I set off on this journey 23 years ago because I was searching for something, I had no earthly idea what it was, all I knew was that my life had become mundane, prescribed, and slavishly committed to peer pressure.
Pascal Mercier's iconic novel, Night Train to Lisbon, changed all that. His protagonist, Raimund Gregorius, epitomized a life prescribed, one lived within the guardrails of suffocating academic peer pressure.
A single event propelled Gregorius from his mundane and predictable existence into one that challenged his common sense.
I suppose, on some level, I'm a Gregorious clone, a man living according to the expectations of others at the expense of my own.
Then, one day, everything changed. It was a Monday, my morning routine was identical to every other morning until I found myself standing on the Metro-North commuter platform waiting for the 7:05.
Like the other 30 guys bunched there, I wore a dark grey suit, white shirt, rep tie, and tasseled loafers, black. The WSJ and NYT were neatly folded under my right arm with a briefcase dangling from my left. As I looked down the row of clones, it occurred to me that we all looked the same, no one daring to step out of the box and follow a call to the wild side. We worked in NY, we left wives and children in suburbia and headed for another mind-numbing day in Gotham.
The train was late, as usual, my mind was in overdrive. Then and there I had my Gregorious moment, I pivoted off my usual spot, threw the Times and the Journal in the trash basket, and headed back to my BMW, parked with dozens of other German makes belonging to guys just like me. As I drove out of that lot for the last time, I felt lightheaded and alive for the first time in my life.
Three months later:
I was landing at Yangon International, the next stop on my improbable journey. The weather was steamy, the crowds were suffocating and there was Mohinga, the fish-based street food, favored by the locals permeating the air.
I was booked at The Strand, the iconic hotel founded by the British during the Burmese era. This was shortly after independence, British influence still very much alive life in Yangon.
The staff at The Strand was British trained, formal, and correct in every way. Their uniforms were British tailoring, perfectly fitted if not worn on the edges. The check-in was prompt and efficient, the trip to my 3rd-floor room was guided by a porter who managed three bags plus a briefcase with ease and refused a gratuity. The door lock opened with an old fashioned skeleton key attached to a large mahogany block, you would not fail to leave it at the front desk upon leaving the hotel.
I arrived for dinner at 9:pm, the dining room was elegant, enormous Persian rug, well worn, on a parquet floor. The tables were covered with linen, draped to the floor. Each table had formal settings, full glass-wear, cutlery, and napery. The room was lit by candelabra, with no electric lights. The effect was stunning.
Your attention turned to the bandstand, there was a 35 piece orchestra playing softly at the direction of a leader with shoulder-length grey hair. They were dressed in white-tie and tails, like the staff, their clothes were patched and worn. These people may have been abandoned by the British but their demeanor and training were not, they were dressed for an evening at The Strand, after all, you could feel their pride.
There was something wrong with this picture, every detail was perfect for a formal dining experience except one, there was no one in the room except waiters, they were standing at attention protecting their stations. The Maitre d' approached, his manner was gracious as he informed me they had a dress code, jackets, and ties were required after 7:pm. I was dressed in grey slacks, a black cashmere sweater, and a white dress shirt, no jacket, and no tie.
In spite of there being no other diners in the room, the proper dress was required, I was impressed, apologized to the Maitre D' and returned to my room to meet the standard.
Returning to the dining room, it was still empty. The orchestra was still playing, the waiters were still at their place. The dining room at The Strand Hotel in Myanmar, formally British Burma, was open for business.
That evening back in my room I spent an hour with my journal thinking about what was lost through independence and how the British, while control freaks, had brought civility to this country, and some, like the staff at the Strand, missed it.
Next stop, Pakistan.
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