Home comforts.

On Saturday, leafing through the newspaper as I relaxed after my morning run, I came across an advertisement for a motorcycle rental centre.

This, combined with the glowing reports I had just read in the same publication about the accommodation options in a wine-growing area a couple of hours outside of Bangkok, put ideas in my head.

I pictured myself hiring a gleaming 900cc monster of Italian origin, kicking into gear, opening the throttle and gunning down the open road to the rural idyll of the Khao Yai area; staying overnight in some attractive vineyard lodge and, slightly sunburnt from the day’s travels, drinking cabernet sauvignon under the stars as the motorised steed cooled in the chilly evening air.

I showered, hopped in a cab and, driving licence in hand, made my way to the advertised establishment.

Images of cellars full of Chenin Blanc and Verdelho dissolved in the Bangkok morning heat as I cast my eye upon the sorriest collection of two-wheeled transport I have ever come across.
I spent no more than fifteen seconds perusing the dilapidated, oily, downright lethal-looking contraptions on display before turning on my heel and hopping back into the same cab before the driver had had a chance to put my original fare in his pocket.

From there, my bemused driver and I made our way to Thonglor, where a new branch of the famous Greyhound Café has just opened in the half-finished Soi 15 complex.

Horrendous traffic meant that the 3-kilometre journey took 45 minutes, most of that time spent stationary on a bridge, sun burning through the back window onto my neck, giving me the opportunity to watch the canal boats whizzing below me on their way to the same destination – a journey which would take them four minutes.

Upon arrival, the good news kept on coming. The coffee was insipid; the CD coming through the speakers cannot have been changed since 1988; and there was a very odd smell coming from the kitchen.

Undeterred, I endured another snail’s pace taxi ride – 1.4 kilometres in 26 minutes – to the Emporium shopping mall to buy a new set of speakers. The apologetic salesperson pleasantly advised me that the model I sought had just sold out the previous day. Attempts to purchase a new coffee machine met with a similar obstacle.

Down to Villa supermarket I went to buy some delicacies. Twenty minutes spent filling my trolley came to nought as the supermarket’s card reader was not in service, rendering my MasterCard Electronic and credit cards impotent, the cash in my pocket insufficient to cover the total amount.

After such a litany of joy, there was only one option: make the few essential purchases that the cash available to me would allow. Get back home as quickly as possible. And stay there.

Another taxi was out of the question. The traffic in Sukhumvit Road had not moved in thirty minutes, and the temperature on the road cannot have been less than fifty degrees Celsius. I stoically climbed the steps to the BTS, paused for oxygen at the summit, and steeled myself for the journey home via public transport.

Twenty minutes, one BTS stop, one MRT change and a short motorbike ride later, I was positioned under the powerful blast of a cold shower and firmly convinced that I would not open the front door again before the sun went down.

The rest of the day was a spectacular success. Air-conditioning on, west-facing blinds pulled down against the sun. A repeated viewing of Phillip Noyce’s excellent The Quiet American on DVD. The Financial Times weekend edition complete with magazine, a few ice-cold Finlandias and tonics with fresh lime. Leafing through the Conde Nast Traveller readers’ awards, in which Singapore scored spectacularly, Bangkok almost as well, and Bali reassumed its rightful position as The World’s Best Island. (Even if the editorial team of the magazine are unwilling to recognise Asia’s charms, their readership clearly are not.)

The afternoon continued: shadows grew longer, sunlight more golden. The occasional long gaze out of the east-facing windows into the mesmerisingly lush foliage of the garden. A tentative start to reading Che Guevara’s Bolivian Diary. Half an hour with a pencil and layout pad dreaming up business ideas, and a brief period creating a new ‘Saturday afternoon’ playlist on I-tunes.

Another DVD, this time Wong Kar-Wai’s gay Argentina odyssey Happy Together starring the tragically late Leslie Cheung, and suddenly it was time to start thinking about dinner.

In keeping with the domestic spirit of the day, a couple of friends were invited over, chosen for their homes’ proximity and the ease with which they could travel to my abode. Lights and music were set to low. And a very pleasant evening was spent with a few chilled bottles of decent French rosé bought from Vientiane a few weeks earlier, some cold cuts, a small selection of cheese and a fair number of cold hard-boiled eggs.

Later, I received reports from other friends who had ventured out on Saturday night. By all accounts, evening traffic was even worse than during daylight hours. Roads radiated heat stored from the day’s sunshine. And in scenes reminiscent of Phnom Penh in 1975, Bangkok’s population seemed suddenly to have tripled, judging by the number of people on the streets.
Bangkok’s charms are many. But some days, it’s just one of those days. Some days, it’s just better to stay home.