Bangkok Interlude: Monarchs and Mystery

Part of the fascination of travel and expat living is the way everyday events and objects shift ever-so-slightly off center, the way local customs brush up against familiar experience.  Bangkok is very westernized, and I’ve found it quite easy to acclimate here.  But there are of course significantly different currents that run through this city compared to those that run through Taipei or New York.  One striking difference is in the

form of government.  I haven’t spent much time living and/or traveling in constitutional monarchies, and I’ve certainly never been to one whose citizens are quite as devoted to their royal family as Thailand’s.  Of course I couldn’t help but notice the ubiquitous ceremonial photos.  And I arrived with full knowledge that insulting the King can result in jail time.  But I was not aware of the ways the reverence of the monarchy extends to daily life.  Go to see any movie in Bangkok and before the start of the feature (and after the requisite half hour of previews) the whole theatre must stand for the Thai Royal Anthem and a brief montage celebrating the King’s life and good works.  And by “must stand” I mean, it’s against the law not to.  As in, illegal.  Like, jail.  Okay, I jest.  I don’t really think that cops will run into a theater and arrest all the people declining to stand out of sheer laziness or perhaps protest. But the threat still humorously hangs in the air.  During a recent movie attended by 99% foreigners, at the start of the anthem we all kind of looked around sheepishly and stood anyway, I can only assume out of fear of the Thai prison system.  I mean, how good can the curry there be, really?

My favorite Monarchy Moment, however, first occurred during my evening run in Lumphini Park.  Lumphini is a lovely, small park about a 15 minute walk from my hotel (yes, I live in a hotel.  And yes, this makes me as romantically refined as any 1920’s European expat or Wes Anderson character.)  Okay, to be fair, Lumphini is actually the largest park in Bangkok, but I can’t help judging all urban green space on a scale of 1 to Central Park.  Everything else seems quaint.  Anyway, New York biases aside, the park is delightful and frequented by joggers, frenetic aerobics enthusiasts, and monitor lizards (fun fact: the Thai word for monitor lizard is almost identical to a vulgar Thai insult.  And yes, when trying to learn the word for monitor lizard I accidentally used the insult.  Loudly.  In front of children.  Damn you tonal languages!  Why must you frustrate me so?!)

I try to plan my jogs after dark, usually around 7pm, since running in the Bangkok sun turns me into a sweaty hippopotamus.  On this particular run, however, I found myself midway through the park around 6pm.  I was happily sweating up a storm to the dulcet sounds of the Beastie Boys, when I noticed that the guy running in front of me had just come to an abrupt halt.  Not too unusual, running makes people tired. Then I noticed the guys around him had stopped as well.  Kind of strange, but I justified it by assuming they were a well-oiled Muay Thai machine, and that Muay Thai training involved sudden coordinated stops while jogging.  I kept running.  And finally I noticed that everyone had stopped running, and it’s just me jogging through a garden of Thai statues.  My first thought?  It’s another coup!  Which somehow necessitates the immediate cessation of all running activities!  At this point I took off my headphones and was greeted by the strains of the National Anthem.  Suddenly it was all so clear.  We were having a Monarchy Moment!  As a matter of fact, this is a twice daily occurrence: at 8am and 6pm all people in public spaces must stand in respectful silence for the duration of the anthem.  Or they get arrested.  Nah, I’m just kidding.  I think my chances of imprisonment are really, really low.

Other than my occasional flirtations with the Thai justice system, my main fish-out-of-water moment comes every time I try to pass somebody on the right.  They drive on the left here, and I guess that spills over into foot traffic as well, seeing as how I have near collisions at least three times a day.  It occurs as follows: we do a little dance as I try to assert my individuality and pass on the right, the other person looks at me like I have 12 sweaty foreigner heads, and then I meekly move to the left and go about my business. 

And of course, I continue to be stymied by the hunt for good bras and deodorant.  But that may be a battle I never win.   

Stay tuned for overly enthusiastic descriptions of the food!

Broken Concrete

Teaching middle and high school kids allows one a rare backward glimpse into one of the defining moments of youth: first love. In a way it's like observing animals at the zoo; every now and then I have a vague idea of what they must be going through, but for the most part I'm just fascinated by the irrational tumult.


There is a sudden shift that occurs for every adolescent. One day she's perplexed over the meaning of a sonnet (Why is Shakespeare insulting his girlfriend? Does she really have wires for hair? And gross, reeking breath?  Ew.  I don't get it.) The next she's contemplating the slow maddening that can only be explained by the crushing weight of love. Some students treasure discretion: the adorable couple that you know are just thrilled to see each other at the start of each SAT class, and yet never sit together. Others wear their hearts on their sleeves: the boy who refers to the "tragedy" of being "friend-zoned" with tears in his eyes and a catch in his voice.

One of my students recently insisted that I had no understanding of what it truly meant to "lose your mind". He then proceeded to describe at length the obsessive pain that accompanies unrequited love. I laughed and assured him that he would get over it as soon as he met someone new. As I uttered those words I wanted to jump up and catch them before they reached his ears. Of course I understood this feeling. I too have lost my mind in such a way, and certainly more than once. The first occasion required five years of recovery. I gently told him that yes, I understood.  I had been there.  And then I mentioned the whole five years thing which, in retrospect, may have been a misstep, but I was frankly unprepared for the conversation, and anyway this kid is so dramatic I estimate at least a good seven years before he lets this girl go.

From my brief time here it seems that the Taiwanese are more willing to express the agony of heart-break than their American counterparts. This would at least explain Taiwanese music videos featuring beautiful young people dying from rare, vague cancers that only manifest as nosebleeds.  I think I first noticed this tendency (for heart-break, not nosebleeds) when I visited the Museum of Broken Relationships, a traveling exhibit that gives people an opportunity to celebrate love lost. (A reasonable, worthy endeavor if you think about it: the vast majority of relationships end in separation. Should these relationships be valued less because of it? Do we not learn from these experiences and encounters? Do they not change us?) The exhibit, while originally Croatian, includes donated pieces from every city it visits.  Each item represents a failed love, and each is accompanied by a brief description written by the owner of the donation. Many of these descriptions expressed pain, grief, or remorse.  Some expressed anger.  But only the Taiwanese descriptions read as individual pieces of poetry. Each was a slice of exquisite pain that put all other countries to shame. The horror and beauty of first love was present throughout, regardless of just how "first" the love really was.

The romance of every city is unique, and I've fallen in love with individual locales in different ways. Vienna was, of course, a waltz. A beautiful, thrilling gingerbread metropolis that twirled me into its arms. Berlin was a fever dream of art and creativity. And New York? New York is the recalcitrant lover who breaks your heart again and again, but to whom you will always return. All the while knowing, dammit, that New York doesn't love you.

I'm still trying to identify, characterize, and clarify my relationship to Taipei. Do I love it for its sweetness? Certainly not for its sweatiness. Perhaps these kinds of connections only become apparent with time. I do not feel the same desperate whirl of passion that other cities have evoked. It's a calmer love, sedate though certainly not mature. It's taste is bittersweet.

Sometimes I feel as though I'm viewing life through three sets eyes: the young girl I was, the adult I am now, and the older woman I hope someday to be. These are not days of incoherent passion, but they are certainly days of vitality. I'm already sifting through memories in anticipation of departure, and, as always, that makes the present more poignant and special. This is a brief snapshot of the time Taiwan and I have recently spent together.

Wisdom from Taipei's most acclaimed self-help guru

You are not good enough, you are not smart enough, and gosh darn it, people don't like you. But they will after you read my post over at PimpKnowledge:

http://www.pimpknowledge.com/brand-yourself-in-3-easy-steps/

Would you like a side of rice with your rant?

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the prevailing attitude towards artists, their contributions to society, and how much that contribution is worth.  This is an issue that all artists deal with once they step out of the university mill and declare themselves "professional".  Not all genres approach this transition in the same way. In the classical music world there is, for example, a sharp institutional delineation between "instrumentalists" and "vocalists":  after a certain amount of dues-paying a professional instrumentalist expects to be paid a respectful amount for all  services rendered; after a certain amount of dues-paying a professional singer is expected to be absolutely thrilled at the prospect of performing for free, or even, I shit you not, paying the organization for the privilege of performing at all.  Hell, this isn't really restricted to the classical world; less than a year ago I was "given the opportunity" to sing at a nearby cafe for free, and then, when a local accordion player agreed to perform with me, the owner of the cafe told me I should be really, really grateful, because that accordion player "usually gets paid".  No shit, Sherlock.  So do I.  Or at the very least I should get free drinks.

Of course, I am complicit in the de-valuing of my work.  I agreed to play at that cafe for free.  In fact, I don't think I even asked about payment.  I was in a foreign city, I didn't know the local music community's norms, and dammit, I really love to sing.  Which brings me to my next point: just because we love doing something doesn't mean it's not a job.  The recent essay by Miya Tokumitsu addressing just this subject had a big impact on me.  (Her piece is actually much, much more expansive, and discusses the class-issues inherent in even being able to say, "I do what I love".  Go read it!)  People assume that art is a "calling" heard by the chosen few, and such otherworldly creatures shouldn't really care about mundane things like money, right?  I mean, we just sit around in Parisian garrets all day drinking wine and contemplating the universe, don't we?  Actually, most artists work shitty day jobs (something's gotta pay for all that wine!) and then, at night, in their few precious hours of free time, laboriously practice the craft they've devoted themselves to, all the while knowing that the chances of ever receiving a living wage off of this art are unbelievably slim.  And you know what?  I, personally, have made my peace with that.  I don't need to make my living off of music and theater.  I'd like to, but I can still find great satisfaction in my work even with the knowledge that I will have to get up and teach kids about the SAT the next day.  So no, I don't expect huge sums for my work.  But dammit, I expect you to pay me something.

This is the mental point I had reached in my rant a few days ago: as artists, no, as PEOPLE DOING JOBS, we deserve respect, and that respect is best demonstrated by some remuneration for our work, no matter how small.  Give us a small cut of the door.  Buy us pizza and beer.  Hell, give us starbucks discount cards (totally kidding, do not ever, ever do that).  But at least acknowledge that we have provided a unique and worthwhile service.  Yup.  That's where I was, curled up in the warm, fluffy blanket of self-righteousness, when I read this:

A Plea about Arts Piracy in the Theater

Oh shit.

This excellent post by playwright Mike Lew details his experience trying to get theaters and performing groups to pay the licensing fees required in order to perform his published works.  Many theaters are reluctant to pay these fees because, of course, they have no money.  Nobody in the arts has money.  That's why we drink such cheap wine.  And then a huge, crushing wave of self-loathing hit me and I realized just how much music I perform that is most definitely NOT in the public domain, none of which I have ever requested the rights for.  And let's not even approach the issue of illegal downloading, because then I'll just crawl under the table and demand that you look away from my hideousness.  I, the morally superior artist, am most definitely part of the problem.

I believe that the world-wide artistic community is cannibalizing itself: no one values our work, so no one pays us, so we in turn steal the work of others, which just increases the perception that art is this "super awesome thing that should be free for everybody!"  Just like the internet!  And syphilis!  And look, I have absolutely no idea where we go from here.  I clearly can't even figure out how to negotiate payment in alcohol, let alone cash.  I can't tell you how we can foster respect for creativity within our own community, let alone in the world at large.  I can tell you that I have worked with some exceptionally honest and considerate artists and presenters who, while they can't pay much, will always pay something.  I can also tell you that I will gladly work for free anytime a dear friend asks me to, and yes, I will be absolutely thrilled at the prospect of again collaborating with the kind, talented people I am lucky enough to know and love.  Yes, I know that's a contradiction, but it's one I can accept.  I also see nothing wrong with working for free when nobody is being paid.  If everyone is donating his or her time, and I believe in the project, why the hell not?  Maybe my line in the sand is working for free when other people involved in the process are getting paid.  But I must say that lines in the sand tend to be very fluid in this business.

Or perhaps what we artists all need to do is take the advice recently offered in this NY Times article by Julie Satow and brand ourselves within an inch of our lives.  We can turn our creations, identities, and even our apartments into commodities to be bought and sold with little regard for anything beyond the potential hipster cachet.  Because we said we want to be paid, right?  So, we should pursue that goal by any means necessary, right?  Oh wait.  No.  That is exactly what we should not do, because we're people, not products, and I'm pretty sure that one of the purposes of art is to draw attention to that distinction.  At least, that's my opinion on it today.  Tomorrow I may read a really influential blog post, change my mind completely, and look for ways to make everything I do palatable and profitable.  Like I said, those lines are fluid around here.  In the meantime, I have some research to do: how do I get performance rights?  And what are my (legal and moral) options if I can't get them?  I'm not entirely sure how to make this change, but I know it must happen.

There was going to be food in this post, and some thoughts on the beauty of simple dishes prepared well, and it was all somehow going to be connected to the idea of appreciating things that may appear to be easily attained or accomplished but in fact require great skill.  But I got side tracked, carried away if you will.  All of this ranting has filled me with even more questions, which I guess is actually a good outcome.  That other post will be written, and hopefully that connection can still be made.  Of course, right now there's only one truly important question that needs answering: do I have to give back that Rodney Yee yoga video I got from Pirate Bay last week?

Damn these moral quandaries.




*****Note: I rarely link to the work of others on this blog, and while I did research the appropriate ways to do so, I admit I might have gotten it wrong.  If that's the case, please let me know, either in the comments section or via email.

Beware Bobbed Beauties

We interrupt our anything-but-regularly scheduled programming for a special bulletin:

I've got a new post up over at PimpKnowledge!  I'm laying down the truth about France's favorite Manic Pixie Dream Girl.

http://www.pimpknowledge.com/the-amelie-dilemma/

Hide your lawn ornaments!

The tofu-strewn road to Kyoto

Taiwan is offering up a formidable winter this year.  The past few weeks have been mostly wet, cold, and dreary.  Yesterday the sun made a brief appearance and then apparently decided to leave us to our sad fates, because today was yet another long, dark day of the Taiwan soul.  I took advantage of the brief reprieve yesterday to explore the northern end of the Gongguan bike path.  The hours I spent cycling back and forth, with no deadline, and no destination, brought to mind the late night drives I used to take in high school.  At that time, everything moved way too slowly, and I yearned for life to speed up.  I yearned for arrival.  This impatience would build up and, coupled with my chronic insomnia, would propel me out the door and into the car.  I would drive for hours, directionless.  Sometimes I stopped by the beach to hear the soothing crash of the waves.  Mostly I just hoped the continued movement would assuage my teen-angst.  Now a night like that seems fairly impossible.  First of all, life has become all about speed - events end seemingly moments after they start.  We feel a constant pressure to determine our next turn; we fear uncharted courses. Yes, it was a simpler time back then.  That, and gas was a much, much cheaper.

That will be $60, thanks.

There are still certain situations in which we are forced  to slow down: stomach flu and travel disasters. Luckily, this post does not involve bouts of stomach flu.  No, this post is about what may well be the most convoluted trip from Tokyo to Kyoto known to modern man.  First let's review the amount of time it usually takes to make this trip: by train, anywhere from 2 to 4 hours; by bus you're looking at 7-8.  For my sister and I, it took a solid 10.  Now, before you all go and chalk this up to some special Smela trait, some family ability to weed out the most bizarrely inefficient travel arrangements possible, let it be known that my sister did some excellent research before this trip.  She had figured out a way that we could travel to Kyoto almost entirely for free, thanks to a special rail pass available over the holidays.  It would involve a bunch of transfers, but hey, free is good!  No, we are definitely going to have to place some of the blame squarely on the shoulders of the Japanese Rail System.  

The trip followed this general pattern: we arrived at the station, showed our ticket (which was supposed to entitle us to free rides during the national holiday), and were promptly told that the first leg of our trip would, in fact, not be free, it would instead cost $60.  But the tickets should work everywhere else so, hey, no worries, just pay up and be on your way.  During the second leg of our trip, when the conductor came over to check our tickets he promptly told us that this leg of our trip would, in fact, not be free, it would instead cost another $60.  At this point my sister got a bit suspicious and checked on the rest of our itinerary with him.  The conductor told us that our next planned transfer would,  in fact, not be free, it would instead cost yet another $60.  Clearly the Japanese travel website my sister has used was, at the very least, misguided in its listing of acceptable trains we could use with this ticket.  Luckily, this kind conductor worked out an itinerary we could use our tickets on.  This itinerary would stretch our travel time out to a whopping 10 hours, but we had already paid $120 plus the cost of the "rail pass" and we were not prepared to spend anymore.  We decided to settle in for the long haul.  

Let's just note, for the record, that the 2 hour long bullet train trip costs.....$120.  Damn you Japanese Rail System!!!!!

The view from our 10 hour train ride.
Why do I miss all the good snowpocalypses?

But you know what?  This ended up being one of the highlights of the trip.  Susie and I had years of catching up to do. Major life events needed to be recounted.  Personal revelations needed to be shared.  We spent the full 10 hour train ride talking, with brief pauses to be dazzled by the jaw-dropping-ly beautiful scenery. This gave us a bit more mental space to take in the refined splendor of Kyoto.  We saw glittering golden temples, minimalist wooden temples, and cherry-red temples situated atop quaint old-fashioned market streets (which were filled with massively overpriced stuff, but hey, it's Japan.  The whole point is to leave with not a cent to your name, right?)  We ate twelve different kinds of tofu, including these outrageously good grilled tofu skewers slathered with miso paste.  They were delicate morsels of velvety decadence.  We wandered through the old Geisha neighborhood (lanterns!  hidden alleyways!)  We ducked into multiple izakayas to ward off the endless cold (gyoza!  fried chicken!)  We found a bar that sold beer, snacks, and collectible figurines (Run DMC action figures!!!!!  Which I'm sure cost so much I would have had to sell a kidney to afford just one!)  And we ended our night with some of the best vegetables I've had yet in Asia: sweet, vinegary boiled spinach with rock salt for dipping, and the only lotus root I'll ever love.

I love you, lotus root. You complete me.

Thus ends part two of Hungry Like the Wolf's Epic Sister Reunion Episode.  Still to come: a thorough exploration of Osaka's gay nightlife, and a pile of conveyor belt sushi so high it makes Taipei 101 look like shack.  

And now, to play us out, here are some photos of Kyoto brought to you by my poor, struggling camera, Mr. Blurry:

The Smelas Take Kyoto.  Super Asian!

The Golden Pavillion

Here are a few shots of a solo-trip I took to the Shogun Palace.

The entrance to the Shogun Palace.  

Pictures of the inside of Casa de Shogun are forbidden,
but the grounds are fair game, and pretty impressive to boot.
At least, Mr. Blurry seemed to approve.

The Shogun's cul-de-sac.   

 Interesting fact - closing time at Shogun-palooza is signaled by playing Auld lang syne on repeat.  Apparently that song actually translates as, "Thank you for visiting the Shogun.  Now get the hell out."

The street with that name beside that place with the temple.

The aforementioned temple!

Mr. Blurry has the soul of an artist,
and the hand-eye coordination of a sleepy two-year old.

Thank you for visiting Hungry Like the Wolf.  Now get the hell out!

Brains! It's what's for dinner.

Hello devoted readers.  I'm sure that by now you're tired of reading about the same old meals: dumplings, dumplings, and more dumplings.  Never fear!  The good people over at www.pimpknowledge.com have given me a forum to discuss some more....unusual fare.  So don your most Kramer-esque pimp hat and do some reading.

http://www.pimpknowledge.com/zombies-are-here-sexy-vampires/