"Inspiration could be called inhaling the memory of an act never experienced."
-Jonathon Lethem, The Ecstasy of Influence
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Everything here is madness. Beautiful madness. Nothing I read about Bangkok, this heaving, steaming, heaping, stinky metropolis, has does justice. Maybe if you compared this city to quieter, "scenic" Thai regions or to wealthier, "cultured" Asian cities, then Bangkok would seem little more than a sex-friendly transportaion hub. But I can't do that, apart from Istanbul, which is barely nominally Asian, I have no reference point to demean this place. And for that I am glad. I walk these streets with the freshest eyes and I am seeing things and smelling things and eating things that fascinate. Large spindly fruit that looks like a rhino-melon lovechild. This strawberry-esque fruit (in size and color) that is covered is delicate inch-long spikes. If mars had a sea, this would be its urchin*. Ordering a Pepsi and having its contents poured into a thin, plastic grocer's bag with ice and large straw (those store owner's keep the pfand I suppose). And just this army of woks and grills and steaming pots that fire away thru the rain beneath mildewed umbrellas, throwing make-me-cry spice and nameless fresh veggies on noodles so clear you could read the Bangkok Post through them.
And these delights are just everywhere. Everywhere. You find them in alleys so small we couldn't walk hand in hand down them without scrapping our shoulders against the shattered plaster.
And these delights are just everywhere. Everywhere. You find them in alleys so small we couldn't walk hand in hand down them without scrapping our shoulders against the shattered plaster.
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