I had a 1:20a flight out of Yangon and I’m now nestled in an airport lounge waiting for the flight to Newark. The wound stings, especially when I walk on it, but hey, I guess that means it’s healing!
Much of Yangon is lined with 19th Century colonial buildings in disrepair, covered in years of moss, their former glory poking through, a bit like catching the Queen without her make-up.
The Strand Hotel was of another time, as well. All teak and white roses, impeccably restored, each room was a suite with a personal butler. Then there was Mark, who forced me to the doctor. I’m not sure how to thank him. A good TripAdvisor review seems inadequate.
I chose it months ago when I learned that Kipling and Orwell sat at the bar drinking inspiration. Somerset Maugham wrote “Rain” there, too, a short story about a preacher and a whore caught in a monsoon.
And I tried finding a preacher the entire time I was there.
