Trip West, Part V: Once Upon a Time

On the radio, David Bowie sets Major Tom adrift in space as we drive through land as barren and red as Mars. We skirt expanses of gray sand and follow the road as it curls between cliffs, slopes, and swoops of rock seemingly frozen in cresting waves. We drive through snow fields as flurries whip the windshield. And in Capitol Reef National Park, we pull over to see petroglyphs painted on a rock face thousands of years ago. In life, it is the journey as much as the destination, and our trip west has proven that true. 

We are on our way to Arches National Park, hoping to snag an entry time despite being told none have been available for months. Every vista along our way steals breath at the work of wind, water, and shifting plates in sculpting the Earth over eons. With that, our fury at the possibility of being closed out has evaporated.

 

Still, I watch the clock as we close in on Moab. The visitor center at Arches closes at 6:00 and we were told that a few entry slots were released every day at that time. We pull into the parking lot at 5:55. 

 

Dave says, “I’ll park! You run in and grab a reservation!”

 

I scurry inside, envious of those strolling out with souvenir tee-shirts and water bottles having clearly wrapped up a day of hiking. A ranger at the counter glances at his watch as I approach and ask if he can give us a time for the next day.

 

“You can do that online, “ he says, “But go in now if you’d like.”

 

“Go in? To the park? Now?” I say.

 

“Sure. No reservations required after 4:00. Go on in! Enjoy it!”

 

When I head outside, Dave is sitting on a bench, head bent to his phone. “I’m almost finished,“ he says.  “We have an 11:00 AM entry tomorrow.” 

 

Sigh. There’s a lesson here. When I think of my simmering anger and worry on the rim of Bryce Canyon... such a waste. My front-of-mind mantra for years was “Have faith in the unfolding;” clearly, I need to brush it off for display on my mental dashboard.    

 

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After several stolen hours during our gift of an open-entry-past-6:00 at Arches, it was dark when we arrived at Red Cliffs Lodge. In my relief, I’d not noticed the prominent “Hollywood Museum” sign by the entrance. 14 miles off the main road had felt interminable given our serpentine route between rockslide-ready cliffs and a dead drop to the river. Did I have the right address? Did I have the right place? As we closed in, I saw only the blessed name of our lodging. So, it was a revelation when, while in search of a ladies room after dinner, I saw a sign to the museum and an arrow pointing to the lower level.

 

John Wayne welcomed me at the foot of the stairs. Down the hall, the dummy that went over the cliff in a convertible instead of the real-life Geena Davis in Thelma and Louise looked as shocked as would be expected in such a plummet. Props and original posters from Back to the Future III, City Slickers, and The Lone Ranger as well as many iconic westerns going back to 1949 filled display cases. A video loop ran clips of films and highlighted the spectacular locations around Moab where they’d been shot, some right at Red Cliffs Lodge. 

Much of the vintage footage was so familiar: when I was a kid growing up in the fifties and sixties, much of our TV fare was westerns. We idolized all those handsome cowboys with their square jaws and perfect white teeth: Wyatt Earp, Sugarfoot, Davy Crockett, and our favorite, Brett Maverick. There was no ambiguity about Good Guys and Bad Guys. When the Indians swarmed, whooping, over a ridge and across the plains, they were ferocious and savage, their faces painted and long, black hair streaming behind them. Battles were loud and furious, but virtually bloodless: the Trail of Tears and broken treaties were not in those scripts. 

 

When preparing to travel, I focus on necessities. I Google distances and drive time between locations. I consult TripAdvisor for ratings in considering places to stay. For the most part, I don’t delve into area attractions until we arrive, which has generally worked out okay. It also leaves room for surprises, like encounters with John Wayne and Marty McFly. 

 

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An athletic blond in a cropped top, short-shorts, and hiking boots sits next to me on a steep stretch to the opening of one of the Double Arches. In her youth, beauty, and skimpy garb, she is intimidating, but friendly and kind as she smiles at me and says, “You’re almost there.  You can do it!” She, too, has paused on this incline. It’s convivial here beneath the arch as people aged 8 to 80 contemplate the remaining climb to the opening. A father encourages his son to go for it while the mom watches from below, one hand shielding her eyes against the sun as she warns, “Be careful! Maybe stop there!”

Like beads on a necklace, people perch along the curve of the arch. Dave has decided not to try and is taking a video as I reach for the tiniest hint of a fingerhold and inch my toes a bit higher in search of better footing. This is not as difficult as I’m making it sound, but always I am weighing the possibility of injury over triumph. 

 

“It’s a nice view – pretty dramatic,” says a man as he descends. “A dead drop on the other side.”

 

Dead drop. Hm. I take that under advisement.  I want to make it up there and take in that view, but there are ample vistas in the park that don’t seem as risky. I back down and cheer on my blond friend as she scales the rock to the rim. 

 

We felt this same camaraderie at Zion and Bryce in the shared joy of extraordinary experiences. Arches, though, has been unique in its accessibility to little hikers as well. Really little hikers. Toddlers of three can manage some of the short trails and easier inclines, and they are adorable with their “Junior Ranger” vests and walking sticks. Some intrepid souls carry babies in canopied backpacks. Several of the families we’ve spoken to are traveling in campers: having always loved the parks and hiking, they are infusing their children with a love of the Earth and the outdoors from early on.

 

At the other extreme is a practical woman who has taken a seat on a bench near the parking lot. She comments to her companions, “Really, the view of the arches is better from a distance. You go ahead. I’m staying here.” 

 

Hmm. Bangkok. Tricky. - Part I

I was nervous about Bangkok. This sprawling city bisected by the curving Chao Phraya River has a reputation. Just as I felt uncomfortable, and yet, in awe of the beautiful but promiscuous girl while in school, I suspected I’d be out of my league in Bangkok. No exaggeration, I spent hours and hours from home, searching the Internet, reading TripAdvisor reviews, zooming in and zooming out on Google Earth, dizzy from the effort to establish a sense of distances. Where should we stay? Near the river? Near the wats (temples)? How far was it from this hotel to that wat? The city had me stressed out long before our plane took off.

Dave and I asked friends for recommendations. Several suggested the Mandarin Oriental. Perfect! It was exactly what we’d envisioned, a place rich with history and character…at $500 per night. Ah well. Another friend suggested the Federal because it was smack in the middle of everything. Given what I’d heard about Bangkok’s sex shows and scams, I was leery about what “everything” meant. Many hotels listed online were towering new structures of glass and steel, shiny, modern, not what I wanted, not my idea of Asia.

My idea of Asia was exotic and ancient, shaped by storybooks and my grandmother’s tales about her travels in the sixties. So, perhaps my idea of Asia no longer existed, but I kept returning to the Shanghai Mansion in Bangkok’s Chinatown. The pictures showed a nineteenth century hotel with vibrant colors and traditional furnishings, but I hesitated because several TripAdvisor reviews complained of an unfriendly staff. In the end, I gave in, and Casey made the reservations while we were in Chiang Mai.

Our flight from Sukhothai landed in Bangkok around 7:30 PM. We collected our unwieldy packs, loaded up, and trudged to the information booth to plan our next step. What could have been a bewildering series of trains, connections, and tuk tuks unfolded smoothly as Casey and Karis listened to a list of incomprehensible names of streets and stops, repeated them clearly, received approving nods of confirmation, and led the way.

It was dark by the final leg of the trip, a tuk tuk ride to Chinatown. Dave and I were captivated by the Chinese lettering, the flash of neon, and glimpses of past elegance in Art Deco façades and wrought iron signs, but I longed for a restorative movie-style flashback to swab away the pervasive layer of grime.

The flood waters had not yet seeped into the streets, but the outlying areas were awash, so the inner city was on alert. Upon our arrival, we had to clamber over a four-foot high wall of sandbags barricading the entrance to Shanghai Mansion, but once inside: colorful hanging paper lanterns, a koi pond, red lacquer accents, pen and ink artwork, dark filigreed wood. My idea of Asia, still here.

Like loonies, we gawked at our exotic rooms. The tea set and fruit bowl on the sideboard. Decorative birdcages, parchment patterned wallpaper, embroidered green satin runners, a sinuous carved black frieze atop deep purple walls. We danced from the girls’ room to our own, cameras in hand, snapping away. Bangkok would prove to be a challenge, but Shanghai Mansion was a jewel.

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Suspend judgment. Avoid comparisons to the familiar. Be open to experience and to others. By following these precepts, our travels have been enriched, but in Bangkok, it is not wise to let your guard down.

The day had been one of extraordinary contrasts. In the morning, we’d had a taste of the TripAdvisor warning about the Shanghai Mansion staff. When we asked the front desk clerk if the river boats were running, she said no. She did not elaborate or offer suggestions, nor was she helpful in answering questions. Her expression was set, eyes dark. Well, our rooms more than made up for it. We headed out to the street, hailed a tuk tuk and asked the driver if he knew of any river ride possibilities. Of course! Plenty of boats out there. He drove us to the docks…and the waters were rippling with traffic.

Apparently we had on our “I’m a sucker” tee-shirts, for Casey was aghast at the price quoted by the woman selling tickets. “It’s a scam. Ridiculous. Do NOT pay this,” Casey urged. Again, Dave and I were a disappointment to our daughter…and paid. For the not-so-unreasonable sum of $15 a person, we could board the boat as opposed to spending the next hour sweltering in the sun in search of a better deal. Casey was steamed…and proved correct in her assessment as we were charged an additional docking charge at every stop we made.

Hmm. Bangkok. Tricky. And I didn’t even mention the three-inch long cockroach that landed on my neck last night after dinner…

Shaded by the canopy of our long-tail boat, we were cool, our sweat-sticky skin dried by a breeze, as we glided past tiled pagodas, soaring spires, and a giant golden Buddha. We stopped to explore the legendary Wat Arun, grudgingly paid the docking fee - after a heated discussion with the attendant - and climbed the marvelous, steep, stepped, tower encrusted with brilliant pieces of porcelain.

After re-boarding, our navigator steered down a side canal. I’ve read that Bangkok has been dubbed the “Venice of Asia” because of its canals, but that’s a stretch. And because of the floods, the canals had risen in their channels, swamping the houses along the banks. One woman stood knee-deep in water in her doorway, hanging laundry to dry in the eaves. Two men sat in folding metal chairs, ignoring the water swirling about their legs. We’d heard that crocodiles and snakes were an added flood concern and kept a lookout for serpentine swells in the current.

Our ultimate destination was the white-walled Grand Palace and the temple, Wat Phra Kaeo. At the main gate, we discovered we had one hour until closing. Bad timing. We discussed postponing the visit, but Bangkok is huge, and our days, unpredictable. While we had no idea the degree of truth to that, we decided to stay and hurry. So we ran. Literally.

The guards were not impressed with our need for speed, nor with the girls’ shorts and bare shoulders. Casey and Karis were forced to make a detour to the tourist office to borrow appropriate cover-ups at the cost of precious time and a hefty deposit.

Once properly clothed, we ran up the steps, kicked off our shoes, as required, and dashed in to see the emerald Buddha. We zipped past garishly colored guardians, snarling and angry with their curved scimitars. We squinted at the gleaming gold chedi tower that houses a piece of Buddha’s breastbone. We whirled the length of the Grand Palace and watched the changing of the guard. Silvery sun rays escaped mounding gray clouds to illuminate spires, peaks and finials. Magic. My idea of Asia. But the crowds had thinned and uniformed staff were sweeping. “I don’t want to lose our deposit,” said Casey. “We’ve got to wrap this up.” Right. Next time, we’ll hit the palace first.

The scene outside the walls was disturbing. Murky water seeped from catch basins and crept down the road. We stood at the bus stop, eyes fixed on a spot on the sidewalk to gauge the rate of the water’s rise: how long before that spot disappeared beneath liquid fingers? Not long.

Naturally, the bus we wanted had pulled away just as we passed through the palace gate, and we had no idea when the next one was due. We stood and waited, exchanging anxious smiles with those around us, all of us tracking the advance of the water, watching as cars and tuk tuks plowed along sending waves splashing against the curb. How far inland might crocodiles come?

As pedestrians lifted their pant legs to cross the road, I wondered, would we have trouble leaving Bangkok? Day after tomorrow, the girls planned to take a train south to the islands and we were due to fly home. None of us wished to extend our stay.