Somewhere between a Manhattan subway station and a colonial lodge, the small but appealing bathroom was lined with white rectangular tile and wood-slat blinds over the windows. The sizable shower was big enough to host an editorial meeting, but a tub would have been more conducive to scribbling and reading. The hotel-brand shampoo and shower gel are made with Thai white charcoal, a substance said to “emit negative ions that increase your sense of well-being,” according to the overwrought text in the room’s guest services guide.
Crowded rooftop bars fill this teeming, tall city.
The hotel bucks the trend with a private and lushly planted rooftop garden, complete with fruit trees, a small library lounge and a whirlpool tub. You can grab a banana (from the source), a best-seller (Charles Dickens, Stephen King, Agatha Christie) and plunge into cool, bubbly waters as you plunge into fictional worlds.
“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well,” as Virginia Woolf wrote in “A Room of One’s Own.” Alas, it seems that Bangkok Publishing Residence missed that week of book club: The hotel has no restaurant, and the (free) minibar offers just some small packets of candies, nuts and sliced fruits, along with water and juice. The writer’s most vital nourishment and inspiration — alcohol — is also absent. Bangkok Publishing Residence does have a kitchen, however, and a copious breakfast of eggs, meats and fruits, staves off total hunger.