Traveling to Bangkok

The top right corner of my computer says it is 6:59 a.m. on Sunday, September 14th. I sit in bed awake but my mind and body disagree with the clock, confused by the 17 hours of air travel, 11 hour time difference, and new sights, sounds, and smells of Bangkok. My body is on the other side of the world but my mind it taking its time to catch up.

Mom and I drove to the the airport in NYC early in the morning and my stomach was calm, I was not nervous, I was ready to go. Late into the night before, I gathered my things and thoughts, preparing myself for this next step and I fell asleep feeling the same way I did when saying my goodbyes: peaceful and ready.

Traveling through Abu Dhabi on September 11th during Ramadan on the national airline of the United Arab Emirates, the flight was empty; on a plane built for over 350 people there were fewer than 50. Among those 50 were two of the loudest, most annoying little children with the most inattentive parents in the history of the universe. For the entire flight the little demons screamed, cried, squawked, screeched, wailed, made every unpleasant noise known to man and beast to the point that the relative comfort of spreading across the middle row of seats was likened to dropping an ice cream before the first bite. Enter the modern wonder of direct TV on planes, countless movies, and my own fatigue. Most distracting - and it did not help with sleep - was the facade of modesty in the airline uniforms, beautiful Arab women wearing thin veils, the veils doing nothing more than accentuate their dark eyebrows, red lips, and distant allure.

Landing in Abu Dhabi is unlike anywhere I’ve ever landed. After 12 hours in the air, the pilot prepares the plane for landing but when you look out the window in anticipation of arriving in a new place, there is nothing - no skyscrapers, no visible roads - just sprawling dessert and a low, flat, tan, building designed to tolerate the unforgiving sun. It is possible we landed on Mars. Then you walk into the terminal and are smacked in the face with a contrast unlike most. Sitting along the wall that leads out to the main area are a group of women wearing burkas. Their eyes and feet are the only visible parts of their body. With them is a young boy in jeans and an American Eagle t-shirt. Covered by a blue and green tile mosaic, the terminal is a two-story imperfect sphere, wider than it is tall, the middle open so that you can see down from the second story. It is Ramadan and day time; none of the cafes are open. Red bearded men, their heads covered, wearing white shrouds and no shoes walk by British tourists in tank tops and money belts. A stern, shrouded, female security guard keeps a keen eye on things. Sikhs from India walk by, their trademark beards, curled mustaches, and head covering different from the beards, mustaches, and head coverings of the Saudis waiting for their flight. In an electronics shop an Arab man wearing a long, white, tunic talks with a shopkeeper about the new iPhone; in the window it is advertised at $1,545 - NO WARRANTEE. Duty free shops sell cigarettes, alcohol, perfume, and chocolate, while the shop next door sells mini versions of the Koran and hookas. The loudspeaker announces flights in Arabic while around me I hear Hindi, English, Spanish, French, Farsi, Thai, and other languages that I cannot name. With my eyes wide open, I pace the terminal for 1.5 hours.

Like the pilot, so too did the Western media prepare me for this landing, conditioning me to expect something other than I found. My reaction to being there was what interested me most; I was nervous. When I asked at the Etihad Airlines transfer counter for an aisle seat on the next flight, I hesitated momentarily when the man asked me for my passport. I thought of changing money but was afraid to present American dollars to the clerk, in front of a line. In just two hours of waiting I felt myself go through numerous, split second reactions of bigotry and stereotypical judgement. Ironically, there I stood, my first time in the “Arab World” (if an airport counts) on September 11th. Stupidly, I reacted with fear and anxiety, when around me all I saw were couples readying for a vacation, families traveling together, men waiting to get home to their wives, and grandparents anxiously looking forward to seeing their grandchildren. It is not right for women to be treated as servants, slaves, property or second-class citizens, it is not right to restrict free thought and public expression but neither is it right to judge whole countries, people, histories, cultures, ordinary men and women, based on nothing you’ve lived, seen, tasted, felt, or experienced first hand. There is no just reason for me not to change money in the airport.

Bangkok is cool. It is really cool. There is a skytrain, a metro, river taxis, multiple newspapers, bars, dance clubs, art shows, sports teams, cultural events. The list goes on. I will look at two apartments today, play pick up basketball on Tuesday night, meet mutual friends for dinner this week. On Saturday morning I got a spicy (spikey) haircut. My life here is making itself. There is still much for me to explore, just 40 hours old in this new city and without a day of work but, I fell asleep last night with the same feeling when I said my goodbyes: ready and peaceful.