Chapter 3. Lemongrass Stains - The Grand Palace

---

By the time I reached the halfway point of my directionless expedition on foot to the Grand Palace, the light grey of my T-shirt had succumbed to blotches of perspiration from my lower back through my shoulders. My unsightly appearance and discomfort only underscored what came to mind yesterday: Do Thais sweat at all? Landscapers perform back twisting work in baking temperatures and direct sun. They remain bone dry. I step outside my room and go downstairs for breakfast, and it is time for another T-shirt. Unbelievable.

I begrudgingly performed my official duty of sightseeing today. My detour through Thammasat University on the Chao Phraya River brought back my college days. Under other circumstances, I would have tried to look in on a few classes, but the language is far too great an impediment. Yet, I enjoyed the librarians hauling books from faculty to faculty. Students have painted images of the accomplishments of their intramural sports teams. Two young women play badminton in the courtyard alongside the cafeteria, which looks out on the river.

Most tuk-tuk drivers fib about the Grand Palace being closed for a ceremony or official observation, and with good reason. The scam maintains their pertinence, for no tourist offices or tailor shops lie right around the corner. The more I travel, the less I sightsee. I have gone to Paris and never stepped in the Musée d’Orsay. I walked by Independence Hall on the way to refreshments. The closest I have ever come to DisneyWorld is the airport in Orlando. My favorite cable access channel now broadcasts a series called 1,000 Places to See Before You Die, an uninspiring and moribund title. I dislike it because of the envy it provokes in me. Some naïve well-to-do-couple gets a free trip wherever they want to go, first class all the way. That should be me, as far I am concerned. I will never check, but Bangkok’s Grand palace must be among the show’s prerequisites.

In a city of very few awe-inspiring edifices, the Grand Palace bedazzles. It is a massive complex of inlaid carved statues, concrete warriors protecting Bonsai-like gardens, ornate temples set on staggered terraces, and breezy columned corridors on the walls of which are painted historical murals. The backdrop of Wat Phra Kaew, the central masterpiece on the grounds, catches the unprepared visitor so off guard that it my as well be the fruit of someone’s imagination or the inspiration for an animated feature film. The Siamese monarchy dismissed any sense of modesty in ordering its construction over two hundred twenty years ago. It is architectural overkill. At various spots around the grounds, I have to look away just to give my brain the time to process the last image my retina sent it. The spires of golden chedi, depositories of prized possessions and the ashes of the upper class, spike upward to the clouds. They look like upside down pointed candle holders. Almost every edifice and shrine is adorned in slivers of turquoise, amber, deep green, and vivid gold. The culmination of the wat is supposedly a visit to the Emerald Buddha, a mild disappointment given the build up I had heard about. The little guy is housed in a temple and sits on a huge altar, so large, it is kind of hard to spot the little green guy, only two feet in height and decked out in golden summer garb. The figure is of jade, by the way, not emeralds.

Almost as memorable as the architecture are the waves of Japanese tourists that have descended upon the Grand Palace. Last one in Osaka, turn off the lights, because they are all here! Their numbers are so great, they drown out the respectable number of Westerners. Their tour guides herd the middle aged clusters the same way a sheep dog would newborn lambs. The piercing heat cannot prevent the repertoire of paper-thin digital cameras and fist-sized camcorders from recording two hours of their lives they can relive back home in their living rooms. Few, if any, stop to absorb anything; they are too busy being Japanese tourists.
“Kanichiwa!”, I uttered to a man who separated himself from his wife and neighbors. We found a place to sit in the few places where a breeze was steady. He is the wildebeest that freed itself before being trampled by one of its own in a stampede.
He rambled back in his own parlance, which actually frightened me because he thought I understood him. There was no chance he spoke English. So, I extended him a handshake and we exchanged smiles while also acknowledging the humid oven from which we were trying to find shelter. His family sauntered over, perfectly dressed to attend a wedding. My shirt stuck to my torso in all but around the tips of my short sleeves. His wife and sister were prim and proper in their fragility and have come equipped with a parasol, a centimeter of makeup on their pale, sun-starved faces, and a reserved demeanor.
Beforehand, others in their group took turns at the side of a royal military guard, standing motionless in front of a sweeping staircase, much like the Beefeaters in London. Poor bastard, I thought. Even worse than enduring absurd heat in full dress uniform and helmet, they must also tackle the humiliation of being the just another target for the whimsical gestures and posturing of packaged tourists.
The tour guide finally summoned the flock to the air-conditioned coach awaiting them. They complied, of course. For Japanese tourists, independent thought was not included in the day’s itinerary.

---

Photos

Wat Phra Kaew - Bangkok
Not Available at Home Depot

Half of Osaka
Looks Like a Best Buy Commercial

Statues on Guard
Imagination Come To Life