Showing posts with label beth and marie and rue mcclanahan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beth and marie and rue mcclanahan. Show all posts

Saturday, November 27, 2010

But for now we are young/ Let us lay in the sun

And count every beautiful thing we can see

Top Five Favorite Hotels

1. Boddhi Tree Del Gusto in Phnom Penh, Cambodia


Perfect and peaceful afternoon cocktails on the French colonial teak veranda, while dazed and gasping after tours of the S-21 Genocide Prison and Killing Fields. 

2. Cheong Fatt Tze Mansion in Penang, Malaysia



 
In Penang, a strange and fantastic island mix of Indian, Chinese, British colonial and Malay culture, a gorgeous Cantonese ode to color, feng shui, and thunder.

3. Sindu Mertha in Sanur, Bali



Mostly because it's the kind of dream house we'll most likely never afford in the US, but could see ourselves designing conceivably in, say, 2024, when President Clooney names me ambassador to Indonesia. In fact, we spent a full 30 minutes deciding from which rooms our mothers-in-law—confused and frightened after being forced to spend their golden years somewhere on a remote Islamic island
(at least until they discovered the joys of kopi luwak mochas)—would knit and bingo away their days. We liked it.

4.  The Imms in Chiang Mai and Bangkok, Thailand


We probably spent no less than three total months at these two hotels. Cheap. Nice pools. Air conditioning. Al-Jazeera English on TV. Enthusiastic security guards. Random Sino-Arab-Persian-unicorn decor. Usually ready and welcoming at 6 a.m. when we'd stumble blearily off an all-night bus ride. 

5. Naga Hill in Chiang Rai, Thailand


Me: "So do you guys want to get dinner in town or what."

Dad, already in lotus-pose: "I'd hate to leave this feeling that we just arrived in a place of magic."

6. Something Something Guesthouse in Hong Kong 

Efficient and thrifty. 

Haha! Ha!

Ha!

Ha!

On the plus side, I was nearly mugged walking back there down a dark side street late one night, only escaping by winning a footrace to a (well-lit) 7/11, pretending my iPod was iPhone, and calling in some muscle. Mama grizzly-style. Rawr. Never try to separate a drunk and cornered freelance writer from his computer.