One Night in Bangkok

It's not entirely clear to me how Nicole discovers these things, but for the Macau-Hanoi leg, she unearthed a budget airline called Thai Air Asia. It was having a fare promotion that would bring us those 600 miles at a cost of less than a dinner and a movie in the States. But there was a catch. We had to book two flights, one to Bangkok, and another to Hanoi. That meant that between the two we would have to deplane, collect our luggage, go through immigration, check in again, go back through immigration, and get on another flight—all in two and a half hours.

Sitting in our cozy hotel room, snifters in hand, we came to the conclusion that it was doable. It might even be adventurous. The only downside was that if we missed the connecting plane, we would be stuck for a day or two in Bangkok. We love the city, though, and the prospect of green curry and mugs of Singha sounded just fine.

Of course, we were wrong. Getting stuck in Bangkok was not the only downside. There was also the possibility that we might get stuck in Macau. This unpleasant reality dawned on us as we sat in front of an empty gate at the Macau Airport, while the departure time for our flight passed. Not only was there no plane, there was no visible presence of Thai Air Asia. This had bad news emblazoned all over it. As a precaution, we immediately headed over to the duty-free shop and spent our last Hong Kong dollars on a two-pound Toblerone chocolate bar and a bottle of Macallan single malt scotch. It simply wouldn't do to be caught overnight in an airport without basic supplies.

About a half hour later, a young Chinese man with floppy hair—he looked like a high school freshman—walked up to the counter and commenced a boarding procedure that I'll charitably say was one of the most chaotic I've ever witnessed. Thai Air Asia does not have assigned seating, and, this being China, we had to all shove our way onto the plane like a herd of wildebeests on the annual lion-run across the Serengeti.

We arrived in Bangkok a half hour late. Thai immigration was agonizing. It's not normally so, but there was a religious convention of some kind going on that had attracted an enormous quantity of barefoot old men with Father Time beards. In our calculations, we had, somehow, omitted to account for this possibility. They were wandering through the immigration area, oblivious to the finer points of passports, customs, and, for that matter, lines. The Thai police soon rounded them all up, and we pushed through and gathered our luggage.

I love Thailand dearly, but it's not easy to navigate the 50 yards or so outside the arrival terminal at the Bangkok airport. Hoteliers and gypsy cab drivers block your path, grab at your suitcase, and understand the word "yes," but not "no." They're quite useful if you've come to the city with the intention of paying someone an absurd sum to drive you to an overpriced dump of a hotel, but that was not our intention.

Luckily, we guessed correctly that the departure gates were on the second floor. Working together, we quickly deduced the proper check-in counter, and managed to hit it exactly an hour before our plane departed. (In case you're wondering, that's about the bare minimum for ensuring your baggage makes it on an international flight).

With boarding passes that were printed on paper one grade above Kleenex, we sprinted off to immigration, where we received another shiny new stamp on our passports. At security, the Thai Home Guard inexplicably relieved Nicole of a jar of peanut butter, but allowed her to keep a —to my mind—far more dangerous bottle of Sriracha hot sauce. People of Thailand, your airport security men require more training, preferably in deductive reasoning.

Finally, we escaped, and made a final sprint to our plane to Vietnam. Total savings: about $600. Total stress: priceless.

Macau: Where Worlds Collide

It took one good long shower and a wrestling match with an iron to transform two scruffy backpackers into a pair of presentable adults. With our hair raked, our jeans flattened, and our nails neatly sandblasted, we stepped forth into a warm Macanese night.

A Reuters reporter recently wrote an article in which he declared that Macau was the new Las Vegas, and maybe even better than Las Vegas. You can only come to that conclusion under one of two circumstances: either you have never been to Macau, or you have never been to Las Vegas. There's a lot more to Sin City than a couple of megacasinos and dreams.

Even so, Macau offers a fascinating and easily-observed contrast between the two cultures. Our hotel, the Lisboa, sits across the street from the gleaming, new Wynn. The latter is said to be an exact replica of its Las Vegas counterpart. And while I can't shake the impression that the original Wynn is much bigger, the interior design of this one is spot on.

Why they've decided to build exact copies I don't know. But it is interesting. After weeks of being subjected to Chinese notions of design, we can now see ours inflicted on them. And I have to say that any American walking from the Lisboa to the Wynn will initially feel a burst of national pride. The latter is simply a different world, and one I like much better.

The Lisboa is a warren of scalloping passages, small shops, and cramped corners. Ghastly vases and sculptures jut out everywhere; shockingly ornate chandeliers dominate the foyers; busy restaurants shoehorn their customers into tiny tables; and the gaming rooms are low, circular, and claustrophobic. We have lost our way numerous times. Then again, it's thronged with prostitutes, a fact that some people might consider goes a long way to making up for its spatial deficiencies.

How different is the refined styling of Steve Wynn. As the creator of the most opulent casinos in Las Vegas (if you have never been to a Steve Wynn casino and your experience of Vegas included a $4.99 steak dinner, please do not extend your impression to this discussion), his design focuses on light and air. Passageways run like huge avenues through the casino, ending either in lights, mirrors or windows, which creates an illusion of immense space. Still, it is impeccably marked and organized. You could never get lost there. The gaming rooms are vast, but cleverly baffled with lushly folded curtains that absorb sound so well that you can talk in a whisper in a room full of hundreds of people. The triple-wide carport is never clogged; the reception desk never has a line. For someone who has spent weeks in China, this piece of convenient, transposed America can be exhilarating, even liberating.

Nicole and I lounged contentedly in thick armchairs, sipping perfect martinis that came in brimming chalices. (By definition, a perfect martini comes in a glass that is able to house a goldfish in comfort). We gazed lovingly out onto the casino, but soon realized that our fellow guests were not impressed with it. They were much more inclined to pull out their cameras and snap pictures of themselves in the star-spangled lobby of the Grand Lisboa. They want to stand in its pits and bet like a bunch of floor traders on Wall Street. They love gold leaf, neon lights, and shimmering crystal. Give them bangles, or give them death.

And they gamble like sailors on shore leave. Their favorite game is baccarat, which gives them decent odds, and the ability to lose their shirts in a hurry. If enough of them manage to do that, we may yet see Macau turn into Vegas. But it's a long way off.

Macau: The Other Las Vegas

The entire movable wealth of our pint-sized Hong Kong hotel room consisted of two packets of rose-scented soap and a water glass. It wasn't much of a haul, considering how we'd been swindled, but it was the best we could do. So, after turning the AC up for one last sustained blast, we shut the door on the Mirador Mansion forever.

The weeks of smog, traffic, and fighting old ladies have tired us to the degree that we've settled on two days of luxurious R & R in Macau. The former Portuguese concession, like Hong Kong, is technically a part of China, but it has its own customs and immigration policies. You reach it from Hong Kong by an hour long ferry sprint, which we passed mostly in fog, until the bridges and casinos of the New Babylon reared into view.

Macau would like you to believe it's the new Las Vegas. A formerly seedy enclave, it has reinvented itself as a hotel and casino paradise, filled with shopping, gambling, and sin. We may be travelers, but we remain patriotic Americans, and would like to inform the world, that we don't give a rat's ass that Macau turns over more money than Vegas or that its casinos are infinitely more profitable. That's merely because the Chinese are what Tony Soprano would call degenerate gamblers who don't understand that if you sit long enough at a roulette table, you will lose your home.

How is Macau not like Vegas? In the first place, we arrived at our hotel (the famous, venerable Lisboa), and were greeted with a small foyer dominated by an enormous crystal chandelier that obliterated the view of anything else. The lobby was upstairs, and had—of all things—a long, slow-moving line. In addition, they had changed our reservation from a double bed to twin singles. And, as we had arrived a mere hour early, our room was not ready. In Vegas, if you were a hotel manager and any such crimes occurred, you would be immediately taken out and shot. In fact, they might not even waste the time to take you out first.

Unlike Hong Kong, Macau is a small territory. The optimistic American company Avis offers cars for rent, though you can probably skateboard anywhere you need. Still, we are having great fun. Our hotel room faces the harbor, and there is both a Jacuzzi and a stereo in the bathroom. The in-room minibar is free, though it is remarkably deficient in potable wine and spirits.

The Macanese idea of luxury hotel is hard to describe accurately, except to say that it dovetails neatly with Saddam Hussein's notions of proper palace decoration. Every room features an explosion of crystal, fake gold, glistening glass, and faux luxury. They glitter like old Las Vaegas.

The casino floors sit behind metal detectors—none of your Vegas-style transparent security here. They consist of small, serious rooms, filled with thoughtful, intelligent people. Cocktail waitresses do not soak them in free alcohol. They don't shout and joke. But for all that, they still stand four deep, blithely wagering their children's education on red number four.

Our time so far included a turn around the Grand Lisboa, our next door neighbor and, coincidentally, the ugliest building in the world (a pear shaped, gold-bedecked monstrosity). Soon, we plan on checking out the new Wynn and Venetian casinos, both supposedly exact copies of their Vegas counterparts (this saves on architecture costs). Our goal for the evening is to find a package of linguica sausage and an honest Manhattan. If we do, you'll be the first to know.