Alone in Bangkok, but not lonely.

I wouldn't say it was easy. I had to catch a rickety old public bus the entire stretch of Penang in order to catch another, much smaller bus across the border to Hat Yai, Thailand, in order to catch a huge and arrogant bus with televisions and toilets and VIP lounge downstairs, here. So suddenly I'm in Bangkok, surrounded by haze and horns and a wretched species of backpacker that ends each sentence with man or dude or bro, and is collectively scarce of a respectable adult hairdo*, and wears pants that flap like Mediterranean sails as the traffic gushes by.

I have declared Khao San Rd off limits. Patong and its depravity however beckons.

But so the guest house is a haven, at least. It is nestled amid the heart of a labyrinth of alleyways, alleyways so narrow I sidestep into dark and dank doorways to allow the merchants and schoolkids and stray mewing cats through. The edifice itself is a stark sky blue, which I find quite endearing, and is thus called The Bluehouse, ingeniously. There is a very real chance I'll be electrocuted in my humble enclave, itself a contemporary sort of cave with frazzled wires and peeling ceiling and dampness cloving each corner. The host is a shy 21-year-old, Chai, who's willing to wash clothes on cue and smile uncued, just like all good hosts. My room is padlocked and I have the key.

For amusement, I stroll, intentially lose my bearings. I try to make it to the hinterlands, but it's like I'm walking on a treadmill - the same stasis scenery over and over and over, markets and skyscrapers and molehills of rubbish.

And now, over there, my favourites: the grey-haired men. They wheel their vegiee-laden carts while grimacing and groaning through tortured countenance, one cart in front and another behind, a practised push and pull. They labour like I have never seen. They're old enough to be great-grandfathers. And yet by some uncanny function of biology, their skin is dry as an ember. They do not even bead with sweat. Beneath my own cascading sweat I am dumbfounded. For this, along with their unshakable work ethic and flawless tans and meticulously cultivated wisps of whiskers spilling from formidable brown moles, I revere the grey-haired men. What I yearn for is to age as gracefully as them.

But now: how the hunger sears my stomach, how the weariness abrades my mind. I need to devour some steaming streetside delicacy before sinking into my inch-high mattress with its skin so ratty, practice my Mandarin, distract my mind as to stave off the headspins this gargantuan burgeoning metropolis just won't cease giving me.

* Mean-spirited comments re: my hairdo are unoriginal, unfunny, and unwelcome.