all envision ourselves as the main characters in MOST books!?). And sure, you could see the eventual outcome of the book by about page six, but still, it was a winnner with me. Maybe because it's a fun blend of intense romance, like all her books, while REALLY taking a look at snobbery, cruelty, contradictions, selfishness, and an array of other ridiculous things in society at that time.
One thing I find very interesting, is that in Sense and Sensibility (of which I've only seen the movie, not read the book), the wild, outspoken, free-spirited girl is, though punished cruelly for her actions, portrayed in the end as being a very positive thing. That it is the free spirit that is the true soul, who is free of all these idiotic pretentions and self and society-inflicted misery. And yet, in Pride and Prejudice, it is the sister with these same free-spirited characteristics who is potrayed as close to evil as one can get. She's improper, she's outspoken, she's without shame, she's hurt her family's reputation, she's a fucking idiot! She should just marry the asshole everyone hates and go on with what everyone is assured of as a miserable married life in order to salvage a shred of her family's dignity.
I'm not interested in becoming a total Austenphile now and delving into what I am sure are tomes on the subject of her and her books. Instead, I've ordered the BBC Pride and Prejudice DVD to be RUSHED to me through the mail! How else to top off a great book than watching the stiff and strangely attractive Colin Firth mumble on the screen! *flutter*
You know, if I were to be honest with myself (and the rest of the world) I would admit that I have at times had "issues" with the English. I think the main reason has to do with snobbery. I hate it. I am a snob about snobs, I guess. Maybe it's because snobbery is so connected to class. Maybe it's because snobbery has to do with being cruel to usually innocent people (another thing I have trouble accepting). Maybe because snobs just fucking suck. Anyway, I've never been a big fan of English lit, especially since anything written before 1930 seems to talk about the rich rich English with their pretty dresses and horse carriages and fine ways. *puke* I finally read Austen's Persuasion several months back, and though I didn't think it was a work of staggering genius, did find it entertaining.
Of course, Austen pokes fun at snobs. I had a debate with an English friend whether she is playfully poking fun or more subtly calling the upper class a bunch of self-obsessed assholes (I leant toward the latter argument). So, anyway, I just recently picked up and finished Pride and Prejudice and found that I really loved it.
Maybe that will make some people groan, but it's true. Maybe it has something to do with the idiotic romantic in me I keep imagining long dead, or maybe it's the old cliche that all women envision themselves as Elizabeth (though don't we all envision ourselves as the main characters in MOST books!?). And sure, you could see the eventual outcome of the book by about page six, but still, it was a winnner with me. Maybe because it's a fun blend of intense romance, like all her books, while REALLY taking a look at snobbery, cruelty, contradictions, selfishness, and an array of other ridiculous things in society at that time.
One thing I find very interesting, is that in Sense and Sensibility (of which I've only seen the movie, not read the book), the wild, outspoken, free-spirited girl is, though punished cruelly for her actions, portrayed in the end as being a very positive thing. That it is the free spirit that is the true soul, who is free of all these idiotic pretentions and self and society-inflicted misery. And yet, in Pride and Prejudice, it is the sister with these same free-spirited characteristics who is potrayed as close to evil as one can get. She's improper, she's outspoken, she's without shame, she's hurt her family's reputation, she's a fucking idiot! She should just marry the asshole everyone hates and go on with what everyone is assured of as a miserable married life in order to salvage a shred of her family's dignity.
I'm not interested in becoming a total Austenphile now and delving into what I am sure are tomes on the subject of her and her books. Instead, I've ordered the BBC Pride and Prejudice DVD to be RUSHED to me through the mail! How else to top off a great book than watching the stiff and strangely attractive Colin Firth mumble on the screen! *flutter*
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
DISROBED
I was having one of those days where you have time off, and really want to use it well, but your original plans fall through so you’re left scrambling to make something significant of what’s left of the day. I finally decided to ride on over to the “Temple of the Golden Mount.” This mouthful of a temple has always been a favorite of mine. You climb it slowly through a series of steps that are only comfortable for geishas or tightly-constricted monks. It’s like riding a stairmaster to top of a mountain. Along the way, as you encircle it, are various ancient trees, statues, and other Buddhist images and artifacts. This is about the fifth time I have come here, but it certainly was the most interesting.
I got there right about 5:30pm, and I knew it might be closing just about now. So, as I was hurrying up the tiny stairs, I came upon a figure on the side. There were some cement benches and some trees. I saw a Thai man who was dressed only in what could be described as a giant loincloth/diaper (kind of what you’d see strapped to a sumo wrestler). He was making these movements back and forth..back and forth..and I was slow to understand what was going on. “What is he doing….is he exercising….that…doesn’t….look quite right. Wait a minute, is that a PENIS I see? Holy shit!” It seems the young man was doing his very best to get it on with a cement bench. During this whole time I didn’t break my stride up the stairs, but was completely stunned. I’ve never seen anything like this in Thailand before. I kept walking as if all was normal.
Yet, it was not over, those thankfully less dramatic. Only about 15 feet from Mr. Eager Beaver was another man, passed out on the path to my left, in a classic too-much-Thai-whisky pose. You’d expect an empty bottle in his hand, with the last few drops slowly seeping out to the ground. But no! In this man’s outstretched hand was a slightly-mangled box of….Chiclets! I kid you not! It was a box of gum! If you saw everything save his hand, you would swear the guy was passed out from booze. Maybe he tried to freshen his breath at the last minute before going unconscious.
And what is strange about all of this is that it is a temple, a very important one that tourists flock to, heaving themselves slowly up the baby steps, and stopping along the way to catch their breath or ring a giant bell of which they have no comprehension of its significance. I’ve never seen such things at a temple before, which would be comparable to a man rubbing up to a statue of Mary in a catholic church.
Finally, I reached the top, after being warned by each descending tourist that the roof was closed. This was disappointing since the roof is, of course, the whole point of climbing this stairway to heaven. On the roof, next to the giant golden stupa, you have a 360 degree view of Bangkok which gives the city a kind of beauty and dignity impossible to see in daylight.
At the top, the doors were closed, but a few people were hanging out on the steps, taking in the view and enjoying the strong and cool winds that blow at that height. Standing there was the obligatory monk, looking a little nervous and eager at the same time. There were also the people taking care of the temple (those who locked the doors and sold tourists water, soda, and cheap Buddha images), who were looking impatient with the hangers-on.
It wasn’t long before the monk had struck up a conversation with me, as well as a good-looking young Thai man who worked there. I was surprised to be attracted to the Thai man since it’s a pretty rare thing for me. It’s difficult to feel attraction to someone who clocks you in the femininity department. This guy had enough masculinity (hair on his legs, hooray!) to not make me feel like a Nordic giant, and he spoke English well, another rarity. I felt myself torn between the over-eager monk who was obviously trying to establish a friendship in order to “practice his English” as he said, and the cute guy who had an interesting story. The cute guy had just recently “disrobed” from the monkhood which was hinted at in his hair which was in the Caesar stage of the growing-out process. The 27 year old said he had been a monk for the past 13 years! When I asked what would make someone “disrobe” (I know, the word is just too much, isn’t it?) after all that time, he said, “Well, I think a monk’s life is too smooth…and I want my life to be kind of….rough.”
Oh REAL-ly! OOooooooh! I found him even more attractive until he said this…..
“And I had to disrobe now, because I want to be a flight attendant and there’s an age limit for joining.”
“Umm, okay. That’s fair.”
Time went on with Eager Monk Man and Cute Disrobed Man. Finally, CDM said he had to go, and waved goodbye. I was left there with EMM politely listening to him going on about a Buddhist temple in NYC, while the vision of my body sprinting down the stairs after CDM was repeating itself in my head. After a couple of minutes, I kind of hinted to the EMM that I should probably get going. As we were making our way down the steps, the EMM suggested I could come to see his room in the monk compound (of which the temple was a part of).
WHAT?!?!?!
A monk is inviting me back to his room? Is that…uh…right? Awkwardly, I declined, saying I better be going. Before I reached the bottom, CDM was there with two old women who were probably his relatives. Meanwhile, the EMM had scrawled out his name, address, phone number, and email on a slip of paper and offered it up to me (a woman cannot touch a male monk), of which I took and stuffed in my pocket. Then EMM slunk off, probably embarrassed that I hadn’t accepted his invitation. Though I admit that I’m curious as to what a monk’s room looks like, it didn’t feel quite “ria proy” as a Thai would say, or “proper.”
The CDM seemed to be lurking a little, which was what I was hoping. As they saw me approach my motorcycle, the typical gasps and exclamations were made followed by the usual compliments that *I*, a WHITE GIRL, could possibly ride a motorcycle by myself. Words of “good good” were murmured for a bit. The guy asked if I was going out for fun and I said I was headed to a place not far away where I would be getting dinner. One of the old women said he was going near there too. I asked him if he wanted me to give him a ride…..
This was the big moment….
“Um, I have to go eat dinner with my aunts here. I’m not leaving for a half hour.”
Well, that’s it. I’m not going to wait a half hour, especially since I’m on my way to dinner myself and it’s getting late. CDM blew it! I got on my bike, and drove off. Alas!
I guess I could always go back to the temple…but then I'd have to deal with EMM who hinted again and again that I could always find him there at the temple. Ugh.
Well, maybe not.
I got there right about 5:30pm, and I knew it might be closing just about now. So, as I was hurrying up the tiny stairs, I came upon a figure on the side. There were some cement benches and some trees. I saw a Thai man who was dressed only in what could be described as a giant loincloth/diaper (kind of what you’d see strapped to a sumo wrestler). He was making these movements back and forth..back and forth..and I was slow to understand what was going on. “What is he doing….is he exercising….that…doesn’t….look quite right. Wait a minute, is that a PENIS I see? Holy shit!” It seems the young man was doing his very best to get it on with a cement bench. During this whole time I didn’t break my stride up the stairs, but was completely stunned. I’ve never seen anything like this in Thailand before. I kept walking as if all was normal.
Yet, it was not over, those thankfully less dramatic. Only about 15 feet from Mr. Eager Beaver was another man, passed out on the path to my left, in a classic too-much-Thai-whisky pose. You’d expect an empty bottle in his hand, with the last few drops slowly seeping out to the ground. But no! In this man’s outstretched hand was a slightly-mangled box of….Chiclets! I kid you not! It was a box of gum! If you saw everything save his hand, you would swear the guy was passed out from booze. Maybe he tried to freshen his breath at the last minute before going unconscious.
And what is strange about all of this is that it is a temple, a very important one that tourists flock to, heaving themselves slowly up the baby steps, and stopping along the way to catch their breath or ring a giant bell of which they have no comprehension of its significance. I’ve never seen such things at a temple before, which would be comparable to a man rubbing up to a statue of Mary in a catholic church.
Finally, I reached the top, after being warned by each descending tourist that the roof was closed. This was disappointing since the roof is, of course, the whole point of climbing this stairway to heaven. On the roof, next to the giant golden stupa, you have a 360 degree view of Bangkok which gives the city a kind of beauty and dignity impossible to see in daylight.
At the top, the doors were closed, but a few people were hanging out on the steps, taking in the view and enjoying the strong and cool winds that blow at that height. Standing there was the obligatory monk, looking a little nervous and eager at the same time. There were also the people taking care of the temple (those who locked the doors and sold tourists water, soda, and cheap Buddha images), who were looking impatient with the hangers-on.
It wasn’t long before the monk had struck up a conversation with me, as well as a good-looking young Thai man who worked there. I was surprised to be attracted to the Thai man since it’s a pretty rare thing for me. It’s difficult to feel attraction to someone who clocks you in the femininity department. This guy had enough masculinity (hair on his legs, hooray!) to not make me feel like a Nordic giant, and he spoke English well, another rarity. I felt myself torn between the over-eager monk who was obviously trying to establish a friendship in order to “practice his English” as he said, and the cute guy who had an interesting story. The cute guy had just recently “disrobed” from the monkhood which was hinted at in his hair which was in the Caesar stage of the growing-out process. The 27 year old said he had been a monk for the past 13 years! When I asked what would make someone “disrobe” (I know, the word is just too much, isn’t it?) after all that time, he said, “Well, I think a monk’s life is too smooth…and I want my life to be kind of….rough.”
Oh REAL-ly! OOooooooh! I found him even more attractive until he said this…..
“And I had to disrobe now, because I want to be a flight attendant and there’s an age limit for joining.”
“Umm, okay. That’s fair.”
Time went on with Eager Monk Man and Cute Disrobed Man. Finally, CDM said he had to go, and waved goodbye. I was left there with EMM politely listening to him going on about a Buddhist temple in NYC, while the vision of my body sprinting down the stairs after CDM was repeating itself in my head. After a couple of minutes, I kind of hinted to the EMM that I should probably get going. As we were making our way down the steps, the EMM suggested I could come to see his room in the monk compound (of which the temple was a part of).
WHAT?!?!?!
A monk is inviting me back to his room? Is that…uh…right? Awkwardly, I declined, saying I better be going. Before I reached the bottom, CDM was there with two old women who were probably his relatives. Meanwhile, the EMM had scrawled out his name, address, phone number, and email on a slip of paper and offered it up to me (a woman cannot touch a male monk), of which I took and stuffed in my pocket. Then EMM slunk off, probably embarrassed that I hadn’t accepted his invitation. Though I admit that I’m curious as to what a monk’s room looks like, it didn’t feel quite “ria proy” as a Thai would say, or “proper.”
The CDM seemed to be lurking a little, which was what I was hoping. As they saw me approach my motorcycle, the typical gasps and exclamations were made followed by the usual compliments that *I*, a WHITE GIRL, could possibly ride a motorcycle by myself. Words of “good good” were murmured for a bit. The guy asked if I was going out for fun and I said I was headed to a place not far away where I would be getting dinner. One of the old women said he was going near there too. I asked him if he wanted me to give him a ride…..
This was the big moment….
“Um, I have to go eat dinner with my aunts here. I’m not leaving for a half hour.”
Well, that’s it. I’m not going to wait a half hour, especially since I’m on my way to dinner myself and it’s getting late. CDM blew it! I got on my bike, and drove off. Alas!
I guess I could always go back to the temple…but then I'd have to deal with EMM who hinted again and again that I could always find him there at the temple. Ugh.
Well, maybe not.
Monday, July 14, 2003
Ceremony
I always finds ceremony interesting. I often think of what my old professor and friend told me about how grad students are like serial killers. They travel the foreign countryside, extracting tales from aging natives, scratching notes in notebooks. And then, as the aging native reveals his/her story, usually long held close to the heart, the storyteller dies, from the relief of release. I was aghast when I first heard this, and another professor asked if I had any respect for ritual. Hmm, I don't know. Probably not.
Of course, ceremony or ritual in a foreign country is a lot more interesting than in your own country, where you may not even recognize it as such. What I find fascinating (and also at the same time, sometimes boring), about Thailand is the need for ceremony at every level, for every reason, at any time. I have a quick example.
So, I’m at work on a Thursday, busy as usual. I’m at the tail-end of a staff meeting that I am running, including at that moment, a staff development seminar, where I am introducing a new writing activity for the classroom. A Thai teacher bursts into the room and after giving rapid apologies, demands that me and my assistant must immediately proceed to a ceremony about to start. What ceremony? Why? Where?
These questions are never easily answered in Thailand, unfortunately. Finally, I got a “where” out of the teacher and after throwing on a fresh coat of lipstick (looks are everything here), we proceeded to the named location. As we bypassed running and happily screaming children, we were directed into a small assembly room. We were immediately shocked to see lavish decorations all around, the Thai version of elevator music playing, and a small group of obvious VIP’s sitting or milling around. Through another set of doors a little dessert and coffee bar had been set-up. On the stage was a long table draped in pink satin with large arrangements of flowers placed here and there. What was this all for? The signing of a contract. The umbrella school I work at is about to (re)start construction on a massive building which will eventually house our own little school (as well as many other things). This large affair was for the simple 30 seconds of signing (and additional 4 minutes of photographs afterwards) that this would encompass. I was relieved actually. Often ceremonies like these can drone on for hours, where I find myself performing all sorts of Jedi mind tricks on myself to try and stifle the ear-splitting screaming going on inside my head, begging to be released from this motionless sitting position, where I have been listening to the same speech in Thai for over 45 minutes. I always want to sprint from the room, screaming bloody murder. My usual escape, if possible, is to feign having to use the restroom, then having a leisurely stroll around the hallway for as long as I can without arousing anger or suspicion. Then, back to my statue-like sitting and waterfall of thoughts. It seems the art of ritual here is the art of sitting still.
Of course, ceremony or ritual in a foreign country is a lot more interesting than in your own country, where you may not even recognize it as such. What I find fascinating (and also at the same time, sometimes boring), about Thailand is the need for ceremony at every level, for every reason, at any time. I have a quick example.
So, I’m at work on a Thursday, busy as usual. I’m at the tail-end of a staff meeting that I am running, including at that moment, a staff development seminar, where I am introducing a new writing activity for the classroom. A Thai teacher bursts into the room and after giving rapid apologies, demands that me and my assistant must immediately proceed to a ceremony about to start. What ceremony? Why? Where?
These questions are never easily answered in Thailand, unfortunately. Finally, I got a “where” out of the teacher and after throwing on a fresh coat of lipstick (looks are everything here), we proceeded to the named location. As we bypassed running and happily screaming children, we were directed into a small assembly room. We were immediately shocked to see lavish decorations all around, the Thai version of elevator music playing, and a small group of obvious VIP’s sitting or milling around. Through another set of doors a little dessert and coffee bar had been set-up. On the stage was a long table draped in pink satin with large arrangements of flowers placed here and there. What was this all for? The signing of a contract. The umbrella school I work at is about to (re)start construction on a massive building which will eventually house our own little school (as well as many other things). This large affair was for the simple 30 seconds of signing (and additional 4 minutes of photographs afterwards) that this would encompass. I was relieved actually. Often ceremonies like these can drone on for hours, where I find myself performing all sorts of Jedi mind tricks on myself to try and stifle the ear-splitting screaming going on inside my head, begging to be released from this motionless sitting position, where I have been listening to the same speech in Thai for over 45 minutes. I always want to sprint from the room, screaming bloody murder. My usual escape, if possible, is to feign having to use the restroom, then having a leisurely stroll around the hallway for as long as I can without arousing anger or suspicion. Then, back to my statue-like sitting and waterfall of thoughts. It seems the art of ritual here is the art of sitting still.
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling A+
Yes, I admit it. I am a Harry Potter fanatic. I’ve done the first book with my English class. I’ve read every book. I’ve bought various paraphernalia from the film (including the jammy pants I’m wearing now). And I’m constantly LOOKING for new things to buy. So, after receiving my pre-paid copy of Harry Potter book five, I took it home and put it on the shelf. I knew, as soon as I started reading it, I’d be obsessed. I think I made it about four days before I gave up and cracked the massive book open. Once that began, there was to be no stopping. I took it to work, to the gym where I awkwardly read it while pumping away at the exercise bike, at the bank, balancing it on one arm with my passport and banking documents in the other. In one week, the 776 page book was finished. I never read that fast in grad school, or at least, never enjoyed reading that fast. I think I started crying on about page 700 and didn’t stop til the end. It’s a kid’s book! Though I wonder how many kids have the attention span for such a mammoth-sized “children’s book.” I guess we’ll see. All I know is that for me and my adult friends, the Harry Potter books are absolutely obsessive page-turners. One friend finished book three and then begged me to rush home and get him book four. He didn’t want to go a day without it.
My only beef with the whole book has to do with the last 50 pages or so. Don’t worry, I don’t believe in spoiling a book/movie. Rowling does a good job in conveying the frustration and sometimes rage that Harry Potter, now a 15-year old boy, is experiencing in his tumultuous life. But at the end, a book which has been building to such a hyper pitch level that I could barely stand it, sort of ends in a gentle fashion, where you kind of go, “Um, okay. Well, that’s it then? Okay…” Plus, after all this crap that he endures, he’s still a pretty pissed off boy at the end of the book. Ahh adolescence!
I must say, the most intriguing character in this series is Professor Severus Snape. An interesting aspect to him was revealed in this book, and I hope he will be further expanded and explored in the future ones. He’s probably the most rounded character of the bunch and I’m really pleased that Alan Rickman has been cast as him. He’s doing a fabulous job. The only character of whom I really feel deprived was Remus Lupin, probably because he seems like the kind of guy I’d have a huge crush on in real life. Man, now I’m going to have to wait YEARS for the next movie and book. *sigh* Back to my beloved Roald Dahl books.
My only beef with the whole book has to do with the last 50 pages or so. Don’t worry, I don’t believe in spoiling a book/movie. Rowling does a good job in conveying the frustration and sometimes rage that Harry Potter, now a 15-year old boy, is experiencing in his tumultuous life. But at the end, a book which has been building to such a hyper pitch level that I could barely stand it, sort of ends in a gentle fashion, where you kind of go, “Um, okay. Well, that’s it then? Okay…” Plus, after all this crap that he endures, he’s still a pretty pissed off boy at the end of the book. Ahh adolescence!
I must say, the most intriguing character in this series is Professor Severus Snape. An interesting aspect to him was revealed in this book, and I hope he will be further expanded and explored in the future ones. He’s probably the most rounded character of the bunch and I’m really pleased that Alan Rickman has been cast as him. He’s doing a fabulous job. The only character of whom I really feel deprived was Remus Lupin, probably because he seems like the kind of guy I’d have a huge crush on in real life. Man, now I’m going to have to wait YEARS for the next movie and book. *sigh* Back to my beloved Roald Dahl books.
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