And I'm Back...

Sorry about the delay, I can only imagine the pain and anxiety you all suffered while waiting for my next post. Chain smoking cigarettes, biting nails, pacing through rooms and obsessively pressing refresh only to find the same old disappointing post about musical groups you could care less about appearing on the screen.

When I left off I was departing for the beach but I wanted to give a brief description of the train ride I took a few weeks back after my disastrous trip to the monkey infested disappointment of a city called Lop Buri.

Traveling by train in mind has become greatly romanticized by two particular figures, PaulTheroux and Wes Anderson. Theroux's writings about his travels across what seems like most of the world by train have fascinated me since I was introduced to his works. He is a bit of a cantankerous individual and prone to lengthy bouts of negativity and cynicism, but his love for train travel in unrivaled.

Anderson's film Darjeeling Limited illustrated an idea that has been lingering in my head for sometime. A throwback to a time when train travel was a glamorous and unrushed way of not only traveling but more importantly arriving , when the cars themselves were like luxury liners of dry land and the people who rode them equally as prefect in appearance and standing.

The Orient Express, the Trans-Siberian Railroad, the names evoke a picture of grandeur, of chandeliers and fine dining, of cigars and suits, of matching luggage sets and flamboyant sleeper cars. Aside from this fantasy there is the pure fact that train travel requires little of the mind in terms of navigation. No wrong turns to make, places to get lost, simply sit and watch the landscape evolve around you. A level of leisurely disconnect. With a sense of direction as atrocious as mine it is wholly reassuring that even I can't fuck this up.

With these ideas, delusions really, in my head I decided the only way to travel to Lop Buri would be by train.

The things I mentioned before, the fine dining, the chandeliers, cannot, it turns out, be bought for a $1.50 even in Thailand, which is how much I paid for my return ticket to Phitsanulok.

What a $1.50 can get you is a one way, third class, unreserved ticket. In the caste system of trains, this ticket is the untouchable. The only way to get lower would be to hoist yourself onto the top of the train or opt to pump one of those wooden platforms down the track but I believe these most likely disappeared right around the time Steam Boat Willy became Mickey Mouse and people began referring to the poverty stricken as homeless instead of hobos because I've never seen one myself or met anyone that ever has.

The ticket lingo of the train caste system is an area of study unto itself. Classes (1st, 2nd, 3rd), cooling options (Air con, fan, none), sleepers, seating options (coach, reserved, unreserved), speed (rapid, express, rapid express, regular, special) there are a seemingly exponential number of combinations that can be created from the options that are all abbreviated to make life more confusing and printed in the "Write Your Name on a Grain of Rice" font size on a truly overwhelming grid that inevitably must be deciphered moments before a train is about to depart, leaving the "A-Ha!" moment to come just as the train you are supposed to be on lumbers out of the station.

When purchasing my ticket the cashier warned me the train was very full, on the track a woman, unsolicited, did the same. Two warnings in a country where capacity for a moped is a family, extended relatives and maybe a few friends or pets had me worried.

As the train screeched into the station limbs protruded from windows, people stood between cars and some sat in the open doors legs swinging above the tracks. I joined the slow moving crowd of people, audibly wondering how the hell we were all going to possibly fit into this car. There are moments in life, a good portion of them witnessed late night on computer screens in all male dorms courtesy of some of the seedier corners of the Internet, where you see objects or groups of objects so large in size fit into areas so small you find yourself exclaiming "No fucking way." This, although lacking the grotesqueness that leaves you simultaneously averting your eyes and sneaking one more glance, was one of those moments.

Bodies contorted, shifted, turned and twisted until every last person had been jammed inside. I found myself in the middle of the aisle, backpack in a sitting man's face with my neck craned as to not be hit by one of the oscillating ceiling fans that buzzed precariously close to my head.

When traveling by car or by plane there is a certain sterile quality that we strive for. Blasting air conditioning, muting windows the experience is one of control, the thought of either of these machines out of control, is in fact the nightmare of many. Great lengths are gone to in an attempt to cut those traveling off from the outside world, to keep them at a safe, or at least safe feeling, distance from what is just outside. In the case of the plane it is out of necessity and in the case of the car it is born out of habit, a habit that has lead to cars having TVs and obscene numbers of cup holders as well as the contributing to the idea held by many that travel by any other means, like bicycles for instance, is borderline insanity.

The train however, especially the 3rd class, is a form of transport where the senses are overloaded. Physically there is no personal space. It is simply empty space and empty space can be filled. Filled with anything. Massive boxes of snacks, vegetables, more people, kids, bikes, furniture, fishing nets, baskets, duffles, suitcases and the ever present square plastic bags that are made in every size and pattern of plaid. If your in need of reference head to Canal Street in New York or any part of any major city where cheap, Asian imported goods are hawked. Yes, those bags.

The open windows keep the train from heating up while traveling but the temperature begins to rise the second we brake at a stop. It also gets quite warm when we run through a fire burning across the tracks, which happens about a half hour into the ride but seems to go unnoticed by everyone despite the roaring orange flames feet from the windows and the smoky haze left hanging in the car.

The already crowded aisles were made even less spacious by the vendors shoving down them selling drinks and food, the most popular on this particular day seemed to be dried fish of various sizes. I found myself wondering if there is some sort of hierarchy to the food vending system. If the temperature is pushing 100 are the rookies required to sell hot coffee while the old veterans push ice cream? It only seems fair.

"Sip baaaaaaaht" The food vendors persistent price calling is akin to human bagpipes and never stops.

A few hours into the trip I was finally able to grab a seat when a boy, probably 13 or 14, got up. A relief because my ankles were now being grabbed by a legless beggar who was making his 2ndpass down the aisle.

"Sip baaaaaaht" Despite having to stand hunched, I find myself thankful of my height as it kept me at a distance from these banshee cries.

I assumed this kid had gotten off the train but in 15 minutes he reemerged through the crowd, despite what appeared to be his family insisting that I stay seated, I had to give him his seat back. Even in the lawlessness of the 3rd class there is still some honor to be respected.

So I gave him his seat and he quickly began to unfold a newspaper, laying it carefully on the ground. The seats are benches that face each other. Once he laid down this makeshift mat he proceeded to slide himself under the seats in a way that looked right out of Cirque du Soleil, that little Chinese grease man from Ocean's 11 would have found it difficult to pull of this maneuver.

His family, now beaming and laughing, insisted that I sit back down, my feet on either side of his body. I was now riding with a Thai boy sprawled out, sleeping under my seat.

"Sip baaaaaaht" He did not seem bothered by the yelling or his position.

Theroux wrote that, "Traveling is glamorous only in retrospect," but looking back even a few weeks there was nothing glamorous about this trip. People who claim to enjoy traveling are in large part being untruthful. People enjoy arriving at destinations. The plane flights, the train rides, the highway traffic, this is travel and it is generally not enjoyable. It is the time in between the punctuation of arrival and departure that is most often truly valued. It makes sense that so often in our Sci-Fi portrayals of the future people travel by teleporting.