To the starry eyed wanderer, Bangkok presents a gateway leading into unknown. Its neon spires under cloud-banked skies embody the infinite possibility of Shangri-La overlaid atop the gravitating abyss of a black hole. The mental imagery evoked by the capital both sizzles and thrills as an unabashed vision. The moniker; Good Time City, is an irresistible tease at what—for a price--might be found along the many winding streets or dimly lit alleyways.
The airplane banked upon its final approach and I glimpsed through the nearest porthole window, the glimmering constellation which was my destination. The strewn, twinkling evidence of that vast city came to me as a beckoning light promising to conclude a long, dark tunnel. Even the lofty vantage of the still landing plane somehow inexplicably offered intimate views of back-alley smoke dens, velvet lounges, and closely meshed streets that glistened under perpetual dew.
My heart began to flutter at the bone bars that enclosed it. The pumping became a demand for its immediate release upon the awaiting city. Lost among the capital’s dark and ever winding streets the heart might soar at innumerable new sights, blush before strange perfumes, or race from alien perils. Because in Bangkok, a heart could also wind up broken.
- excerpt from P.M. Fadden's Life of Lewis