Bangkok: Off With A Bang

Me: I'm getting ready to leave the bar.
Bartender: OK.
M: Do you see that man over there, with the blond crew cut and the bulging muscles?
B: Him?
M: Don't point. The one that looks like a professional wresler?
B: Yes.
M: He's a Swede, he's drunk, and he's very angry.
B: Yes.
M: He's very angry at me.
B: Yes. He said you have a bomb.
M: I don't have a bomb.
B: I know.
M: I want to leave, and I'm afraid he will follow me.
B: ...
M: I fear for my safety. Do you understand?
B: Yes.
M: I want you to see that when I leave, he doesn't follow me.
B: We don't have security.
M: I know. Just, after I leave, if you see him making for the door, try to talk to him. Can you do that?
B: Yes.
M: I'm leaving.
B: OK.
M: Now.
B: I'll walk with you.
M: (walks casually to the door and leaves without looking back.)

No doubt you're wondering what in the world I could have done to so infuriate this Swede. Let me start from the beginning.

I was involved in a long and interesting conversation with a Kuwaiti that I had just met. We talked for hours about everything. Bought each other rounds. Were having a blast. He told me how much Kuwaitis love Americans and Brits because of the war which liberated Kuwait. Which got us talking about politics and the recent upheaval in the Middle East. Ali (the Kuwaiti) used his iPhone to translate the phrase, "I love democracy," from Arabic. Touching.

Then we started talking about Arab identity and borders. He told me that as a schoolboy, he was taught that the current borders of all the countries around the Persian Gulf were entirely Henry Kissinger's idea. There was some back and forth where I was saying that I had been taught no such thing and that it seemed implausible, but he thought I was just misunderstanding his words. That's when the Swede jumped in: "Why don't you leave this poor man alone?"

Huh? we said. The Swede went on to say that he had been listening in and that he had "this American" all figured out, and that I should stop trying to impose my world view and yadda yadda yadda. Again, huh? Ali and I both looked at him like he was nuts.

No matter how hard we (including another American who had been drawn into the fray) tried to clear up the misunderstanding (which it clearly was), nothing was getting through. The Swede knew all. He'd traveled everywhere. Lived in the UAE. Had many Muslim friends. He knew, man. Just knew.

Poor Ali. After the Swede punched him in the chest, he gave up, settled his bill and left. I took the opportunity to relocate to a table of women and tried gamely to make the most of my evening. The other American finished his beer and also left, leaving the Swede alone to get more drunk and fume.

Before long, he was haranguing me at the women's table, and I had to feel bad for getting the women involved in this lunacy. I stood up and tried one last time to talk sense. Sensing trouble, the staff came over and persuaded the man back to his seat. Finishing my beer, I could feel the man's eyes on me.

That's when I went up to the bar and had the above conversation. After leaving the bar, I walked in the opposite direction of my hotel, glancing backwards and listening for footsteps. I was tense. "Kick him hard in the balls and run," I thought. I ducked into a drug store, bought some stuff, and waited, watching the sidewalk. Nothing.

There was a train station nearby, so I hopped a train back to my hotel room, where I now sit behind my dead-bolted door.

Welcome to Bangkok! Sheesh.