In Bangkok, often I breakfast at an outdoor café that opens into a guesthouse. Mostly all I see there are guests checking in and guests checking out, but today is different.
I was spooning my oatmeal when a bleary-eyed, silver-haired, sixty-something man—white—staggered out of his room bellowing, “She took my wallet, my watch, everything! Oh, my God.”
Not a muscle twitched on the Asian receptionist’s stony face.
“I warned you many times not to bring Thai girls back to your room,” she said.
Ah, a soap-dishy drama with my bland bowl of oatmeal. I lucked out.
Often, on the road, travelers regale each other with stories about their recent escapades. Sadly, in Los Angeles where I live, no one wants to hear mine. Thus, out of necessity, I’ve perfected the art of interrupting almost every conversation with stories from my latest adventures. Perhaps I overdo it. I have noticed people are starting to avoid me.