Mena Suvarinamaboomi?

           Mena Suvarnaboomi

Space age Bangkok airport.
               Maybe the culture shock won't be so bad...

I was sitting in Bangkok’s new airport and it was certainly much bigger and more modern looking than the one where I had drank my last Tim Horton’s coffee back in Saskatoon. Hell, the name was even longer, Suvarnamaboom, or something like that. It seemed to be spelt differently everywhere I looked. I started to feel shaky and uncertain. I was having a kind of first world meltdown because many of my pre-conceived third world notions were quickly evaporating.

 In order to steady myself I perched on a hard grey bench, directly in front of a monstrous air conditioning unit, and focused on faking a desperate need to rummage through my carry- on bag. A clean cut, middle age man in a collared yellow shirt sat down beside me. I heard a quick snippet of a song I didn’t recognize and he reached for his cell phone from his back pocket. His cell phone was certainly smaller, and more modern looking, than any one I had seen back home. With a quick tap of his index finger he answered the call, put the phone to his ear and said, ‘Hallo?’ What followed was such a quick flurry of Thai that I did not recognize one word. Well, besides the word hello, which I had spent the past two weeks attempting to learn to speak in Thai, a lesson which was now proving completely unessential.

 I was starting to realize that perhaps you can’t really prepare yourself for Thailand while you are walking through snow covered streets in Canada. Point taken.

             
             The truth is that during my entire time in Survanamaboom (or whatever it was), I had stayed very close to the original grey bench of refuge.  The positive side was that it was in a quiet part of the airport with only two gift shops and a row of five coin operated internet machines nearby. I had created a comfortable area using my extra long sleeved shirt wrapped around my Lonely Planet book as a pillow. My carry on was wrapped around my wrist for added protection and my passport and credit card were safely stored under my shirt in one of those lame money belts that had me patting my stomach every five minutes like an expectant mother.

            I wiggled into a comfortable position pulled the sleeve of my shirt over my eyes and tried to lull myself to sleep with positive thoughts about the new direction my life was taking. I imagined myself inspiring classrooms of eager children, reading books under coconut trees and swimming in clear waters surrounded by colorful, playful fish. My shoulders relaxed and I slowly began to drift off into a hopeful, dreamy sleep.

It was only after a few moments of peaceful sleep that the enemy presented itself. It eased its ice-cold fingers up the back of my shirt, taking full advantage of that seductive inch of skin that reveals itself between your shirt and your jeans once you slightly bend your knees. The monstrous air conditioner was on full attack. I tried to tuck my shirt into my jeans but as soon as I nodded off, the inch of skin would reveal itself and those despicable icy fingers would, once again, creep slowly up my spine. After an hour of this, I was tired and angry, angry enough to flee my original grey bench and see what else this place had to offer. 

The restaurants were all shut down and there were very few people actually moving about in the airport. I had full access to whichever sleeping area I wanted. The only problem was that each bench I encountered was accompanied by it's looming, hideous partner. I spent the night with my extra long sleeved shirt stuffed in the back of my jeans and my head directly on my Lonely Planet guide book. When I woke up, I swear, my drool was frozen to the cover.