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 with a frying pan by his arch protagonist, Jerry. 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. Or 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 about 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.