Bangkok: Lounging at the Author's Lounge
(Photography by Euching Lin) - My wife and I have less than an hour left before we need to be back at our hotel for the car that will take us to Bangkok International Airport. That gives us an hour to run into the Oriental to have high tea. Our English friends would be horrified to see us rushing through our tea, but today is our last day in Bangkok.
We had planned a more leisurely visit yesterday, but we had been turned away at the hotel entrance. "Are you guests of the hotel?" asked a stern concierge. His imperious tone was completely different from the obsequious chirping we heard when we stayed at the hotel during our last trip to Bangkok.
I had forgotten that the Oriental is strict about its no shorts policy, and we were turned back like the backpackers we appeared to be. We were starkly reminded of the Oriental's history as a colonialist bastion, and I felt like one of those natives who had just seen a "no dogs or Chinese allowed" signs in a bygone era. Not so bygone perhaps? Peddlers came leaping toward us to sell us their wares as we made our way back to the city's subway train, our tails between our legs, but not before we stopped to drop some decent change at a nearby silversmith.
We have more success this next day. My jeans are nearly threadbare, but they are long enough nonetheless. We have rushed through some morning sightseeing of the Grand Palace and Wat Arun to get here. I whisper to my wife to act like we belong. We merit a quick glance from the gatekeepers, but before we know it, we're in the lobby of the hotel where we spent our honeymoon more than six years ago. We stroll along the poolside restaurant, ogle the wealthy guests, peek into The Bamboo Bar, and gawk at the bells hanging from the lobby ceiling before we wander to the wing that houses the hotel's Author's Lounge. It feels like a pilgrimage to me. It seems every author of note that has ever come to Bangkok has stayed at the Oriental: among them Joseph Conrad, Somerset Maugham, Gore Vidal and one of my favorite authors, Graham Greene, who was known to sample the wares of Bangkok's opium dens. I remember once seeing a photo of Greene where his eyes were small with the stupor of a drug-induced haze. A small bookshelf at the entrance of the lounge shows off volumes written by some of the writers who have visited the hotel.
The lounge is bright with white rattan furniture and the natural daylight that filters in through its skylights. The lounge's waitresses, resplendent in their silks, flutter near to seat us and offer clean menus. After studying the menus, we both decide that we will have the Asian tea instead of English afternoon tea, since, how often can you have Thai tea in such a shiny Bangkok setting?
Our Earl Grey comes in a simple but elegant white porcelain tea set, and I am half-tempted to hold my tea cup pinched between my thumb and forefinger when I am reminded that no one, not even the rich, actually drink their tea that way.
The snacks are magnificent: scones and clotted cream, and finger sandwiches, in a nod to English-style tea, but otherwise Asian inspired snacks like curry flavored samosas. We sit and take in the elegance of the renovated suites above us, watching the flow of other tourists coming into the lounge, before a glance at our watches reminds us that we need to be on our way. We pay the bill and rush out to catch the mass transit back to our own hotel.