Oh, my god, “Come to Papa!” Those were literally my first thoughts, as my taxi pulled up to the front of W Bangkok. I just knew I had arrived somewhere in the vicinity of heaven and all the angels were going to fawn over my bags and swallow me up into their air-conditioned abyss-of-a-lobby. Which they did. I have never been so pleasantly shocked as I was, walking through those slide doors and into one of those classic Hanna Barbera cartoon moments, when Tom gets smacked in the face by Jerry with a frying pan. Let’s just say that it was eye-opening!
The lobby was a vast swathe of real estate that was barely occupied by small smatterings of perfectly clad people, that somehow paled into the background, like accessories to a fashion show. I couldn’t tell if I was in the shoot, or on the set. Of part of a flash mob. To my left was a courtesy stand with rose-scented water (I’ll come back to that later). On my right was a long reach of tables and computers and immaculately groomed bowing employees, attending to the few and mostly querulous travellers. At the fore was a massive black marble mural, encrusted with thousands of tiny crystals. I believe it portrayed the tussle between a swooping dragon and a pugnacious tiger. It was a modern take on traditional Thai art. The check-in desks were topped with black marble too, yet their facias were lit up with glaring, neon purple. A small “Welcome” sign beckons me. I focused on the first letter: “W”. Was that intended? Of all the 40 or 50 hotels that I’ve visited in the last 6 months, none have made me stop in my tracks, before checking in. This was a first time. Ever. Zero, zip, have made me meander and snoop around before going through the necessary sign in process. I was captivated by the moment. Kind of enmeshed in my own private awe. I felt like blotting paper (for those that can remember such ancient necessities). I was really, truly, amazed. Absorbed.
Clearly, I am not a model or YouTube blogger. And nor am I here to strut my stuff and flex my pecs. Far from it. I will leave that up to the surreal world of silicon parts and pouted lips.
My craft comes in the form of words. I feel they are slightly more appealing, than gluttonous meat squeezed into bathers and bikinis.
In 35 years, I have helped well over 500,000 travellers make a decision on where to holiday. I may be not ready for a statue yet, but I am an expert, grey hair and all.
In my guise as The Walking Critic, I seek to entertain both you and myself. Hello.....I go to these places every day!
My mission is to share my passion for travel, through informative reviews and first-hand experiences. To take you on epic journeys from fantastic hotels and adventure cruises, to total nightmares. From sky scrapers to war bunkers.
If I make you smile, then I have achieved my goal. And we are all better for it.
" “W”. Was that intended? Of all the 40 or 50 hotels that I’ve visited in the last 6 months, none have made me stop in my tracks, before checking in.
Behind and to the left (of the “rose scented” water stand) was the WOOBAR. Another neon, electric place; too early for people to chill at 10am, except the tired and industrious. Both were there. One guy was sprawled over a white leather arm chair. He was either asleep. Or dead. I had barely parted with my credentials and I was already getting the gist and flavour of W Bangkok. I loved it. I didn’t want my bubble to be burst by the perfunctory and mundane informalities of give-me-your-money-and-passport. But like all good stories, it had to end. “Is Mastercard okay?” I mumbled, breaking the ice.
I relented and “did my bit”, grabbed my very cool room key (it was embossed with a pug dog wearing red sunglasses), and then followed my guide, past the huge windows and merchandise stands, before turning sharply to the left and the elevator doors.
“Huh?” I thought to myself. “What just happened?
If you’d asked me two months ago about W Hotels, I would have spat up a cat fur ball of “what-ness?” A big dollop of “huh?” And a lot more, “Seriously!” But now that I’ve passed my apprenticeship, I’m a fully-fledged and badged convert that is fleet of foot and carrying secrets, learnt en route.
W BANGKOK HOTEL REVIEW-view-from-the-24th-floor-Sathorn-Road.
And here is one. An elevator (or lift) may be the arterial vein and spine of a hotel property, but I also know that W Hotels values it. It is not just a conveyance between two points, but an integral part of the W experience. In my very own surgical way of analysing hotels, I now smile, knowing that it is cutting-edge marketing. Leading from the front. Management dexterity. Proving that all details in a hotel matter, not just a few. Every aspect of hotel living has been considered and every step managed. From concept to implementation. Rest assured, nothing is boring in a W hotel.
"Seriously!” But now that I’ve passed my apprenticeship, I’m a fully-fledged and badged convert that is fleet of foot and carrying secrets, learnt en route.
Every W property has its own signature theme and generally this is when the light-bulb-in-the-head goes off and you go “Oooohh!” or “Wowww!” As I pivoted on my heels and turned the corner to the left, I was met by a dark, purplish cove that lit up with an ever-intensifying crescendo of glinting car brake lights. I felt like Dougal, my old black Labrador, when he was confounded by the unknown. He would cock his head to one side and raise his ears. As if I would have an answer to his WTF problem! And then the flashes and glinting started to quicken and fill the void, until the entire wall was a mass of seething, flashing, rush-hour madness. I was transfixed until my lovely guide interrupted. “These are tuk tuk lights.” I totally got it. Clever! We’re in Bangkok! For the first time, I chuckled. Warmly. To myself. I cannot pinpoint the exact moment when infatuation kicked in, or later when the warm, fuzzy feelings of syrupy love filled the void. But it must have been somewhere then. As I was about to be “run over”! I was picking up on subliminal messages. Nuances. Themes. Purple. Dark. Moody. Sexy. Fun. I had no idea what I was in for, but whatever metamorphosis was happening, I didn’t want it to end. Even if I was about to be flattened by 100 tuk tuks!
When the lift doors opened on the 24th floor, it was a solemn moment. There was no sense of “arrival” like at the W Hong Kong. Nor was it clinical, like at W San Francisco. No, it was sort of middle-of-the-road. In between. It was actually quite refreshing, after my metaphorical episode of lobby road rage. I turned right into the seeming darkness and ambled a few metres towards my room. The number was clearly lit up and hard to miss. Music was playing in the background. Softly.
As unlikely as this sounds, I rarely research a hotel before reviewing it, because I like my first impressions to be precisely that: untainted, unclouded and uncluttered by marketing hype. But I did unearth one little mystery before booking into the W Bangkok. I had been forewarned that my room would be unique and triangular in shape. This vision had taxed my over-active imagination for the entire flight from Perth to Hong Kong and then Bangkok. Even as I walked those final paces down the corridor, I had delusions of Toblerone chocolate and cheese wedges. But all that dissipated when I prised open the door to a very different setting. I had another private “wow” moment to myself.