Every urban hotel aspires to being a cynosure of the city it’s in. Those that have succeeded can probably be counted on two hands. Having at least a century of operational history helps, as does an unassailable location. Above all such a hotel needs to be a repository of stories, both its own and the ones people create for themselves in it. Which brings us to the Mandarin Oriental, Bangkok, currently celebrating its 150th birthday.
I lived for a while in south-east Asia, so I have my own little volume of memories made on its premises. I once checked my mother and father in after a sweaty adventure across Cambodia, and the hotel’s concierges sorted massages, private temple visits, longtail boat rides deep into the khlong canals and family-style Thai feasts at the river’s edge; it was one of the most joyful times we’ve ever spent together. Years later, when I was based in Bangkok itself, I decamped there when my relationship cratered in decidedly unjoyful circumstances and I needed to be anywhere but the flat I shared with my partner (the hotel’s GM, who was by then a friend, sent up alternating pots of chamomile and bottles of Billecart-Salmon).
The Authors’ Wing of the Mandarin-Oriental Bangkok © Jack Hardy
