pre-dawn ghosts.

there are few instances where i've needed to awake pre-dawn into a fully-functional human being, but today was one of them. at 330 in the morning, i am called by the taxi company; the car is on its way and should arrive within thirty minutes. i gather my belongings and make final checks, crank-starting my brain to re-understand numbers and phrases in thai. an orange taxi, this time orange, instead of blue or yellow or green or red or hot pink, pulls up to the door in the carport, and i load my luggage into the back. bidding a goodbye to vanda, i am off to begin my long trip home.

the streets of bangkok are desolate at four in the morning and utterly free of traffic and pedestrians. eerily silent, it is a rare sight. as my taxi zooms along, sending the wind rushing by the windows in a whisper, i take in my last views of the sleeping city - the shells of gutted apartment buildings, the murals of the king, the dusty rooftops of nearby houses, and the wiry forest of cable antennas and radio receivers.

a light rain begins to fall, quickly turning into a heavy downpour of heavy droplets, which rap at the roof of the cab like a shower of marbles. i was sure thailand wouldn't let me leave without showing me one last instantaneous rainy-season wet-spell, and as my driver drastically reduces speed on the now-slick pavement, i have a passing thought of sticking my hand out the window to let the rain bathe it clean.

nearing suvarnabhumi airport, a field of white and amber lights slowly come into view, and i can almost sense the spirits trapped therein. the cab pulls up to the terminal, and i pay my driver before entering the skeletal behemoth before me. as i sit in the benches by my flight gate, the curved wall of windows form an arching canopy over me and the bustling two-hundred-or-so people around me - over the five young women to my right, chit-chatting over matters on a sheet of paper passed around, over the four young men to my left, conversing in voices as low as they have sank into their uncomfortable metal seats, and over the three monks before me, bald in their saffron robes, two on their cell phones.

outside the wall of windows the sky is growing brighter with each passing minute, but the sun has yet to rise. large, thick, fluffy columns of clouds, invisible just a half hour ago, now loom ominously in cadet-blue pre-dawn lighting. more and more people are arriving to the gate each second, and despite the classical music the airport tries to pipe into the void through hidden speakers, it is almost completely drowned out by the chatter of travelers, the squeaking of luggage carts, the shuffle of people, the clanks of baggage-zippers upon metal security-check tables, and the low hums from the huge air-conditioning towers inside and passing planes outside; always the hums.

bangkok, thailand.

home.

it's nice to be back in san francisco... the people are chill, the values are liberal, and the weather's always predictable - bring a light coat. at a quaint downtown café, where heavy-framed mirrors cover the walls interspersed with vintage liquor posters, patrons grab small tables to sip their coffee with a magazine or newspaper grabbed off one of the racks. overhead, ceiling fans spin gently to the pulse of the casual atmosphere, and a light stream of french tunes emanate from hidden speakers.

as i take a seat near the corner of the café for a spot of brunch, the little girl from the table beside me plays peek-a-boo with the sheer window curtains as i smile and play along. a glance at her table reveals she had already been hard at work before i arrived, doodling cartoons in a spectrum of colors on the disposable paper placemats, which cover the linen tablecloth. her mother and father, who are still finishing their meal, chat amongst themselves and seem to have left their daughter to her own devices. on the hardwood floor between my table and theirs, several stuffed animals lay by the wayside, waiting to be picked up or remembered. as i eat my order of eggs, toast, smoked salmon, and hollandaise, the little girl begins playing with a tiny stuffed-animal duck on my table, and i play along until she retreats back to fiddling with the curtains and her own unfinished plate of food.

near the end of my meal, the little girl and her parents prepare to leave, gathering the stuffed animals from off the floor. as her mother, dressed in a bright neon-pink dress and a large sparkly-green bow in her hair, and her squeeze by to leave, i say bye to the little girl, but her mother [in un-san-fran fashion] makes no attempt to interact with me, and i don’t either, deciding it would be best to give them their peace and privacy instead. it’s hard enough dealing with the press, i imagine. the little girl goes to join her father, while her mother gives a friend of theirs a parting hug and mentions something about going back to iceland soon.

i finish brunch and stroll the streets around chinatown, passing by racks of counterfeit goods, barrels of dried foodstuffs, boxes of vegetables, and carts of shiny gimmicks for tourist. chinese women on street corners hand out sheets of paper printed with menus, in an attempt to coax hungry passer-bys into a meal of good dim-sum, but know enough not to try persuading the asians. foreign tourists filter into and out of storefronts, while locals pick through piles of vegetables or saunter the sidewalks with their hands clasped behind their backs. two young women stop in the middle of the road for a photo in front of a restaurant backdrop, while two others choose a backdrop of the pagoda-topped “trade mark” building instead.

i make a stop in old st. mary’s cathedral, and in the dark foyer glass-covered display cases glow before visitors' eyes, which browse various black-and-white photos from the early 20^th century. some images show the city at a time when the structure was the tallest around and the first cathedral in california, while others show it in ruin, consumed by fire from the great 1906 earthquake. as i step out the main doors and over the steps, which were once smashed by falling stonework a hundred years ago, i take a moment to awe at the city’s rebirth and lightning progress into its present state today.

a few blocks away market street is alive with a different type of buzz. still tourist-saturated in certain areas, others are much more noticeably destitute, with street-people, pawnshops, x-rated theatres, and as expected, more locals. rainbow pride-flags, in waiting for tomorrow’s gay pride parade, flutter atop light posts lining the wide thoroughfare, and police barricades sit already stacked on the sidewalks. as i wait baking in the sun for a bus, a glance down market reveals the ferry building before a sea and sky of blue. a look in the opposite direction however, shows a hill dripping with a thick white fog that churns and spills from behind twin peaks like dry ice. good thing i brought that coat.

san francisco, california.

this way up.

the view outside my window looks cold and wet as heavy clumps of snowflakes near the ground and immediately melt into a light rain. icy snow clings to the edges of my oval port-hole framing an airplane wing powdered white with a light dusting of winter as i sit in the drowning hiss of piped-in air and the on-and-off chatter between the two women behind me, who seem to find endless inspiration to banter on about dry skin, lotions, and soaps. as we wait for the plane to get de-iced, i can only close my eyes and mindlessly drift off into nothingness. i went to the doctor and he said "your skin's so dry... you should use dove." with an awkward popping crunch all along the roof of the plane, coupled with the utter steamy-smokiness that floods the view outside, it was clear the defrosters had arrived. ...but i've been using dove for years! as a man in a cherry picker hosed down the plane with a warm foamy concoction, it became hard to ignore the strange odor that began to pervade the cabin, no doubt coming from the defrost-cocktail and seeping in with the undying hiss above. the smell, a mix of pharmaceutical detergent and alcohol it seemed, was fresh, yet incredibly irritating, in the same way an all-too-clean restroom can smell incredibly irritating at times - stabbing at my nose and brain.

as the cherry picker outside pulled away and the plane skirted along desolate runways and snow-dusted lawns, we prepared for take-off. charging against the snow and against gravity, we climb skyward to the ratchet sound of propeller blades emanating from the very non-propeller turbine outside. blanketed in white-out conditions, looking as if a sheet had been pulled over my window, we seemingly navigate blindly through the color-purgatory, where even i have difficulty telling up from down. half expecting to see heaven itself silhouetted in the abysmal void, i imagine this is what that white light really looks like. breaking through the upper layers of cloud cover however, we emerge into the golden glow of sunshine, leaving the clouds below us, now just a thick vast sea of cottony dunes rolling into the distant horizon, looking even more heavenly than ever before.

somewhere over the midwest.