It had been a busy, but agreeable two month vacation in the U.S. and I was fully refreshed to take on the biggest challenge of 2013: the twenty-one-hour ordeal required to fly from Seattle across the Pacific, then down to Thailand. This has always sapped my strength and last week was even more of a struggle than usual. Through Expedia, I had booked the flight on ANA (All Nippon Airways) which in turn was operated by United. It all sounded straightforward enough, but appearances can be deceiving.

When I arrived at SeaTac airport a few hours before my departure, I had assumed I had to go and wait for the ANA desk to open up when in fact I should have immediately gone to the United kiosk to check in. By the time I had been informed of my error by a Japanese ANA employee, any chances of reserving a window or aisle seat for my flight had vanished. I ended up spending some ten hours wedged between a Japanese businessman and Korean college student. In my younger, more energetic days, I would have attempted to make conversation with either or both of them. Instead, I glumly programmed some vintage rock and roll from one of the music channels and melted into my seat. A few hours later, after having listened to David Bowie’s Rebel Rebel for the fourteenth time, I switched gears and watched Iron Man 1. Events slid into a sleepy blur after that.

I had a four hour layover in Narita airport outside Tokyo. Since I’d once lived in Japan, there was a sense of nostalgia seeing all the neatly dressed ladies in the upscale stores selling jewelry, tobacco, or chocolate (all non-dutiable!). Even the girls working at McDonald’s exuded an air of controlled prettiness. And of course everyone was excruciatingly polite and friendly. Entering the plane for the flight down to Bangkok, I had to battle back an urge to bow to the stewardesses. 

From Narita, it’s a six hour flight down to Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport. Because there had been a recent typhoon in East Asia, we had to endure seemingly endless intervals of low level turbulence. My two seatmates slept through the bumpiness while I could only glance over in envy as I took in yet another movie, my hands firmly clutching the armrests. When we had finally landed, it was a real effort to let go. 

By the time I’d cleared Thai customs, I’d had maybe two or three hours of sleep in the past forty-eight (I rarely rest well the night before flying out, and have never been able to sleep on a plane). This grogginess led to my leaving my debit card in one of the airport ATMs after wrestling with it to extract some Thai baht. I didn’t notice the loss until I was almost to my apartment. Fearing the worst, I hailed another taxi and sped back out to the airport, swearing under my breath the entire twenty-five minutes. Thank heavens it was the middle of the night and I did not have to contend with any traffic jams. The extra stress would probably have resulted in some kind of stroke. 

Unbeknownst to me, ATMs are now programmed to “eat” any card that remains in the slot for a certain period of time. It was therefore a straightforward matter for one of the girls at the currency exchange booth next to the machines to get a key and open the one I thought I had used. But my card was not in there! It turns out there are two groups of ATMs on the ground floor of the airport and I had gotten them confused. The girl had to walk down to the other pair to retrieve my card, a bit annoyed at my stupidity. I didn’t blame her and even offered to pay for her trouble — a standard gesture that works well with the kind of ladies I’ve come to know in Bangkok. But she couldn’t accept it and was far more interested in filling out the required paperwork to get me out of her hair. I walked back out to my taxi driver who’d been waiting and for the second time that night rode from the airport to my apartment. Upon arriving I was so keyed up from the stress it was a good two hours before I was finally able to plop onto the bed and drop off. (I spent the time unpacking.) 

Why do I endure such misery? As I am always telling my friends, Thailand is not really my cup of tea. Too disorganized and raucous. At no point have I seriously considered spinning out my retirement years in this country and someday I will pull up stakes and go. Then again, others may view my actions and come to a different conclusion. As she handed me the apartment keys, signaling the beginning of my third year in Bangkok, the office manager gave me a knowing smile. “Welcome home,” she said.

Two months ago, after some deliberation, I gave my email address to one of my high school classmates who is compiling a list of everyone she can find for our reunion in 2015. A couple of my old friends have since gotten in touch and it’s been a delight reconnecting with people I have not heard from in almost forty years. Then, one of them passed on the word that my high school girlfriend wanted to contact me.

“June” and I had had a checkered past. We started going together in the 8th grade after slow dancing during some junior high outing. It was first love for both of us, full of the usual adolescence dramas and desires. Then just before our sophomore year of high school, I callously broke up with her. Having what we nowadays call a “hot” body, it was only a matter of weeks before June was dating some upperclassman while I, trapped in my awkward scrawniness, could only look on in envy from the social sidelines. On occasion I would bang my head against my locker, asking myself just what the hell I had been thinking.

This aggravating state of affairs lasted for two years as June seemed to move effortlessly from one boyfriend to the next. My feelings throughout this, a kind of dating interregnum for me, ranged from mindless jealousy to genuine concern over the things she was getting into such as (horror of horrors) drinking. Little did I realize at the time what an important tool alcohol would someday become in my own dating arsenal.

Then came our senior year when lo and behold, we got back together! This was entirely June’s initiative. In fact, she broke off an engagement and I almost got beaten up by the jilted groom-to-be, who happened to be a black belt. Yet despite my surviving this brush with death, we could never quite recapture the old magic. I suspect it was largely because our high school experiences had made us different people. Whatever the reason, it was June who this time around broke up with me. To this day, I cannot recall the reason; I only remember sitting in the passenger seat of her GM Vega, sobbing. My hurt eventually turned into meanness a few months afterwards when I put a nasty note in June’s locker, accompanied by her senior photo with the “b” word etched across her face. These insightful items got mailed to my home, causing me to receive a stern lecture about writing down stupid remarks for all the world to see. (Such as I’m doing now.) Determined to have the last word, or at least the final gesture, I then gave my ex-girlfriend the finger following our graduation ceremony. Such classless acts did not sit well with me and I eventually mailed her an apology letter. It was the last communication for thirty-eight years.

Which brings us to the present. Through our mutual friend, I learned that June wanted to tell me about some painful issues she’d had to deal with in high school, of which I was unaware of at the time. More than a little curious, I emailed her directly, encouraging her to share. I’ll leave out the details of what I discovered, but will say that the cards were certainly stacked against us back then. Interestingly enough, both of us were now concerned that the other was still angry and holding a grudge, which happily is not the case at all. I was in fact impressed with her honesty and the manner in which she’s handled the challenges in her life. I was also surprised to learn that our past troubles were, from her perspective, not my fault at all. (I still think was a jerk, however.)

There remained one concern. From the tone of her messages, it sounded like June was wanting to re-enter my life, probably as an email buddy. She would not be the first “ex” to become curious about me. But in spite of my newfound understanding of our history, I felt there still remained baggage that would prevent a healthy friendship, and explained I was not interested in staying in touch because of that. This reasoning earned me a well-written rebuke sprinkled with such therapeutic-sounding words as maturity and growth. In essence, I was accused of lacking the ability to work through our issues.

But why would I want to? Here in Bangkok I have all kinds of young female friends for all occasions: playing pool, visiting a go-go, watching a DVD while snuggling on my sofa, getting a slow, sensual massage…and one other activity I can’t recall at the moment. It’s an interesting reversal from high school, when June had all the attention. Not that I’ve evolved into some kind of Don Juan; it’s simply that being a decent person here in Bangkok counts for more than back home. If you are kind, occasionally thoughtful, and keep your hair combed, why, you can have all kinds of lady acquaintances. (And if you open your wallet, the sky’s the limit.) The idea of stepping outside this utopia to deal with accusations from a woman I haven’t seen in four decades has decidedly limited appeal.

Wishing June all the happiness due her…

Soon I will be leaving for my annual U.S. pilgrimage. This will involve the usual family and friends visitations plus some serious decompressing. (Bangkok can take a toll on a person.) When I informed the apartment manager I’d be checking out (I lease month-to-month), I mentioned that after I’d left, there would be many women crying in the bars on Soi 4. She got a kick out of this. I laughed too, not realizing how true the joke would turn out to be.

I had been out doing some late-morning chores which included getting a haircut and a bit of shopping followed by a hamburger lunch. (Strangely, I hardly ever eat Thai food.) I was returning to my room when I happened to see Noy #3 (I know three Thai women named Noy), a casual acquaintance, waiting for customers in the parking lot across the street from Nana Plaza. A couple months had passed since our last tryst during which time I hadn’t stayed in touch, so I was not surprised to see her appear faintly annoyed as I approached. As I began talking with her, however, it became clear she was actually very upset.

It’s important to take a moment and review the rules of engagement here. If, after a roll in the hay, the farang customer wishes to see his one-and-only again, it is entirely his choice. There are no obligations unless the woman has somehow wheedled one out of the guy. Both parties go their separate ways. Noy #3 I had seen twice in May, but prior to that it had been two years outside of a few brief hellos.

Yet somehow I had transgressed.

“You not talk to me for two, three months. But I not come to your apartment. Maybe you have mistress. Not want see me.”

I attempted to explain that I had not been feeling well, which was quite true. But more than that, I simply wasn’t interested. My prerogative. But I could not say any of this outright as it could be construed as a loss of face and I was afraid how she’d react.

“You good man. I not come here every day. Today I come, hope see you. I have good man before from Singapore, but he die fourteen years ago.”

No kidding? Not quite sure where this conversation was heading, I tried to regain some control. Gently, I inquired why she had not called or sent me an SMS if getting together was so important. But that went nowhere given her emotional state. Soon I was standing on the sidewalk next to a Thai woman crying her eyes out. (Much later I would find out she is from Laos. Not that that made any difference.)

“You talk good long time with me. Two years (sob). I lucky see you today.”

If so, she was expressing her gratitude at her good fortune in an unusual manner. Not wanting to leave her there, shedding tears on the pavement for all to see, I took her back to the apartment. As we entered, she suddenly kneeled to remove my shoes and socks. This “servant girl” routine was her way of trying to rekindle my affection. But sadly all I could do was gently dissuade her and offer extra Kleenex to staunch the tears that soon started up again, accompanied by her litany of woes. Searching for a way to somehow turn off the hydrant, I told her of my upcoming U.S. vacation, explaining that all my friendships here were coming to an end (at least temporarily). No luck. I was not able to comfort her in any way. She was pining after a connection that in fact had never existed between us.

I ultimately got her to leave by telling her how tired I was. In response, she offered to stay and give me a massage, but I wanted an end to the soap opera. Being turned down, she accused me of liking lady boys (Thai men who dress as women). This struck me as so silly I actually chuckled, then abruptly stopped when I saw her unsmiling face.

She walked out the door without looking back.

I don’t believe my Thai ex-girlfriend of two years ago would mind seeing her name in one of my posts. Especially since I have recently sent her a generous amount of money paying off the remaining debt on her house, with the leftover proceeds intended to help her son and daughter finish college.

Somebody had to do it…

Rasamee and I met in October of 2010. I had just moved to Thailand and was living in a simple studio apartment in the city of Pattaya, which is a kind of sexual Disneyland for middle-aged Western men. She was working as a hostess in one of the neighborhood bars, going by the name of Lawt (easier for the soused customers to remember) and claiming to be in her late thirties. Though she was in fact some seven years beyond that, her dark looks fooled me completely — and this was before I’d had anything to drink.

Both of us being new arrivals in Sin City, we quickly hit it off. I found her very easy to be around, mostly because she wasn’t some calculating twenty-something Thai girl who views foreigners as winning lottery tickets. This was simply a woman trying to make extra money to pay off her debts and send her children to a local university back home. Besides the bar, she was also working overtime at a nearby restaurant. I admired her commitment and was soon pitching in to help the cause.

Though she was technically my girlfriend, I didn’t have her move in with me, preferring a measure of privacy. Nor did I support her full-time. She continued to work at the bar and sleep in a large dorm-like room nearby where most of the girls stayed. At times, when she was especially tired, she’d use my place as a crash pad for an afternoon nap. 

It was a pleasant arrangement for me. For our “dates”, I would pay her bar fine and we’d go out to eat and play some pool. Later, we’d retire to the apartment for maybe a movie and night together. In many ways I was a good friend, always willing to lend a hand such as when she needed a new foam sleeping pad. We went shopping and I purchased one for her, then proceeded to drag the unwieldy item seven long blocks in the suffocating heat back to her room.

Unfortunately the good times did not last. After six months together, I moved to Bangkok and broke things off when I decided I didn’t want to get serious. However, I continued to provide her with money when crises arose, such as last year when the bank was about to repossess her home. Rasamee’s ex-husband, whom I hope someday ends up with testicular cancer, had years before left her and the kids for a younger woman, not bothering to provide any support whatsoever. Though it took some persuading, I eventually stepped in and paid off most of the outstanding loan. A sister covered the remaining amount and though this saved the house, it still left Rasamee with what was by her standards a large debt to her sibling — a condition I have just rectified.

Despite my good deeds, I am no saint. As the post title implies, I am not always thrilled at what seems to be a never-ending stream of problems and requests for help and often wish it would all go away. At the same time, I recognize that having a place to live and providing one’s children with a good education are not unreasonable wishes. It’s clearly a time in her life when some charity can make a difference.