I disembarked at good old Don Muang, inhaled the distinctive smell (which is neither good nor bad, just Don Muang, and quite different from Bangkok’s overall funk) and reveled in my first Rot saap, thiu bin thii T-R-neung-neung-hok thammasaa Sin-ka-poh pai Krung Thep laew announcement in almost a year. How many more times will I pass through before Suvarnabhumi finally takes over?
I’d always thought transferring at BKK to be painless — but I’d never actually needed to use the transfer desk before. I trudged across the terminal only to find that the Asiana desk wasn’t open yet, and the sign saying that Thai is Asiana’s handling agent did not mean that Thai would actually condescend to handle their pax. I squatted on the floor next to a power outlet for half an hour, watching as World Cup coverage was interrupted to show King Bhumibol celebrating his 60th year on the throne by welcoming an endless stream of dignitaries ranging from the Sultan of Brunei to the Prince of Liechtenstein, and then tried again, only to find three poor Burmese migrant workers flailing in a thicket of red tape and poorly photostatted documents with huge official approval seals. I’d already learned the hard way to never, ever end up behind anybody holding a Union of Myanmar passport in an immigration queue, but here there was no escape. Tappity-tappity-tap, and another half-hour later all three were dispatched… to sit on the sides and wait some more.
Now it was my turn. My ticket was accepted without question, but then the grilling started. Where did you come from? Where is your visa for Singapore? What do you do there? Where is your return ticket? What is your address in LAX? A few ”mai mii” (not have) and ”mai dai” (not can) punctuated phone calls later I was granted my boarding card to ICN and told that I’d need to check in again tomorrow for LAX.
I was given an “Asiana Lounge” coupon and, hearing for the first time about the existence of such a beast at an airport I thought I knew well, I embarked on a quest to find it. The map on the back of the coupon promised that the ASIANA LOUNGE should be between piers 2 and 3, next to the information booth and CIP First Class Lounge, but it entirely failed to manifest there — until I saw the cut-out of an Asiana girl in her military gray uniform behind the CIP Business Class Lounge desk, smiling in a pose that said “I’m hiding a bayonet-tipped assault rifle behind my back and will march off to Pyongyang tomorrow if the captain so orders”. With foreboding, I entered a dank cellar of crusty brown leather sofas and tortured souls sighing in corners as they counted minutes until their flight, and after raiding the triangle sandwiches (your choice of dry ham, buttery cheese or dodgy food poisoning) contemplated whether my penance had been sufficient. I could tighten my cilice and flagellate myself a little more by staying… or I could go for a massage at the TG lounge instead. Lead me not to temptation; I can find it myself. (It’s right next to gate 32, and yes, it is a Star Alliance lounge although any signs saying so have been hidden.)
Drifting Clouds 片雲の風 