Radiation transforms me into a glowing mutant

Fun fact: wind and sea spray aboard a speeding catamaran will disguise the effect of tropical sun on flesh – even on an overcast day! Just a reminder, in case you ever ride the water taxi between, say, Koh Tao and Koh Phangan.

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I am taking a break from budget guest houses for a few days to “splurge” at a couple of the mid-market Thai island resorts. The first one, Sensei Paradise Resort, on Koh Tao, used to be a budget joint but then struck on a brilliant positioning: rustic chic.

So, the huts are still dark and relatively primitive – cold-water showers, barely any lighting, but comfy king-size beds – but a sensational private beach, superb kitchen and open-air dining/reception area that attract the well-heeled leisure class.

I stumble in, sweaty and disheveled, seeking directions to something-or-other, and get snooted; in retaliation, I book the last room available, just ahead of a beautiful couple, also walk-ins, who are clearly “their kind of people.” It sets me back all of eighty bucks, but it’s worth it to feel like Columbo vexing and appalling everyone at the fancy place.

The next day I water-taxi over to Koh Phangan hoping to follow train-mate Chef Lee’s advice: “Go to the Bamboo Hut, talk to Mr. T. and tell him I sent you; he’ll fix you up.” Not that easy: waiting at every arriving boat is a gauntlet of touts pushing brochures into your hand, chatting you up, sniffing out the inexperienced, the clueless, the me.

Charlie brings me down like a cheetah dropping the herd’s lamest gazelle.

But it turns out o.k. because Charlie is touting for a brand-new resort on a decent stretch of beach. For $40 bucks a night, I feel that I am getting a pretty decent value. What do you think?




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I use this respite to locate Lee’s buddy’s place on a map, way the heck over on the far side of Koh Phangan. No roads, accessible only by boat. Possibly no electricity and certainly no Internet. Hmm …

I see white people

My Berlin friends Jan and Angelika are retiring to the coastal town of Hua Hin, about 100 miles south of Bangkok, so I decide to check it out on my way to visit Justin. My taxi driver to the Bangkok train station offers to drive me there for a mere 2,000 THB, roughly seventy bucks American. I decline with thanks, opting for the 44 THB train ride. Thirty-five baht to the dollar, so do the math.

The inside of a third-class Thai train looks like every old school bus you ever rode as a kid. It was delightful: the windows down, the countryside, Thai families, vendors walking up and down the train selling fruit bundles and chicken satay. Gaping at the shanty houses built right up against the tracks, shanties with late-model pickups parked out front (back?) Five hours later – after stopping at every town and village along the way – we arrive in Hua Hin.

I am crestfallen.

Does an expat enclave HAVE to look like a foreign occupation? O.k., maybe a few English signs here and there to help newbies get their bearings. But this shoreline area of pubs, pizza joints, Italian restaurants, etc., seems designed for the same people who like big-ass RVs: not just all the comforts of home, but home itself. And you come here why, exactly?

Right off the train I am approached by John, a polite, rotund Dutchman who is recruiting guests for his small hotel. His brochure looks good, the price is right, the wi-fi is free, and Germanic proprietors have a good reputation, generally. Having not so much as a map or destination, John provides me with both.

The jury is still out on John’s place. This was my $35-per-night room (breakfast included). King-size temper-pedic bed, large TV, air-con and fan – a decent value. But John exudes the con-man vibe and soon is working the upsell for his other occupation, travel agent. He patiently extols the comfort and speed of the luxury bus tour he would arrange for me. And then I get the sad smile and head-shake of disappointment at my dumb-stupid insistence on continuing by rail. Blah-blah this bad thing, blah-blah that bad thing. More sad smile, more head-shake. So back I go to the train, the terrible, terrible train.

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South to Chumphon my seat-mate is Lee, an affable 60-year-old chef who just got laid off from the Hua Hin Hilton and is striking out to seek his fortune in Krabi. Bald, handlebar moustache – picture Indy’s German pugilist foe who goes into the propeller blades in “Raiders” and you’ve got Lee. He’s kicked around Thailand for years with his chef’s knives and other tools he carries in his refrigerator-size backpack. We chat all the way down to Chumphon, where he guides me to a reputable tourist service/guest house. I book a ride to Koh Tao and an $8 dollar room. The last I see Lee, he is nursing a Singha at the bar and chatting up the server. Lee is my fantasy role model!

BUDDY!!!

A love song for Phranakorn Nornlen

The view from my window.

One of my most favorite places ever is this laid-back boutique hotel hidden up a side alley along a canal in a nicer part of Bangkok. Step through the gates of Phranakorn Nornlen and its hippie/Buddhist/New Age vibe instantly drops your blood pressure into the bliss zone. The open-air meditation/Internet/massage area looks like a set from "Gilligan's Island," and each room is built and designed using salvaged building materials and found items, all artfully repurposed.

Most engaging of all are the young women who run Phranakorn Nornlen, who are simply the gentlest, most cheerful creatures you will ever meet ... until they learn that you are a sex tourist, and then they will kick your ass.

To know Bangkok is to smell Bangkok

There is really nothing quite like the aroma of this place: a heady haze of charcoal fires, fish sauce and laboring humanity all pressed up close. It's not a dirty smell, exactly -- funky for sure, but not the putrid reek you'd expect in a city of food carts and feral cats. And then you notice: dang, these streets are ... clean!

Venture out at break of day and you understand why: Shopkeepers and random citizens all across town are sweeping and scrubbing their sidewalks, piling litter into neat little parcels for the daily collection. Everything still has that sooty, gritty aspect -- thanks, air pollution -- but nary a cigarette butt or paper scrap in sight.

The lone exception: Kao San Road, the white backpacker ghetto, a short strip of sleazy watering holes, guest houses and amusements for, as the Brits would call the clientele, "yobs and slappers." Kao San Road is where party dudes come to take a dump on Thailand ... and where their smiling hosts feed it back to them as chicken satay for 30 baht a stick.

Speaking of which: in a decidedly NON-white part of town, I try to order a mysterious but enticing treat from a food cart vendor who speaks no English. Her sign is in Thai and I have no idea what I'm ordering or how much it costs. After enduring my clumsy, spastic hand gestures, she digs into her money bag and shows me exactly how much to pay. Everyone is giving me The Look. And then they all start to point and laugh. I laugh, too, wearing my dorkitude with ... o.k., not pride.

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What is wrong with this picture?

A big, hairy, panting St. Bernard. In Bangkok, where the daytime temperature rarely dips below 80 degrees. WTF???

My heart goes out to this poor wretch, who must sense in his dim doggie brain that he is in a really, really wrong place.

Please, lady, walk him up to Kao San Road. No, you won't need the bag.

Important lessons for the optically challenged

Lesson One: Do not step on your reading glasses just before a big trip.

Lesson Two: If you violate Lesson One, do not attempt to “make do” with a pair of inadequate back-up readers.

Lesson Three: If you disregard the first two lessons, do not attempt to make critical editing decisions on a small camera that has barely-visible controls, lest you run the danger of, say, ACCIDENTALLY ERASING ALL YOUR PICTURES.

Arrgghh!

No rules, just right

Yes rules, actually: Americans must secure a travel visa in advance before stepping foot in Australia … or boarding a plane to said destination. This comes as a jarring surprise to learn while standing at the British Airways desk in Sea-Tac, 90 minutes before departure.

I’d figured, hey, it’s Australia! White English speakers, just like us. Suppressors of indigenous peoples, just like us. I go to Europe without a visa, and Australia is kind of the bastard stepchild of Europe, so no worries, mate. Who knew?

Luckily, the Aussie visa application is online and approved instantly for only a few Australian dollars. I complete the whole process in under 20 minutes. Trip saved! Except that the near-disaster is so unnerving, I inadvertently leave my envelope full of cash for the trip, as well as a fairly decent-size check from a client, on the seat next to me at the departure gate. Fortunately an alert custodian finds the money, along with my shoes and socks, pants, shirt and daypack. My belongings are promptly sent aboard to me in first class, where I have already donned the pajamas and slippers that are provided for each of us elite travelers.

That very last part is actually true: so far I’ve scored three sets of really comfortable pajamas. Justin, you want some? Plus I’ll another pair on each leg back.

I won’t belabor the fancy-pants British First topic anymore, except to share the surreal experience of waking up early over poor, squalid India. Seven miles above the muck, our cabin is darkened so as not to disturb the other passengers all snuggy-warm in their full-length beds of 100% Egyptian cotton … and I am cranking Foo Fighters’ “Monkey Wrench” through pretty-decent head phones. My foot is tapping to what I think is the beat, and then I realize that the plane is shuddering violently. Air pockets. The Firsters slumber on. Later we have breakfast. To Vivaldi, this time:



NEXT: Back on the ground, in all ways, in Bangkok

PROLOGUE: I love to fly, and it shows.

On this amazing Tuesday, January 20, I am sitting in front of the plasma TV screens in London Heathrow Airport experiencing history being made. Slightly stunned, I can scarcely believe that this life-changing moment finally has come.

Yes ... at last I am traveling international first class!

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This is a trip that was built around a frequent-flyer award. Kind of.

Here's the sweet, sweet deal: front-of-the-plane travel to/from Sydney on British Airways. Nice but unremarkable, right? Except that British has no direct service to Australia from here, so I fly from Seattle to London to Singapore to Sydney -- just about the longest single award trip you can possibly take. But it's International First Class! Which I imagine to be like 40 hours at a combination spa/bistro/open bar.

British began phasing out this extravagant award last summer, just as I hit the magic 150K miles required. So I redeemed that sucker tout de suite, figuring that it would get me close enough to visit my young arts scholar halfway through his stay in neighboring Indonesia. "Neighboring" meaning 3,000 miles distant from Sydney. Which is sort of like flying into New York and then popping over to "neighboring" Oregon.

Except that my ultra-meticulous planning did not take into account that countries have things called visas that limit tourists to a certain number of days -- 30, in the case of Indonesia. And I was envisioning a 45-day Indo-adventure. Oops. But wait: ANOTHER country down that way also has it's own special visa requirements that I learned about at the airport. More about that later.

Kicking around Sydney for a week or so MIGHT have been an option if I had ever in my life said: "Gee, I'd love to visit Sydney someday!" Which has never happened. So I needed elsewhere to hang for 10 days ... preferably someplace with really terrific Thai food.

That's right: after 40 hours aloft or in airports, I hop right back on the bird for a nine-hour flight from Sydney to Bangkok, almost 5,000 miles back in the direction I just came from. In Coach, this time. Honest, I really did plan it this way.

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Concerning the International First Class experience: It is absolutely everything I imagined it to be, and then some; more about that later. Right now, I want to watch Barack.


First Class lounge, Heathrow Airport.