The news from Bangkok is horrifying.  When you read about the bombing of the Erawan Shrine, with the chaotic pictures taken in the dark of a scene that's impossible, really, to decipher except as the latest in the long and endless string of acts of pointless, horrible political violence that stud the world, I want you to remember this picture.

You know I'm not one for hyperbole, darlings (stop snickering), but this woman is something of a genius.

Awfully definite, this, don't you think?  Unnervingly, it appears in every elevator in this large hotel complex, and it's getting me down.

Well, I got here.  It took more than 30 hours, two flights, a bus ride across the vast and featureless expanse of Tokyo expressways that connect one airport, Narita, with another, Haneda, and finally a mad scramble through earliest-morning traffic here in Bangkok, but at length I arrived.

I suppose it's churlish to complain, but you see, once again my implacable overlords in the executive corridors of Golden Handcuffs Consulting Amalgamated International have spoken.  As a result, I'll be spending the upcoming festive holiday weekend trapped in the not-very-pleasant sections of a series of airplanes (not one of them BOAC, either), only to emerge sometime Monday on the far side of the earth.

At the risk of becoming a tad repetitive, I was thrilled to see that my fave-rave Thai Royal, the Angel Princess herself, has taken to the road - with adorable results.

I have a new girl-crush, of a most unlikely nature, but I really am entranced.  She's a fixture, you see, of the news in Bangkok, and since I spent so much time during this trip sitting in a stupor in the hotel room that I saw rather a lot of her.  Such, however, are the local lèse-majesté laws that I thought it wiser to write about her only when safely elsewhere.

...and the god's a he...

Let's not even address the oddity of encountering an Amy Winehouse Siamese while actually in Siam; what troubles me is whether there's any significance to the fact that Her Majesty is prey and the other two predators.  That only one was actually a Rock Star (before becoming a ChocStar) pales in comparison.

At breakfast this morning, taken in the briskly efficient 31st-floor executive lounge of my very comfortable hotel, those of my students who have lingered on were fully of dauntingly ambitious plans for their Saturday, burbling on about elephant excursions and trips downriver and temple crawls of epic proportions.

So this evening, for the first time since I got here, I ventured out even a little bit for dinner, going down to one of the hotel restaurants rather than having a tray in my room.

Who knew? In these parts, Blythe is a spokesmodel with her own hair color line.  It's about time the big-eyed one got one over on that damn Barbie Roberts and her endless merchandise machine.

Because I know you worry, I thought I should reassure you that all work and no play is not, in fact, making this Jack a dull boy.

So all this time we've been going through the move - and even as we dwell in the resulting chaos - I've been dreading what comes next.  I honestly didn't even really start putting it all together until I went back to work on Thursday, but now the reality of it is coming at me just like an American President Line ship bearing down on a little Siamese fishing vessel.

We have, alas, returned from our little adventure in the exotic East.  Yes, the dogs were happy to see us (ditto Mrs. Galapatti-Da Silva, who in eight days had clearly had just about enough of them, bless her), but there's no denying that our winter holiday (and so the longer winter holidays) are over, and now the long slog toward summer is upon us.

We had an especially amusing last few hours in Thailand, however, having left the tranquil beach resort where we'd spent the last few days.  We met up with friends and filled out our experience as tourists in Bangkok by hitting the fabulous MBK center, a vast and quite wonderful emporium that is less mall a kind of concentration of Bangkok-ness, a six or so story conglomeration of discount electronics, market stalls, kiosks selling everything from Buddha heads to naughty devices, and pretty much anything you can imagine that you'd ever care to buy.  We went by tuktuk, as one does - I especially liked this gentleman's festive pink and white seats, which echoed the bright pink leopard print ceiling of the interior.


The MBK Center is tawdry and glossy and rather wonderful, as long as you don't think too closely about the implications of all those thousands of people and what looked to be about four emergency exits.


Seasonal decorations are everywhere in Bangkok, and MBK is no exception.  Oddly, in Thailand, Santa appears to have some sort of association with the space program, as he regularly appears, as here, in conjunction with what looks like SkyLab; satellite dishes and rockets also turn up here and there.


This gives no indication of either the density of the crowds or the intensity of the volume that envelopes you.  These corridors go on for what feels like three or four blocks.


Among other things, the place is a veritable festival of trayf.  I considered bringing a few of the manifold varieties of shredded, dried, and otherwise highly processed pork back with me to the Sandlands, just to see if they'd make it through, but decided that with a flight arriving at an ungodly hour of the morning, the last thing I needed would be a lengthy pig-related delay at Customs.


Dried fruit and other goodies proved to be much safer choices.


We found ourselves tempted by bling in many forms - these fine timepieces, for example, were being hawked by one stall proprietor as "A Number One Fakes!"  Some were so heavily encrusted that it was hard to tell fake what, exactly...

I had thought it would be hard to find trashier shoes than are found on sale at malls across the Sandlands.  I soon discovered that was I was quite, quite wrong.


Having been an aficionado of Engrish back in my Japanese days, I was happy to see that it's alive and well and living in Bangkok.  This sentiment could, I suppose, console us for forgoing the rhinestone watches.


Apparently, Amanda Lepore has a fast-food chain in Bangkok.  Who knew?


At a nearby eatery, a disconcertingly eager and seemingly cannibalistic pig advertises the delicacies to be found within.  Given Mr. Muscato's dietary proclivities, this joint was clearly off limits.


So we ended up at an excellent Japanese place nearby, drawn by its first-rate assortment of plastic examples of its offerings, and a good time was had by all.

We may not have gone for the watches, but we did very well on all kinds of tat, with which we plan to surprise and appall friends and acquaintances on a regular basis for the next few weeks - refrigerator magnets, novelty lighters, stuffed elephants in rainbow colors, and much, much more.

Within a few hours we were jetting back home, arriving to find the Sandlands surprisingly chilly (at least in comparison to Bangkok) and just about as dull as ever.  Tomorrow, it's back to the grindstone, but for now I'm holding on as firmly as possible to memories of mad malls, gilded temples, golden bar boys, and very nearly unwise amounts of excellent, ice-cold Singha beer...

These people are entirely too happy about dish soap.  And they're on Thai television, every station, about ten times an hour.  Wait through the 20 second intro - it's worth it.

(and yes, that is the Thai for "And now, a word from our sponsor," at least to the best of Google's ability, up there in the headline.)

...Every day, in the sun, 
 at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.

I suppose it's inevitable, if you're of a certain age, not to have "One Night in Bangkok" rolling through your head when you first visit Thailand.  Suffice it to say that, with the exception of any element having to do with chess, we've pretty much had it as our leitmotif for the past few days.

Let's see.  Bar tours? Check, courtesy of a friend of Mr. Muscato's who lives here.  Tuk Tuk rides?  Check, many times, as we are fairly entranced by these putt-putting (hence the name) open taxis.  Naughty revue?  Check, in spades - rather more graphic than expected, actually, and accompanied by some deeply unenthusiastic bondage (in what look like costumes left over from the Bangkok Light Opera's last production of Aida) set to an appalling heavy-metal/techno hybrid, which mostly made us giggle inappropriately.  Lots and lots of spectacularly delicious street food?  Oh so very much check.  On that count alone, we're tempted never to go home.

Oh, and some standard tourism, too, mostly consisting of, first, a leisurely visit yesterday to the Jim Thompson House, a handsome house museum that once belonged to a rather mysterious American silk magnate.  The serene scene above is from its lovely and tranquil garden.  Today, for the second half of our tourist odyssey, we subjected ourselves to the strict care of a brisk and vigorous guide called Siriporn (before you start giggling inappropriately, the "r" is silent.  Which is a good thing, since Kittyporn is apparently another popular name).  She hustled us through a haze of temples, Buddhas (large and small; bronze, gilt, stone, and gold; standing, sitting, and reclining), and other historical sites, interrupted by a hair-raising ride on a long-tailed canal boat, which did allow us to have a look at some of the less flashily Tokyoesque sides of this incredible city.  Perhaps when I've recovered, I'll show you one or two snaps from that part of the trip.

But not, definitely, from Babylon, a most intriguing gentlemen's spa... Oh, we've kept busy, all right.

Having survived the holidays more or less intact, Mr. Muscato and I are heading off for a lovely little break.  After more than six years here in the Sandlands, we've never before tried any of the more exotic destinations that are comparatively short flights away, so we decided to start the year off with a jaunt to Thailand.  I believe that we'll have connections to the great wide world at the excellent hostelries I've chosen, and I'll do my best to keep you up to date with our adventures.

I'm normally an in-depth preparer when it comes to new destinations, but the pace of the last few weeks has made that impossible; as a result I'm relying almost entirely on distant impressions of The King and I and a few tips from a pair of colleagues who used to live in Bangkok (surely the most bawdily named world capital in history).  I'm sensible enough to eschew Mrs. Anna's crinolines, but part of me is inevitably going to be expecting to hear The March of the Siamese Children as we land.

Wish us luck - and do send along any thoughtful travel recommendations you may have, or at least ones that would be sensible for a pair of stout parties of indeterminate age.*

* Note to MJ and her gang:  that means no donkey shows and nothing involving ping pong balls.  A boy has to have some standards...