The Flâneur Behind the Wheel

On Solitude, Airports, and the Romance of the Open Road

4.12 am — and I was in my driving cabin, with the moderate interior light you can expect from a 2010s-era car. Not excessive, like the modern ambient lighting made famous by the Mercedes W222 that turned every car interior since into an aspiring high-end social club.

This morning was different from most.

Normally I would drive to a local park where the hanging bar, the dip bar, and the 3-kilometre runway are used for training. But this morning, I was driving past the usual spot. Along the highway to the airport — with less traffic than usual. Of course, it was 4 a.m., and the city was surely silent. Only trucks, taxis, and the restless nocturnal creatures shared the road with me.

The idea was this.

Lately I have been thinking about the thing I wished I had done as a teenager. Watching Miami Vice. Seeing Don Johnson as Sonny Crockett in a black Ferrari Daytona — which I later learned was a replica built on a Corvette chassis. There is a special allure to that scenery. The idea of you, a car, and an empty road. Cruising along without any worry.

Decades later, I thought to myself:

“The idea of the flâneur — walking without a destination, observing people, being a part of the city yet being free from it — is not so different from Crockett cruising along the sea breeze, under the neon lights of 1980s Miami.”

The spot I ended up at, by 5.00 a.m., was the upper roofless parking area of an airport. I was the only person there, obviously.

The sun began to rise. The sky had turned blue and brighter over time. In my hand was a cup of iced black coffee, picked up from a 24-hour drive-through along the highway I had cruised. I stood there, beside my car, sipping the coffee — tasting the deep aroma of the northern-Thai beans — with the air of freedom flowing in and out of me.

I spotted two planes in the hour I stood there.

One arriving.

One departing.

The airport is a place I have always enjoyed. Whether picking up a friend, departing on my own, or, like this morning, simply being there — watching planes take off and land. The symbolism of it is likely the idea I adore:

The endless possibilities of how one life can be lived. The places one can go. The experiences that await in the unknown future.

No wonder the idea of the airport still lingers whenever I think of it — the romantic visual of the Golden Age of aviation, the glamour of air travel, airport style in the 1980s and 1990s, the jet-age destinations.

But the romance of solitude in the parking lot soon came to an end.

The tropical rain of Bangkok began its run, as the city awoke. And — with my shirt in pure silk from Ermenegildo Zegna, my trousers in linen, and suede fisherman sandals on my feet — this ensemble was far from friendly with water.

I opened the car door, started the engine, placed the remaining quarter of my coffee in the cup holder, and drove back to where I had come from.

Before the Friday roads began to get hectic.

Before the typical tempo of the city disrupted my agenda.