It was bizarre being back in Bangkok—for many reasons—the first reason in that this has always been the city of setting for some seriously emotional stuff, starting with my arrival 15 years ago, having just wrapped the final episode of The Shanghai Diaries (shown on Al Gore’s project Current TV, and shown, at least what I thought at the time, to only North American and European audiences). I hated living in China and that production was an outlet for creatively expressing that, but considering the show was based around how China shouldn’t have been given the 2008 Olympics due to, oh, about a bazillion human rights violations, I wanted no part in being in China for the opening ceremony, so I grabbed a few pairs of shorts and t-shirts in a backpack and bought a one-way ticket from Shanghai to Siam’s Sin City a week before the Olympic Opening Ceremony. That was late-July. Not long after, I’d get the call that the police had visited the offices of City Weekend—the magazine I had a column in—asking about my whereabouts, which then led to them kicking (literally) down the door to my apartment, which then led to them taking my stuff, freezing my Chinese bank account, etc. etc. etc. It’s all in the book and I’d rather not relive it. Even now as I write, I feel my hackles raising. But Bangkok would be the city I’d come back to to try and get my head around the fact that I had no home to return to, not to mention that Bangkok was the city where Scott, one of my two best friends in Shanghai, would sneak my computer—which I had fortunately left with him, as well as some cash—out of China and into the hands of two friends who’d bring them to me in Bangkok
Not long afterwards, Scott would have to do something even more difficult and call me, while I was staying at a Bangkok hotel not far away from where I write you now, to tell me that Pierre, our other best friend, had died.
Three months later, having been on the lam for nearly half a year, I had to push my way past protesters and around tanks to get to Bangkok International Airport—having just been cleared a few days prior after having been taken over by the Yellow Shirts—and finally back to America.
That would be the last time I was in in the Thai capital until a few years ago, when I traveled from Tbilisi, Georgia with my bicycle to Bangkok—which itself was also a nightmare, me being charged more than $350 to simply bring my bike in—with the plan of cycling around SE Asia–only to make it to the Malaysian border where I was turned around and told that an international crossing wasn’t going to happen for a while. That was July of 2020.
And now, finally, three years later, back once more. The city is no longer the sleeping giant I came to know while it was locked down—a friend of mine Kaew remarked the other night about how she, a Bangkokian, had never gone through something as eerie as us riding her Vespa through downtown, with zero cars on the road, except for the police, who noticeably would check their watches as we passed, making sure we were inside before the 6pm curfew. And it was eerie. But it was also incredible. I got to know Bangkok—as well as Thailand in general—like few ever will: Empty. No one ever gets an empty Bangkok. Or a quiet Pai. Or, especially a tourist-less Kho Tao. But I did. And I was lucky to.
So to come back now to the city—choked with traffic and elephant trouser-wearing farangs—is almost bittersweet. Of course, I’m happy to reunite with my friends and seeing my loving streetfood lady back in business, but it’s kindof like your favorite band appearing on a billboard. A good-for-them, but also an I-miss-their-old-albums.
And speaking of traffic, that’s all I did, if I’m being honest... sit in it. To my surprise, what I thought was a one-off doing those commercials turn— Hang on. I suppose we should just get into this.
(Mum, I’m really sorry. I tried to keep this quiet, but it’s turning into a thing. Feel free to stop reading. Maybe best.)
As some of you may know (or, most likely by now, have seen), I was contacted through the website I’m on for voiceover gigs by a group asking if I’d do their health app. I said “Sure” and “Send me the script”, to which they replied that they wanted me to be on-camera. I told them I was flattered, but wasn’t an actor, and perhaps they had made a mistake. No, they said, we’ve looked at hundreds and you’re a perfect fit. Still thinking I was on some prank show or the receiving end of an angry ex-girlfriend’s elaborate ruse, I called their bluff and told them to pay me in advance. They did. Okay, guess they’re serious. So we shot the videos, a long two days in a Kathmandu studio. In the end, I was happy they paid in advance, because, honestly, I probably wouldn’t have been following my performance, but hey—it funded my tuktuk rental down in Sri Lanka.
But it was in Sri Lanka that they messaged me again. The videos were going wild and would I be willing to do more? I was shocked, but of course I would. It’d be a week’s worth of work, though, they wrote, would I be okay with that? Well, as luck would have it, I had stored my bike (for 3 years) in the studio of a dear friend Mui, and being able to give her this gig would be a tiny “thank you”, so off we went. The problem though, was that her studio was an hour-and-a-half outside of Bangkok, meaning that every day, for 7 (+2 of reshoots) days, I sat in a taxi. 1.5 hours there. 6 hours in front of a teleprompter. 1.5 hours back. And I’m not complaining. Sri Lanka ended up costing more than I thought and this money—it’s not a lot, btw; I mean, to me it is, but probably not to you; about $700—would keep me fed for those two weeks in Bangkok.
For those that don’t know, the app is called “Dr. Kegel” and it helps men with their…. problems below the belt. And it’s nothing I’m embarrassed about, just, you know, I love my Mum and want her to be proud. But everyone’s seen it. I mean, everyone. I usually wake up to at least a few pals saying “So…” I had drinks the other night with a friend of mine Andrew—you’ll meet him in this issue—who nearly fell out of his chair, saying “I saw that and almost sent it to you saying ‘This guy looks like you!’ but didn’t want to offend." I’d also walk into a dinner party and all three of my friends—Willy of El Willy, his brother, the incredible architect Max, and everyone’s favorite wildchild celebrity chef Alvaro—all three of them shouted “Hola, Doctor!” I don’t know how much they, Dr. Kegel themselves, have spent on boosting these ads, but, based on my own experience alone, has to be in the five, if not six figures.
(I should probably mention here that for half of the shoot, I was wearing a labcoat and literally coaching men through the exercises, so it seems they’re positioning me to be possibly the Doctor himself? They asked me not to shave the beard. So maybe a Season 03? No clue. But it’s hilarious.)
So that was my Bangkok. Because of shooting, I only had 10 days left on my visa, so would wrap and then the next day, leave for a roadtrip around the Isaan region with Nadda, a friend of mine, and then cross over the Friendship Bridge on the bike on the bicycle and begin our adventure in Laos.
Meaning Bangkok had, once again, proven to be a memorable platform.
