Bangkok, circa 2003 – It’s the next-to-last night of my first business trip to Asia. I want to get something local for my wife. One of the hotel staff kindly writes the name and address of a major shopping center on the back of the hotel business card. Perfect.
I flag a taxi. He speaks little English and I speak no Thai. I show him the business card. He looks it over and nods. I get in and off we go. He’s asking questions. I repeat the bit about the shopping center and show him the card again. We lurch slowly forward in the crazy traffic. After a few blocks, he pulls over and calls out to a pedestrian.
The guy on the street doesn’t know what either of us is talking about. The driver shrugs and waves me out of the cab. I disembark. We haven’t gone far enough to cost me a fare. The taxi drives away as the guy on the street points toward some tuk-tuks, the three-wheeled motorcycles that go everywhere in Thailand. My ride is now reduced by one wheel and a couple of cylinders, but I might still be able to get to the shopping center on time.
I show my business card to the nearest tuk-tuk driver. He looks at it. Another driver looks at it with him. The business card draws a small crowd that now includes the rest of the tuk-tuk drivers and various passersby who wonder what’s so interesting. There is much discussion, much gesticulation, much shaking of heads. The passersby move on. The tuk-tuk drivers disperse. A champion emerges.
A guy who’s less than half my size hands the business card back to me and strides confidently toward a gated area, waving to me to follow. He’s getting his scooter. Scooter? I do the math: I started with a taxi, went down to a tuk-tuk, and have now deducted one more wheel, all of the doors, and most of the engine.
When I mention the shopping center, Mr. Confidence nods repeatedly. He dons a plastic army man helmet and hands one to me. I place it on top of my head where it sits like an abandoned turtle shell stranded on a boulder. The strap ends dangle just below my earlobes. Even if I could buckle it on, this helmet would cause more cranial damage than it would prevent.
Clearly, this will not work, but what’s next? One less wheel and I’ll be riding shotgun on a unicycle.
The shopping center is closing soon. I return the plastic army man helmet to Mr. Confidence and start walking back to the hotel. I get lost only once.
Later, I sketch out how I imagine Mr. Confidence and me on the scooter. I envision a death-defying wheelie when he hits the gas.
I will try again tomorrow–on foot.
Circa 2000, Oregon – It’s our first real trip together as a couple. Ping has suggested a tour of some of her favorite places in Oregon. I’m stoked.
Memory Bits 
