Floods yesterday in Bangkok, and the city was knee-deep in floating garbage. It's been raining hard in the north and in the Philipines (much as the first word I learned in French was "abbatoir," even Thais who don't speak English can say "tsunami" and "typhoon"), and the city finally succumbed to the deluge.

I was at an Internet cafe when the rain started and, no fool, rolled up my pant legs and promptly waded next door to the massage parlor. (FYI, the first thing the masseuse does is wash your feet.) The whole time I was on the table I could hear the girls squealing. Half an hour into it, the owner poked her head behind the curtain and apologized for the noise: the store had started to flood, but they had sandbags now, and it should be okay.

Back outside, miserable-looking tourists were forging the main drag with their suitcases held over their heads while cars sloshed water up around our shoulders. Of all the things I worry about when I cross the street in Bangkok, a wake is not usually one of them.

Now, here's the thing. Bangkok is a city very much like New York -- population density, great public transportation, citizens who consider good style part of the social contract -- and, like New Yorkers, residents conduct their lives on the streets. So, when the public space is flooded, it's not water in the road; it's water in your living room. Sidewalks were packed. Women pushed baby carriages. STREET VENDORS KEPT SELLING FOOD. I swear to God, the tables were packed, and diners simply tucked their feet up under them and kept slurping away at their noodles.

Ah, Bangkok. The more it reminds me of New York, the more I love it.