The flight from Hong Kong was uneventful; Robert, one of my best friends as well as business associates has this unerring sense of direction and hosting. It’s so unerring he dropped me at the wrong terminal at Hong Kong airport. Thankfully the place was empty. We were already running late after a great lunch with his wife Jenny. They’re old friends who came to Kelly’s and my wedding almost six year ago. He swore he’d not come and visit for our anniversary because it’s too damn cold for his Hong Kong blood.
I sat next to a pair of Chinese lesbians. At least, I think they were. The one in the seat next to me could’ve been a guy, but I don’t think so. Even though the flight was only about two and a half hours, they managed to cram drink and meal service in for the whole flight. Everywhere you go in Asia they feed you on these international routes, even if it’s only an hour or so. The cabin crew moves like jackrabbits, that’s for sure.
The new airport in Thailand has been quite the debacle. We think we’ve got corruption in Chicago, but apparently the shady dealings associated with this one make Hizzonah look like a penny ante piker. The place is only three years old and it feels outdated; an homage to something that didn’t necessarily require a memorial. Lots of concrete. INSANE amounts of concrete. I think the former PM was in the concrete business. Not a coincidence.
I’m looking forward to the next couple of days. I can’t escape the feeling, though, that the folks here just look at Westerners and figure they’ve got license to have fun with them. By “fun” I mean overcharge. I think my trepidation or apprehension (I refuse to call it paranoia) is due to the fact that I can’t read their language, I obviously don’t speak it and given the economic climate of the place, you can’t blame folks for looking out for themselves and trying to make what they can WHEN they can.
Driving in from the airport which is so far out of town it makes Denver International Airport look like Meigs Field (moment of silence) for its proximity to downtown Chicago, I can’t help but be struck by the dichotomy of money and abject poverty. A dog was just walking across the intersection we drove through. There are fruit stands, gas stations and shantytowns. We passed what looked like a dumping area; a junk stand where construction remnants were left to be picked over by people looking to make or patch shelter. Now we go past somebody selling rugs that look like you’d find them at Pottery Barn or something like that; chances are they’re made here and sent there.
We passed a few temples. Or mosques. I think one was at least the latter because there were a host of Muslim-looking men clad entirely in white standing around on the balconies.
The traffic is impressively thick for a Sunday night; although without a point of reference for the normal ebb and flow of such things, I’m absent a point of reference. Motorcycles dart and weave between cars like flight-challenged insects. Buckets, kids clothing, necessities of life; staples for people who possibly subsist or exist, not necessarily thrive.
Two women on a motorbike. A pack of motorbikes. They’re everywhere simultaneously. Two-cycle stimulation that moves through your auditory peripheral range and is gone.
A pink Toyota taxi. Welcome to the tropics; dropped in a bipolar metropolitan setting.
Death before yielding. Ain’t rubbin’, ain’t drivin’.
The opening reception was this evening. Saw old friends; made new friends. The meeting promises to be a great time.
And now, off to bed. Must get a workout in tomorrow morning. Got some podium standing to do this summer.
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