Seeing the world through other eyes

As I land in Bangkok, I bask in anonymity. Sunglasses in hair, shorts and flip-flops. Beams of flashing 40° sunlight and mosquitoes piercing my skin.     Many people use Bangkok as a stopover to get to the islands, but I haven't travelled half way across the world to leave, I am looking for bridges. I realize that while the humidity in the air may be different here, the noises of the streets are the same. The city is in perfect harmony with the locals, the little street corners with food, the shops on Khoa San Road all selling identical memories; the locals and the streets repel each other as much as they use each other as a magnet force. It's like they're playing tug of war. Where everyone ends up in the mud. Slums and skyscrapers scratching each others backs.     Tourists are always the nomads, stripped of identities; they all take the same planes. Nikons flashing, caps and socks and sandals. In the street market I see a little girl selfishly devour her ice cream. Her fingers are burnt in chocolate, and a clerk nearby has one eye on her and the other on the white carpets he is selling. I notice a local woman approach the girl, and gently place her hand on the tip of her head. Her dark skin is an omen over the little girl's blonde hair. Later in the week when I witness a similar scene on a tour group of the Wat Traimit Temple, I will ask the tour guide for an explanation, and he will tell me that it is a local belief that if you touch a beautiful child, you will be granted with the same gift.     My eyes then turn to a little local girl, standing like a poem with pigtails on both sides of her face, her almond shaped eyes hollow with sleep. Part of me wants to approach her, to place my palm on her head, to dip myself into the culture entirely and blow a wish into the strands of her hair. Her father holds her hand and as I watch the two of them go inside the temple, I decide that children aren't what we should be making wishes on. After all, beauty is so difficult.