A Short Ten Minute Walk

Never a dull moment

It’s just a short ten minute walk is what I’ve been told.  Living so close to the Skytrain is a real benefit, the realtor said.

  I walked home from the train today at a slow and steady pace.  It’s been one of those days where the trains were so packed that I had to wait while two trains had come and gone without enough room for one more person.  90% humidity and about 90 degrees today, it’s hot, it’s Bangkok.  I have air conditioning on my mind.  Each step bringing me closer to the cool air of my high rise apartment.  

Finally the third train came and I found just enough room for one more, but it was so crowded that there was not an inch between me and anyone.  Nuts to butts as they say in the military.   I am always so grateful that the Thai people believe in physical cleanliness and modesty so that  I am never worried nor feel uncomfortable in such tight quarters, though very happy to finally get to my stop and burst from it’s seams.  

Down the steps from the station, a three minute walk on the elevated sidewalk above the city streets, down another set of steps, 100 all in all, I’ve counted them several times on the way up these very same steps.  Around the corner I pass two 7-Elevens, one on each side of the street, a bank, a few restaurants, apartment buildings and a Starbucks located in a very cool old traditional Thai house. Sitting on the sidewalk at the entrance was an elderly couple begging.  The old woman sings a song in a high and screeching voice holding the cup with a few coins while her ancient husband plays an instrument made of a tin can and a wooden stick with some strings attached.

 Further down on the same side of the street is the Hotel Muse, all in black, inside and out, a new and happening hotel for the young, rich and famous with their Ferraris, Bentleys and Porsches.  I step around the begging couple after dropping in a few coins and then I dodge the luxury cars at the Muse.  This is south east Asia, a land of extremes.  A fleeting thought of stopping in to my favorite foot massage place I decide that no, I want to go home and get out of my wet clothes instead of spending $10 for an hour of relaxation. 

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Getting closer to my high rise I pass through the street vendors who set up folding tables surrounded by stacking plastic chairs set among umbrellas for shade.  They cook, serve and clean right there on the sidewalk from their portable push carts they bring in early each morning.  Their carts look ancient and jerry rigged but they cook some amazing street food.  

There is a lady who brings her sewing machine and sets up business every morning, doing alterations.  She sits within five steps of the ATM machine which is right next to the grocery store, oh, so convenient.  Then there is the guy who sells roses, he’s there every day, too.  There’s a lady who makes flower garlands made of tiny pikaki flowers for a whopping 30 cents each.   I’d often buy one to lay on my pillow and it was enough to make the whole apartment smell wonderful.

I crossed the four lane busy one way street  out in front of the french bakery and walked up the  driveway of the Marriott, the guard raised the arm of the barrier so I could walk over the paved driveway up towards the lobby.  Khun Oui  greeted me with “Sawaddi Kha, Khun Brown” and a smile, she was there to open your taxi door or to welcome you home after a long day on the streets.  

On a ‘high risk’ day the guards out front will check for bombs under the cars as they enter the property by using a mirror attached to a long handle as they walk around the car checking for hidden bombs. On days when there have been threats to any western interests we have to walk through a metal detector to get into the lobby.  The first clue we have is that the  American and Marriott flags are missing from their poles out front, that and a note under our door at daybreak.  Not like we could hide but there’s no sense advertising with flags.  Life is generally normal but you have to be aware at all times of your surroundings.    

After a seven minute walk from the train, I finally made it to the air conditioning, said hello to the staff at the front desk and pushed the up button.  The doors opened to an empty elevator.  I stepped in with a sigh of relief knowing I could ride up alone.  The city is so loud, busy, hot and humid and just plain crazy that a moment of silence is golden.  And the air conditioning, ah the air conditioning is so welcome. 

Just as the doors were about to close I saw a hand reach in to set off the automatic safety switch.  The doors popped open and two people entered.  One sitting in a wheel chair being pushed by the other, both in black burka head to toe.  All I could see of their flesh was their hands from their knuckles down and their eyes.  Both wore black veils covering their noses and  mouths.  

The woman pushing the wheel chair was very tall and she had large leathery hands with thick uneven nails.  Probably labor and a hard life caused premature aging.  I was grateful for a moment that neither of them were wearing the metal shield over their nose that some Saudi women wear.  For some reason that really scares me.  

More importantly I had no confidence at all though, that these were surely both harmless women.  All my American prejudices came pouring out when I started doubting their intentions and their sex, for that matter.   And no telling what they thought of me, in my summer clothes with bare skin showing, makeup either gone or melted down my face, my hair lying flat from the humidity, no modesty at all.  They might have had just as many fears being in the elevator with me alone.

I considered that they could be mother and daughter in a loving and caring situation, one of those rare trips that each will remember forever or they could be two men hiding and camouflaged in black burka hoping to cause havoc in an American hotel in the heart of an international city to drive home the suspicion and belief that no one is safe anywhere, anytime.  

All my prejudices came to the surface.  I pride myself on being open minded, trusting.  I don’t hate Muslims.  I don’t fear them.  I know they are a peaceful people and those wearing traditional garb are usually the more orthodox so by all logic I should have been fine.  I tried to calm myself and remind myself to trust.  It gives you a whole other perspective on things when you find yourself alone in such a small and intimate setting.  Even though I’m brave and trusting, ‘alone?’

Luckily the elevator doors opened on the 20th floor, the one pushed the other and I knew enough to not say a word to them.  Allow them to be and hopefully they, too, will allow me to be. Mutual respect between cultures.  They got out and the doors closed behind them.  

Three floors later I got out, walked down to the end of the hall and unlocked my door, stepped in to the cool and silence of home and let the door close behind me.  I leaned against the door resting my head and finally reminded myself I was home.  So much life in a short ten minute walk.