Channel-flipping in samsara

impressions of Bangkok

Bangkok turns out to be a wide sprawl of gently rolling chaos instead of the sharp dense overwhelm I imagined it to be. I walk down its streets doing my normal thing, listening to music and looking for coffee.

There's two 7-11s across the street from each other. This does not make sense unless you know that in Bangkok crossing a major street is a hazard best avoided. I see a Starbucks and think of 2017 when I was homesick in Chiang Mai and visited Starbucks for a comforting reminder of American corporate suburban homogeneity. After that whenever I see Starbucks I feel a sense of comfort, but I no longer equate corporate suburban Americanness to home.

Home has migrated to browser tabs, people, and songs, so I walk past Starbucks to a matcha shop. I'm texting Americans while they're still awake and listening to Gidge's New Light, a medley of transcendence, euphoria, and melancholy. I'm stirring the ice to see if there's any watery matcha left to sip and playing the song to see if it can still squeeze out any emotion after a thousand plays. Both yield thin remnants.

Today the simmering heat has relented and in the breeze I start to crush on Bangkok. It shows me more: "Have you seen this?" "Have you seen this?" "Have you seen this?" Bangkok is golden temples and cramped 7-11s; luxury penthouses and tent cities; red-lipped prostitutes and orange-robed monks. Its breeze smells of ylang ylang and sewage.

This flamboyant display of heaven and hell sucks me in; from inside Bangkok's jaws I admire the glittering lights of samsara.