There was the heat of noon in Texas in July with the darkness of 6pm in Iowa in February. There was the noise of jammed cars and motorcycles passing through the rivers of their separation, with music from all directions attempting to squelch. There was the smells of street cooking and car exhaust, with the desire to not smell of perspiration. There was the felling of rush hour on the New York subway with the loneliness of a midwestern gravel road.
He stepped up from the parking lot to the raised sidewalk, opened the door and stepped over the six inch barrier to keep the water our during the monsoon. This was the transition from the evening commute into the Washington Square bar, and would pull him briefly back to an American cajun resturant from the week of endurance living in Bangkok. The sounds of Dixieland enveloped as the door closed, and he looked for a seat at the bar for Tuesday evening Mexican buffet night.