Of Cabbages and Condoms

I'd never spent half an hour naked with an ancient Chinese man, but there are worse ways to pass the time. This happy sojourn occurred because the Emerald Buddha, apparently, does not wish to see me. On my first visit to Bangkok, a cock-up with a tour guide allowed no more than a glimpse before the guards started rattling their guns. The next trip there just wasn't time and this fall I was tossing feverishly in post-Cambodia dehydration delirium.

But this trip, I'd planned a day. So when I arrived at 12:15 to find his chapel had unexpectedly closed at noon, it was just too much. You see, this time, I had a mission. In my bag was a picture I'd been carrying since December. People leave photographs at the Buddha, and I was bringing an image of the little Siamese home to Siam. There was nothing to do but weep.

So I wandered, red-eyed, through Chinatown. And that's when I fell into the arms of Mr. Chu, back-alley acupuncturist. His young apprentice, perched on a stool, snared me. "You hurt?"

I stared at him. "Yes. I do."

He jumped to his feet. "We fix. Clean needles. No AIDS!" He'd made me an offer I couldn't refuse, so I followed up the dim stairway. (Chill, honey. The sterilizer was plugged in and everything.) The apprentice handed me a (cleanish) sheet and pointed to a rickety table. Five minutes later he led in Mr. Chu, who was older than God and - although I may be being optimistic here - almost certainly blind.

"Where you hurt?" I wanted to point to my heart but touched my right shoulder instead. Twenty minutes of playing pincushion later, I could do push-ups again. Unfortunately, he couldn't ease the other ache.

So when heartbroken in Bangkok, have another massage. I sprang for the hot oil, a whopping eight dollars. And this was a fairly nice place, with none of the Donna Summer that can drive one insane in many Asian massage parlors. Unfortunately, the lack of disco allowed other sounds to intrude. Ewwww, baby, baby.

I don't consider myself a prude, but unless I'm personally participating in the activity at hand, I do NOT want to hear someone else coming. And if I DID want to enjoy that aural vignette, I'd have booked a cubicle at "Plonkers Coming 'R' Us," and not at the Footjoy Massage on Sukhamvit 11. The woman rubbing oil on me didn't seem perturbed, so I tried to go with flow, as it were. When she finished - no happy ending for me - I went to shower ("Ewwwww!") and meet Shamini for drinks at the Mandarin Oriental.

I've wanted to have a drink in the Authors' Lounge at the Oriental since I knew it existed but, like the Emerald Buddha, we could never get our schedules synchronized. Conrad and Maugham aside, some experiences just can't live up to expectations. We bagged and caught a cab to Cabbages and Condoms, a restaurant run by a family planning charity. It was perfect, right down to the artfully rolled and ornamented condom bouquets. Instead of mints, the waiter presented after-dinner Trojans. Coming home, I tossed mine in the doorway of Footjoy Massage.

Tomorrow, Hanoi.