Sweet Vali High

I went to the chemist near work and asked for something to help me sleep. She offered Melatonin, then Valerian.

"I don't trust herbal medicine," I tell her.

"What about this then?" she asks me.

"Sure," I says.

It would have been impolite to say no.

White Teeth

I'm writing this post from the breakfast area at the Grant Hyatt Jakarta, where I am receiving the most appalling treatment.

Appalling, I tell ya.

It started this morning, before I even got to the restaurant. Exactly 15 metres before, in fact.

I got out of the the lift. As I turned right and around the corner I could see 4 uniformed people in the distance. They were all standing at the counter doing nothing (this is Asia, remember).

Each looked up, and smiled, and shouted at me in non unison "Hello Mr Anthony! Good morning Mr Anthony!". I smiled sheepishly, nodded and looked down as if I'd dropped a hankie.

As I got closer there were repeated, louder greetings from this gaggle. Or at least they seemed more conspicuous. "How are you Mr Anthony?" and "Are you here for breakfast Mr Anthony?", the latter providing a bit of a Der Fred moment.

I walked past them, nodding and bowing, and entered the dining area. 2 people broke from this greeting pack and trailed behind me as I headed to a table. It was more stalking than trailing. I would call it "friendly" stalking, but what stalking isn't?

Once I had picked my preferred table, my stalkers stopped and smiled and pointed at it as if they had selected it. But they didn't do anything. Nevertheless they used waving hand gestures, like this table was an overpriced item on Sale of the Century.

I dumped my laptop onto the table and headed out to forage for food. I was still being followed as the Maitre d' walked past us with a cheery "Good Morning Mr Anthony! How are you this morning pak?! Are you here for breakfast?". I looked him in the eye, smiled back and nodded a friendly "Der Fred" in return.

I headed past the various counters on my way to the egg station. Most counters have people behind them dressed in chef whites. They are there to ensure the potatoes don't have to pour their own juice, or cut their own cheese or whatever. Voices beckoned at me as I glided passed them.

It was one dumpy panini cooks after another skinny juice attendant after yet another bored looking toaster monitor. Each smiled and shouted out to me "Hello Mr Anthony" and "Good morning Mr Anthony!". (This may seem repetitive to you, so just imagine experiencing this horror in person.)

It felt like a mashup of 3 hideous memories:

a) That part in Amadeus where Salieri is being wheeled through the asylum.

b) That part in Silence of the Lambs where Clarice Starling is walking to her first meeting with Hannibal Lector. None of the kitchen staff at the Hyatt flicked cum on my face on the way out (as far as I could tell) I'll bet that at least one person would have called me a cunt, even if it was in Indonesian and under their breath.

c) That evil "It's a Small World" ride at Disneyland, where you sail by sinister miniature dolls in traditional dresses, singing at you. It's a cheery and dark and small and synchronised small world. And you just know it's Stephen King's small world; not yours.

This mash-up was eerie and I wished them all dead; or at least blind and mute.

In the 30 seconds it took me to get from the front counter to the eggs I had been individually greeted - using my title and first name - at least 12 times. I'm not exaggerating.

I am never - EVAH - going to complain at the Hyatt again. Unless it is to request that no one may greet me, or look me in the eye, while on set. Which is kinda Tom Cruise. Pre-couch Cruise.

By the way, Indonesians have very good teeth. I have been flashed by enough of them to be an authority on the matter. White and strong. This is in stark contrast to the rows of lima beans which fill the mouths of most Vietnamese people.