Jun 1st, 2001
First Night in Bangkok
After lying around the hotel for several hours in odd purgatory that was a fusion of jet lag, excitement, exhaustion, and relaxation from the massage, I headed to the Hard Rock Café in Siam Square for a beer. After an uneventful drink, I wandered around the area for a bit until I stumbled upon the Zoo Bar, a trendy Manhattan-wannabe bar. I ordered a gin and tonic and watched as the bartender nudged the hostess in my direction. She came over and we began to chat. I found out that she was a freshman at a University in Bangkok. She worked as a hostess at the bar during the evening. Before I left, she wrote her number on a napkin and told me to call her the next day and she would show me around Bangkok.
I left the Zoo Bar and wandered over to a club at a nearby hotel where some GIs were milling around outside.
“Hey! Is this place any good?” I asked.
“Nah,” a lanky fellow with short hair and thick glasses answered. “We’re heading to another place nearby.”
“What other place?” I prodded.
“It’s just a bar that one of our friends told us about. You in the military?” He asked.
“No, just traveling through,” I said.
“Hey,” he said, turning to one of his companions. “What is the name of that place?”
“Blue Hawaii,” he answered back. The GI turned to me and repeated: “Blue Hawaii.”
“Thanks,” I answered and hailed a taxi.
I stepped inside the cab and asked him to take me to the Blue Hawaii. I was a bit surprised when he responded by saying, “You don’t want to go there. Dirty girls there. I take you to good place with nice girls.”
“Sure,” I responded and sat back in my seat.
We ended up at some seedy club near my hotel, which I was delighted to find had a karaoke machine. Not surprisingly, there was a group of Korean men in the place, singing songs.
In the far corner of the bar was a large window, behind which sat about ten or eleven Thai girls wearing ridiculously ostentatious shiny dresses that made me feel as though I was in some twisted Asian version of Disney Land.
A middle-aged woman behind the bar asked me in broken English if I liked any of the girls. I pointed to the girl who had the best smile and said, “That one.” She brought her over and attempted to make conversation with her but soon found out that she didn’t speak a lick of English. Turning towards the universal language of music, I attempted to coerce her into humming along while I sang “Leaving on a Jet Plane,” and “La Bamba,” but she just sat there looking a bit confused. I bid her adieu and headed home.
