Flight by- Joshua
Written on NOVEMBER 7TH

53 minutes till touch down in Taipei, Taiwan

Sunrise breaks to an impossible neon pink and spreads on the Asian continents some 36,000 ft. below. The clouds are a uniform gauze far, far beneath us. The captain speaks; Good morning, the local time in Taipei is 12 minutes to six, will be begin our descent shortly...

Time has been deceptive and wobbly these last twelve hours in transit. Breakfast of omelets. Row to ourselves. Sleep, wake, sleep, wake, turbulence- the plane shudders and you can feel it dip and sway a few feet. I’m reminded of the long, interminable nights spent in the crunch time library sessions- The hasty result of shameful procrastination. You sleep slumped, florescent buzzing and awake again and again. What time is it, where am I- it’s always 3:46 am.

Already I can feel my old life, only hours bygone, sinking fast into obscurity like a downed ship. My mind begins to go to that travel place. The place of watching expectation, of forgetting the day and time and seeing only faces and places, similarities and stark differences. The food is pretty damn good, no penitentiary grool, and a slight stewardess asks me if I would like some wine, and some more. But the cup is dixie size and I try to sip but just plain canÕt. Hair pulled into tight, shiny buns the attendants are a study of courteous efficiency, a blur of magenta. On screen a (Japanese? Chinese?) woman sits tranquil in a bamboo grove demonstrating the relaxational benefits of yoga and self massage. I saw Tokyo a few hours ago, just a sea of lights, ephemeral like phosphorus in the midnight surf.

In Taipei six dollars gets you a child size coffee and water.

In the lobby we meet Val, she climbs cliffs and has a brother named Hig. We also meet about a dozen Chinese Amway distributors who are converging 40,000 strong in Bangkok. You can always tell when a foreigner is talking about you and after a few they send an emissary. Moments later it’s all peace signs and camcorders. I’m looking at a Amway catalogue in Chinese, they are staring and nodding and giggling and of course giving the ol’ V for victory. They ask if Bridget is related to Shaq. That’s the only O'Neill that comes to mind.

In the air again, this time it’s Bangkok. Bridget is a row back and I bump knees with a 40ish woman who is stumped by the most fundamental of airlines technology-seat belts and tray tables confuse the hell out of her. Bridget doesn’t do well with landing, motion sickness and all, and when we descend her lips are drawn in a tight line and an eye mask blocks the migraine feeding light. I hate to see her like this, I know she is miserable or getting there. But I’m proud, she doesn’t complain and never lets it stand in her way. On the ferry, jostling in the back of a pickup- she’s fine, but the plane pitches forward and even my iron stomach drops. Mrs. no-clue-pertaining-to-the-function-of my-headphones rubs a tangy menthol fluid on her temples. She doesn’t seem to be relishing the landing either. She raps her fist against her skull- anybody home?

Stepping off the plane onto the accordion umbilicus the balmy heat is like a steaming towel around my face. Now the confusion. The sweet dislocation of being totally clueless as to how to do anything or get anywhere. Let the learning begin. We cling to a Cassidy and Heather from New Orleans (Ne’ Ahlins) and take to the task of not getting completely screwed on cab fare. The name of the game in Thailand is who can $&@#%!! the farang ( foreigners), who descend like sweating, befuddled locusts. Your new, and you have plenty of cash, you don’t know a cab to the city should cost 300 Baht ( about 8 bucks ) and not 1200. Bangkok is about keeping on your toes, harder than it seems, and as hard as it looks. Trust, unfortunately is a luxury, or, as it were a mistake. At home the villains are usually apparent, at least avoidable, in Bangkok it’s a jungle. A jungle I quickly come to love.