Naimul

It’s surprising how much truth can be found on a bottle of Tropicana Orange Juice. Drinking Juice is good for your heart it tells me, with exact numbers and figures in fluid ounces and vitamin percentages to account for the advice. There is a little bit of life in every bottle, and as it should be, the best bottles contain juicy bits. The tell tale peppercorns of life that spring up in your morning omlette are the spicy unexpectings that make life worth living, beyond the standard deliciousness of eggs mixed with veggis and cubes of meat and cheese, folded and served with a side of salsa. If you don’t get my extended metaphor quite yet, I won’t resort to tired boxes of chocolate or any other mythical boxes of unsuspecting result either, but I’ll have you know that I’m having the time of my life.

Juice Bottle

I love it here in London. The weather is great, the people are friendly, and the best sarcasm comes from carefully taking the mickey out of/on a new found friend. The day I arrived was a weekday, and thus all business followed by meetings and crashing into jetlagged dreams. Even my subconscious was a tad behind—my night visions involved clowns that hadn’t haunted in years. I woke up at three am and then again at seven thirty, giving it up as a bad job I decided to hit the shower.

Tower Bridge

There are subtle appealing elements to this city that are difficult to describe. It is most often realized through the recognition of something old, which has become something new, yet coexists with that new piece of modernism quite splendidly. On the streets of London the forefathers mingle with the children in a strangely charming and pedophilic manner. Old meets new at histories cross roads: a 2000 year old temple crumbles in comic disarray across from a large glossy Japanese Bank. Yet some how it all seems to belong.

Banksy Trains

Its all weak

Today I had a free day, so I visited an enormous cathedral, the temple of Mithras, the bank of England, the monument to the fire victims, the market where Harry Potter bought his first wand (it didn’t look like the Diagon Alley of the movie), a post modern skyscraper or two, a market for yuppies, little Bangladesh and its grandiose mosque, the Tower of London, its adjoining bridge, city hall, Shakespeare’s Globe (I’ll see a show tomorrow), the millennium bridge, and Arabia town where I had falafel, chicken korma, mango juice, parsley salad, and shisha. The best parts were the Crown Jewels at the Tower (I snuck a camera in and got some video!) and the yeoman’s response to the question, “What is a yeoman?” See last blog post for the answer.
So many wonderful buildings and sights, and I’ve only poked at the surface.

A true beefeater

Guilt Frame

Jon Hoppes, your comments are needed

It’s odd that we associate British accents with intelligence and charm, because everyone has them here, from yellow coated street menders to the London Tower’s Yeoman Warders. None of them are more educated or intentionally charming than the rest, but there is a pleasant ring to their vernacular: “make way!” as opposed to “get out of my way, bitch.” Bratty children on trains complaining about seats, “No (noe), I (eyye) refuuse to stahnd hearr fahhther,” comes off less annoying than the standard girlish scream. Vendors are purveyors, bachelor parties are stag do’s, and biweekly is fortnightly, phrasing which even my world weary spell check refuses to acknowledge.

Playing fast and loose

The Brits have their priorities straight

But this is really a wonderful place. If you can ignore the obscenely high prices or have money to throw around, I think this would be a great new city to spend the next decade of your life enjoying. Everything you need from good food to high fashion, great schools and deep culture, diversity and upward mobility, its here. I beckon you back to the motherland.

Extra: A Preview of Tomorrow's Adventures

On Quoting Shakespeare

If you cannot understand my argument, and declare ``It's Greek to me'', you are quoting Shakespeare; if you claim to be more sinned against than sinning, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you recall your salad days, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you act more in sorrow than in anger; if your wish is farther to the thought; if your lost property has vanished into thin air, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you have ever refused to budge an inch or suffered from green-eyed jealousy, if you have played fast and loose, if you have been tongue-tied, a tower of strength, hoodwinked or in a pickle, if you have knitted your brows, made a virtue of necessity, insisted on fair play, slept not one wink, stood on ceremony, danced attendance (on your lord and master), laughed yourself into stitches, had short shrift, cold comfort or too much of a good thing, if you have seen better days or lived in a fool's paradise -why, be that as it may, the more fool you , for it is a foregone conclusion that you are (as good luck would have it) quoting Shakespeare; if you think it is early days and clear out bag and baggage, if you think it is high time and that that is the long and short of it, if you believe that the game is up and that truth will out even if it involves your own flesh and blood, if you lie low till the crack of doom because you suspect foul play, if you have your teeth set on edge (at one fell swoop) without rhyme or reason, then - to give the devil his due - if the truth were known (for surely you have a tongue in your head) you are quoting Shakespeare; even if you bid me good riddance and send me packing, if you wish I was dead as a door-nail, if you think I am an eyesore, a laughing stock, the devil incarnate, a stony-hearted villain, bloody-minded or a blinking idiot, then - by Jove! O Lord! Tut tut! For goodness' sake! What the dickens! But me no buts! - it is all one to me, for you are quoting Shakespeare.

Bernard Levin

The pantheon of English Literature is as grand as its history. Situated along the Thames stands a relentless tribute to the greatest writer of all time, of any language, in any place, and though his work loses a lot of its charm when translated out of English no one can deny his characters are as timeless as the archetypes and themes they’ve established. The Globe Theatre really is all-encompassing theatre in the round, serving as a portal to the past. Everything done there is rife with tradition; in pockets of excellent action and moving poetry, legs pooled with blood from hours standing in the groundling thicket, people are thrown back to the Renaissance. Elizabethan puns wash the room with laughter before treacherous villains wreak havoc on the lives of heroes.

The Globe by Artists.

Then, when the moment is strung out with suspense, when your sinews tighten and your jaw clamps shut, and all your attention is focused on the recreation of beauty and horrible malice on stage, a JET flies over the open air Globe and downs out the actor with a roar. Then girls giggle when Othello has an epileptic fit. A cell phone goes off in the crowd. The groundlings laugh at all the wrong parts. And your restive legs are tired from three hours of theatre.

The experience of Shakespeare in the Globe is mixed.

But the actors come back! Despite the interruptions the show must go on! And in the end, to thunderous standing ovation, a truly talented troupe of thespians dances to renaissance rhythms.

Empty Tube.

That was last Sunday. I went to the Globe to see a bit of Shakespeare and I loved it. There were ups and downs but altogether it was a wonderful experience. However, I might buy a seat next time, and go to a shorter play.

Me looking at the sun by the Eye.

Flickr HDR Eye.

London is over. I had a wonderful week. The city is full of life and culture, I have family and friends there, and you’re never at a loss for enrichment. The day I went to the Globe I visited my cousins and aunt near Stratford. Its really nice connecting with family that you’ve been away from for a long time; I’ve only seen these people once. But when I arrived it was like 12 years had passed without notice—we laughed and ate food and had quality time. My cousin is a talented entrepreneur making his way up the ladder (he’s far from the bottom) and is the second oldest of the 21 or so cousins in my father’s side of the family. Since I’ve got nine aunts and uncles on that half I’m happy to say it’s a large and diverse family.

Before I flew out my cousin took me to see parts of London I couldn’t discover alone. As gay as that sounds, its wasn't.

We had traditional fish and chips with mushy peas and vinegar, visited the famous Trafalgar square, saw Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park. The square is famous for a battle and only Jeff Sisson is really interested in that. The park and the palace were beautiful but everything required a lot of walking. So we smoked shisha and drank mango milk shakes in a dimly lit restaurant while we relaxed on soft couches. It was an awesome evening, I can’t wait to see them again. The family, not the couches, London set in a smoking ban June 1st.

My and my cousin.

Snazzy Principe

Banksy Invaders

Work at Accenture is great and improving. I’m in Bangkok now and the real efforts start here. The first week is going to be a lot of planning, time line creating, and talking to clients. So here is what I’m doing (warning, boring description):

I can’t tell you. I had a whole description written out but there are many privacy and client confidentiality issues that I have to take into account before blogging about my work. Check out www.nethope.org for information about the organization I’m consulting for. Check out www.ict4emergencies.org for a look at what I’ve been helping develop, fill with content, assess, and a number of other…secret things. As gay as that sounds, it isn't. Enjoy!

My Office's Lobby

I went to the Tate Modern and experienced the 'Dali and Film' exhibit. Some of the film has been introduced to me by film students in New York and some art I had already experienced in New York. The exhibit was very reminiscent of New York. The office lent me their corporate membership card so I was able to get into the Tate members room, a classy little dig on the sixth floor with an exclusive open air balcony. It’s a great museum, try and visit if you’re into anything modern arty.

Modern in the Park.

Photographing Britain

Another exploration was of the church that served as my neighbour last week. The dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral is a towering London landmark and the taxing climb up hundreds of stairs is worth the spectacular view.

An old Italian lady took this picture.

A view from the top.

In another part of town I wondered how I could get into Westminster Abbey for a long time before I realized I was walking around the houses of Parliament. When I finally found the Abbey it was closed but I enjoyed it from without.

Look close at the plane heading for the Ben. In case you didn't know, all my pictures are clickable for bigger size.

The lesser known Westminster Cathedral. There are many pictures of Westminster Abbey, I'll save myself the trouble.

This is the Natural History Museum. I saw it on the way to get my Thai visa.

A definite highlight of the trip was a visit to with Max Rife. I took a train out to see his family and they fed me steak and a classy, Danish inspired home on a bend of the Thames about an hour from London. For all of you who are wondering, Max Rife is doing quite well, on his way to getting a Master’s Degree in Aerospace Engineering. With any luck he’ll come back to the states for pilot training and you’ll all get a chance to meet the man who had such a great impact on my trials of middle school (like the time Tyricco almost killed me and the time I racked Manuel Chavez) that I make an effort to see him at least once every four years. Cheers mate.

Me and Max. This is the third photo of this type in a series.

The hotel the company put me up in was a classy little studio place, with everything one would need to survive a week in the financial district of London. But before I knew it I had to leave the little burrow I’d carved into the city. My bags got packed and once again I faced the dilemma of too much luggage. My last 30 dollar taxi ride to the 30 dollar train station which left me at the…no cost required but really hectic airport was a bit depressing. I’ll miss the place, until I come back in August. I have one more week in the Old City (to present reports and give back this laptop, among other things).

But before I start reminiscing too much, I’d like to remind you all that I’m in Bangkok, Thailand. And THIS, is where the adventure begins.

PS: The four hours I was lost in Doha, Qatar are an adventure for another entry.

PPS: My first hand at a youtube video. Short view of the globe.

Even though I wasn't serenaded by French candelabras and dancing teapots, I think the service in Thailand could easily rival the fanciest of Europe. At least by bang for your buck standards. I'm aware that a cool 150 G's will buy you a butler-bodyguard trained in three arts of killing and twelve courses of meal making, but who among us has 150 G's to spend on Jeeves? Why not come to Bangkok, where they take their shoes off in your home, bow, scrape, rejoice at tips, and always serve you with a smile? The guards salute you and the receptionists want you, what more could you ask for? How about getting it all on the cheap? Not that I'm into all that but…high five.

This is the summer of contradictions. Bangkok, even more than London, embodies them. Londoners are pretty consistent in comparison. You have your buck-toothed solicitors and your dry humoured, meek attitude gentry—no surprise there. They might be a little racier than Americans at times, but it's nothing we can't appreciate.

Yesterday I saw a man dressed in shorts and a pair of light sunglasses driving a motorcycle. Without a helmet. With one hand. Popping a wheelie. With his sandals on the asphalt, scraping over the rocks and pebbles as the engine between his legs skied him on to the highway. Why only one hand? Because in his mouth burned a cigarette and he had to take it out to blow off a cloud. He winked at my passing tuk-tuk, completing the dangers by cutting his vision to half. Fucking Bangkok crazy ass shit I couldn't believe it. Chances are he had peas, carrots and a taco in those shorts, switch hit, drugged, and conned on top of his daredevil side job. Did that make any sense? He was a lusciously dirty renaissance bastard. How senseless.

Bangkok is a hot city—we're pretty close to the equator here. Within the metropolis, there is a lot of hotness as well. My apartment, my job, movie theatres, clubs, and the food, all pretty hot.

View from the Apartment. The pointy golden topped building is where I work.

I'm living in a three bedroom apartment with two other consultants. I'm the intern, I get the small room, but there is a nice living room and kitchen, a pool downstairs and a gym. You can even play Squash here. I don't play Squash here. Squash is for pilgrims.

It's raining season. Salt and Thyme don't fall from the sky but water pours every night. When the sun goes down the clouds start to gather, broiling and mixing from the newly de-radiated earth's heat. The steaming masses pile over head and clash with each other, sending down fire and heat and rain coupled with thunder and rage. Every tempestuous night I put my head against the cool glass of my window and peer through the drizzle at the streaking lights below. Its my beginners meditation.

Occasionally the lighting will cause rolling blackouts through the city and for twenty minutes the whole building falls silent—no glee from the pool, no buzz from the fridge, no gust of the air-con—the whole place is silent. Everyone moves to the balcony during a blackout, like grillers on the Fourth of July they mingle outside and converse over the gap. Our flashlight didn't have any batteries, we saw with night eyes instead.

My Roommate David from England, Accenture Consulting.

My Roommate Kevin from Belgium, Accenture Solutions.

It would be great to be king of Thailand. People love that man. I didn't even know Thailand had a king till I arrived. The government is wild. A lot of military coups, approved by the king, take over the democratic government, and keep the country under a martial law of sorts. This happens every few years. And things continue to work!

Still every Monday is biz casual Monday. Because everyone in Thailand wears a yellow shirt with the kings symbol on Monday. Everyone. Even me. Last year it was to celebrate his 60th year on the throne. This year it's to celebrate his 80th year staying alive. Next year the shirt won't be worn, but for now I get to enjoy the lax dress code at the start of the week. That and the five minute photo reel at the start of all movies saluting the king are just a chip of the veneration this guy gets.

Thai food is great, most of the time. Every once in a while you get something weird, like black jelly made out of grass, but most of the time its tastes great. You can quickly learn about a country's origin from the food they consume. In Thailand, they're a mixed breed of Indians (who migrated up into China) and Chinese (who migrated down to escape). You get Green Curry Chicken, which isn't like curry at all, but isn't much like green either and they eat it with chopsticks. I learned to make some of this in a cooking class I took. It was more of an eating class though—we watched how the chef cooked and then ate the food. All under ten dollars, high five.

I had dim sum for the first time and as much as I love Chinese food, it reminded me a lot of China, a place where the food can turn my stomach. That didn't make sense, let me rephrase. I love American Chinese food. The food in China, on the other hand, sometimes makes me vomit. Dim Sum made me think about vomit. But I enjoyed the food. It was painful pleasure. It was BSDM, Brightly Seared Duck Meat, for my stomach.

I haven't been bothered by pay sluts yet. There were a couple close calls. I was offered a ride to go see the famous ping pong shows. From the sound effects made by the pimp, I translated that women in this country are able to fire ping pong balls out their vaginas, like some kind of disfigured burp gun. I haven't decided if this is a nightmare I want to live.

It's been a while since I blogged. That is because I was waiting for a gambit—an event to serve as my golden nugget of travel experience. I witnessed such an event yesterday.

Thailand is full of Buddhists. Everyone here respects the saffron robed monks. They walk around every morning, bare footed, wrapped up in cloth, and collect hand outs from everyone. People line up to give them stuff and get blessed. A lot of monks can't eat after noon, so they finish their food gathering early. And every once in a while they are asked to do something special. That's when they really rake it in.

Accenture, like most businesses, relies on some degree of good luck to succeed. In Thailand, they gather their luck without clovers. So in order to build up a store of good luck for the year, they invite a team of monks to chant in the building and pray to the spirits for a profitable year. In exchange they get bunch of great stuff.

I wasn't really sure what was going on when I got here the morning of the ceremony. People were lined up outside a large conference room removing their shoes. They hurried my shoes off too then led me into the room. All of the chairs were replaced with stiff mats. In one corner of the room a table stood bent under the weight of boxes containing food, first aid kids, clothes, and other treats. In another corner a shrine was erected with burning punks of incense and statues of goddesses.

Monks in a row, ready to chant.

The monks sat in a row at the front of the room in order from eldest to youngest. The quiet old man at the end had white bits of stubble for hair and large boxy framed glasses. At the other end of the spectrum a young monk sighed and looked at the ceiling a lot. Everyone in the room, dressed in yellow shirts because it was Monday, knelt on the mats and pressed their palms together in respect. Then the old monk started to chant. The crowd responded. Another line of chant. Another response. A longer chant then. A short response back. On and on for fifteen minutes. Then, the third monk down the line started to sing.

Consultants in yellow pray back.

We sat silently and listened. The room filled with the heady scent of incense mixed with the heat of an office of bodies. Then every monk started to sing. Some held Accenture fans in front of their faces and all of them were connected by a bit of white string. They sang till my eyes started to droop. Then the monks stopped.

Everyone sat still and looked at the monks while the monks looked back. The room was quite warm and I started to drift, succumbing to sleep. So the oldest monk threw water at me. I shook my head and saw the small man walking around with a packet of reeds and a big pot of water. He walked through the room and sprinkled water on everyone. The people in front got really wet. A woman next to me told me it was good luck. Good luck made me look like I'd peed and I still wanted a nap. Then everyone touched each other. On the shoulders, or sides, or knees, and prayed a bit more while the fattest monk proclaimed some things in melodic Thai. Then everyone gave the monks gifts.

Now the monks can eat.

It was one of the strangest things I've ever seen. But beautiful and interesting in its own cultural bubble. No matter how much it seems like a grand contradiction, for Thais this is a way of life. The old must meet new—they choose to embrace it. This is how the world is different in other countries; we might be working on the same tasks and hoping for the same outcome, but we're praying to different gods. East Asians still follow Feng Shui for aesthetics, yet their banks are as practical as ours. The difference in means doesn't matter; we seem to end up at the ends either way.

Yesterday was the first day I really appreciated being in Thailand. Today I appreciated some more.