Thailand! At last!

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Alright, so at this point in the story, we've been enduring the experience of arriving at a destination. But life's a journey, not a destination. So what happens when you live to get to a destination? And then arrive at that destination? I'll tell you what happened to us.....

It's got to be somewhere around 4 am; We're taxing to a gate at the airport in Bangkok. Peering out the window at a low slung building which looks marvelous, partly because it's an airport in Thailand, and partly because I recognize it as an airport....which is a relief....to know that I'll be able to recognize things with my eyes for what they actually are...with out any intimate knowledge of some special secret....not that I was expecting to land in a rice field, or a coconut plantation...although I would soon be visiting the latter, I am suddenly energized by the metamorphasis of a singular statement I had been breathing to anyone who would listen for the past 6 weeks; A metamorphasis from "i'm going to Thailand" to ".....Thailand.....".

We get off the plane, and walk into humidity. It's not unbearable, but compared to the climate-controlled familiarity of air travel, and many things from the civilised western-world, this expected heat wave is not as bad as the books and travel guides and websites had been espousing upon my imagination. Warm to hot, with humidity. Of course, that experience was brief because the terminal, although it was under construction still, was air conditioned. Not much of a relief for us at this point, because we were unaware of the experiences we were to face in the coming weeks, let alone in the coming hours, but again, it was nice to know that there was an understanding of what it means to be comfortable, and that the people are not completely barbaric...

We stand in line for what seems like an eternity. I embarass myself at the immigration checkpoint attempting to speak a little Thai. The masked security guard speaks English, but it seems as though he shows no attempt to hide his Thai heritage, and has no qualms about speaking English poorly. So he tells me, with a certainly look of righteousness that I've only ever attempted in my life: "you may stay for 30 days." And I have no way to answer him, accept to thank him, and watch as he stamps my passport, and I feel this odd sense of passing from what I knew, to what I do not....

We amble around the great big terminal.... the huge lines we were standing in and amongst suddenly disappeared, no herd to guide us. We couldn't even find our way out of the terminal! How humbling it was to me. Jen, astoundingly, was still beat. Tired from all the travel, even though she had been sleeping for upwards of 12-15 hours; Possibly more. We wandered around this singal, giant terminal, wondering how to escape. I don't even recall how we found our way out.... but I think we eventually looked up and saw a giant sign, covering the entire black wall, with huge white letters spelling out "EXIT". Of course!

The Terminal, which was essentially one giant concrete cube with the wall facing the gates and airfield entirely glass, was sectioned off from the entrance vestebule, which was an enclosed section of the giant concrete cube, at the front of the building. I know that's confusing, but ask me about it sometime, and I'll vividly re-tell the story and give you a more accurate description. Well, we walk and talk, and realize that we may be some distance from Bangkok proper, and have no reservations, no further destination, and no way of communicating anything of significance, and we're both a little reluctant to go charging out of the airport and into the first availble cab. And even before we're off the randomly strange descending moving walkway/escalator, we're propositioned by a man, who looks Indian, at 430 in the morning, with the cry of "taxi, taxi...". He's a taxi driver, inside the airport, soliciting fares; a practice that the travel guides told us to be wary of. We ignore him, and are now so close to walking out of the airport, and in to Thailand, but we're a little afraid of what's gonna happen, because we don't know what we will do if we exit; will we be able to get back into the airport? Is there a map we can find at 430 in the morning, to help us communicate? Is there an internet close by? What taxi's are the real taxis?

Finally, I can't take it. I have to walk outside. We walk throught some automatic doors, and immediately a dozen or so taxi drivers are waving their hands at us from a railing set up, like railings at a protest site, or along the path of a race, about 40 feet away. It's 430 in the morning, and there's a dozen taxi drivers here...scrambling for our attention! And look, down there! There must be a dozen more! Holy shit. what to do! I am in no rush to make a decision, and I know there's an airport for refuge, and taxi drivers for adventure. We sit down in the designated smoking area, (no fines for me, thank you very much)... and I light a cigarette. Jen lets herself sit heavily on one of the concrete benches, provided. What do we do? We're so stagnant, but clueless, the cigarette is a god-send because I know what to do, at least for the next few moments...and then we try to decide....what next...

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