I love the morning. This morning in particular is lovely, the temperatures have dropped slightly, every degree a notable relief from an oppressive heat. The rooftop has drying puddles of water and I sit on the retaining wall and overlook Bangkok. It's so quiet in this little neighborhood tucked deep in the heart of an enormous metropolis. Exotic bird calls are what I hear, not traffic, not people. In fact any voices that happen through these winding streets echo off of the walled in housing and my neighbors each have a distinct voice should they ever speak up.
The skyline goes on as far as I can see, sky scrapers behind sky scrapers, in all directions. I have a strong feeling that this is somehow unreal, a dream of Bangkok in the morning. How is it even possible to be sitting here, drinking down iced coffee in my sarong, watching the morning light glow pink and wan over the city?
Last night I went to bar that is deep in alleys, a door in a long road of doors and no actual businesses. Wong's. It was a narrow bar with falong and locals tossing back cheap drinks, the walls papered with browning pictures of patrons. Behind the bar, there's a long bookcase filled with equally browning VHS tapes, their titles all in English and reading like a 1980's top 100 music video playlist. A CRT style television hangs low over the bar and plays a nice mix of those 80s hits, the power cord meeting up with all manner of other power cords on a burned electrical strip mounted inches from the actual power box. It appears so tenuous a stiff breeze could down the power in this joint for the rest of time.
A local falls off of his chair and is escorted out. American girls dance to the songs in the middle of a cluster of tiny tables, watched by all of the men in the room. I am perched on a stool at the bar, smoking, a luxury experience, and I wave my hands while making a particularly emphasized point and knock over my beer, sending a cascade of cheap brew over the bar and into the wait staff sitting on stools, watching the same television as we are. They jump up with an exclamation of dismay. Luckily it's my first drink, I'm sober, and they just clean it up with a chatter of annoyed Thai and avoid looking at me for the rest of the night.
As each video plays, a falong on the stool beside me is giving a drunken commentary on what each band is, when they were popular, and both Aaron and I wonder who he thinks he's educating. He describes the Doors as a band from the 1960's, I hear the word "hippies" and a few other choice slurred phrases that don't begin to describe the Doors as anything unique, delivered with an authority that has crossed that border of belligerence about four drinks ago.
Again I'm experiencing that feeling of this being unreal, me having drinks in a dive bar deep in an alley in Bangkok. I half expect two girl scouts to start a fist fight, a knifing, but no, it's just Toto and another play of a Men at Work video.
Soundtrack for last night and this morning: http:www.xlr8r.com/podcast/2012/12/disclosure