It is my own fault, not Thailand’s, that the trip started out badly. I went the cheap route, with an Air Egypt flight that didn’t have enough blankets for the passengers and sported the only working TV on the other side of the plane.
After landing, I headed straight for my only planned destination, one of the largest markets in Bangkok where a giant conglomeration of tented stalls contains almost every product under the sun for next to nothing. You can buy art, clothes, fighting roosters, marble carvings, any imaginable food, counterfeit Nikes that look like the real thing, real Nikes that look counterfeit, guns, knives, brass knuckles, pornographic ashtrays, DVDs of movies that haven’t hit theaters yet, and, likely hidden somewhere in the back, happiness (or at least something to simulate it).
As I wandered around in the humid Bangkok afternoon, wearing my newly bought sandals and breezy, authentic Thai fisherman pants that I only saw on other tourists, I noticed several things.
- The populations of people and stray dogs are near equal in some parts of the city.
- Children under five may not actually have clothes or just opt out of wearing them.
- Sidewalk and road hold little distinction for vehicles or pedestrians.
- There are no traffic rules, merely suggestions that carry the same weight as the surgeon general’s warning to chronic smokers.
- It smells like flowers, rotten eggs, perfume, sweat, exhaust, mud, and grass all at the same time.
- It’s infested with tourists – especially of the 40 year-old man with the (hopefully) 18 year-old Thai girl variety (or boy).
- The food is delicious.
Two “pleasures” I decided to try out in Thailand were traditional Thai massage and a straight blade shave at a barbershop. I started out slow, getting a foot massage at the market first and a haircut (they did shave my ears, which has left me with a complex over whether my ears are hairy or not).
I challenged the real shave first, selecting a shop run by three gorgeous women as I figured, if it had to happen, I’d rather have my jugular severed by a beautiful woman. However, when I sat down in the chair, had my temples massaged, and was lathered up, they brought Shaky out from some backroom he must hide in so that he doesn’t scare customers away.
Shaky was a ancient looking Thai man that was about as steady as a punch-drunk boxer. I pulled a deer in the headlights and went absolutely rigid watching Shaky try to steady his hands enough to wipe the four-inch razor against his apron. I honestly don’t know how I avoided wetting myself in pure terror every time he came near my neck with that blade. To add to the apprehension over what turned out to be a 20 minute shave, Shaky started by shaving my forehead – I don’t know about my ears, but I’m pretty damn certain my forehead didn’t need the shave. I seriously felt like I had survived a near death experience when I walked out with only one nick on my cheek and a profound dislike of razor-wielding old men.
The Thai massage was both better and worse as far as experiences go. I asked the hotel staff if there was a place I could get a massage that was strictly just a massage. They pointed me at a place in the same building (of course). It was very clean and had little Zen fountains and other faux-oriental decor that put me at ease, so I went for it. I had assumed that a massage could be done with a minimal removal of clothing, but I was given a small towel and told to leave everything in the change-room locker. Ah well, I figured, at least I get a towel.
So I was lead to the massage tables where two German men wearing Speedos (as, in my experience, all German men do) were getting massages. For the first time in my life, I wished I owned Speedos. My masseuse was in her fifties and she assured me that this was an above-the-belt operation, after which she whipped off my little towel to replace it with an even smaller towel – which wasn’t reassuring at all. So the two Speedo-clad Germans and I tried to relax as the Thai women set about ripping the tendons from our bodies. After the first excruciatingly painful half hour it began to feel fantastic.
After all was said and done, I actually felt really good. I went back to my hotel and had one of the most satisfying sleeps in my life. So my advice, if you find yourself in Thailand and wanting a massage, is to invest in Speedos. Oh yeah, and stay away from shaky old men with razors.
I challenged the real shave first, selecting a shop run by three gorgeous women as I figured, if it had to happen, I’d rather have my jugular severed by a beautiful woman. However, when I sat down in the chair, had my temples massaged, and was lathered up, they brought Shaky out from some backroom he must hide in so that he doesn’t scare customers away.
Shaky was a ancient looking Thai man that was about as steady as a punch-drunk boxer. I pulled a deer in the headlights and went absolutely rigid watching Shaky try to steady his hands enough to wipe the four-inch razor against his apron. I honestly don’t know how I avoided wetting myself in pure terror every time he came near my neck with that blade. To add to the apprehension over what turned out to be a 20 minute shave, Shaky started by shaving my forehead – I don’t know about my ears, but I’m pretty damn certain my forehead didn’t need the shave. I seriously felt like I had survived a near death experience when I walked out with only one nick on my cheek and a profound dislike of razor-wielding old men.
The Thai massage was both better and worse as far as experiences go. I asked the hotel staff if there was a place I could get a massage that was strictly just a massage. They pointed me at a place in the same building (of course). It was very clean and had little Zen fountains and other faux-oriental decor that put me at ease, so I went for it. I had assumed that a massage could be done with a minimal removal of clothing, but I was given a small towel and told to leave everything in the change-room locker. Ah well, I figured, at least I get a towel.
So I was lead to the massage tables where two German men wearing Speedos (as, in my experience, all German men do) were getting massages. For the first time in my life, I wished I owned Speedos. My masseuse was in her fifties and she assured me that this was an above-the-belt operation, after which she whipped off my little towel to replace it with an even smaller towel – which wasn’t reassuring at all. So the two Speedo-clad Germans and I tried to relax as the Thai women set about ripping the tendons from our bodies. After the first excruciatingly painful half hour it began to feel fantastic.
After all was said and done, I actually felt really good. I went back to my hotel and had one of the most satisfying sleeps in my life. So my advice, if you find yourself in Thailand and wanting a massage, is to invest in Speedos. Oh yeah, and stay away from shaky old men with razors.
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