The inevitable will go someting like this…. we arrive in Bangkok and never ever return to the states, wherein our families and friends will forget our existence as we would transcend into the mystique of “going native” and deny that we even know where California is. Well, that’s Plan A.
Plan B is if we fail miserably in Bangkok we’d take the next overnight haul to London and beg our in-laws, hubby’s family, to take us in until we can establish ourselves from the indignity of defeat in Bangkok. Or until they throw us out in sheer desperation before their homicidal tendencies kick in. Whatever the case, I think we’ll have a blast in Bangkok. People have been promising to come out and visit once we’ve established residency there, but I do hope they change their minds. It’s not that I don’t want to entertain, I’d rather not have them show up and by default, appoint me as their designated tour guide. What a horrendous chore that would be to constantly repeat myself, “That there is a temple. That there is heavy traffic which results in severe pollution, igniting any asthma episode that may be lurking in your system, and no, not everyone here is a prostitute or pimp.”
Seriously, if people say they plan to come visit they should. Why else say it? It doesn’t make me like them more for saying it, or less for not saying it. It actually annoys me because I was hoping to never talk to some of these people again. By coming to Bangkok to see me, the understanding is that I’d have to somehow maintain a pretense of courtesy and affection for people whom I have very little interest in once I board that flight to commence my nativity journey. A tsunami deterrence strategy is in order.
It seems many are keen on Plan B, some even insisting that we skip Plan A and go directly to Plan B. Can you play Monopoly and skip Park Place and collect without paying? I don’t think so. In order for us to truly appreciate and long for London is to immerse ourselves completely in the life and culture of Thailand. Get enough food poisoning and poor paying jobs so last us for at least half a decade before we can appreciate the pain of living in a 400 square foot flatshare in London. Yes, that’s life in London. If we’re lucky enough to ingrate ourselves in our inlaws’ place, we’d at least have a place to recuperate from the jet lag. If only they live in London and not the land of curries and Indian food galore. (sighing)