- 7-Eleven: The original American ambassador of consumerism and instant and 24-hour gratification. In Bangkok, it guarantees you an air-conditioned oasis on every block; in Taipei, hot tea eggs and tempura; in Seoul... something I can afford. McDonald's and Starbucks have got nothing on 7.
- Whitening toiletries: Dove. Ponds. Olay. All drug store beauty brands that make special whitening products for the East that I'd never seen in the West. I'm not talking about toothpaste. I'm talking about cleansers and creams and scrubs to make your face whiter. This is perhaps the ultimate imitation of the West, but one that, for better or worse, will never succeed. To my sisters who spend their hard-earned money on this stuff: you're yellow, you'll never be white; deal with it.
- Doughnut shops: Dunkin' Donuts and donut shops in America tend to be these hole-in-the-wall places that, but for the halo-shaped delights therein, look and feel dank and depressing. Donut shops in the East are clean, air-conditioned, spacious coffee shops that happen to sell donuts. Customers are given little baskets or trays lined with wax paper and a pair of tongs to select donuts as if they're French pastries. There's jazz playing, art on the walls and good coffee. People settle in, read, hang out for hours, the way they'd do at Starbucks.
- Rogaine: It's called Regaine in Asia. The Asian name makes more sense, don't you think?
- Toilets: I remember the days when most pubic facilities - even in nice places - were porcelain holes in the ground. Now, more sitting, less squatting. I'm of the mind that if you visit a place that requires squatting, you do it. No whining. When in Rome, etc. Thus, it's only fair that if you're accustomed to squatting, and you come face-to-face with a sitting toilet, that you do it. No hovering, no climbing on top of the seat and making a big ol' mess. Just sit your ass down.
26 April 2008
east meets west
In the 22 years since I immigrated to U.S. and in the 12 years since my last trip, the East has come to look a lot more like the West. (And of course, by "the East", I mean Thailand, Taiwan and Korea.) My top 5 most interesting/curious points of transformation:
23 April 2008
33 and counting: an alternate theory
7: number of extra hours of housework per week performed by married women in the U.S. compared with single women.
1: number of extra hours of housework per week performed by single men in the U.S. compared with married men.
(Source: Time magazine)
1: number of extra hours of housework per week performed by single men in the U.S. compared with married men.
(Source: Time magazine)
22 April 2008
minor characters
One of my favorite novels is Wide Sargasso Sea. It tells the story of Bertha Mason before she became Jane Eyre's crazy wife in the attic; it tells the story of Bertha before she became a minor character - an obstacle, really - in the story Jane and Rochester.
It has been fun to visit old friends in new places. Apart from the obvious perks of great companionship and local guides, I get to be a minor character in the ongoing stories of my friends, whose ongoing lives lend a depth and richness to these places that I'd hardly have discovered as a passing visitor.
But the most surprising of the stories of this past month has been that of my father. In Taiwan, I watched him interact with my grandfather, visited places and heard stories of his past. When news came of my great uncle's death, he broke the news to my grandfather and made plans to go to China to attend the funeral and tend to people and things. As a spectator, I thought about the dutiful eldest son he has always been, the kind of father he had and perhaps wanted, the kind of father he is and was and wasn't, the kind of children he wanted and the ones he got.
As the central figure in a story of war and immigration and poverty and family and life's triumph and strife, my father is a much different man than the one I had known as a minor character (and oftentimes, antagonist) in the story of my life. There are many people who I admire but lack the will to aspire to be; I never thought my dad would be one of them.
It has been fun to visit old friends in new places. Apart from the obvious perks of great companionship and local guides, I get to be a minor character in the ongoing stories of my friends, whose ongoing lives lend a depth and richness to these places that I'd hardly have discovered as a passing visitor.
But the most surprising of the stories of this past month has been that of my father. In Taiwan, I watched him interact with my grandfather, visited places and heard stories of his past. When news came of my great uncle's death, he broke the news to my grandfather and made plans to go to China to attend the funeral and tend to people and things. As a spectator, I thought about the dutiful eldest son he has always been, the kind of father he had and perhaps wanted, the kind of father he is and was and wasn't, the kind of children he wanted and the ones he got.
As the central figure in a story of war and immigration and poverty and family and life's triumph and strife, my father is a much different man than the one I had known as a minor character (and oftentimes, antagonist) in the story of my life. There are many people who I admire but lack the will to aspire to be; I never thought my dad would be one of them.
21 April 2008
33 and counting
According to the Korean calendar, I'm 33 years old. I'm also single. Every so often, I see an article or two that attempt to explain this most vexing conundrum of unmarried women in their 30s and beyond. By all accounts, all the good men are taken and even as I type, my chances of marrying well (or at all) is shrinking at a disturbing rate. And this is a matter of grave concern.
The assumption about a single man in his 30s is that he is out sowing barley or otherwise enjoying the perks of bachelorhood. Talking to women in Seoul who are in a similar stage of life, I'm relatively fortunate that guilt trips about grandchildren and suggestions of match-making services are rare in my life. How odd, really, that anyone should feel sorry for single women who live in a day and age when they can earn and keep and spend their own income, safely travel to just about anywhere in the world without a male companion, and be the masters of their own domain.
I, for one, will find worthier candidates for my compassion and concern.
The assumption about a single man in his 30s is that he is out sowing barley or otherwise enjoying the perks of bachelorhood. Talking to women in Seoul who are in a similar stage of life, I'm relatively fortunate that guilt trips about grandchildren and suggestions of match-making services are rare in my life. How odd, really, that anyone should feel sorry for single women who live in a day and age when they can earn and keep and spend their own income, safely travel to just about anywhere in the world without a male companion, and be the masters of their own domain.
I, for one, will find worthier candidates for my compassion and concern.
20 April 2008
afternoon at the dmz
Earlier this week, my friend and I took a train ride to the demilitarized zone ("DMZ") between North and South Korea. The train ride was surprisingly short; the DMZ is surprisingly close to Seoul.
After de-boarding the train, we followed the crowd down the street. Along the way, there were several memorials and statutes to remember those who fought, those who perished, those who continue to live separated from loved ones. The somber mood was not unmitigated: there was a tourist train and an amusement park nearby. Perhaps some planner concluded that there isn't really that much to see at the DMZ and people should have alternative amusements if they make the trip.
I took in the views of barbed wires and tall fences, looked at photos of battles fought and broken-hearted family members, took some pictures and tried to be respectful of what this place is and means to those around me.
Then we saw them, a number of elderly men in uniform. The buses nearby indicated that they are members of the Korean War Veterans Association from different parts of the world. I wondered what they thought of it all. Whether they considered the DMZ a sign of their success or failure or something else altogether. I wondered what they thought of the amusement park and the tourists, for whom the DMZ is but another photo opportunity.
As we meandered, my friend and I talked about war and peace and similarly weighty issues that a place like the DMZ brings to mind. We returned to Seoul heavier in heart but with no greater clarity.
After de-boarding the train, we followed the crowd down the street. Along the way, there were several memorials and statutes to remember those who fought, those who perished, those who continue to live separated from loved ones. The somber mood was not unmitigated: there was a tourist train and an amusement park nearby. Perhaps some planner concluded that there isn't really that much to see at the DMZ and people should have alternative amusements if they make the trip.
I took in the views of barbed wires and tall fences, looked at photos of battles fought and broken-hearted family members, took some pictures and tried to be respectful of what this place is and means to those around me.
Then we saw them, a number of elderly men in uniform. The buses nearby indicated that they are members of the Korean War Veterans Association from different parts of the world. I wondered what they thought of it all. Whether they considered the DMZ a sign of their success or failure or something else altogether. I wondered what they thought of the amusement park and the tourists, for whom the DMZ is but another photo opportunity.
As we meandered, my friend and I talked about war and peace and similarly weighty issues that a place like the DMZ brings to mind. We returned to Seoul heavier in heart but with no greater clarity.
18 April 2008
dogs, plastic surgery and pantyhose
I've fully exploited my closeness with my host in Seoul by treating her as the representative of all things Korean and bombarding her with every question that comes to mind about her homeland.
Being the near-saint that she is, she has responded good-naturedly about eating dogs (A: No, hardly anybody eats dogs; only certain specialty shops serve dog meat as a novelty) and plastic surgery (A: I doubt plastic surgery is any more rampant here than in the U.S. and, no, I don't know anyone who's had calf-reduction surgery). As much as she tried to maintain her composure, I could tell that it's frustrating to have to defend one's culture against caricaturization.
I expected her answers, but somehow visiting Seoul and hearing from a native finally settled these queries. Just as whatever politically-correct beliefs I might have held, it took friendships with African, African-American, Mormon, Jewish, Japanese folks to expose my secret and not-so-secret prejudices. Real relationships with real people - not theoretical recitations - humbled and corrected me. Or at least started the process.
My friend tells me that some benefits accrue to her as well, mainly from seeing her city through new eyes. For example, she had never noticed that the fixtures intended to prevent cars from driving on the sidewalks look like Roman gladiator helmets. Or that women in skirts and shorts wear stockings - every single one of them. As did my friend, who didn't always wear stockings in America. When I asked her, her immediate explanation (protection from the elements) was not what I had expected (lady-likeness). After some consideration, she concluded that her habit of doing so was primarily an act of unthinking conformity to the practices of those around her. During our afternoon outing, she excused herself, then returned less protected from the elements, but a little more herself.
Being the near-saint that she is, she has responded good-naturedly about eating dogs (A: No, hardly anybody eats dogs; only certain specialty shops serve dog meat as a novelty) and plastic surgery (A: I doubt plastic surgery is any more rampant here than in the U.S. and, no, I don't know anyone who's had calf-reduction surgery). As much as she tried to maintain her composure, I could tell that it's frustrating to have to defend one's culture against caricaturization.
I expected her answers, but somehow visiting Seoul and hearing from a native finally settled these queries. Just as whatever politically-correct beliefs I might have held, it took friendships with African, African-American, Mormon, Jewish, Japanese folks to expose my secret and not-so-secret prejudices. Real relationships with real people - not theoretical recitations - humbled and corrected me. Or at least started the process.
My friend tells me that some benefits accrue to her as well, mainly from seeing her city through new eyes. For example, she had never noticed that the fixtures intended to prevent cars from driving on the sidewalks look like Roman gladiator helmets. Or that women in skirts and shorts wear stockings - every single one of them. As did my friend, who didn't always wear stockings in America. When I asked her, her immediate explanation (protection from the elements) was not what I had expected (lady-likeness). After some consideration, she concluded that her habit of doing so was primarily an act of unthinking conformity to the practices of those around her. During our afternoon outing, she excused herself, then returned less protected from the elements, but a little more herself.
16 April 2008
deja food
On my last night in Taipei, some friends of my parents invited us to dinner. When we arrived, paparazzi were stationed at the entrance. Apparently some local politician being courted by the President-elect was being dined and wined as he considers the offered cabinet position.
This meal was a virtual replica of every restaurant meal I recall from my childhood in Taiwan. Instead of dim lights, we have for ambiance gas-station-bright fluorescent lights. Instead of soft music, we have the clinking of tea cups, the clacking of chopstick against chopstick, against teeth and porcelain, all enveloped in a deafening roar of chatter and laughter.
Since my parents' friends made clear they were hosting the dinner, I knew we'd avoid the meal-end fight to pay the bill. But other battles ensued. First, people deferred fervently to one another to say the prayer for the meal. Then, as the food arrived, people put the lazy susan to good use, insisting that others take the first of each dish. "You should go first! You're hosting." "No, you're the guest; you should go first." "You're older." "You rarely eat this stuff." Around and around we went, each round decreasingly amusing as I grew increasingly hungry and not a little dizzy.
The main dish of the night was Peking duck. As a waiter in another restaurant would bring out a bottle of wine before uncorking it, the waitress brought out the roasted duck - head and all - on a platter for inspection. As each dish was eaten and cleared, the waitress scraped remaining scraps onto the plates of a guest of her choosing. Nothing should go to waste.
The conversation jumped from stories of how one suitor pursued all four sisters at the same time in a game of romantic diversification, to the theological unsoundness of the Prosperity Gospel and popular worship songs, to "Where is Uganda? Uganda or Rwanda? I saw the Hotel movie. It was so sad and... Hey, waiter! Where's our soup? We ordered soup..."
After I lost count of the courses, the meal was finished. Hugs were hugged, hands were shaken, pictures were taken. Delirious from laughter and well on my way to a food coma, I headed home to ready myself for some Seoul-searching.
This meal was a virtual replica of every restaurant meal I recall from my childhood in Taiwan. Instead of dim lights, we have for ambiance gas-station-bright fluorescent lights. Instead of soft music, we have the clinking of tea cups, the clacking of chopstick against chopstick, against teeth and porcelain, all enveloped in a deafening roar of chatter and laughter.
Since my parents' friends made clear they were hosting the dinner, I knew we'd avoid the meal-end fight to pay the bill. But other battles ensued. First, people deferred fervently to one another to say the prayer for the meal. Then, as the food arrived, people put the lazy susan to good use, insisting that others take the first of each dish. "You should go first! You're hosting." "No, you're the guest; you should go first." "You're older." "You rarely eat this stuff." Around and around we went, each round decreasingly amusing as I grew increasingly hungry and not a little dizzy.
The main dish of the night was Peking duck. As a waiter in another restaurant would bring out a bottle of wine before uncorking it, the waitress brought out the roasted duck - head and all - on a platter for inspection. As each dish was eaten and cleared, the waitress scraped remaining scraps onto the plates of a guest of her choosing. Nothing should go to waste.
The conversation jumped from stories of how one suitor pursued all four sisters at the same time in a game of romantic diversification, to the theological unsoundness of the Prosperity Gospel and popular worship songs, to "Where is Uganda? Uganda or Rwanda? I saw the Hotel movie. It was so sad and... Hey, waiter! Where's our soup? We ordered soup..."
After I lost count of the courses, the meal was finished. Hugs were hugged, hands were shaken, pictures were taken. Delirious from laughter and well on my way to a food coma, I headed home to ready myself for some Seoul-searching.
15 April 2008
shame, shame, i know your name
Earlier this week, my parents and I boarded a bus on our way to Yangmingshan. All of the seats were taken; nearly all the ones in the rear were occupied by chatty university students.
Back in the day, when I was a school kid growing up in Taiwan, young 'uns gave up their seats to the elderly. That's the legend, anyway. So as the bus continued its jerky procession through the streets of Taipei with my nearly 70-year-old parents swaying on their feet, several people looked to the university students to do the honorable thing. But nobody said anything. So none of the students did the right thing. Some pretended to doze off while others continued chatting.
As the bus screeched to a halt at the first stop, my mom nearly fell into the stairwell by the back entrance. I admit, that upset me. I turned to the students behind me and asked, at a volume audible by the entire bus, "How about one of you young people yield a seat?"
For a brief moment, everything froze. The bus, the conversations, the bird song, the street noise. Everyone held their breath and stared as if I had just opened my trench coat and exposed my bits. In that suspension of time, I thought, "Oops. I'm being very American. You don't confront people in public here."
But shock and silence quickly gave way to shame and embarrassment, two things that always get your way in Chinese culture. The students rustled papers and rucksacks. Their confused eyes darted between the people standing nearby, unable to determine who was to receive the vacated seat. There was my mom, clinging onto a pole for dear life. There was my dad, who looks younger than his years because of his smiley appearance and because most of his white hairs have fallen off. Then there was me, looking 7 months into the blessed state thanks to a bellowing shirt I bought off the street for $100 NTD (or 30 U.S. cents).
My mom stumbled toward the open seat; my dad declined the offer of another. As my mom sat down with an audible sigh of relief, she caught my eyes and nodded. I've never seen her so proud.
Back in the day, when I was a school kid growing up in Taiwan, young 'uns gave up their seats to the elderly. That's the legend, anyway. So as the bus continued its jerky procession through the streets of Taipei with my nearly 70-year-old parents swaying on their feet, several people looked to the university students to do the honorable thing. But nobody said anything. So none of the students did the right thing. Some pretended to doze off while others continued chatting.
As the bus screeched to a halt at the first stop, my mom nearly fell into the stairwell by the back entrance. I admit, that upset me. I turned to the students behind me and asked, at a volume audible by the entire bus, "How about one of you young people yield a seat?"
For a brief moment, everything froze. The bus, the conversations, the bird song, the street noise. Everyone held their breath and stared as if I had just opened my trench coat and exposed my bits. In that suspension of time, I thought, "Oops. I'm being very American. You don't confront people in public here."
But shock and silence quickly gave way to shame and embarrassment, two things that always get your way in Chinese culture. The students rustled papers and rucksacks. Their confused eyes darted between the people standing nearby, unable to determine who was to receive the vacated seat. There was my mom, clinging onto a pole for dear life. There was my dad, who looks younger than his years because of his smiley appearance and because most of his white hairs have fallen off. Then there was me, looking 7 months into the blessed state thanks to a bellowing shirt I bought off the street for $100 NTD (or 30 U.S. cents).
My mom stumbled toward the open seat; my dad declined the offer of another. As my mom sat down with an audible sigh of relief, she caught my eyes and nodded. I've never seen her so proud.
13 April 2008
formosa
I'm a bit smitten with my birthplace. Pleasing to the eye, with mountains all around, it's got all the elements that I love in a place to live: a vibrant and busy city, efficient and affordable public transport, easy access to nature, great food, culture, history, with a neighborly tension that keeps politics interesting. Plus, I can speak/understand the language (for the most part) and visually blend into the general population (for the most part).
Taiwan: you R.O.C. my world.
Taiwan: you R.O.C. my world.
11 April 2008
grandfatherly advice
"Let me tell you," he said - nay, commanded - in Chinese. "Do two things."
"First, go be a lawyer in China. Don't be a lawyer in America anymore. Go to Beijing. That's where the opportunities are. Lots to do."
"Second, you must find a husband." To ensure my comprehension, he actually said "husband" in English. "Do you understand? Find a husband."
"First, go be a lawyer in China. Don't be a lawyer in America anymore. Go to Beijing. That's where the opportunities are. Lots to do."
"Second, you must find a husband." To ensure my comprehension, he actually said "husband" in English. "Do you understand? Find a husband."
10 April 2008
burrr...
It rained earlier this morning. Now it's grey and nippy;the air is dry. I'll take my coat when I go wandering about the neighborhood.
Chilly and dry is good.
Chilly and dry is good.
08 April 2008
love vicariously
Once upon a time, a friend observed that some people develop life-long loyalties to a certain region of the world. The particular region has a special "glow" - its culture seems more vibrant, its struggles more tragic, its history more interesting - against which other regions pale in comparison. For some, for me, that region of the world is Africa.
As a visitor passing through Bangkok, everything seems interesting in that general I-haven't-seen-this-before kind of a way. For my friends who live and minister here, Bangkok is not just generally interesting. It's... more. The food is more flavorful and varied, the people more kind, the heat and humidity more potent.
As the days pass, my fondness for this place grows. In part because I've had more occasions to personally experience the flavors and variety and kindness and humidity. But much more so because of my friends' deep and genuine affection for this place and people they now regard as their own, because love is powerful and powerfully contagious.
As a visitor passing through Bangkok, everything seems interesting in that general I-haven't-seen-this-before kind of a way. For my friends who live and minister here, Bangkok is not just generally interesting. It's... more. The food is more flavorful and varied, the people more kind, the heat and humidity more potent.
As the days pass, my fondness for this place grows. In part because I've had more occasions to personally experience the flavors and variety and kindness and humidity. But much more so because of my friends' deep and genuine affection for this place and people they now regard as their own, because love is powerful and powerfully contagious.
06 April 2008
trippin'
Figure out and take public bus. Check.
Visit the Grand Palace and nearby temples. Check.
Find and cruise hip area popular with backpackers. Check.
Avoid dehydration and pickpockets throughout day of solo sightseeing. Check.
Pick up iced latte to enjoy back at air-conditioned room of guest house...
SPLAT.
Just as I was honing in on a peaceful end to an adventurous day, I found myself quite literally in the gutter. One minute I was walking, guest house in view. The next minute, I'm on my belly on the streets of Bangkok. As I struggled to my feet, I eyed the carcass of my iced latte as it flowed into the streets. Footsteps clacked behind me and kind strangers offered their assistance and unrecognizable but surely kind words.
I staggered to the guest house with gutter juice all over my trousers. Memories of other belly flops, of running into poles and public telephones came to mind. Great annoyance at my own clumsiness led to a surprising realization. For all my physical mishaps, I'd been able to walk away from them all with nothing more than bruised limbs and bruised ego.
Life may be an obstacle course, and I may not be skilled at maneuvering it, but I'm grateful for the grace to get up and get back at it.
Visit the Grand Palace and nearby temples. Check.
Find and cruise hip area popular with backpackers. Check.
Avoid dehydration and pickpockets throughout day of solo sightseeing. Check.
Pick up iced latte to enjoy back at air-conditioned room of guest house...
SPLAT.
Just as I was honing in on a peaceful end to an adventurous day, I found myself quite literally in the gutter. One minute I was walking, guest house in view. The next minute, I'm on my belly on the streets of Bangkok. As I struggled to my feet, I eyed the carcass of my iced latte as it flowed into the streets. Footsteps clacked behind me and kind strangers offered their assistance and unrecognizable but surely kind words.
I staggered to the guest house with gutter juice all over my trousers. Memories of other belly flops, of running into poles and public telephones came to mind. Great annoyance at my own clumsiness led to a surprising realization. For all my physical mishaps, I'd been able to walk away from them all with nothing more than bruised limbs and bruised ego.
Life may be an obstacle course, and I may not be skilled at maneuvering it, but I'm grateful for the grace to get up and get back at it.
04 April 2008
tourist in disguise
After spending a year as a public spectacle, I'm enjoying being a foreigner who blends in with the general population. Most Thais speak Thai and assume I'd understand. Whenever possible, I nod in agreement or use the few phrases I know. For the most part, greeting, pointing at what I want and saying "thank you" gets me by.
Then I go shopping or ride the bus with one of my non-Asian friends who live in Bangkok and speak Thai. As they communicate with the vendor or bus conductor, the Thai person would invariably look to me and, through either words or looks, invite me to assist in the conversation. I'd blink with a confused look on my face, then attempt my backup phrase ("I do not speak Thai"), usually mixing the words in a moment of performance anxiety.
The conversation would then resume between the other parties. I'd stand aside, somewhat embarrassed but mostly relieved that my cover's been blown.
Then I go shopping or ride the bus with one of my non-Asian friends who live in Bangkok and speak Thai. As they communicate with the vendor or bus conductor, the Thai person would invariably look to me and, through either words or looks, invite me to assist in the conversation. I'd blink with a confused look on my face, then attempt my backup phrase ("I do not speak Thai"), usually mixing the words in a moment of performance anxiety.
The conversation would then resume between the other parties. I'd stand aside, somewhat embarrassed but mostly relieved that my cover's been blown.
02 April 2008
en route... in first class
Whatever complaints I had about China AirLine, consider them retracted.
After a brief lay-over in Taipei, I boarded my flight to Bangkok. I showed the flight attendant my ticket stub and she directed me upstairs. Upstairs? I climbed a few steps and found myself in First Class.
My first moments of my first (and possibly only) time in First Class: Look at stub. Look around First Class Cabin. Look at flight attendant. Smile and nod back. Look at stub again. Find my seat. Look at stub. Slowly ease into wide, leather lounge chair. Look at others in cabin. Feel under-dressed. Look at flight attendant. Hold breath. Wait for someone to tell me to go downstairs. Check stub against seat number. Settle in. Praise the Lord.
By the time I arrived in Bangkok, I had nearly finished my book and felt as if I had just spent a quiet afternoon in an armchair by a window. Even the luggage checked against my will arrived without any hiccup.
So I take it back. I take it all back.
After a brief lay-over in Taipei, I boarded my flight to Bangkok. I showed the flight attendant my ticket stub and she directed me upstairs. Upstairs? I climbed a few steps and found myself in First Class.
My first moments of my first (and possibly only) time in First Class: Look at stub. Look around First Class Cabin. Look at flight attendant. Smile and nod back. Look at stub again. Find my seat. Look at stub. Slowly ease into wide, leather lounge chair. Look at others in cabin. Feel under-dressed. Look at flight attendant. Hold breath. Wait for someone to tell me to go downstairs. Check stub against seat number. Settle in. Praise the Lord.
By the time I arrived in Bangkok, I had nearly finished my book and felt as if I had just spent a quiet afternoon in an armchair by a window. Even the luggage checked against my will arrived without any hiccup.
So I take it back. I take it all back.
01 April 2008
en route
The last time I traveled on China AirLine ("CLA") was in 1996. My immediate family took an extended trip to China, Hong Kong and Taiwan. That trip was a long time ago and somewhat of a blur, but other than wretching during one of the flights, I remembered my encounters with CLA were rather pleasant.
12 years later, I'm waiting to board my 1am CLA flight to Bangkok. Determined not to check any luggage, I had acquired and filled many 3-oz. bottles and squeezed everything into a quart-sized baggy. I wanted to land in Bangkok, get through customs, meet my friend and get this party started.
I was dozing in the waiting area at LAX - oh, what fun I always have at LAX! - when two CLA reps approached me. They were in uniform and had probably used more than 3 ounces of hair gel per person to achieve their uniformedly shellacked, spiked, anti-gravity hairstyle. They spoke in choppy but rapid English. Long story short, they wanted me to check my carry-on bag. Half asleep, I protested, but was not able to put together any coherent reasons and did not have the presence of mind to argue with them in Chinese. They tagged my carry-on and accosted their next victims.
I spent the first few waking hours of my 14-hour flight fuming about my hijacked carry-on. There was so much bin space and other passengers had been permitted to carry on luggage of similiar size. I was seated near (too near) a wailing toddler and the toilets. The foot-rest at my seat was loose and kept falling on my shin. I was not provided the complimentary eye-mask/socks/toothbrush/toothpaste set. The lady seated behind me positioned her legs just so to prevent me from reclining my seat. I reached the inescapable and only rational conclusion under the circumstances: CLA was out to get me.
Then I fell asleep. The beauty of sleep is that it cures much of the delirium and paranoia that result from sleep deprivation. When I woke, the flight attendants seemed helpful and nice; they gave me a cup of instant noodles, water, pillows, whatever I requested. Then they served porridge (my favorite!) for breakfast. As it turned out, it was actually quite convenient to be somewhat near the toilets. And when the lady behind me finally used the facilities, I reclined my seat all the way back. (Take that!) I then enjoyed ď˝couple of free movies.
I will still have to deal with baggage claim when I land in Bangkok, but that now seemed a minor inconvenience. Maybe CLA wasn't out to get me after all. Next time I encounter a conspiracy to annoy and inconvenience me, I'll nap in response.
12 years later, I'm waiting to board my 1am CLA flight to Bangkok. Determined not to check any luggage, I had acquired and filled many 3-oz. bottles and squeezed everything into a quart-sized baggy. I wanted to land in Bangkok, get through customs, meet my friend and get this party started.
I was dozing in the waiting area at LAX - oh, what fun I always have at LAX! - when two CLA reps approached me. They were in uniform and had probably used more than 3 ounces of hair gel per person to achieve their uniformedly shellacked, spiked, anti-gravity hairstyle. They spoke in choppy but rapid English. Long story short, they wanted me to check my carry-on bag. Half asleep, I protested, but was not able to put together any coherent reasons and did not have the presence of mind to argue with them in Chinese. They tagged my carry-on and accosted their next victims.
I spent the first few waking hours of my 14-hour flight fuming about my hijacked carry-on. There was so much bin space and other passengers had been permitted to carry on luggage of similiar size. I was seated near (too near) a wailing toddler and the toilets. The foot-rest at my seat was loose and kept falling on my shin. I was not provided the complimentary eye-mask/socks/toothbrush/toothpaste set. The lady seated behind me positioned her legs just so to prevent me from reclining my seat. I reached the inescapable and only rational conclusion under the circumstances: CLA was out to get me.
Then I fell asleep. The beauty of sleep is that it cures much of the delirium and paranoia that result from sleep deprivation. When I woke, the flight attendants seemed helpful and nice; they gave me a cup of instant noodles, water, pillows, whatever I requested. Then they served porridge (my favorite!) for breakfast. As it turned out, it was actually quite convenient to be somewhat near the toilets. And when the lady behind me finally used the facilities, I reclined my seat all the way back. (Take that!) I then enjoyed ď˝couple of free movies.
I will still have to deal with baggage claim when I land in Bangkok, but that now seemed a minor inconvenience. Maybe CLA wasn't out to get me after all. Next time I encounter a conspiracy to annoy and inconvenience me, I'll nap in response.
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