Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Eco-fashion
Who says hippies can’t look sexy? Personally, I’m a fan of the tie-dyed, but not everyone can appreciate such high art. Fortunately for those, eco-fashion is on the rise: recycled fabric lines the runways, organic material is easily accessible, even Wal-Mart are tapping into the stream of environmentally-conscious consumers. With celebrities like Bono and Stella McCartney supporting the movement, yuppies have also fallen under the craze. If you can afford it, check out their lines Edun and CARE. Personally, I'll continue going with the Goodwill route, but it's still nice seeing fashion with a cause.
Generosity
The Universe and I have a deal. It provides the energy, and I perform the action. In exchange for its generous gifts of nutrition, I'll achieve grand acts of seva, create beautiful works of art, write captivating stories, and serve the planet. Every calorie I consume enables me to think divine thoughts, dream inspiring dreams, and feel warm gratitude. No longer do I have to worry about food. No longer do I have to worry about where I’m getting my next meal.
It astounds me how generously the Universe gives. Creation provides the well-being of all her children by endowing them with the ability to care for each other. We all live off of the generosity of others. I am blessed with an amazing family that made my trip to Thailand possible, two Polish women who insist on giving me food every time I see them, a community of hippies who kept me alive me while I was in the hospital... greatest of all is my astounding father. The love, gifts, and support he gives can not be measured. So if you're reading this Padre, thank you. :) I only hope that I can grow to be as supportive as you.
It astounds me how generously the Universe gives. Creation provides the well-being of all her children by endowing them with the ability to care for each other. We all live off of the generosity of others. I am blessed with an amazing family that made my trip to Thailand possible, two Polish women who insist on giving me food every time I see them, a community of hippies who kept me alive me while I was in the hospital... greatest of all is my astounding father. The love, gifts, and support he gives can not be measured. So if you're reading this Padre, thank you. :) I only hope that I can grow to be as supportive as you.
THAILAND 2- Bangkok, Round One
I’m glad I brought shoes. That is the sole, (no pun intended,) thought that crosses my mind as I walk the streets of Bangkok . Our hotel is far from the notorious downtown, so I settle for the less-than-glamorous streets that are nearby. Here there is no makeup to cover the poverty. Garbage, smog, and decay permeate every surface. Stray dogs rest beneath the inadequette shade of rusted awnings, tired from last night’s howling.
Still, there is beauty to be found beneath the ugliness: offerings of incense soften the sulfuric stench, burning from altars upon every street. Between a shabby tile store and used car shop is the world’s largest restaurant, with no customer in sight. It’s closed during the day, but the workers laugh as we silly Americans explore its vacant depths. It wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for on my first pillage into another country, but it’ll do. Somehow, I sense Thailand has more up its sleeve. Stay tuned to find out.
Grocery Store
Those forbidden aisles of temptation are calling me again. I know I should resist, but they’re lit so beautifully, and it is a Saturday night, so I’ll let myself indulge. To some, going to a grocery store is innocent- even boring- but in my case, it’s worse than a sex addict entering a porno store. The sugars! The calories! How promising those vibrant plastic wrappers are. To me, browsing through the rows of food is better than the consumption of the product itself. I can safely admire Hostess from a distance, noting its nutritional value, (or lack thereof,) with a respectful diligence.
Some items leave me gaping for fifteen minutes, furiously debating with myself whether the temporary satisfaction of actually eating what I’m looking at would be worth the repercussions. Only pretending is harmless.
The game soon gets frustrating. It always ends with me walking out the door with a bag of lettuce and bag of apples. Is there any greater waste of time than someone afraid of food foraging through the cereal aisle of Coops? If you find one let me know; perhaps I’ll pick up that hobby as well. I don’t even let myself enter the desert section. Its vibes are too powerful. The wistful dreaming becomes a nightmare of suffocating dark chocolate, and I can’t run to escape in a public facility.
Grocery stores are indecent, with their polished tile floors and shiny glass windows that open like whores to any helpless victim standing there. My obsession with them is even worse. I may leave without the chocolate rice cake, but it’s a hollow victory. County Market and I both know how tempted I was, and how much of my life I spent pundering its rich, sixty-calorie goodness. No matter what I do, the food wins every time. Worst of all is the fact that I will inevitabley return to the torture chamber. It may be days, perhaps even a week, but the super market waits paitently, blaring its “Open 24 Hours” sign mockingly.
Some items leave me gaping for fifteen minutes, furiously debating with myself whether the temporary satisfaction of actually eating what I’m looking at would be worth the repercussions. Only pretending is harmless.
The game soon gets frustrating. It always ends with me walking out the door with a bag of lettuce and bag of apples. Is there any greater waste of time than someone afraid of food foraging through the cereal aisle of Coops? If you find one let me know; perhaps I’ll pick up that hobby as well. I don’t even let myself enter the desert section. Its vibes are too powerful. The wistful dreaming becomes a nightmare of suffocating dark chocolate, and I can’t run to escape in a public facility.
Grocery stores are indecent, with their polished tile floors and shiny glass windows that open like whores to any helpless victim standing there. My obsession with them is even worse. I may leave without the chocolate rice cake, but it’s a hollow victory. County Market and I both know how tempted I was, and how much of my life I spent pundering its rich, sixty-calorie goodness. No matter what I do, the food wins every time. Worst of all is the fact that I will inevitabley return to the torture chamber. It may be days, perhaps even a week, but the super market waits paitently, blaring its “Open 24 Hours” sign mockingly.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Sci-Fi Magazine
The final frontier has a tendency to draw those who don’t fit in with the humdrum pattern of Earth. There’s something compelling about the concept of breaking away from the chains of our planet-bound society, and experiencing life among the stars. I know I've felt drawn by Orson Scott Card more than once. Science fiction, in a weird way, has the potential of raising the reader's self-esteem After all, compared to strange aliens with even stranger cultures, how weird can their own personal quirks be? While most magazines tap into the human need to belong by conforming to the latest celebrities, fashions, and products, Sci-Fi goes about it a bit differently. By embracing their inner geekiness like a Borg collective, readers are united, and belong to the group. You're not alone says the convention junkong
Welcome to Yuppie-ville
“We don’t sell anything you like here.”
The Gothic Princess stares at my aunt from behind her throne counter dismally, and I can’t help but smile. The girl is a cashier for Hot Topic in Minnesota, and makes it quite clear that my Ralph Lauren-clad relative is not welcome in her realm. I can’t blame her, really. Mary is a businesswoman, and doesn’t blend well with the red plaid, black t-shirts, and sharp metal objects that compose this store. She’s rich, manicured, and- worst of all- Republican. My aunt wasn’t always this way though, and is furious that a simpering, (dyed) platinum blonde teenager had the audacity to question her style. She isn’t accustomed to being uncool, and, although the designer glasses hide it well, is mortifyingly embarrassed that she is no longer “in.” I, however, am insanely amused. When Mary was my age, she listened to Fishbone and snorted cocaine. Her adolescence burst with an insanity the Gothic Princess wouldn’t even dream of dirtying her hair over, as I try to explain to my livid aunt.
“She’s an Eden Prairie girl, Mary. That’s how they are.”
In order to understand that statement, you must first have an idea about the area we’re in. Geographically, Eden Prairie is little more than a suburb of the Twin Cities. Financially, it’s a haven. Only in Scottsdale, (also known as Snotsdale,) Arizona have I seen such a high percentage of upper class. The houses heave with wealth, the air sags with dough. It is, in a word, yuppie-ville. This massive amount of money and status has a profound effect on the children raised here. Imagine pulling into a high school parking lot, and finding BMWs, Porsches, and Corvettes parked alongside rusted Hondas and station wagons. You would think, perhaps even hope, that the nice, expensive cars are the staffs’ vehicles.
You’d be mistaken.
In Eden Prairie, kids learn early on that they are of higher rank than their teachers. As Minnesota’s governor Jesse Ventura so aptly put, “an elementary student could teach.” School is a joke. Why take the words of someone beneath you seriously? The students know that the you-need-to-get-good-grades-so-you-can-get-a-good-job doesn’t apply to them; they have daddy’s pockets to dig into for the rest of their life.
I know what it’s like to be a youth in Eden Prairie, because I was related one. Actually, before my dad divorced Karen, I was related to three. Jasmine, Joshua, and Jacob would be the first to tell you that Eden Prairie kids are “messed up.” According to my ex-step-sister, ninety percent of her classmates were on anti-depressants. Why the insane amount of psychotropics? America regards happiness from the top-down approach. Success is measured by a persons’ wealth, influence, and power. We strive to own more, control more, but what ultimately happens when someone has the world at their fingertips?
Things become less and less satisfying.
Imagine being born with the ability to have your every whim. If you didn’t have to try for, well, anything, wouldn’t you feel life was a little pointless? No wonder why they have no ambition.
Everyone wants a rich parent. Having a loaded family means vacations to Chile, a Christmas tree stuffed with presents, and nice clothes for back-to-school shopping. When I was younger, I used to burn with jealousy over my cousins, (who just so happen to live in Scottsdale.) Their mansion, (yes mansion, that is no creative exaggeration on my part,) borders a private mountain and hundred-acre golf course. I won’t even describe the interior because it’ll just make you sick. The point is, spending a week at their summer home in Minocqua, Wisconsin and playing with their eight jet-skis, two speed boats, and pontoon made me wonder... why doesn’t my dad even have a tenth of this?
Grown adults also believe that a wealthy home is a happy home. After all, raising kids are expensive, and you need income to provide for their health and well being. While this is certainly true, my experience with Eden Prairie has led me to question just how much is healthy.
There is something deeper behind the depression of Eden Prairie children than a simple lack of ambition. Those rich mothers and fathers I used to guiltily wish my dad was just a little more like, turns out, produce two different types of offspring. The first, Jasmine declares, are the Jocks. You know the type: they play football, have two cars, (one big, one fast,) and actually own the outfits we common folk lust over in Vogue. These kids are like their parents in every way; I wouldn’t be surprised if they owned the same Ralph Lauren polo.
The other group are the Rebels, which my ex-step-siblings proudly fall under. They’re the ones with blue hair, scarred wrists, and enough metal in their face to make a necklace. Of course, the tough, dirty style they’re imitating was bought at a mall for five hundred dollars an outfit, (enter the Gothic Princess,) but it’s the statement behind the black lipstick and studded belts that counts.
Why is there such a vast difference between the Jocks and Rebels? They are, after all, in the same generation, raised by the same kind of parents, with the same amount of money, in the same exact town. My ex-step-siblings wouldn’t admit this, but these supposed “types” are just two different methods striving for the same goal: parental attention.
Making money takes a lot of time and energy. Apparently, so does maintaining it. My father never had any so I didn’t know, but children born of wealth tend not to have a lot of time with their parents. When I stayed for a week in Eden Prairie, I literally saw the dad Mike for a grand total of ten minutes. It was three in the morning, and I was watching That Seventy’s Show. When I told Josh about the incident over breakfast, he seemed almost jealous. To him, his father is a god, whose presence is always felt, but rarely seen.
My encounter with Mike was brief, but I can see why Josh would worship him. He’s funny, enigmatic, and oddly flattering. Like any good businessman, he knows how to relate to people, even a tired teenager passed out on his couch. I don’t want to make it sound like he’s a bad parent. On the contrary, I know Mike holds nothing but love for his children. His affection, however, is sporadic. The attention he gives goes from being intense to nonexistent, with no warning to prepare for the shifting tide.
Until Josh was eleven, he slept in the same bed as his father. One day, Mike decided he was too old for such behavior, and insisted that his son sleep in his own room. Of course the intentions were good- most would agree that an eleven-year old boy sleeping with their parent is unhealthy. It was still a hard adjustment for Josh, made even harder when Mike left on one of what would soon be many trips to Thailand.
This, I’ve discovered, is a common anomaly amongst wealthy, middle-aged men. Thai women, after all, are quite beautiful. Two years ago Mike brought one of those beautiful Thai women back home with him, and married her. Needless to say, this created even more of a rift between him and his children.
We’ve all heard the dilemma: kids or career? You can do both of course, but only at one’s expense. In the case of the children of Eden Prairie, they were the chosen sacrifice. They hunger for their mothers’ and fathers’ love, so desperate that they act out and turn into miniature versions of them just to get it.
Jasmine is Mike’s oldest child. Talented and beautiful, she draws in prey like a flytrap. Her charm is a deadly weapon. People fall under Jasmine’s spell, and are left with nothing but the broken pieces of their heart to remember. Looking back, I don’t think she cares much about the devastation she incurs, or the people she inflicts. All the relationships in the world could never fill in the absence of her father. Did Mike contribute to Jasmine’s rather sociopathic tendencies? Perhaps. As a “sister scorned,” I’m a bit biased on the subject. To me, Jasmine will always be one of those dangerous girls in trashy novels and French films, the ones we know we shouldn’t love, but do it anyway.
Jacob is the youngest of the siblings, and, if I may say so, the nicest. Mike’s here-then-gone approach to love hardened Jasmine and Joshua’s skin, but Jacob is able to be affectionate. He’s the most sensitive of the three, and the most vulnerable. Until recently, no one really knew how much he was suffering. Slowly, he spent more and more time in his room, not wanting to leave the house unless it was with Mike. Friends would ask him if he wanted to hang out, but he’d tell them no, that he was waiting for his dad.
He never came.
This summer, Jacob was found passed out in the bathroom. His body had fallen under a coma, and he was instantly brought to the emergency room. For an entire day he remained unconscious. The doctors were clueless over what was wrong with him, until they finally gave him a drug test.
My thirteen-year old former brother had swallowed every drug killer in the house that he could find.
Even Jacob doesn’t know if this is the first time, because he doesn’t remember it happening. After they told them what he had done, he asked with genuine shock, “I did?”
He’s not the only one who’s surprised. Sweet, giggling Jacob is the last person you’d expect to be in pain. Somehow, he manages to keep joy outwardly open, and sorrow deeply hidden.
I realize that spoiled brats aren’t the only ones prone to depression. Being poor is no picnic, and I wouldn’t dream of suggesting poverty as ideal. Until recently, I used to envy the advantage wealthy children possess. Now, I’m grateful for the lessons I’ve learned. I look at my cousins from Scottsdale, and realize that I wouldn’t trade places for anything. Can they boast of a proposal on the Greyhound to Canada? Do they have a circle of hippies as loving and supportive as any family? My cousins can have their private dancing lessons, their Olympic-sized pool, their Gibson guitar.... I have my stories, adventures I would not had without the resourcefulness of being raised on a less-than-substantial income.
The Gothic Princess stares at my aunt from behind her throne counter dismally, and I can’t help but smile. The girl is a cashier for Hot Topic in Minnesota, and makes it quite clear that my Ralph Lauren-clad relative is not welcome in her realm. I can’t blame her, really. Mary is a businesswoman, and doesn’t blend well with the red plaid, black t-shirts, and sharp metal objects that compose this store. She’s rich, manicured, and- worst of all- Republican. My aunt wasn’t always this way though, and is furious that a simpering, (dyed) platinum blonde teenager had the audacity to question her style. She isn’t accustomed to being uncool, and, although the designer glasses hide it well, is mortifyingly embarrassed that she is no longer “in.” I, however, am insanely amused. When Mary was my age, she listened to Fishbone and snorted cocaine. Her adolescence burst with an insanity the Gothic Princess wouldn’t even dream of dirtying her hair over, as I try to explain to my livid aunt.
“She’s an Eden Prairie girl, Mary. That’s how they are.”
In order to understand that statement, you must first have an idea about the area we’re in. Geographically, Eden Prairie is little more than a suburb of the Twin Cities. Financially, it’s a haven. Only in Scottsdale, (also known as Snotsdale,) Arizona have I seen such a high percentage of upper class. The houses heave with wealth, the air sags with dough. It is, in a word, yuppie-ville. This massive amount of money and status has a profound effect on the children raised here. Imagine pulling into a high school parking lot, and finding BMWs, Porsches, and Corvettes parked alongside rusted Hondas and station wagons. You would think, perhaps even hope, that the nice, expensive cars are the staffs’ vehicles.
You’d be mistaken.
In Eden Prairie, kids learn early on that they are of higher rank than their teachers. As Minnesota’s governor Jesse Ventura so aptly put, “an elementary student could teach.” School is a joke. Why take the words of someone beneath you seriously? The students know that the you-need-to-get-good-grades-so-you-can-get-a-good-job doesn’t apply to them; they have daddy’s pockets to dig into for the rest of their life.
I know what it’s like to be a youth in Eden Prairie, because I was related one. Actually, before my dad divorced Karen, I was related to three. Jasmine, Joshua, and Jacob would be the first to tell you that Eden Prairie kids are “messed up.” According to my ex-step-sister, ninety percent of her classmates were on anti-depressants. Why the insane amount of psychotropics? America regards happiness from the top-down approach. Success is measured by a persons’ wealth, influence, and power. We strive to own more, control more, but what ultimately happens when someone has the world at their fingertips?
Things become less and less satisfying.
Imagine being born with the ability to have your every whim. If you didn’t have to try for, well, anything, wouldn’t you feel life was a little pointless? No wonder why they have no ambition.
Everyone wants a rich parent. Having a loaded family means vacations to Chile, a Christmas tree stuffed with presents, and nice clothes for back-to-school shopping. When I was younger, I used to burn with jealousy over my cousins, (who just so happen to live in Scottsdale.) Their mansion, (yes mansion, that is no creative exaggeration on my part,) borders a private mountain and hundred-acre golf course. I won’t even describe the interior because it’ll just make you sick. The point is, spending a week at their summer home in Minocqua, Wisconsin and playing with their eight jet-skis, two speed boats, and pontoon made me wonder... why doesn’t my dad even have a tenth of this?
Grown adults also believe that a wealthy home is a happy home. After all, raising kids are expensive, and you need income to provide for their health and well being. While this is certainly true, my experience with Eden Prairie has led me to question just how much is healthy.
There is something deeper behind the depression of Eden Prairie children than a simple lack of ambition. Those rich mothers and fathers I used to guiltily wish my dad was just a little more like, turns out, produce two different types of offspring. The first, Jasmine declares, are the Jocks. You know the type: they play football, have two cars, (one big, one fast,) and actually own the outfits we common folk lust over in Vogue. These kids are like their parents in every way; I wouldn’t be surprised if they owned the same Ralph Lauren polo.
The other group are the Rebels, which my ex-step-siblings proudly fall under. They’re the ones with blue hair, scarred wrists, and enough metal in their face to make a necklace. Of course, the tough, dirty style they’re imitating was bought at a mall for five hundred dollars an outfit, (enter the Gothic Princess,) but it’s the statement behind the black lipstick and studded belts that counts.
Why is there such a vast difference between the Jocks and Rebels? They are, after all, in the same generation, raised by the same kind of parents, with the same amount of money, in the same exact town. My ex-step-siblings wouldn’t admit this, but these supposed “types” are just two different methods striving for the same goal: parental attention.
Making money takes a lot of time and energy. Apparently, so does maintaining it. My father never had any so I didn’t know, but children born of wealth tend not to have a lot of time with their parents. When I stayed for a week in Eden Prairie, I literally saw the dad Mike for a grand total of ten minutes. It was three in the morning, and I was watching That Seventy’s Show. When I told Josh about the incident over breakfast, he seemed almost jealous. To him, his father is a god, whose presence is always felt, but rarely seen.
My encounter with Mike was brief, but I can see why Josh would worship him. He’s funny, enigmatic, and oddly flattering. Like any good businessman, he knows how to relate to people, even a tired teenager passed out on his couch. I don’t want to make it sound like he’s a bad parent. On the contrary, I know Mike holds nothing but love for his children. His affection, however, is sporadic. The attention he gives goes from being intense to nonexistent, with no warning to prepare for the shifting tide.
Until Josh was eleven, he slept in the same bed as his father. One day, Mike decided he was too old for such behavior, and insisted that his son sleep in his own room. Of course the intentions were good- most would agree that an eleven-year old boy sleeping with their parent is unhealthy. It was still a hard adjustment for Josh, made even harder when Mike left on one of what would soon be many trips to Thailand.
This, I’ve discovered, is a common anomaly amongst wealthy, middle-aged men. Thai women, after all, are quite beautiful. Two years ago Mike brought one of those beautiful Thai women back home with him, and married her. Needless to say, this created even more of a rift between him and his children.
We’ve all heard the dilemma: kids or career? You can do both of course, but only at one’s expense. In the case of the children of Eden Prairie, they were the chosen sacrifice. They hunger for their mothers’ and fathers’ love, so desperate that they act out and turn into miniature versions of them just to get it.
Jasmine is Mike’s oldest child. Talented and beautiful, she draws in prey like a flytrap. Her charm is a deadly weapon. People fall under Jasmine’s spell, and are left with nothing but the broken pieces of their heart to remember. Looking back, I don’t think she cares much about the devastation she incurs, or the people she inflicts. All the relationships in the world could never fill in the absence of her father. Did Mike contribute to Jasmine’s rather sociopathic tendencies? Perhaps. As a “sister scorned,” I’m a bit biased on the subject. To me, Jasmine will always be one of those dangerous girls in trashy novels and French films, the ones we know we shouldn’t love, but do it anyway.
Jacob is the youngest of the siblings, and, if I may say so, the nicest. Mike’s here-then-gone approach to love hardened Jasmine and Joshua’s skin, but Jacob is able to be affectionate. He’s the most sensitive of the three, and the most vulnerable. Until recently, no one really knew how much he was suffering. Slowly, he spent more and more time in his room, not wanting to leave the house unless it was with Mike. Friends would ask him if he wanted to hang out, but he’d tell them no, that he was waiting for his dad.
He never came.
This summer, Jacob was found passed out in the bathroom. His body had fallen under a coma, and he was instantly brought to the emergency room. For an entire day he remained unconscious. The doctors were clueless over what was wrong with him, until they finally gave him a drug test.
My thirteen-year old former brother had swallowed every drug killer in the house that he could find.
Even Jacob doesn’t know if this is the first time, because he doesn’t remember it happening. After they told them what he had done, he asked with genuine shock, “I did?”
He’s not the only one who’s surprised. Sweet, giggling Jacob is the last person you’d expect to be in pain. Somehow, he manages to keep joy outwardly open, and sorrow deeply hidden.
I realize that spoiled brats aren’t the only ones prone to depression. Being poor is no picnic, and I wouldn’t dream of suggesting poverty as ideal. Until recently, I used to envy the advantage wealthy children possess. Now, I’m grateful for the lessons I’ve learned. I look at my cousins from Scottsdale, and realize that I wouldn’t trade places for anything. Can they boast of a proposal on the Greyhound to Canada? Do they have a circle of hippies as loving and supportive as any family? My cousins can have their private dancing lessons, their Olympic-sized pool, their Gibson guitar.... I have my stories, adventures I would not had without the resourcefulness of being raised on a less-than-substantial income.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Lord of the Rings
Tolkien's world of magic inspires where America falls short. Reading Lord of the Rings is an escape from reality, and watching the theatrical version is almost as powerful. Peter Jackson opened a road to Middle-earth many would not taken without the convenience of a T.V. screen. Although it isn't as rich, staring at the beauty of New Zealand and Viggo Mortenson isn't exactly painful. More has been brought to Middle-earth, however, than just illiterate fans and gorgeous celebrities. Through the films, one can experience a world countless have been lusting over for decades. Thanks to Jackson, Middle-earth is more tangible, more real. I can now dream about the glorious vally Imladris and the equally lovely Glorfindel much more vividly than I would have otherwise. Thanks, PJ!
THAILAND 1 Airports
The moment I step into South Korea, I am bombarded with Gucci, Prada, and other overpriced accessories. Although the designers are distinctly Western, no one could mistake these shops for a common American mall. A single stiletto is artfully presented in a display window, Santa's elves are sexy Asian girls with nice butts... if I wasn’t suffering from sleep deprivation, I’d be tempted to explore the galleries of fashion. My legs, however, can hardly support my body, let alone the mountainous luggage strapped to my back. Besides, the structured order is a little unsettling. Although I’m sure it has great feng shui, it feels… militaristic.
Thank Eru Bangkok’s airport is different! Although it’s composed of the same, gray stone, the walls are covered in bright paintings of gods both ferocious and benevolent. Brahma and Krishna tower above the Christmas trees, somehow less intimidating than the $500 sunglasses of Seoul Airport .
Even Thailand’s airplanes are more colorful. The seats are striped with magenta, royal plum, and gold, much more appealing than the beige blandness of United Airlines. The flight attendants are wreathed in purple, which contrasts nicely against Korea ’s cream. Perhaps this is just my bias. Thailand is, after all, my maiden voyage. Will the country be as exciting as its airport portrays it to be?
I’ll let you know.
Thank Eru Bangkok’s airport is different! Although it’s composed of the same, gray stone, the walls are covered in bright paintings of gods both ferocious and benevolent. Brahma and Krishna tower above the Christmas trees, somehow less intimidating than the $500 sunglasses of Seoul Airport .
Even Thailand’s airplanes are more colorful. The seats are striped with magenta, royal plum, and gold, much more appealing than the beige blandness of United Airlines. The flight attendants are wreathed in purple, which contrasts nicely against Korea ’s cream. Perhaps this is just my bias. Thailand is, after all, my maiden voyage. Will the country be as exciting as its airport portrays it to be?
I’ll let you know.
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