Trip Reports - Year End '08 SE Asia: DL F, SQ F, LX J, MI Y, Peninsula Bangkok, RC S'pore, amanjiwo

Year-End 2008 in Southeast Asia: DL F, SQ F, LX J, MI Y, The Peninsula Bangkok, RC Millenia Singapore, and amanjiwo

Introduction
For my second-ever FT Trip Report, I am chronicling my year-end trip to Southeast Asia. My annual December vacation, graciously indulged by my firm since 2003, caps off a long year of, well, working up to this very trip. Because I typically redeem a Delta SkyMiles award for the long-haul portion, the trip gets planned very early on in the year, and I spend most of the year with an eye on making sure that I achieve my professional goals sufficiently early to warrant taking the last two weeks of the year off. This year, the calendar falls in a particularly advantageous way, with Christmas and New Year’s Day falling on Thursdays, so lots of folks are taking off one or both of those two weeks. I took full advantage.

My first trip report (http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/trip-reports/834490-33rd-birthday-southeast-asia-sq-f-peninsula-bangkok-rc-singapore-fs-sayan.html) covered the other major vacation I take during the year—for my birthday over American Memorial Day. Like that report, this trip report actually comprises several different FT trip reports rolled into one (fourteen, in this instance), so it is serialized into separate posts for easier reading and linking, and to allow the reader to skip over particular parts that may not be of interest. Unlike my first TR, which took forever to write and was done entirely from memory, I am writing this TR while still on the trip, starting about a week into it, though the events are sometimes chronicled up to two weeks after they occurred.

As a preview, I offer the following summary:

Delta Air Lines First Class (domestic) [LINK]: unremarkable, except for the fellow travelers
Singapore Airlines First Class [LINK]: Excellent, except breakfast served too early before early-morning touchdown
The Peninsula Bangkok: After a sorrow- and stress-filled last visit [LINK], a happy homecoming and signs of a tourism recovery [LINK]
Swiss International Air Lines Business Class [LINK]: Nice, and better than expected
Ritz-Carlton Millenia Singapore [LINK]: Unremarkable
SilkAir Economy Class [LINK]: Quite decent, until delivered to chaotic Indonesian arrivals
amanjiwo [LINK]: Wonderful execution of what its name promises, a peaceful soul
SilkAir Economy Class [LINK]: Quite decent again, until uncharacteristic nonsense at Singapore arrivals
Ritz-Carlton Millenia Singapore [LINK]: Near-disaster, mitigated only my good service-recovery
Swiss International Air Lines Business Class [LINK]: Not as nice, and spoiled by one FA in particular
The Peninsula Bangkok [LINK]: A very warm and special welcome home, as the festive season happily returns
Singapore Airlines First Class [LINK]:
Delta Air Lines First Class (domestic) [LINK]:

As before, I will be flavoring this trip report with vignettes about this or that and some of the things Mr. Megatop and I enjoy the most while traveling: a bit of shopping and a whole lot of dining.

NOTE:
For the time being, please excuse some of the bracketed material-- it's a reference mark for me as I convert from a Word Document to posts in HTML. And for now, this report is a work in progress.

Pre-Departure

Back in January 2008, at the 330-day mark, I claimed the outbound leg of this award ticket, and in February I added the return leg. For the first time in several years, despite booking so far in advance, I was unable to get both of the exact flights I wanted. I did get First Class on SQ 001 leaving SFO in the wee hours of Sunday, December 14, 2008, but I couldn’t grab a return on SQ 002. I “settled” for First on SQ 012 to LAX, which came with the advantage of a daytime transcon back to Atlanta (avoiding the ever-painful post-TPAC transcon redeye) but the disadvantage of a forced overnight in Singapore. Oh well, can’t have everything.

When booking so far in advance, Delta’s award availability on SQ is quite good. Sometimes, as this year, the problem is getting domestic First or Business on the transcons. When originally booked, DL was still permitting waitlists for award tickets, and mine cleared after few months. Since I was leaving Atlanta on a Saturday, I decided to schedule an extra-long transit stop at SFO, which would be a cushion in case of outbound delays and would allow sufficient time to see friends in the city if everything went off on time.

For this trip, totaling three full weeks on the road, I just couldn’t pack light. My shoes alone could barely fit in a rollaboard. But airlines’ increasing vigilance about overweight baggage, even for premium pax, caused me to leave my 28” expandable rollermonster at home. I opted instead for the 24” expandable (not expanded) and the 22” expandable (expanded, intended as checked baggage). My tote full of in-flight essentials went over the handle of one, and my computer briefcase grudgingly taken because I had no choice, went over the other. The Saturday departure meant a good friend and fellow FTer, ecaarch, could offer me a lift to Hartsfield. My mom and her husband wouldn’t be joining me for part of this trip. But I would naturally be meeting Mr. Megatop in Bangkok, for seeing him is, after all, very much the point of flying to the other side of the world.

I said goodbye to my beloved Siamese cat Nitnoy, telling him I was headed to the motherland. I knew the pain would tear apart my flat while I was gone, but what could I do about it?

DL 1049 ATL-SFO
1:50 pm – 4:12 pm
Equip: B757-200 with winglets
Reg.: N950DL
Seat: 2A (domestic First)

ecaarch dropped me off curbside and we said goodbye, wishing each other pleasant journeys on our year-end trips (his included a trip to Virginia to visit family for the holidays, and a Platinum-saving dash to the UK for New Year’s). Check-in was effortless at Hartsfield, in the new BusinessElite, First Class, and Medallion Zone at the end of the South Terminal, backing up to the T-Gates. My bags were checked through clear to Bangkok, and I was glad to see the agent gently lay them down on the belt, for they contained some very precious cargo: six bottles of wine, all but one rather difficult to come by.

After checkin, I used the new dedicated premium-pax security checkpoint in what used to be the long and totally unused walkway from the T-Gates to the landside area of the South Terminal. Literally no one was in line. I walked up straight up to the x-ray machine, and let the guy behind me go ahead, knowing I had a few things to take out of my tote and briefcase. Well, you do something nice and then what happens? The clown takes my grey security tray, the one I’d taken off the stack and put next to my bags for my shoes and LAG ziploc. Oy! So I grabbed another one. He’s taking his sweet time getting his bag unpacked and—bam!—steals another tray from me. “How many of mine are you going to take?” I asked. “Oh, sorry.” Whatever.

Out on Concourse A, I headed to the Crown Room Club across from A17. I produced my F BP to SFO, and my F BP to SIN. The dragon didn’t swallow it. She searched and searched her online policies, making me feel like the uninvited guest at the reception. “Sorry, Singapore is not an included destination.” Fed up with DL’s totally inconsistent policy application [LINK], and thinking that was a particularly ridiculous reason to deny me (if I were on NW/DL bound for SIN, I’d get in, wouldn’t I? Or Air France, or Korean Air, for that matter), I went off to the gate.

At the gate, I was surprised to see my 757 with winglets. Until now, the only 757’s in DL’s fleet that I knew of with winglets were the ex-TWA birds qualified for ETOPS over the Atlantic, now being reconfigured with an international BusinessElite cabin, sort of. Well, the rego on this plane, and the configuration I saw once inside (26 domestic F, not 22 on the ex-TWA aircraft), confirmed that DL is retrofitting its 757 fleet with winglets.

Boarding started on time, and the gate lice swarmed around like, well, lice. One justified cutting in line next to me by chatting about the Peninsula in Bangkok (I was wearing a Peninsula polo shirt, as I do practically whenever I fly) as if we were old friends and going there together. I thought: please tell me this guy is flying coach. No such luck. He plops down in 3B, well within earshot, and immediately chats up about half the passengers filing past, not to mention the FA (beautiful, looked like his daughter-in-law) and the guy in 3A (did not look like his daughter-in-law). Pleas for silence went unanswered. It seemed like the guy in 3A was a salesman too—only salesmen have the ability to talk to anyone about anything at length, excruciating length—and they yack yack yacked for long periods, interrupted only by those times when 3B felt compelled, compelled, to talk to someone else. Turns out 3B was on a mileage run from FLL, evidently on an A fare, trying to keep Gold Medallion. 3A was on a mileage run too, set to qualify as Plat for the first time. 3B was duly impressed. In the end, they were headed back the following Tuesday on the self-same flight. Heaven help their fellow pax. At least those hapless souls would have the benefit of tailwinds.

The entertainment selection on DL’s personal AVOD, now routinely available on transcon service, one of DL’s stronger domestic service points, was extensive but uninspiring: Batman: The Dark Knight and a bunch of forgettables. I watched two new episodes of Larry David’s HBO show Curb Your Enthusiasm. I had found other episodes seen on DL (my only access to HBO) terribly funny. These two were less so, and more self-indulgent. 3B wanted to know what I thought of the show. Kinda funny, I offered, before escaping to the galley where I could do some DVT-avoidance manoevers. The meal service on board was decent, nothing like what you get on Asian airlines, even in economy on short flights, but passable for U.S. domestic flights: penne pasta with Portobello mushrooms and not a kernel of corn in sight. I put on the airshow and whipped out my dated CD player and a big book of Sudoku.

The Captain was almost as chatty as 3B. But it was nice, as he personally welcomed everyone on board from the cabin PA and gave us a rundown of the flight plan that was actually audible, unlike most announcements from the cockpit, which can sound like anything from the teacher on Peanuts to Mumbles in Dick Tracy to the Whisper on Seinfeld. The cabin PA system was loud and clear to a fault. When PA’s went up during the flight, I had to pull my earphones out lest I get ear damage: on DL, normal AVOD volume = painful PA volume.

The flight took a long time, 5 hours and 20 minutes through stiff headwinds. Shows how much use those winglets are. Touchdown at SFO was uneventful, except for the still-on-the-runway cellphone calls made from 3A and 3B. “Yeah, we just landed. No, still on the runway. Wanted my friends who invited me to a party to send a limo, but going to take BART instead.” Nice.

The old international terminal at SFO, terminal 2, was picked clean to the steel beams, its skeleton completely exposed. This seemed like a lot more than “gutting” a building, so I suspect it’s being completely torn down for replacement.

After disembarking, I called a couple of long-time friends whom I have met at SFO while on the way to Asia in December nearly every year since 2003 (in 2004, I took SQ 19 from EWR). After a windblown wait under the Cathay Pacific sign at the international terminal, one picked me up, and we headed into the city. We met another friend at Catch restaurant in the Castro for a glass of wine. I asked the bartender where the Sonoma-Cutrer on the wines-by-the-glass list was from. This being San Francisco, he did not think it an entirely unreasonable question, so he produced the bottle: Russian River Ranches. Russian River being my favorite appellation for Chardonnay, I accepted. One of my friends took a look at the list and asked my thoughts. I said the Sonoma-Cutrer was pretty good, best of the lot on the list, and remarked at SQ serves it in First Class sometimes. Taking the first sip of what would be two glasses for him, he concurred in my judgment.

In the past, these get-togethers were always at the Fireside Grill bar in the international terminal at SFO. The change of venue was a change of pace, but we used the time to catch up on professional and personal developments over the last year. It’s quite a nice way to keep up with old friends, and we quite look forward to it. We all had some significant professional matters coming in the near future, so we toasted, hopefully, to good things to come.

SQ 001 SFO-(HKG)-SIN
12:05 am – 11:40 am +1
Equip: B747-400 MEGATOP
Reg.: 9V-SPM
Seat: 2A (First Class)

The friend who met us at the bar took me back to the airport. We wished each other happy holidays and said we’d look forward to dinner over MLK weekend in January, hopefully a celebratory one for both of us.

At International Terminal Checkin Row 4, Singapore Airlines was already teeming three full hours before STD. A family numbering at least 10 in total was monopolizing one of the two Business checkin agents and the sole First Class agent. I spied the BP’s, and it looked like the parents and some kids would be in Business, while some of the other kids had to rough it in Economy. I checked in and was handed a fresh red SQ F BP to replace DL’s plain white one. The agent also took my baggage-claim numbers and suggested I check with the lounge staff in an hour or so to confirm that my bags had been received from DL. I remember this well, as the last time my bags didn’t make the weather-compressed connection of just (!) two hours. I asked about waitlisting for First or Business on the SIN-BKK leg, as the well-documented glitch in award tickets meant I could only be confirmed in Y for that flight. The SQ supervisor at first blamed DL (DL blames SQ) and said I would have to call DL to reissue. I had asked DL to put a remark in my PNR that I had paid the full amount of mileage necessary for First Class all the way to Bangkok. The supervisor saw this, and ultimately said he would send a message to Singapore and maybe I should ask about it when I got there.

I still believe that SFO’s international terminal is one of the nicest gateways in the United States, a palace compared to the armpit known as TBIT LAX. The duty-free selection at SFO, though, leaves a bit to be desired. The wine choices, in particular, are limited and terribly overpriced. After checking the registration on the Megatop, I scurried off to the cozy Silver Kris Lounge.

The lounge dragon was the least-dragonlike hostess I can recall. She was warm and bubbly, though not overly so. I settled in to a surprisingly quiet F side and wondered whether this flight, like my SQ 001 a year earlier, would go off with just three or four pax in the nose. I perused the week’s Straits Times and South China Morning Post, finding an interesting but disturbing explanation for the FT-covered [LINK] story of imported-booze shortages in Jakarta: a clampdown on smuggling and corruption by the Indonesian Customs authorities left hoteliers shocked—shocked!—to find no duly imported booze in the Republic. This might not bode well for relaxation during our upcoming week in Java. As I turned from paper to paper, then to my book about Cambodia, then to dreamworld, the hostess came over to confirm that, yes, my baggage had for once been successfully transferred from DL to SQ, and my six lovelies would be slumbering in the belly of the Megatop while I roughed it in the nose.

Just as I was gathering my things, the non-dragon made a courtesy announcement that SQ 001 was ready for boarding. That prompted everyone else to rise and rush the exit. So much for being first to board. On the main floor of the two-level boarding gate, the crowd seemed large but more or less orderly. With my red BP, I slipped past the line queueing up for economy and went right up to the premium counter. My college sweatshirt and black checkerboard Vans (Off The Wall!) may not have said “First Class,” but my BP did, and that’s what mattered.

I settled in to Seat 2A and took some fresh papers that had just flown in from SIN and HKG on SQ 002. Though the Leading Stewardess offered to help with my bags, I said I’d manage. The Leading Steward offered a drink, and I begrudgingly accepted some Champagne. Dom Perignon is not my thing, but I’d seen on SQtalk that the 2000 vintage was better than the ’99, so I decided to give it a go. In the event, it tasted just the same: Dry. Like sand. In a desert. The Sahara desert.

1B turned out to be either a jerk or terribly confused. He mistook the table at the front of my SkySuite (where the entertainment screen is) as the place to put his used newspapers. I mean, it was just across the aisle, and much more convenient than the table at the front of his SkySuite. Well, 2D had decided to move back to row 4, leaving his assigned seat as the only empty one in the cabin. I moved 1B’s garbage to the table for 2D. Even in First Class, some pax are like a snow day: “No class.”

Drinks came shortly after takeoff. For one of the first times ever, I didn’t indulge in a Singapore Sling. Instead, I went right for the California Chardonnay. Sonoma-Cutrer Russian River Ranches 2006, of all things! It paired very well with the succulent medallions of lobster salad. (Unlike some, I find lobster and Champagne a terrible combination, principally because I find nearly all champagnes so painfully dry and tasteless.) The beef broth soup was next, and it was pleasant, if rather brothy. Then came my petite (at just 5 ounces, an appetizer!) ribeye steak, ordered earlier in the week from the Book the Cook menu. Though not my favorite cut of beef, it was nice enough and made the Chateau Leoville-Poyferre especially good. The Wine List in the seat indicated that the Bordeaux would be 2001 vintage, but on board they had the 1999, nicely in its prime. The In-Flight Supervisor offered cheese or dessert, to which I responded, “Yes, please.” The cheeses included some California selections, such as Humboldt Fog. I found that, like all goat cheese, to have the flavor and consistency of chalk. The Point Reyes blue was much more to my liking. Accompanied by the Poyferre, it was a very pleasant if colorfully punctuated way to round off the meal. Although I rarely have dessert, I did go for the fruit tart in the chocolate waffle shell, of which none was left when the Leading Stewardess came to clear it away.

KrisWorld’s selection of 100-odd movies plus television was actually disappointing on this flight. Batman: The Dark Knight topped the bill, with a lot of other films I had little interest in following it. KrisWorld is where I first got interested in the show CSI, and thankfully a trio of new episodes (set in Las Vegas, New York, and Miami) were available. I got through two of them before falling off to sleep, unaided by Dr. Lunesta.

During boarding, I started to ask the Leading Stewardess for pajamas: “Size large?” she asked evidently suffering the common Asian malady of seeing all white guys as roughly the size of houses. “Small, actually, is what fits me.” (That’s why I asked in advance.) Well, they had no smalls on board, so I was stuck with a medium. Evidently, even the Asian pax who fly up front seem to resemble houses. Either that, or a bunch of jockeys had flown back to San Francisco following the Hong Kong Champions Cup horse race and exhausted the supply of smalls. Medium though it was, I rather liked the new color of the SQ F pj’s: brown-nearly-black with bright yellow piping. This complemented the tan-with-brown piping and the plain-ole-grays in my closet.

In my pj’s, lathered up with Tuscan Soul hand lotion and agreeably spritzed with Tuscan Soul facial spray (both from the Ferragammo-branded amenity kit), I settled in to finish the New York episode of CSI and have some rest in my padded-and-duvet covered SkySuite. I woke up briefly near Anchorage, then dozed off again. I woke up again as we neared the neck of the Kamchatka Peninsula (I’m sure that isthmus has a name, but I don’t know it), where the full moon cast quite a bit of illumination over some beautiful but rugged territory. The Leading Steward brought me cup after cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, which was really quite tasty. I’ve always thought SQ’s selection of gourmet coffees a bit unnecessary, given one’s dulled tastebuds in aircraft cabins, but one did find this stuff mighty fine. Not rich and full-bodied like Blue Mountain you might brew at home, but still better than even SQ’s normally nice coffee choices.

On KrisWorld, I watched The Bolshoi at the Bolshoi in a performance of Tchaikovsky’s holiday favorite The Nutcracker. I had grown up in Boston seeing The Nutcracker, or “Nuts,” as those in the ballet world more or less affectionately call it, every year at Christmas. Watching this performance was a very pleasant reminder of those childhood experiences, which actually carried through to adulthood until Christmas-in-Asia became my new tradition. The performance was technically quite impressive in terms of dancing, although I thought the production itself fell well short of Boston’s. The Boston Ballet completely revamped its staging in the early 1990’s, and it now much more convincingly tells the story of the transformation from reality to dreamworld that takes place midway through the first act. The Bolshoi did not do that—including the Nutcracker’s transformation from doll into prince—at all well. Other bits of the staging were similarly disappointing. At one of the musical climaxes of the first act, after Dr. Drosselmeyer has magically made the Christmas tree grow, a trap door in the stage opens and starts smoking, from which we expect the human Nutcracker to emerge, only to be startled by the appearance of the Mouse King (in Boston’s rendition, at that climax, the wooden nutcracker on stage is suddenly replaced by the handsome prince). The staging of the second act lacked coherence and did not effectively capture the cultural aspects of Chocolate (Spain), Coffee (Turkey), Tea (China), Marzipan (France), and so on. Parts of the story, too, left a bit to be desired: The Nutcracker and Clara are the prime dancers throughout; there is no Snow King or Snow Queen (the principal roles in the final scene of Act I as performed by Boston); there is no lead Sugar Plum Fairy; and in Act II, Clara appears suddenly as an adult wearing enough eye shadow to make Tammy Faye Bakker blush. The orchestra, though, performed the music especially well, and the performance could still bring anyone with a heart near to tears. Thinking back to childhood, it left me wondering: Did I want to be Clara, or the Nutcracker?

After a Tuscan Soul refresher, I asked the Leading Steward for a glass of Champagne as a nightcap (thinking it better than the Poyferre for the occasion), planning to catch several more hours of sleep before Hong Kong, with maybe the possibility of having an abbreviated version of the pre-touchdown breakfast. At that point, I figured, we had a good four hours to go before landing. To my surprise, the Leading Steward said that breakfast service would begin in just 90 minutes, at 4:00 a.m. Hong Kong time, fully two and a half hours before STA. Knowing I would get a full breakfast on the next sector, I decided to try and sleep as much as I could. Dr. Lunesta and I headed to bed. All those warnings about not mixing sleeping pills with alcohol were on my mind, as I tried to wash down a bitten half-tablet with a swig of Krug. Big mistake. The interaction was horrible, with the carbonation turning nearly frothy and leaving a very bitter taste lingering for quite a while (think fateful spy biting a cyanide capsule, minus the almonds). The pill served its purpose, but when the cabin lights came ablaze 90 minutes later, and the group back in Row 4 determined this was cause for celebration, my hopes of sleeping most of the way to HK were dashed. I reluctantly pushed back the eyeshades and pulled myself toward full consciousness. Breakfast turned out to be pretty good, so not all was lost. I picked at the fresh fruit, then dove into the Muesli. I’ve never figured out what brand name the cereal that SQ serves for Muesli is sold under in the U.S., but if I ever do I’ll be sure to stock up. It’s just the right combination of oatmeal, raisins, nuts, crunchiness, and sugariness. What breakfast main course did I have [FILL IN HERE].

After breakfast service, with still a solid 90 minutes to go before landing, the lights went off again and everyone hunkered down. Okay, how the heck am I supposed to sleep again now, jazzed up on Blue Mountain caffeine? And why? Honestly. This would be the singular fault I could find with SQ’s service on this flight. Breakfast service started WAY too early. It should be re-timed until much closer to Hong Kong, more like 5:00 a.m. or 5:30 a.m. HKG time, particularly when landing is going to be closer to 7:00 a.m. than 6:30.

We landed on runway 07R, which is somewhat unusual. Apparently, that runway was being used for both landings and takeoffs that Monday morning. The very low and thick cover of haze shrouded the other runway, so I couldn’t tell if it was closed for maintenance. We pulled in to Gate 23, I grabbed a green transit sticker to add to my collection, and headed for the transfer security checkpoint. Upstairs, I negotiated the duty-free stores like a slalom course and was among the first into the lounge. There, I made a bee line for the shower room and snagged it. Most refreshing. At that point, I’d been in motion for over 36 hours, so a shave and a fresh change of clothes was welcome, undoubtedly by my fellow passengers as much as by me.

The line for boarding was a haggard and unruly mess, though that didn’t matter much once an agent pulled me and my red BP out of line and took me up to the front. Back on board, some Champagne was in order. I really don’t like the stuff—honestly—but the bubbles do set the right festive mood for a flight. The big bird lumbered out to the end of runway 07R and we were soon off again, cutting through the haze that totally obscured what would have been a very nice view of Victoria Harbour. We cleared the thick cloud cover that blanketed most of Southeast Asia that morning, and I settled in for breakfast part deux. (I really wish SQ would let one order BTC lunch for this sector, rather than have two breakfasts, but you can’t have everything.)

A fresh crew joined us in HKG, and an extremely friendly and pleasant (but not overly so) Leading Stewardess took the lead in looking after me, one of twelve in a now-full cabin. Not long after takeoff, the jerk in 1B once again mistook the table of my SkySuite for a recycle bin. I briefly entertained getting up and making an elaborate show of putting his garbage on the table of his SkySuite, but I decided to be big about it and just threw the papers in the trash at the galley. While the crew set up my table for breakfast, I asked when they’d be turning on KrisWorld. They already had. Re-setting my seat didn’t work. Others were evidently having problems, so they re-set the whole plane. Still no dice. A couple more attempts to re-set my seat. Nothing. I couldn’t even keep the Airshow on. It kept going off after a few minutes, as if set in “sleep” mode. Just as we finished breakfast, the IFS came by and offered me a fairly generous voucher for KrisShop as service recovery. I had wanted to watch a movie on this sector—not Batman: The Dark Knight but maybe Brideshead Revisited—so the voucher was readily accepted.

A few Sudoku puzzles later, and we were descending toward Changi. We flew south over the Indonesian islands, then made the big banking turn over all those ships queued up to slip through the straits. I got a nice full-on view of Singapore’s CBD. Beneath the cloud cover as we flew up the East Coast Parkway, Singapore’s colors came alive, brilliantly so, with pastel hues on the residential buildings and bright primary colors on the industrial ones closer to Changi standing out against the rich verdant landscape of the Garden City. After a smooth touchdown and short taxi to gate B3, I said goodbye to the fine crew and made my way toward immigration to collect some stamps in my two-hour transit stop.

Though I’ve entered Singapore in transit countless times (marking “0” days as the duration of stay and “IN TRANSIT” as the address in Singapore), this time the officer actually asked me how long I had until my departing flight. A couple of hours, I answered honestly. Stamp stamp, in you go. I went upstairs and made for the SkyTrain to T2. There, I went straight to the immigration checkpoint and slipped airside again. A longer stay in Singapore than some I’ve had. Stamp stamp, please visit Singapore again soon.

Thanks MegatopLover for another sensational trip report, wonderfully entertaining and information at the same time.

Your narrative about the chatterbox MRers was classic. :D

Looking forward to reading more.

Great report so far :) Am looking forward to the rest... particularly as we're going to that neck of the woods later this year.

Any pictures?

Great trip report so far.
You make us feel as if we're there looking over your shoulders.
Looking forward to the rest!
^^

Wonderful flight.. Incredible detail.. Seems like a plethora of breakfasts...

Great trip report ^ Don't forget to fill us in on the rest!

Thanks and looking forward to the rest ^

Megatoplover -

Thanks so much for the well written report. My wife and I stayed at the Pen in BKK this past June and we are already planning our next trip back. Hands down, one of the 5 best hotels in the world!

I look forward to reading the rest of your TR soon.

Megatoplover-

I'm heading back to BKK in March, and your report makes me wish I was leaving today! I'm sure one of these days we'll run into each other at the Pen! :D

SQ 976 SIN-BKK
2:10 pm – 3:35 pm
Equip: B777-300
Reg.: 9V-SYE (Star Alliance billboard livery)
Seat: ??

Airside in T2, I headed for the Silver Kris Lounge. Two smiling but nevertheless fire-breathing dragons met me: ‘Papers please.’ “I need to see the ticketing agent,” I said as I pointed to the right. The dragons batted a quartet of skeptical eyes my way. Producing my Economy Class BP, I said, “I’m waitlisted for First or Business Class and want to inquire with the ticketing agent about it.” “Wait here, please,” said one dragon, while the other took up her position in the center of the foyer to prevent any other barbarians from crashing the castle gate.

From where I stood waiting, I caught a glimpse of a fellow at the ticketing desk who might just be the one who has helped so many DL fliers like me, who claim premium class awards beyond Singapore but almost invariably get only Y for the regional leg. The fellow I’m thinking of knows the issue, and the solution he and others like him help devise has been shared among many FTers in my boat. It has worked for me twice before, though the first time I tried it, I was unceremoniously turfed out (http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/9880503-post6.html) of the T3 SKL by a dragon who made today’s look like churchmice in comparison. The fleetfooted dragon returned, transformed into the Mistress of the House, and beckoned me inside. “Welcome, monsier, sit yourself down, and meet the best loungekeeper in town. As for the rest, all of them crooks, rooking the pax and givin’ ‘em looks. Seldom do you see, honest gems like me, a host of good intent who’s content to be. . . Mistress of the Lounge, doling out the charm, ready with a handshake and’n open palm, lah. Tells a saucy tale, makes a little stir, passengers appreciate a bon viveur… Glad to do me friends a favor, doesn’t cost me to be nice. But green cards gets you nothing, gotta blue or red or no dice.”

I had showered in Hong Kong precisely because I wasn’t assured of lounge access in Singapore. So now I had nothing to do. Idle hands beget idle minds, and idle minds beget trouble. Now, where is that yummy young Malay-Singaporean thing who’s chatting everyone up in the SKL (http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/singapore-airlines-krisflyer/856627-i-think-i-just-got-chatted-up-sq-male-employee-silverkris-lounge.html)? Not working today, from the looks of it. Oh well, I sent a quick email or ten, made a post (http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/delta-skymiles/747463-sq-f-reward-tix-lounge-access-2.html) on FT about DL’s inconsistent application of lounge policies for SQ F pax, and headed to the gate.

There, I found a long line for security screening, conducted as ever in T2 at the entrance to the gate. A security officer did his best to keep the line under control, as he anxiously awaited reinforcements. By the time they turned up and opened a second x-ray line, I was already too close to the first one to take advantage. At the checkin desk, I told the agent checking passports and BP’s that I was waitlisted for First. She quickly showed me to the agent in charge, whom I recognized from my ordeal six months earlier. He nodded and searched the stack of blue and red BP’s arrayed in front of him for my name. Not finding one, he quickly handwrote me a red one for 1F and waved me inside.

After the seizure of Bangkok’s airports, which ended less than two weeks prior to this flight, SQ cancelled a number of its Bangkok flights. I was moved from a 6:00 pm departure to this 2:10 departure. Evidently, quite a lot of other pax had been similarly consolidated, and SQ was op-upping people into J and F to fill every seat possible. The pleasantly quiet fellow who sat beside me in 1E had been on the Business side of the SKL 40 minutes earlier, so I imagine he might have enjoyed one of the elusive SQ op-ups. In my case, I assume DL gets to charge Delta more money if I fly in F than if I fly in Y, so putting me in F was a revenue-generation event for SQ. Airline House is happy, I’m happy, and the Poyferres are happy, as the Leoville goes nicely with SQ Lamb Chops, but they don’t serve it in coach.

After a very long takeoff roll, this fully laden bird (with just one seat open in the 18-seat F cabin) lumbered into the air bound for Bangkok. The full lunch service was quite good on the short two-hour flight. The first course was tasty but evidently not particularly memorable: it was either duck or prawns, but I can't recall without looking at the menu. The lamb chops served as the main course had a fair amount of meat on ‘em, and all of the accompanying vegetables were done just right. A few glasses of Poyferre (this was an ’01, and not as rich as the ’99 I’d had ex-SFO) cleansed my palate of that horrible Champagne in the brown bottle with the gold shield that had been forced on me pre-departure. Before long, we were descending through some choppy weather toward Suvarnabhumi.

I tried to use my Service Recovery voucher, but the one thing I really wanted was already sold from both KrisShop carts. The extremely pleasant Leading Stewardess took my return flight details and assured me the requested item would be specially loaded for me on my return flight. Around the same time, the In-Flight Supervisor distributed Suvarnabhumi Premium access passes, in my case specially designated as First, inviting us to a new premium-pax Fast Track arrivals zone.

We touched down uneventfully, and I marked the event with a warm smile, delighted as I was to be arriving at Suvarnabhumi instead of U-Tapao, where my last Bangkok arrival had touched down. (TG 795 had taken off from LAX on 11/25 with the seizure of Bangkok’s principal airport just hours old; over the mid-Pacific, the airshow briefly displayed DMK as the destination, before I asked about it and the captain hurriedly changed it back to BKK; after landing at UTP, we made headlines in the Bangkok press thirsty for stories of travel disrupted.) As we taxied toward the gate, I had a look around the field at Thai’s big birds. I didn’t spot the A340-500 that had carried me to U-Tapao on TG 795, HS-TLB, but I was very glad to see so many of the big beauties gliding around Suvarnabhumi’s ample ramp instead of crowded sadly onto U-Tapao’s tiny apron of safe harbor.

I found the Suvarnabhumi Premium channel without too much trouble and walked straight up to an officer’s desk. (Later, I was the first to post (http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/thailand/899369-bkk-suvarnabhumi-premium-new-fast-track-premium-pax-all-airlines.html) about the service on FT.) That gave me a nice long wait at baggage claim. The first bag came up pretty quickly, but the rest came in a long slow trickle. For the first time ever, SQ had not flagged my bags with priority tags upon receiving them from DL, and that explains why it took so long for my six lovelies secreted inside my rollers to appear. I was very glad to see my Briggs bags again: so long we’d been so close yet so far apart. Since they weren’t sopping in red liquid, I felt fairly good that nothing had been shattered in transit. A confident college-sweatshirt-less stride through H.M. Customs, and I was out into the usual throngs that greet Bangkok arrivals. With one of the non-functioning baggage carts first made famous as the obvious result of “favors” in airport-procurement, and more recently made sadly famous as implements of the PAD’s roadblocks surrounding Suvarnabhumi, I trundled up to the Departures Level. Things looked fairly normal at Suvarnabhumi, neither unusually quiet nor unusually busy, though by rights it should have been more crowded with peak-season arrivals.

The driver of the cab at the head of the just-dropped-off line seemed completely unable to look forward and spot me walking his way; instead he peered leftward into the terminal. When he finally did look my way, he got a nod of approval from the increasingly impatient traffic warden and was rewarded with me as his wink-wink back-to-town fare. He felt less rewarded, undoubtedly, when I insisted on using the meter and specified the destination and address in monotone Thai. Evidently confused into thinking the Venice of the East had become the Paris of the East, and he a Parisian cabdriver, we barreled down the expressway at breakneck speed until he finally met his match, however briefly, in the traffic jam at the foot of the exit ramp for Silom Road. A thoroughly illegal lane-jump and right turn later, we were in the usual traffic on Surasak between Silom and Sathorn. A right turn through the second-longest traffic light in Bangkok put us on Saphan Taksin, with our Home on the River, my Favorite Hotel in the World, towering majestically on the right over the River of Kings.

Thanks to everyone for your words of encouragement. There's more to come. Hope the story holds up.

The Peninsula Bangkok
Four nights in late November 2008
Room: 3502 (Grande Deluxe)

Background: the Last Visit

The last time I had left Bangkok, two weeks and a day earlier, it was under trying circumstances. A crisis capped off a year of domestic political developments that had coincided with several of my visits to the Kingdom. In late May, a group calling itself the People’s Alliance for Democracy, or PAD, had organized street protests at the somewhat aspirational Democracy Monument in the royal district of Bangkok. My mother’s husband, then on his first overseas trip, had watched the news carefully and cautioned us to stay away from the protest area. Mr. Megatop and I shrugged it off as an inconsequential disturbance, if that. Over the ensuing three months, the PAD, which could not credibly claim support among the people or for democracy, had kept its street protests alive despite scant interest among the population. The PAD had used similar tactics, writ large, to lay what would become the alleged popular foundation for the September 2006 coup that ousted dictactor-in-democrat’s-clothing Thaksin Shinawatra.

In August, on my “lost day” in flight from Los Angeles non-stop to Singapore, the PAD had occupied the Prime Minister’s office in Government House, thus stepping up the intensity of its campaign against the government accused of being a proxy for Thaksin. I always found that an odd indictment, since the PM’s party, the PPP, campaigned as precisely that and was quite obviously a reformulation of Thaksin’s Thai Rak Thai party disbanded during a visit of mine in May 2007. The PPP did not take its mandate delivered during the December 2007 election that restored democracy in stride. It promptly set about amending the brand new constitution, aiming to insert clauses that some viewed as amnesty for Thaksin, who continued to openly pull strings from self-imposed exile. The PPP’s gambit for Thaksinite amnesty cemented for many the image of Thaksin as corrupt (he was convicted of corruption in summer 2008 and jumped bail while at the Beijing Olympics) and gave the PAD another reason to campaign against the PPP government.

Thais have painful memories of military crackdowns on pro-democracy demonstrators, mostly students, in the 1970s and 1992, so the government exercised caution in dealing with the protesters who occupied its offices that Tuesday in late August. The colorful if foul-mouthed PM, Samak Sunduravej, decamped for temporary offices at the military-civilian airport Don Muang, for eighty-odd years Bangkok’s gateway to the world, and let the protesters occupy his offices. A minor skirmish between protesters and police punctuated the August step-up in the Bangkok protests, but one thing became clear: the protesters were very well funded and the police were failing to use the most basic anti-riot tactics. No perimeter was set up, and reinforcements came and went as easily as food, water, and diapers (the latter a subject of specific pleas to the public by protest leaders). When the Government House occupation failed to bring down the government within a matter of days, PAD allies elsewhere in the country tried a new tactic: they swarmed into international airports in Phuket, Krabi, and Hat Yai, forcing themselves onto formerly secure ramp areas, and sat down underneath jetbridges and around other equipment, refusing to let aircraft move. Most of Bangkok seemed to shrug off the PAD’s brazen attack on the tourism industry, though it might have been regarded as less serious than it was in that it came during the low season in the south and lasted only three days before the protesters quietly walked away. In retrospect, it was a dry run for far more spectacular moves.

I was not in Thailand in October, when the Constitutional Court barred Samak from office after convicting him of violating anti-corruption laws for receiving token compensation for his participation in a television cooking show. (He’s supposed to be a pretty good cook.) With the occupation of Government House continuing unabated, the PPP decided to pour gasoline on the political fire by naming Thaksin’s brother-in-law, Somchai Wongsawat, as its new leader and thus Prime Minister. Meanwhile, a cack-handed police attempt to give the protesters some pushback resulted in two deaths, one probably self-inflicted by a PAD thug transporting a bomb and the other an accident apparently caused by a defective tear-gas canister. Queen Sirikit’s expression of sympathy for the “victims” was interpreted, rightly or wrongly, as royal endorsement for the PAD’s campaign.

The week of American Thanksgiving, the start of the high season in Thailand, the PAD had grown weary of its unsuccessful occupation of Government House and promised a “final battle” against the government. That Tuesday morning, images played round-the-world confirmed the battle metaphor and broke my heart: open violence between pro-government toughs and PAD thugs in the streets of Bangkok, with masked men firing handguns and wielding barbed sticks while victims pulled off motorbikes were left bloody on Vibhavadi-Rangsit Road, the surface artery to Don Muang. Whether the PAD knew those scenes would cost it support or not, the final battle quickly took a far more controlled path. In an instantly infamous move, protesters swarmed into Bangkok’s (more or less) gleaming new international airport, the $4 Billion megaproject considered by some, most notably Thaksin himself, as the jewel of Thaksin’s six-year tenure. (Others view the problems with the airport—a scandal over bomb-scanner payments, ubiquitous cracked floortiles, an extravagant duty-free concession, luggage trolleys that barely work, and so on—as symbols of Thaksinite corruption.)

The details of the occupation of Suvarnabhumi and, starting the next day, Don Muang are well-known, and I will not chronicle them here. My own dramatic arrival on TG 795 at U-Tapao Airport in Rayong Province began what was to be a relaxing weekend in the Kingdom with Mr. Megatop. It was anything but. While things in the city were oddly calm and had most signs of normality, being unsure of whether I could go home when I wanted to left me feeling very much like a hostage. I did not handle the stress gracefully. Though I can think of few better places to be a “hostage” than the Peninsula Bangkok, the stress did leave me in tatters at times.

The staff at the Peninsula did their best to make all seem normal. But the great feelings of uncertainty felt by other guests as much as me cast a pall over what should have been the start of the festive holiday season. The hotel had just been decked out for Christmas, but few guests felt like celebrating. Staff put on a brave face, but they obviously felt much sympathy for their guests and the struggle to get home. In my case, on the very day I arrived I booked a return ticket from Hong Kong to Atlanta, thinking that if the Bangkok airports remained closed, I could try to get as far as Hong Kong from somewhere else: Chiang Mai, Phuket, Penang, whatever. A fine Peninsula concierge, one of the many I’ve come to know over the years, helped me get a flight from Phuket on Hong Kong Express Airways. The Sunday of Thanksgiving Weekend, we packed up and checked out as scheduled after three solid days practically holed up in the hotel. A car and driver Mr. Megatop had hired met us at the main entrance. We were asked for our travel plans and warned of the risks as we departed. We bid farewell to doormen and bellmen we knew well, with one and all expressing sorrow for what had befallen us as we expressed sorrow in return, vowing to be back in two weeks’ time as long as the airports were open. We pulled away, sadder and far more stressed than our usual departures, hoping that the 10-hour drive to Phuket would pass quickly and that that airport too would not be seized while we were en route.

Worry and sorrow filled me in equal parts as we slipped out of Bangkok, taking Route 4 south toward Hua Hin. The capital seemed alive and at relative peace, even if someone had an unworldly thumb on the city's jugular vein. The occasional customary police roadblock heightened my awareness of my surroundings even more, and I drew the curtains so as to conceal the farang in the backseat. That proved entirely unwarranted, as I would later learn.

We stopped just over halfway to Phuket, at an elaborate rest area in a town called Chumphon. The fresh-made Thai food was in abundance and quite good. I saw a few fellow refugees lingering about, and the stir-fry vendor commented to Mr. Megatop that she’d never seen so many farang before. Undoubtedly. Bus after bus plying the Bangkok-Phuket and Bangkok-Satun (the last major town before crossing into Malaysia) routes pulled in, and streams of weary white faces piled out. Most seemed to find a way, as I did, to find goodness in Thais and wonder in Thailand even under these conditions.

Before leaving Bangkok, we made a last minute booking at a resort near the airport, deeming it a waste of time to drive the 40 or so minutes past HKT to reach the resorts of Bang Tao and Pansea Beaches. Stepping up into the open-air reception area of the tin-mine-themed and thoroughly modern Indigo Pearl resort, I eagerly inquired of the staff whether Phuket Airport remained open. One gentleman looked at me as if I had three heads before allowing that, of course it remained open and if I had any reasonable questions, he would be prepared to answer them too. After being shown to our room, we ventured out for a walk. A few minutes into it, on our way to the beach and the Andaman Sea, we heard the sweetest sound we would hear all day: the roar of jet engines.

Security at the perimeter of Phuket International Airport, one of the few ways out of the country, was barely present. Had anyone wanted to cut the country off completely, it would have been little challenge. In the end, I got out, and choked back a sigh of sadness as we lifted off, and I left Mr. Megatop behind on a long journey back to Bangkok and an uncertain fate awaited his country.

The Peninsula Bangkok
Four nights in mid-December 2008
Room: 2902 (Grande Deluxe)

Home Sweet Home on the River

The airports reopened four days later, and I was flying barely a week after that. To the surprise of some and the concern of others, I gave nary a thought to returning. I viewed going back not just as the start of my year-end holiday, but also as a show of support for the country, one I love second only to my own.

The day I arrived, Mr. Megatop had to take a day trip to Surat Thani for work. So I pulled up to the hotel alone, as frazzled by the cab ride as by the 42 hours of constant movement. The door staff all recognized me and extended a warm welcome back. So too did the concierges and the front desk staff. I was quickly shown to Room 2902, precisely the kind of room Mr. Megatop and I prefer: a high floor, non-smoking, in the (king-bedded) -02 stack. Welcome cards and amenities were waiting for us, including the tin of chocolate-chip cookies that we really shouldn’t have but can never resist. More amenities arrived in short order, as did my bags, which were swiftly loaded onto the luggage bench in the closet area.

I quickly unpacked my bags, which included almost enough clothing for three full weeks on the road and my six lovelies secreted in neoprene holders inside shoeboxes. All had survived the journey intact. What a relief. I checked email on my laptop using the Pen’s free in-room wired internet connection, then slinked into bed for a jetlag-induced nap.

BBC news about nothing in particular lulled me to sleep, a welcome change from my bated-breath scanning of Thai-language news coverage of the airport takeovers mixed with BBC correspondents covering the Mumbai tragedy. Three hours later, Mr. Megatop snuck into the room and coaxed—no, dragged—me back to consciousness. At that point, it was time for dinner. As is so often the case, dinner at our home on the river means home cooking, of a sort. Room service delivered our standbys in under 30 minutes, set on a nicely starched tablecloth with a Thai silk table runner, china from the various restaurants as appropriate to our dishes, and of course sterling silverware. Tonight we had Caesar Salad with two very large King Prawns, poh pia tod (fried chicken spring rolls), the most expensive—and delicious—in the Kingdom (according to Mr. Megatop), pad kra pow moo (stir-fried minced pork with holy basil and Thai chilies), and stir-fried chicken with asparagus and XO chili sauce. A splash of Havana Club white rum left over from a previous visit with some Diet Coke made it just like home, if only home were this good. I defied Mr. Megatop by promptly going to bed after eating.

I arose before 4:00 am the next morning. Jetlag might have been to blame, were it not for what I knew was about to happen on the other side of the world: a meeting that would determine the course of my career. I spent the next two hours waiting for a phone call from Atlanta. It came pretty much exactly when I expected it to, and good news indeed was delivered. I spent the rest of the day on cloud nine.

Breakfast at the River Café & Terrace is one of my favorite aspects of staying at the Peninsula. This particular morning, perhaps because of what I had just heard, we were nearly at our table before I realized that the outdoor show kitchens were not operational. The buffet inside was dramatically scaled back, not in terms of selection at all, but in terms of volume. We ordered principal dishes, such as eggs benedict, from a menu, and they were freshly made to order. Those were the most evident consequences of a dramatic fall in occupancy that had also prompted the temporary closure of the Thai restaurant Thiptara, the fusion restaurant Jesters, and The Bar. Service remained top-notch. Without our even asking, our servers bring us fresh mango juice and fresh sliced mangos each morning. It’s the best juice I’ve ever had anywhere, and the tastiest fruit I can recall.

After Mr. Megatop headed off to work, I hit the gym. The staff there were glad to see me, in part because things had been so quiet lately. Someone to look after and wipe up after (they insist, and stop me from trying to wipe down equipment) makes their work more interesting, they say, even if I spend most of my time on the elliptical hamster wheel and take regrettably little advantage of the gratis personal-training services.

That afternoon, I hit the main Jim Thompson store on Suriwongse Road. Two weeks earlier, during the airports crisis, that had been one of the few places I went outside the hotel, and it had been very sad indeed to see the usually bustling shop practically empty at 5:00 on a Friday afternoon. Upon my return, it didn’t look like wedding-dress day at Filene’s Basement, but people were coming back at least. I loaded up on more neckties than I could count—as good as Ferragammo and less than a third of the price—and a few things for relatives and colleagues. These days, nearly every necktie in my closet is a Jim Thompson, and I don’t miss an opportunity to give any of the company's shops a once-over for new designs.

My struggle to find a good steakhouse other than Prime at the Millennium Hilton (great and nearby, but we’ve been a couple of times) or New York at the JW Marriott (far side of town, no view) yielded poor results. Mr. Megatop was late getting home from work, so we stuck with Prime. Suitably suited, we took a cab up Charroennakorn and went upstairs to the restaurant. The Chinese restaurant next door to Prime, we were sad to see, was another victim of the tourism drought. But Prime was operational and modestly busy. I had decent escargots and Mr. Megatop had good but smallish scallops for appetizers, followed by beefsteak tomato with blue cheese—Point Reyes, I believe. He had pork tenderloin and prawns (not strictly on the menu, but a modified version of a sampler platter), while I went for filet with béarnaise and a selection of mustards. All that was set against my loveliest lovely: a 1996 Araujo Eisele Vineyard Cabernet. The wine was nice, especially after it opened up a bit (Prime willingly decants upon request), but it had a bit of a restrained flavor profile, more like a mountain wine than a valley-floor wine, though it comes from the benchland east of Calistoga. Another couple of years in the bottle might have served it well, but I wanted something big to celebrate, and this delivered even if it didn’t thrill. When the bill was returned with my SkyMiles Amex, a 15% discount had been applied for Amex cardholders. Unexpected but unquestioned. After the meal, the fine manager who has looked after us on several visits saw us to the Hilton’s pier and aboard a shuttle boat for the ride downriver to the Peninsula. I have always found the river, bustling and chaotic though it may be, very relaxing. On this occasion, it served that purpose well, almost like an after-dinner walk.

Breakfast the next morning was the same as it had been: show kitchens dark, and a la carte ordering for main dishes. The Fitness Center too was unusually quiet. Hard to tell, but occupancy might have been somewhere in the thirties. During the day, though, more and more arrivals appeared, so things started looking up. I spent this day on some minor shopping: driving a hard 100-baht bargain for tank-tops on Sukhumvit (I use them as my workout shirts), and vastly overpaying for a couple of campy pairs of satin Muay Thai shorts. I wonder if I’ll ever wear them. Dinner that night was at our old standby (barely) outside the hotel: the food stand loosely translated as Little Chinese Boy that sits directly across from the driveway to the Peninsula on Charoennakorn. They were out of whole grouper, so we settled for fillets of snapper in black pepper sauce with peppercorns, preceded by some pan-fried squid with garlic, stir-fried pork with basil and Thai peppers (hot, and without the greenbeens used in some recipes that I dislike so) and chicken stir-fried in red curry paste (fiercely hot, fiercely good). A large bottle of Singha brought our dinner tab to 400 baht all-in ($13).

By Thursday, the Peninsula was getting back to normal. Thiptara would re-open that evening. The show kitchens re-opened that morning, bringing RC&T back to its standard format. The morning crowd was getting larger too, a good sign for staff eager to see guests return. Mr. Megatop took part of the day to go shopping with me. Our first destination was Narai Phand, the “Thai industry shop” sponsored by the government for Thai handicrafts, which had moved into a sprawling space in the back of the Inter-Continental’s President Tower complex. Earlier in the week, I was disappointed to learn that the tea set I had requested in August in a certain design and certain colors of benchawongse (the five-colored hand-painted Thai designs) had been delivered but with many defects, principally chipped enamel. Staff were apologetic and explained the problem too me. They even kept the defective set in the store so I could see it. A new design would come from the factory within days, they had said, and by the time Mr. Megatop and I were there it had arrived. We both liked it very much, and that was that. Sold.

We battled the after-school Bangkok traffic back to Charoen Krung, to the soi that leads to the Oriental. We popped into one of the Lin Family jewelry shops for Mr. Megatop to buy my Christmas present. We fancied a belt buckle we saw, and the impossibly thin sales woman we’ve come to know went with us to OP Place, the nearby high-end (read: high-priced) shopping mall for lovely things Asian, to special-order a couple of crocodile belts to go with the silver buckles.

Dinner that night was more room service, practically the same thing as we’d ordered earlier in the week. This time, we opened a nice-enough-but-not-especially-lovely lovely: Jordan Russian River Chardonnay 2005. RRV is my favorite appellation for chardonnay, and the Jordan delivered even if it didn’t wow.

We packed out bags for the next phase of our trip that night, sorting out what we would need in Singapore only from what had to go to Java and leaving behind what we could. The next morning, breakfast at RC&T was perfectly routinely perfect, the only noteworthy thing being the spectacular weather: sunny but cool, almost chilly, for Bangkok at 20 degrees Celsius (68 degrees F).

My computer and a few other things went in the Peninsula’s vault for our week away, and I left a bag (with one poor lonely lovely tucked inside) with the bellstaff. Checkout went very smoothly, and the doormen and chief concierge bid us a fond farewell, as we assured them we’d be back for New Year’s. Our cabdriver battled the mid-day traffic on Saphan Taksin, then it was up onto the expressway for a run to Suvarnabhumi.

LX 182 BKK-SIN
4:20 pm – 7:45 pm
Equip: A340-300
Reg.: HB-JMM
Seats: 9J, 9K (Business)

Mr. Megatop thought we were taking SQ to Singapore, as we usually do. This time, though, I had booked onto Swiss International Airlines, the reincarnation of Swissair, because the flight timings suited us, the fare for Business Class clocked in at half of SQ prices, and the seats would be long-haul quality. At Suvarnabhumi, the LX checkin desks, staffed by TG agents on contract, were basically empty. Checkin was effortless, and our three bags were priority-tagged to Singapore. We were handed outbound Suvarnabhumi Premium passes for the CIP immigration channel, and these came with coupons for 1000-baht off any King Power duty-free purchase of 5000 baht or more. Most of the outlets at Suvarnabhumi are operated by King Power under a controversial contract from AoT, so after passing through the empty CIP immigration channels located in the middle of the otherwise respectably busy Departure Hall, we headed for the VAT-refund desk and some shopping.

As a Thai resident member of King Power’s (free) frequent-buyer program, Mr. Megatop ordinarily enjoys a 10% discount on King Power purchases. As long as our selections came in between 5000 and 10,000 baht, then, the coupons were worth a few hundred baht to us. And free baht are free baht. I picked up a nice black polo shirt from Dunhill (on sale from a price already well under that available at Gaysorn Plaza) and a new belt. (You can never have enough hats, gloves, and shoes—I mean, belts.) Over at Mont Blanc, we selected for Mr. Megatop a handsome new black wallet that will be matched by a passport cover I’ll buy from SQ using my service-recovery voucher. Hopefully, this wallet will not routinely carry the ream of receipts and other garbage that doomed Mr. Megatop’s last wallet after just six years.

LX departs from Concourse D and invites premium pax to TG’s Royal Silk Lounge. The food and beverage selection was underwhelming, and the massive lounge was somewhat crowded, though we managed to find a seat with a view of SQ’s evening 773 and the empty gate awaiting LX’s bird from Zurich. The inbound aircraft was a bit late arriving, so we knew we didn’t have to rush right to the gate. Ten minutes before STD, with the departures board showing no delay, we hustled for the gate anyway. This required walking clear through the lounge nearly to the junction of the A, B, C, and D concourses, where we passed through an unusually clogged security checkpoint, then a long travellator-less dash all the way back to D4. We arrived right at STD, only to find a gate area full of pax. I told the poor TG-contracted gate agent that they really should post delays on the board when they know they’re having one. Apparently, I said it with too firm a tone, as he just smiled and laughed innocently in the Thai way of avoiding confrontation. I felt somewhat bad about it afterward, for it wasn’t his fault. But there was no one else to tell.

Boarding began about 10 minutes after STD and it went quite smoothly, though LX must have decided to skimp by using only one jetbridge. Everyone was on board pretty quickly, and the door closed long before I thought it would. Because Mr. Megatop and I don’t fly together very often, we decided to set the mood with a pre-departure glass of Champagne. As we rolled out to the eastern runway for a northbound takeoff right behind the SQ bird, I noticed a couple of Zurich-originating pax had switched seats in the 40%-full cabin to get a better view of the wing during takeoff. They moved themselves and their noise back to their proper seats shortly after climb-out.

LX’s AVOD system had little interesting to watch: Batman: The Dark Night and a couple of dozen forgettable selections. I stuck with the Airshow, which had some very cool graphics of the airplane a la Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon or The Matrix, depending on your taste in cinema. Evening meal service was better than some photo trip reports I’d seen on another website made it look. Perhaps things have improved. I had a decent Thai chicken curry with steamed rice, and Mr. Megatop went for the fish. We both gave the white wine from Zurich canton a try, finding it a potable and interesting blend of Sauvignon Blanc and [NEED NAME]. Swiss chocolates rounded off the meal service, and we had time to chat with the very pleasant Zurich-based crew. They were on the first leg of a BKK-SIN-BKK turn done in between Zurich-Bangkok longhauls.

The Captain initially said we’d fly straight into Changi, but later announced that we’d be doing a turn and landing to the northeast. Granted permission by the amiable crew, Mr. Megatop and I gingerly slipped from 9J and 9K into 9A and 9B for the view of Singapore on the approach, and it delivered. After touchdown, the taxi into Terminal 1 went very quickly. Before the crew could do much about it, the unwashed masses from Y were hounding into the serenity of the J cabin, crowding around us and pushing for the exits before we could even grab our totes from the overhead. Singapore must have been about to up and move someplace else, from the urgency of it all.

The C concourse in Terminal 1 was packed, more so than I’ve ever seen any concourse at Changi ever. We popped into some duty free shops on the way to immigration and found them lacking in comparison to those in T2 and T3. By the time we cleared immigration, which seemed to be giving some folks a hard time about their documents, sending quite a number for special interviews, our bags were circling the belt. Landside, we stumbled upon the longest taxi line—by a factor of at least 50 times—I’ve ever seen in Singapore. Over Mr. Megatop’s agitated protests, I insisted on taking the AirTrain to T3. There, we walked straight to the head of the non-existent queue and waited all of 20 seconds for a Mercedes taxi (maybe Singapore had moved after all and allowed Munich to stand in for it tonight). The driver loaded up on S$8.00 in “extras” on the meter (another cab driver later told me this was $3.00 too much), but the quick ride down the verdant East Coast Parkway to the Ritz still came in at barely S$20.

The Ritz-Carlton Millenia Singapore
One night
Room: 3020 (Marina View Deluxe King)

Our taxi pulled up the long circular drive to the Ritz, and we stepped out while the driver opened the trunk (or boot, to the Brits and others). The doormen/bellmen came over and asked whether we would be checking in. With all these bags? No we’re just stopping by on our way to another hotel a half mile down the road. Of course, we’re checking in. A pleasant fellow in a different uniform opened the door for us and extended a warm greeting. He escorted us to the front desk and kept an eye on the proceedings while another nice young man checked us in. Everything went smoothly and we were shown to room 3020, a Marina View Deluxe King. A printed greeting card welcoming us to the hotel was in the room, along with amenities like premium bottle water and a tray of local treats under an archway made of white chocolate reminiscent of certain architectural accents in the hotel’s design. Our bags arrived soon, and we headed downstairs to the concierge.

Two of the main concierges were both at the desk, both young handsome and tall Singaporeans, perhaps of Malay extraction. We approached one and inquired about reservations for dinner that night. Really, we were asking the concierge to confirm available seating, because they had earlier informed us via email through Ritz’s “Request a Service” function on its website that the two restaurants under consideration took a final seating at 10:30. It was now 9:15. My Humble House, a member of the Tung Lok Group of restaurants (Jade at the Fullerton is another member) had availability in a spillover area, but had a private party booked for the main restaurant. Mr. Megatop and I went back and forth over this, but I decided to give My Humble House a try another time, because I find restaurants with large private parties consumed by attending to the affair and less focused on other guests than they would otherwise be, especially if they’re stashing the interlopers in a spillover area. Instead, we went for the restaurant at the New Majestic, a standby that always delivers great food despite service that needs some polish. After quite some difficulty taking the reservation (the person at the New Majestic failed to understand the concierge’s dozen or more attempts to spell my name, whereupon I suggested that he ask for someone who could actually speak English or we would give up and go elsewhere), we thanked the concierge for his determined help and were off.

The cab across town reminded me of something distinctly, if not uniquely, Singaporean. Cabbies who drive manual-transmission cars have an astounding penchant to drive in an extremely high gear most of the time, while the car groans in pain under them. Our Mercedes cab from the airport was an automatic, but this Toyota heaved and hawed as we made for South Bridge Road.

The New Majestic had a wedding reception going on in the lobby. We skirted around them and up to the host desk for the restaurant, where we found none other than the chef himself who had created the fusion concoctions that keep us coming back time and again. We took a table in the back of the small dining room and went over the menu to find the name of the chicken dish we’d loved the last time. We found it (but can’t remember the name now, of course) and had that along with a dish of prawns with chili sauce, and two copies of the irresistible signature appetizer: prawn lightly breaded and flash-fried in a wasabi sauce beside a slice of Peking duck skin atop a slab of foie gras. Yummy.

The bed at the Ritz was particularly comfortable, and the linens so good and soft they’re worth noting. We rose early the next morning for breakfast downstairs in the Greenhouse Restaurant. It’s a massive spread-out buffet with lots of choices, but it rather lacks the quality and finesse of the RC&T at the Peninsula. We’ve never been fully satisfied by the experience in the Greenhouse. Nothing offensive, just not outstanding either. We packed a bag with the intention of leaving it in Singapore while we went on to Java. A porter responded to our call fairly quickly, and he took our matching sets of bags downstairs. While I checked out, Mr. Megatop asked one of the bellman to store that bag (with one of my lovelies inside) for a week. Another standard Singapore cab suffered a few fourth-gear accelerations from stoplights before we slipped onto the ECP bound for Changi.

On the whole, this stay at the RC-Millenia involved nothing remarkable in itself. We had booked with DavidO so had a number of amenities available, none of which we could take advantage of. We didn’t have enough time for a bubble bath. Our flight left so early that we had no use for the guaranteed 4:00 pm checkout. Unfortunately, we were not given an upgrade upon arrival, even though occupancy was quite low (we knew because the fellow who escorted us to our room told Mr. Megatop that occupancy was running around 40% that night, though it had been over 70% the previous night). Since it was a short stay, I didn’t make an issue out of it.

Thanks for an interesting trip report. I'm looking forward to reading the rest. You really do have a 'beautiful Thailand' thing happening, but I guess that's not unusual.

Why did you want to enter Singapore instead of just staying air side?

Thanks for an interesting trip report. I'm looking forward to reading the rest. You really do have a 'beautiful Thailand' thing happening, but I guess that's not unusual.

I know. I'm not ashamed of it either. Even if it's a rose-colored view I get from our home on the river.

Why did you want to enter Singapore instead of just staying air side?

For the passport stamps. I'm a stamp-collector.

Thanks for reading, and for the supportive feedback.

MI 212 SIN-SOC
10:15 am – 11:40 am
Equip: A319
Reg.: 9V-SBA
Seats: 16E, 16F (Economy)

While researching amanjiwo for our Christmas holiday, I also researched which airport we would fly into. The two options were Solo City (SOC) served by SilkAir from Singapore, and Yogyakarta served by Malaysian Airlines and AirAsia (or is it Tiger?) from Kuala Lumpur. Since we have found much more to do in Singapore than KL, stopping in Singapore on either end of the trip to Java was the better option. Though I have no qualms about flying MH, I had flown SilkAir before and felt perfectly comfortable on it. The same might not be said about certain Indonesia carriers, for example. As a bonus, the drive from Solo City to amanjiwo was reportedly the more scenic option, though it takes longer than the ride from Yogyakarta.

SilkAir operates from Terminal 2 at Changi. We found our Economy Class check-in desk at the far end of the large uncrowded check-in hall. We walked straight up to an agent and provided our e-ticket. She asked for the credit card used to purchase the ticket, which I produced. Although we were a few kilos over our checked-baggage allowance, we were not asked to repack or pay supplemental charges. Unfortunately, though billed as the regional arm of Singapore Airlines, MI is not itself a member of Star Alliance, and the only option for crediting mileage is KrisFlyer. We’re both members of KrisFlyer but have only orphan miles there, as we typically credit SQ flying to either TG ROP or DL SkyMiles.

We passed through outbound immigration with ease, then went shopping. I browsed the wine selection in the premium-wine shop in T2, mostly for informational purposes. Next door, at the large booze-and-smokes outlet, I picked up a liter of Havana Club and a selection of Cuban cigars, both forbidden fruit for Americans. We browsed a number of other shops, and while I wrote a quick postcard to family, Mr. Megatop wandered off and disappeared, as he is wont to do in any airport large enough.

He eventually turned up, and we headed for the boarding gate, one commonly used by SilkAir, right in the area of the ramp facing the long bank of windows at the center of T2. Security-screening took place at the gate, and the gate area filled up nearly to its limit before we were called for boarding. As so often in Singapore, no one enforced the calls for boarding, and a bunch of us just pushed for the door.

We had standard Economy Class seats just behind the wing. The pitch was snug. But on a relatively short flight of under two hours, it didn’t matter much. We pushed back and taxied out pretty much on time, then took off to the northeast, soon banking right onto a southeasterly heading as we climbed through the clouds. A light lunch was served. It seemed a touch smaller than SQ’s regional economy service but was still tasty enough and you could have complimentary wine or beer if you wanted. Try that on domestic flights in the US of similar duration.

The airshow played intermittently with some entertainment program or other on the little screens that dropped down from the overhead compartment every few rows. It wasn’t playing on our descent, but that we were making big swooping turns as we slipped through the thick-and-thin cloud cover was unmistakable. The Indonesian mother of two in the seat next to us reached for the airsick bag, and I could understand why. It was a stomach-churning descent made all the more wobbly by mild wind shear. The Airbus rode waves of air down toward the ground, yawing dramatically on the way. Finally, we touched down and braked for a textbook landing.

We turned away from the medium-sized terminal on one side of the airfield, where a Garuda Indonesia A330 (I think) was parked. Instead, we pulled up to a parking stand on the opposite side of the field, and ground crew swarmed around. The front and rear doors opened at essentially the same time. From the middle of the aircraft, we were among the last down the stairs. We walked across the tarmac until the crowd in front of us stopped short near the building’s threshold and stood there. “Why isn’t anyone moving?” I wondered. Mr. Megatop and I chose the line on the right, which backed up out of the building but at least had some cover overhead. We stood there for quite a while before we’d made enough progress to ascertain that a couple of Immigration desks were there, eight feet or so inside the building. This was the line for immigration. While in line, we saw cartloads of bags pull up next to us and go through a large x-ray machine before disappearing into the building. So much for my hope that this small airport wouldn’t x-ray bags looking for bottles like they do at Denpasar (Bali).

During the flight, the FA’s made a quick pass through the cabin waving immigration forms. I flagged one down and managed to get a form, as well as a customs form. Mr. Megatop wasn’t offered one. So he had to flag down another FA and request the forms. He was given on an Immigration form. I completed all three forms for us, ever mindful of the import restrictions on alcohol and the experience (http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/9890569-post20.html) I’d had at DPS earlier this year, when my bag with two bottles of wine secreted inside came up on the belt with a big chalk “2” marked on the sides. Again this time, I had two lovelies in one of my bags. Unlike in Bali, I decided to stash the duty-free rum into my tote bag, not wave it to the grateful Customs officer determined to enforce Indonesian tax policy.

I eventually got through Immigration, by which time the crowds had simply moved from one side of those desks to the other. There, we discovered that the entire arrivals hall, including Immigration, baggage claim, and customs was contained in this tiny room of little more than 15 feet by 20 feet. The x-ray that our bags passed through ended with a short linear belt in continuous motion, at the end of which young men took incoming bags off the belt (for they had no where else to go) and lined them up on the floor of the arrivals hall. I found Mr. Megatop’s bag first, while he was still stuck at the Immigration desk. Then I found my own, marked with a great white “X” in chalk on the front and another on top for good measure. I did not have to “tip” the baggage boys to get my bags or to get them more swiftly, as I’d read somewhere that I might have to. If we’d been first off the plane and through immigration before everyone else, that might have been necessary and worthwhile.

I had filled out my Customs form by indicating no prohibited or dutiable articles. Knowing I had the duty-free limit of one liter (the Havana Club) in my tote, I quickly decided to switch bags with Mr. Megatop and have him take mine with my lovelies through. This was high-risk, because he might not know how to deal with a “request” to pay a “tax.” I fell in behind him, thinking I would assist if necessary. As he put his tote over the handle of my bag, concealing one “X,” I told him that I had switched our bags. He didn’t understand why, put I pointed him to the “Customs” checkpoint, which was little more than a couple of desks and three or so people blocking the way. In the confusion, he said to me, “I need a Customs form.” “#>~% the form. Go on through,” I said, knowing that having no declaration was better than a false one. (Two bottles of wine equals 1.5 liters of alcoholic beverages by volume, above the allowed limit.) Mr. Megatop was irritated that his foul-mouthed b/f had cursed at him, so just grabbed his back and forced his way through the crowd, right past the Customs checkpoint. I followed him, but was stopped and required to present my Customs form. I did so and, with my X-less bag, was waved through.

There, just a few feet past the checkpoint he’d slipped through, with a giant white X emblazoned on his luggage, Mr. Megatop turned to me and said, “I need to go to the loo.” “No way. Go outside. Now.” More irritation ensued, but he went. Down a tiny ramp we rolled, right into a crowd of greeters who didn’t think passengers would need anyplace to walk, much less move with bags. An amanjiwo representative spotted us and called us aside, confirming Mr. Megatop’s suspicion about where we’d be staying in Java. I was determined to get the bags into a car and that big white X covered up before anyone came chasing after us to collect a “tax.” While Mr. Megatop went back into the arrivals hall to use the loo, I made sure the bags were piled into the Toyota Kijang SUV and took a cold towel from the driver. Mr. Megatop returned, and I ducked into an ATM to get some rupiah. Then we were in the car and on the way, my two lovelies in the X-marked bag now safely bound for their intended destination. Mr. Megatop didn’t realize what he’d managed to accomplish. “I didn’t care what anyone was doing. I just went gliding in my linen.”

amanjiwo
Seven nights
Room: 5 (Borobudur Suite)

Day One
The first hints of aman service came on the transfer drive to the resort. We settled in for the two-hour ride and each took a bottle of water provided by the driver. We declined coffee or tea. We perused the resort guide in the seatbacks as we started to figure out how we would spend a week in a place with only one tourist site of international fame. We made it out of the towns nearby Solo in about 40 minutes, then took to the mountain roads. At a particularly good spot for viewing Mount Merapi, we took the diver’s offer of a brief stop for photos. The active volcano was shrouded in cloud cover, but its lush slopes could be easily seen and provided a good photo background. As we turned back to the car, the driver tried again to entice us. We passed on coffee but his snacks were irresistible: fresh muffins, brownies, and cookies, all rich and delicious. Back on the road, I had my first Bintang of the visit. Mr. Megatop thought it bitter, but I liked it well enough and it went with the dry snacks on the seat—some sort of crisps with nuts and other flavorings.

At the photo stop, we realized that my film camera didn’t have a battery. The driver stopped in the village just outside Borobudur and found the right kind of battery in the second shop. Then it was the 15-minute ride up the narrow, nearly one-lane, road to amanjiwo. We were practically on top of the resort before we saw it, off to the left. Though you can’t easily tell from google earth images, amanjiwo is nestled into a nape of land at the foot of some very steep hillsides that tower over the resort and the nearby villages. The monolithic main building sits on nearly the highest part of the land, with only the tennis courts and small outbuildings between the main building and the hills, while the two arcs of villas sit on slightly lower land that flows downhill into ricefields and villages beneath the green canopy of trees.

We pulled into the resort from uphill, as the porte cochere sits on the upland side of the monolith. A welcoming party of staff in flowy ivory-khaki uniforms greeted us and welcomed us to amanjiwo. We were led upstairs into the center of the main building, a brilliant architectural sequence of entry that draws you into peace and luxury. At the top of the stairs, local village girls beautifully attired showered us with flower petals. Then we sat for a cool drink and introduction to the resort. While someone took our passports and tended to the checkin formalities, the General Manager came over to greet us. He briefed us on some activities we might want to consider, from hiking to cycling to a special dinner in a local villager’s home that amanjiwo had recently introduced. After an unhurried and genuinely warm greeting, he entrusted us to a local staff member to show us to our villa suite. From the central room under the rotunda of the monolith, we walked down a small flight of stairs into the open-air colonnaded main restaurant, with its spectacular view over the roofs of the resort to the field below. Down another flight of stairs to the terrace outside the restaurant, and another flight downhill to the manicured garden separating the arc of villas from the main building. This central walkway follows an axis that starts way back at the driveway, runs into the porte cochere, through the main building, and downhill into the garden that front the villas, creating a beautiful line of sight clear to Borobudur in the distance, its black structure poking above the green landscape and its black stupa piercing the blue sky.

We were shown to Suite 5, basically a freestanding villa. An open-air walkway leads into the “compound” of the villa, the courtyard that surrounds the structure itself. At the front of the villa, facing outward (a view over the other villa rooftops toward the rice fields and, in the distance, Borobudur) was a very spacious courtyard with two chaise lounges and a huge daybed beneath a thatch-roofed bale. Greenery and flowering plants are everywhere on the edges of the courtyard. (Pool suites have a plunge pool in the middle of the courtyard.) Three sliding doors, the central one a double door set, front on the courtyard from the villa. We entered through the main door, on the side with the private walkway from the public areas.

Our host briefly showed us the features of the room. Inside the main door, to the left, was a very large desk flush up against the wall. The desk had a cordless phone and several leather folios containing guest information, guides to resort services. The king bed dominates the room in the center of it, sitting atop a marble pedestal and framed by towering sandstone (I think) pillars, with a rotunda-like cutaway in the ceiling. A medium-sized circular wooden table sits at the end of the bed just inside the double doors facing the courtyard, with two chairs alongside. The stone base of the table is bell-shaped, reminiscent of the stupas on Borobudur. On the opposite side of the room was a large settee and a wooden tower of sorts containing a CD player atop a concealed minibar fridge, atop a drawer with glassware and snacks, atop another drawer with a deep personal safe. There is no television, our host pointed out. The back of the bed, where a headboard would ordinarily be, is a shelf-like wooden installation with notepaper, books, and adjustable reading lights on the top. Behind that installation is a “wall” created by four massive sliding wooden panels in a diamond-shaped weave, if you will. Pushed to the center, the panels rest one in front of the other. Pulled out, they create a barrier between the bed area and the “back” of the room, which has matching closet areas and vanities on each side, and a T-shaped pathway, the lower part separating a WC on one side from a shower stall on the other and leading to sliding doors that open onto an outdoor sunken bathtub, surrounding by lush flowering vegetation.

Our luggage was already waiting for us on the luggage benches in the closet area. Welcome notes were waiting for us on the desk. When our host departed, Mr. Megatop let go: he couldn’t believe how beautiful it was. The whole room, in mild hues of flaxen, sandstone, and wheat-colored woods, somehow oozed relaxation. So did the serene courtyard outside, which no other villas could see into and from which you could see into the courtyards of other villas only with great effort. We went out for a brief stroll around the rest of the resort, but we liked our room so much that we just spent the rest of the day there, lying on the daybed outdoors. I had my first cigar of the trip and we had a cocktail while reading the day’s newspapers. Around 4:00 that afternoon, the first evening call to prayers went out over the landscape. Beautiful voices filled the countryside with lyrical calls bordering on the operatic. Very nearby the resort, a young caller in a fresh but solid tone added his voice to the chorus, “Allahu Akbar... Allahu Akbar...” Lovely, loving calls in a language we did not understand added a sense of exoticism and almost romance, calming the soul and enhancing the sense of peace in this place.

We had taken a brief look at the menu in the main restaurant, but after confirming that anything in the restaurant could be served as in-room dining, I resolved to do just that. We ordered Malak Malan, the Javanese dinner, and it was served to us on the daybed under the bale. The meal comprised five or six dishes presented separately but served on different parts of the same plate, arranged around a portion of steamed rice in the middle. Tonight, the dishes included a vegetable, a beef, a chicken, a fish, and so on, each mildly spicy and not smoky/earthy like in Bali but definitely fresh and flavorful.

The meal counted as one of our daily cultural experiences. We had booked a Borobudur Suite (meaning it had a view of the monument) on the Cultural Trails package. Initially, I had made a four-night booking through the amanresorts website, which describes the package as a three-night deal with possible extension nights and three cultural activities included. Months later, I decided to extend the stay to seven nights, so I inquired about getting an additional three activities included on the package, since that’s what I could get by making a second, separate booking. The response was prompt and welcome: we would be entitled to one activity for each night of our stay, for a total of seven. The activities could be enjoyed in a single hectic day or spread out over the stay. The in-room guide to the Cultural Trails experience assured that the “most valuable” experiences would be deemed the included ones, with charges applied for any other activities beyond the seven. This indeed happened, no problem. The list of possible experiences had changed somewhat from that provided months earlier (I emailed the resort and requested the list when I changed the booking), but the only noteworthy change was the removal of massages from the list.

While we dined, the room attendants came in and prepared the room for night, performing the usual turndown service and refreshing the linens. When we went inside to call in-room dining to remove the dinner service, we discovered our first arrangement of fresh flowers: a massive fountain of fresh jasmine practically spraying out of a low bowl. It was so richly aromatic, that we just had to put it on the little shelf over the bed, so the scent would be near as we fell asleep and present again in the morning when we rose. We also had a little woven basket with two coconut and tapioca Javanese treats. We took the treats outside and rested on the daybed for a little while before turning in.

Day Two
In addition to having no televisions, amanjiwo has no clocks. So when we rose, only the amount of sunlight gave us a clue as to the time. We opened the privacy-creating wooden sliding panels inside the doors to the courtyard, revealing a partially sunlit courtyard. Since the sun was up, albeit hidden behind some thick clouds rolling over the hills like fog, I guessed it was around 6:30. We dressed for breakfast in sort of resort clothes—linen and sandals and such—and headed up to the main building. We took a table at the end of the restaurant looking out over the verdant landscape with Borobudur in the distance. Mr. Megatop soon decided he’d rather dine outside, so we asked to change to a table out on the terrace in front of the restaurant. It was very pleasant out there, but when the clouds parted and the sun beat down, it was HOT.

Breakfast, also included in the Cultural Trails package (as was the airport transfer), was very very good. Both of us went with Western dishes. We started with juice (melon was out of season so I went with watermelon), then a large portion of fresh-made muesli. I had some very light and fluffy Meyer-lemon flavored pancakes with vanilla butter; Mr. Megatop had French toast with gruyere cheese and a slice of ham; the toast was thick and bready and savory, not eggy or buttery or soggy like some French toast can be; still, Mr. Megatop felt compelled to steal some of my syrup to sweeten up his dish. The Javanese coffee was served in a French press and it was good, but it wasn’t as rich as Balinese coffee (which I wish were available commercially).

We went back to the room to rest for a while. I called the guest relations like to make arrangements for a bike ride later that day. I asked to speak to the young man we’d been introduced to upon checkin, not so much as a personal butler but as someone specially charged with looking after us. Turns out, he wouldn’t be in that day until 3:00 pm. That struck me a little funny—everyone’s entitled to go home, but this fellow was introduced as being responsible for us, and he wouldn’t be in for eight hours?—but the bike ride was arranged without difficulty for later that morning. After hanging up, I went over to the table near the bale, where I had left the little covered basket with the treats overnight. I took the lid off to look at the one treat we hadn’t eaten the previous night, then I screamed and nearly jumped out of my skin. A lizard a good nine inches long had taken up residence in the basket overnight and gorged on the treat. I scared him as much as he scared me, so he went scrambling out of the basket and across the daybed. He couldn’t manage to climb the stone walls that rim the daybed. He kept falling down. Mr. Megatop pulled the cushions of the daybed to find the lizard, who just kept trying to hide. Eventually, he found the front of the daybed area and scampered out onto the floor of the courtyard. Looking for a place to hide, he kept trying and failing to climb the little wall into the planter. Eventually, he found a way to climb into the plants and take cover. Jesus.

At 10:30, we went to the main entrance for the start of our bike ride through the neighboring villages. A hotel staff member who lives in one of the closest villages would be our guide. There were two mountain bikes waiting for us, nothing that would impress a fanatic cyclist but very well suited to complete amateurs like us. Our guide carried a backpack with water and wrapped cold towels; he even took our cameras for us. He led us out of the resort and onto the local roads, starting with a nice downhill run before turning left off the main road (a lane and a half with pavement is what earned it the “main” descriptor) into a village. Lots of locals were on their porches or in the doorways of their homes. Many greeted our guide by name, and almost all waved to us and called out “Hello!” We turned off the rough-hewn village roads onto earthen dikes between terraced farm fields growing rice, peppers, eggplants, tomatoes, and other produce. The ride along the dikes was scary, for a wrong turn of the handlebars or a slide into a rut could cost us our balance and send us tumbling into the muddy fields. Our guide led the way and gave us room to maneuver, but with Mr. Megatop and me going at different paces, it was tough. Before long, we got back onto roads and headed further downhill towards Borobudur. We did not enter the park but rather went around it into the fresh market nearby. After a short water break, we ventured out onto serious main roads and pedaled off toward a couple of nearby temple, busses, trucks, motos, and all manner of other vehicles whizzing by.

Mendut temple, which we passed on the ride in from the airport, is a massive black hulk and houses a huge seated Buddha carved from a single piece of stone. It was built more or less around the time Borobudur was, ca. 800 A.D. Like Borobudur, it was lost to the jungle for centuries, then “discovered” and restored to what archaeologists surmise was its original glory. Another temple we bicycled to on the way back was much smaller but still worth a stop. We cycled back to the little shopping square near the entrance to Borobudur park and grabbed some snacky things from a little store. Then it was back through lots of villages and up up up the hillside, climbing back toward amanjiwo. Here again, just about every villager waved and said hello to the foreigners passing their homes, showing once again the warmth and welcoming nature of the Central Javanese, an impression exceeded only by the youthfulness of the population: little kids were everywhere. We encountered three mischievous boys kicking a soccer ball in front of their home on the main road up the hill to amanjiwo. After confirming with our guide that it was okay to take their picture, we asked them to come toward us so we could snap a photo. The playful boys stood still just long enough for an adorable photo, then ran off again to kick the soccer ball around.

We had a light lunch on the daybed, a salad and a vegetarian pizza, then spent several hours just sitting in the daybed, reading the newspapers delivered that afternoon. After evening cocktails, we just didn’t feel like leaving the room. So we ordered room service again, this time Western dishes. I had a tasty filet of beef, and Mr. Megatop had fish of some sort. We opened one of my lovelies: a 2006 Turley Rattlesnake Ridge Howell Mountain Zinfandel. A bit young, but positively delightful, as practically every Turley is. The flavors of this particular wine will concentrate and become richer still over the next five years or more. If my remaining bottles last that long on my rack.

Once again, the room attendants did the evening service while we had dinner outside in the daybed. They delivered no new flowers, but the fountain of jasmine from the previous night was still fresh and fragrant. I had applied sunblock to my face, nose, and ears before the bike ride, but I neglected to cover my arms, hands, and knees. That night, those bits of skin exposed to the sun during our ride were tingling and turning to scalding. Mr. Megatop, always watchful of my health, called guest services to ask for some sunburn lotion, something with aloe. A short while later, a room attendant appeared with stalks of fresh aloe. Mr. Megatop sliced it open with a knife and applied the cooling natural gel directly to my arms. Ah, so nice, so cool. Anyway, by the time we called it a night, we had probably spent a solid eight hours in the room, not doing much of anything at all.

Day Three
Having no clocks around is liberating. With our watches in the room safe, it was altogether too much effort to fish them out and see what time it was when I awoke. Instead, I slid open the wooden inner door for a peak outside. The half-light of a cloudy morning covered the valley. Back to sleep or not? Does it make much difference? Well, I’m not really tired, so it would be an effort to get back to sleep, and what’s the point of that? I padded around the room a bit while Mr. Megatop stirred slowly. Now fully awake, and wanting another taste of the delicious breakfast, I threw open all the wooden sliders to great whines. I’m not really clear on what happened in the following hour, or why it all took so long, but eventually we were ready for breakfast.

This morning, I opted for a breakfast basket of rich blueberry muffins followed by the eggs Benedict, which were served with a small serving of mild ham and a very light but not watery hollandaise sauce. Mr. Megatop had big slices of raisin toast, followed by fried eggs with the usual accompaniments, except bacon. Both of us opted for the “Healthy Juice,” which was some sort of concoction of sweet fruit juice and fibrous fruit flesh—interesting, but not enough to make me go back for more. The General Manager visited with us over breakfast, and I gave him my outline of activities we’d like to do over the rest of our stay. He gave us some feedback, and we moved some things around. He gave the list to an assistant, and later that day a full itinerary was delivered to our suite. We would move things around again later, and that was no problem. The sunburn on my arms, the G.M. noticed, might be a problem.

We went back to the room after breakfast and settled into the daybed to finish reading the weekend’s newspapers. At 10:30, a spa attendant came to our villa to escort us to the spa villa. The spa villa is a standard garden-view villa situated at the far end of the outer arc of villas. The normal furnishings have been removed, and a massage table placed where the bed ordinarily goes, with nice big swaths of white fabric draped from the ceiling to the pillars, making a nice canopy effect. A second massage table was on the far side of the room, where the lounge bed is in our room. We were given disposable underwear and a sarong that I had no earthly idea how to properly tie. The treatment we requested is called Mandi Susu with cream bath, and it’s described as a masculine version of the massage and beauty treatment supposedly given to princesses before their weddings. The massage was very nice, sort of like what is called aromatherapy in Thailand. Following the massage, the therapists gave us a white-sand rub all over, kind of an exfoliating treatment. They hesitated to apply it to my sunburned skin, but I toughed it out. Next, the therapists drew a bath for us in the outdoor tub, filling it with rosebuds, rose petals, and frangiapani buds. We settled into the bath together, and our therapists washed the white sand off us. Then, with us facing each other with our heads resting on towels on the ledge of the tub, came the cream bath, which entailed a head-massaging sort of shampoo of fresh avocado cream. I was expected more of a cream rub all over the body, but the avocado bath might have been my favorite aspect of the day’s treatment, which lasted a total of three hours. When it was over, we were offered tea and Italian-style cookies. The attendants made sure to apply a special after-sun lotion to my arms and hands.

In preparation for an afternoon trek into the Menoreh Hills towering over the resort, the staff asked whether we had good shoes for hiking. We didn’t. A selection of athletic shoes fairly suitable for a spirited trek were brought to the room. The first group weren’t big enough for me, so the staff brought the biggest they had, and they fit more or less well enough. At the appointed hour, we went back to the main entrance and were introduced to our guide, another young man from a different village, his located in the hills just above the resort. These were his hills, this his land. Off into it we went with walking sticks, first climbing up through terraced rice and vegetable fields just above the resort. Our guide pointed out lots of plants that looked like perfectly ordinary wild growth but were actually edible herbs, roots, and vegetables. Peppers, ginger, turmeric, cloves, stinky beans, coffee, and many more than I can recall. About a quarter of the way up, the walking sticks having supplied critical balance on slippery, nearly muddy, paths, we emerged onto a one-lane very uneven road, passing a number of villagers who tended the land or harvested its produce. At this point, we donned the nice rain ponchos carried by our guide and moved upward through the thicker and thinner mist and gathering clouds Near the top of the hills, we came upon a clutch of houses and covered stalls home to goats, sheep, and the odd cow, nevermind the dozen-odd chickens and roosters scurrying about. We took the opportunity to feed some leaves to and pet the hungry livestock, mindful of that box on the US Customs form. We pressed upward over a muddy-firm, though not sloppy, path to a promontory with a commanding view over the valley and amanjiwo some 400 vertical meters below. There we stopped for some photos and water, and our guide showed us the bale amanjiwo has installed where it serves special picnic meals and cocktails in dryer months. The rain-slickened pathway back down the Menoreh Hills was harder going than the way up, though we all made it without a single fall, nary a slip.

The invigorating trek was also exhausting, so we took some down time in the room before preparing for dinner. That evening, amanjiwo hosted a Dutch-born Bali-based painter of watercolors named Christiaan, whose realist work depicting amanjiwo and surrounding sites was on display in the Art Room, where the General Manager hosted a reception. After meeting the artist and enjoying the showing, we had dinner in the restaurant. Mr. Megatop when for a Western appetizer and Western entrée, while I had the set-menu Indonesian dinner, which was similar to the one we’d had the first night in the room. By the time we got back to the villa, room attendants had appeared and done the turndown service, leaving behind pearl-like strands of jasmine buds hanging at the main door and draped over the “headboard” cabinet. The clean soothing smell of fresh jasmine was very relaxing indeed.

Day Four
This morning, we arranged for a wake-up call at 6:30 a.m., for we had a very special “appointment” this morning. Ten minutes or so after we awoke, attendants came calling in the courtyard with breakfast, which we’d ordered the night before. I went with the breakfast bakery basket again (the muffins are just that good, while the raisin toast is hearty and too sweet), followed by a Western main of some sort. Mr. Megatop went for nasi goreng kabul, the famous Indonesia fried-rice dish with chicken. Topped off with fresh cracked pepper and chunky sea salt, you just can’t get enough nasi goreng. At least, that’s what we discovered that day.

We met our tour guide at the main entrance, a different fellow from the cyclist and the trekker, our guide was specially dispatched to provide the “Borobudur Intellectual Tour,” one of our Cultural Trails activities. We rode downhill in a Toyota Kijang, with water and beer stashed in a cooler in the back. We slipped into the VIP entrance to the archaeological park and around the southern side of the monument, then pulled up to the elephant pen, where we find quite a few pachyderms eagerly eating everything in sight. A few minutes after we arrived, the mahouts (if that is the proper term in Indonesia), unchained a couple of Sumatran elephants and saddled them with riding baskets. The beasts were very well behaved and obviously knew the routine well. Mr. Megatop and I rode separate elephants. His was a fine lady over 60 years old, we were told, and mine was a hungry boy of 15. They lumbered along grass beside a level roadway toward a museum of some sort crowded with schoolchildren. Just as I was getting used to sitting in the basket with my lower legs gripped crouch-like to stay in the seat, the elephants started climbing Dagi Hill, a small bump of land to the west of Borobudur. The top of the hill afforded an impressive view of Borobudur, and the mahouts paused long enough to snap off quite a few photos, both of the monument in the distance and of each other, well, riding atop bloody great elephants. After cresting the hill, our rides went down the backside, their tusks grabbing positively everything in sight. As we approached the museum/gallery, scores of school kids in uniform came rushing over to take cameraphone pics of the elephants and the crazy foreigners riding on them.

Back at the elephant coral, we dismounted and gave our ride a solid pat of thanks on the trunk. It was fun, definitely an experience worth doing. At the Kijang, we were grateful to enjoy a couple of bottles of water and applied some more sunblock to my arms. Then we set off, amanjiwo umbrellas in hand for use as parasols, for Borobudur. From the field on the southwest, which provided a great first view of the hulking low-slung black monument, we began our tour. Our guide explained the history of its “rediscovery” by Sir Stamford Raffles and the efforts to restore it over the decades, starting with the Dutch colonialists and “ending” (not really ending at all) in 1982, an accomplishment Indonesia “leader” Suharto was pleased to take some credit for (a pedestal marking the achievement emblazoned with Suharto’s name sits in that field).

Our guide took us on the intellectual tour in the same way that students of Buddhism would have experienced Borobudur during the height of its use, some time in the ninth or tenth century. We began on the east side and walked clockwise around the terraces, if you will, between two rows of reliefs, the inner one depicting Buddha’s life from conception to priesthood, the outer depicting images of his previous incarnations. Our guide stopped at many of the reliefs to explain the deeply symbolic imagery, including the religious tenets it is supposed to convey, or point out particularly beautiful carvings or parts of the monument lost to the ages. We circumambulated the entire first level (not counting the one now concealed within a reinforcing expanded pedestal outer façade that experts believe was added after the initial construction), then ascended to the second and repeated the process up to the fourth level. Just as he did not rush our enjoyment of the individual reliefs, our guide left us as we reached the upper levels to allow us to experience them and the view from the top at our own pace. Three concentric imperfect circles of bell-shaped stupas made of bricks spaced to leave square- and diamond- shaped perforations enclosing Buddhas in seated positions formed the next three levels, symbolizing the achievement of enlightenment on the sun-drenched upper terraces of the monument.

Throughout that long morning, many locals and Indonesians from farther afield, particularly the throngs of schoolchildren visiting on field trips, made a point of greeting us and taking photographs. The more daring asked us to pose with them for a snapshot, which soon yielded a photo opportunity for their less-daring friends who swarmed around us. It was heartwarming to feel so welcomed, not put upon or gawked at like alien specimens but greeted more like honored guests our hosts don’t see quite enough of. Atop the monument, though, the crowds left disappointing images in our minds, as they will for other visitors. Relatively few Indonesians made the educational trek around the lower levels of the monument. Most headed straight for the top. One local who did stop on a lower level posed for a photograph by standing behind a Buddha statue, putting his head where the statue’s missing head went. Mr. Megatop commented negatively on the disrespect shown, and our guide spoke to the fellow in Indonesian. On the upper levels, a great many if not most of the visitors, young and grown alike, climbed or sat on the stupas, or reached into the “perforations” to touch the Buddha images. Our guide said that announcements blaring over the loudspeakers in the field surrounding the monument told visitors not to do inappropriate things, but they went largely unheeded.

It was well after noon by the time we made it back to amanjiwo. Having risen early, we decided to spend the afternoon in the daybed, reading a day or two of newspapers and making progress on the lone book on my Sony Reader. By mid-afternoon, sleep seemed to be in order, and it came easily in the daybed, beneath the shade of the thatch-roofed bale. I woke up after a couple of hours to find a torrential downpour coming down all around us. It barely stirred me. I saw that no water was coming inside the daybed, and I decided to roll over and go back to sleep. By the time I woke up a good while later, the storm had passed and the sun was peeking through the thick clouds as the puddles of water seemed to boil of the landscape and drift away in steam.

Wanting a real local experience, we had asked for an introduction to a local “warung,” a streetfront casual restaurant. Our guide who took us trekking served as our driver for the night, taking us to a pre-selected warung known for fried rice and stir-fried dishes, a short way beyond Borobudur village. To our surprise, our guide had brought our basic beverages from the hotel in a cooler—water and Bintang beer—though we were offered drinks from the warung too. Dinner comprised tasty nasi goreng and a few other dishes, served on tableware brought from amanjiwo. So it was not an entirely local experience, even if geckoes were climbing the walls and the bill came to just over 100,000 rupiah (less than $10).

Arriving back to the room, we were not surprised to find that evening turndown service had been done in our absence. The big treat, though, was the 5-inch-wide seven-foot-long woven runner of jasmine blossoms draped across the foot of the bed. Delicate and beautiful in its complexity, we couldn’t leave it where it had been placed to felt compelled to save it for as long as the blossoms would hold their color and scent.

Day Five (Christmas Eve)
This morning we dined in the restaurant in the main building. I had to have those light-as-air pancakes again. Mr. Megatop gave the corn cakes with avocado a chance, and he was well rewarded: the breading in the cakes was barely noticeable between the sunshine-yellow kernels of corn, and that was barely visible beneath the huge pile of rich, ripe diced avocado.

The same guide to gave us the intellectual tour of Borobudur served as our tour guide and driver today, for a pass through Yogyakarta. The drive from amanjiwo to central Yogyakarta took well over an hour through sometimes thick traffic. Before proceeding to the Sultan’s palace, we stopped off on the main shopping street to look for some film (I shoot on film, Mr. Megatop uses digital). Film we couldn’t find, not even in the stores that had big signs for film brands outside. We ducked into a couple of stores selling batik-patterned clothes but had trouble finding sizes that fit in the first one. We had better luck in the second store, picking up some flowy soft cotton pants in essentially geometric patterns for all of 38,000 rupiah (about $3.50). Not the stuff you might wear out on the street in Atlanta, save for special occasions, but perfectly acceptable for around the house. We also grabbed a muumuu for Mr. Megatop’s mom as a housecoat. It wasn’t easy to find some shorts that fit, but eventually I did in a pattern I liked well enough. The massive square in front of the Sultan’s palace had a big open market, but we couldn’t find any kids clothes we liked enough for a niece and nephew back home, and the vendors right at the entrance to the palace just wouldn’t get reasonable with their prices. Sixty-thousand rupiah for a two-piece outfit for a three-year-old!?!?! That’s like, what, almost six bucks!

At the Sultan’s Palace, we had to hire a local guide to show us around. She gave a good tour in fluent English, explaining the significance of this pavilion or that and the images we saw in the many photos hanging in galleries, china in cabinets, and royal batik in display cases. We left with the distinct impression that the Ninth Sultan of Yogyakarta was revered, at least in his heir’s palace, nearly as much as the Thai king. Beyond that, the palace really didn’t hold one’s interest. For most tourists, I’d consider it skippable.

After the temple, we stopped on a street supposedly home to scores of batik factories and galleries selling high-quality wares. At the first, we were shown into the back to witness the process of making batik in person before being shown into the store. Though we found a few patterns and pieces we liked, we thought the prices over the top even after discounts were offered. The next couple of galleries were tried had little to catch our eyes. Giving one more a try, after much picking and pawing, we reluctantly decided to pick up a couple of kids’ outfits. We concluded, to our disappointment, that this street was skippable too.

We made our way through traffic to the eastern outskirts of Yogyakarta, not far from the airport. Here we found another archaeological park, home to Prambanan Temple, a Hindu complex of high towers surrounding darkened central rooms hosting images of key mythological images, such as the garuda, ganesh, and others. This temple, too, had been rediscovered and rebuilt by the Indonesian government with extensive support from donor countries and groups. Much of the complex remains in ruins, and some key structures damaged in the Yogyakarta earthquake a few years ago remain under scaffolding. Our guide showed us around these temples too, explaining the symbolism of the imagery. And, of course, we find more crowds of adorable young people who wanted pictures with the foreign visitors.

Back at amanjiwo, we entered the main building from the porte cochere to find the central rotunda decked out for Christmas Eve and the tables of the main restaurant set for special holiday dinners, from a special set menu. Though it looked like it would be most enjoyable, Mr. Megatop and I took the peace-and-quiet option and went for in-room dining from the standard menu. The celebratory mood followed what I understand is the Australian tradition of having the most special festivities on Chirstmas Eve, rather than Christmas Day, when many (but certainly not all) Americans observe the holiday and have the special Christmas feast. With everyone else in a holiday mood, we decided to take the Aussie G.M.’s lead and have our special dinner tonight. That mean another of our lovelies came out, this one a 2006 Turley Moore’s Earthquake Vineyard zinfandel. Like its cousin, the Rattlesnake, this Turley showed great body and style with an unusually delicate texture for such a big wine, even if it would have benefitted from another few years in the bottle, which I think will allow the flavors to concentrate and develop greater complexity.

Tonight’s turndown service came with sprigs of evergreen and red candles, rather than white ones. The night’s treat was a Western-style winter fruit pastry, served with a pair of glasses of port. A hand-written Christmas card was left on the pillow, as was a gold-ribbon-wrapped black pleather box containing a beautiful bell-shaped Christmas ornament evocative of Borobudur’s stupas and the design accents of amanjiwo.

Day Six (Christmas)
On Christmas morning, we took breakfast at the pool, on the umbrella-shaded terrace in front of the colonnade that frames the back of the pool area, a temple to relaxation. For my first course, I ordered the corn cakes with avocado, which came as a smaller serving than the entrée portion Mr. Megatop had had the day before. For the main, I had nasi goreng kabul, enjoying it thoroughly and having no difficulty finishing the generous portion. Service was attentive a bit slow, which led me to question my original supposition that the pool facilities host a second kitchen, as the dishes might have been sent down from the main restaurant. Mr. Megatop had a toasted muesli for the first course, followed by mie goreng (Indonesian stir-fried noodles with chicken and vegetables), with Javanese coffee and fresh juice, of course. The beautiful crystal-clear morning made for some great photos of the resort and the surrounding landscape, even if the tops of the volcanoes remained obscured by clouds.

This morning, we went for another spa treatment, the “black Borneo” massage and body scrub with pulverized coffee. This treatment lasted two hours and included another outdoor bath in rose petals and frangiapanni. Then it was time for another bike ride with our guide from the first ride. We skipped the off-road bits through the fields and stuck to the paved roads or dirt paths, going far far to the west and ultimately approaching Borobudur on a long ride down the main road, busses whizzing by and us dodging in and out through the traffic at speeds at times approaching 30 mph. We stopped once or twice in villages to catch our breath and drink some water carried by our guide in his backpack, then stopped again in the large tourist market just outside the Borobudur park. Our guide kept an eye on the bikes but sent us shopping on our own, knowing that vendors would mark prices up for guests making the rounds with an amanjiwo guide. I don’t know whether this routine fooled anyone about where the foreigners might be staying, but with some persistence we were able to negotiate good prices on some more batik clothes and embroidered Borobudur t-shirts. With our poor guide relieved of water weight but loaded up with shopping, we headed out of the market area to the east and through those villages back up to amanjiwo, finishing the ride with a long stop-less zigzagging climb up the road to the resort. As before, when we descended into the front courtyard and under the porte cochere, we were greeted by smiling attendants bearing ice-cold cloths, and fresh water, before being beckoned into the library for several glasses of a mild fruit-infused drink, a sort of cross between juice and tea.

Back at the room, I called to arrange for some laundry to be collected. amanjiwo charges for the service, but not at unusually high rates. I definitely needed some done, most especially the shorts and polo shirt I’d worn on the day’s ride. The bag was collected within minutes, and I didn’t even notice when the clean garments were placed back on the bench in the closet area some time between then and the next morning.

We had arranged for Sunset Martinis in the rice fields as one of our experiences on the cultural trails package, due to begin at the entirely civilized cocktail hour of five. An hour beforehand, the staff called to ask if we wanted to go forward with the event in the rice fields or move to the bale in our suite, as rain was sprinkling the fields. Having spent so much time in the daybed, we wanted something different for this occasion. Mr. Megatop suggested having the martinis by the pool, and the attendant promised to arrange it. In the event, it wasn’t actually at the pool but at another daybed set behind a small deck tucked into a garden area just downhill from the pool. Special barbecues are ordinarily held here, but it worked as a nice stand-in for the solo table set but unused in the middle of the rice field, even if we couldn’t really see the sunset, just the vanishing light of the cloudy tropical evening. Tea lights were arranged around the area, adding a romantic feel, and a carpet of rose petals and frangiapanni was laid out on the deck in front of the day bed. The martinis were vodka and soursop juice, a Javanese fruit vaguely like a slightly sour lychee. Just as we were getting ready to leave, we noticed an uninvited guest in the hollowed-out bamboo shaft used as a bell. It was a small frog with his little hands and bulging eyes sticking out of the slit, looking as irreverent as the gecko in the GEICO ads. He didn’t bat an eyelash as we snapped his photo several times.

Following the martinis, we refreshed ourselves in the room and went to the library for an archaeological lecture called Secrets of Borobudur by a British-born archaeologist who came to Indonesia in the 1970s and pretty much stayed. She gave a detailed lecture that put Borobudur in context and explained its unique features, as well as how the monument has changed since its rediscovery. After the lecture, we had dinner in the main restaurant, opting once again for the Javanese evening meal. By night’s end, we found ourselves marveling at how easy it had been to pass so much time here with so little effort.

Day Seven
On our last full day, we rose when we felt like it, probably around 7:00 a.m. and took our time to look presentable for breakfast. This morning, we returned to the main restaurant and again went for a blend of Western dishes, for the first course, and Indonesian, for the second. We took our time over breakfast, stretching it out over a solid ninety minutes and an extra small French press of Javanese coffee.

All the great resort food combined with the lack of proper workouts to leave us both feeling like real porkers. Our two bike rides had put a small dent in the damage done. Because we had enjoyed the rides for their own sake, and they did give us some exercise, we decided to go for another one today, one more ambitious than before. After giving ourselves a bit of time after breakfast, we went back to the main entrance and found our cycling guide preparing for another ride. The bikes needed a bit of adjusting, which was easily done before we set off, our guide once again burdened by a backpack full of provisions such as water and cold towels.

Since the Menoreh Hills behind the resort leave us basically no where to go south, we set off down the hill again, this time turning right into the villages that we passed at the end of our previous rides. Rather then turning left toward Borobudur village, we kept going straight, pushing farther east on a hilly course ultimately perched on a road between the towering hills and one of the two rivers that nourishes this land. It was a more challenging ride than the earlier ones. Mr. Megatop was finally getting the hang of switching gears on the 18-speed bike. With enough of a rolling start and a road clear of traffic, we could usually climb the steep roads without having to dismount for a discouraging walk. At the farthest eastward point on this ride, we came to a small village on cliffsides hugging the river and had to wait our turn to cross a very rickety bridge unsuited even for the parcel-laden motos that crossed its shifting planks and left it bouncing. From there, we took a long mostly flat course through fields stretching as far as we could see. At one point, we came upon a small temple largely in ruins but protected from further destruction by fencing and watched over by villagers who know that preserving history is a route to the prosperity ever-greater tourism will bring. From the temple, we turned back toward the west and finally came to the main road to Borobudur from Solo, whereupon we realized that from where we were to the resort had taken a solid 25 minutes to drive a week earlier. The gently sloping road downhill allowed us to get up a decent speed even as massive tour busses and truck roared by. Near the end of this road, we came to a gallery from which amanjiwo buys many of the artefacts on display in the resort, including beautiful paintings of Javanese puppets on glass. The gallery had fine examples of antique batik, though it was very pricey. We went with some weathered batik pillow cases and wooden coasters painted in batik styles. I hadn’t brought enough cash with me to pay for the purchasers, and the gallery unfortunately did not take American Express. As a solution, the gallery issued us an invoice for the full amount, took a partial payment in cash, and agreed to either have our guide deliver the rest in cash later that day or put it through on our hotel bill. With that, we were off, past Mendut Temple and on to Borobudur village, where we stopped again. Having exhausted the supply of water, we picked up a couple of bottles at a convenience store of sorts on the square facing the entrance to the park. Mr. Megatop suffered a slight injury dismounting from his bike at one point, and he just couldn’t bear the thought of the long climb up the slope to amanjiwo. So for the first time, we took the offer of a resort car to give him a lift back up the hotel. Our guide and I set off in the opposite direction to go through the villages once more, a quieter and more gently sloping path uphill than if we took the main road the whole way.

When our guide and I got back to the resort twenty minutes later, Mr. Megatop was already refreshed and met us at the porte cochere. There, attendants delivered fresh water and cold towels and, much to our surprise, a massive bag of turmeric collected by our trekking guide from his rugged hills. Mr. Megatop had liked the turmeric we saw on the trek and wanted to take some of it home, along with some other bits of greenery he collected. The massive bag collected by our guide must have held a good seven pounds of fresh root. It was an extraordinary gesture, very much appreciated.

Today, I had made a sensible decision to wear a board-shorts swimsuit and t-shirt cycling, rather than normal shorts and a polo. After this ride, estimated at more than 40 kilometers in total, I was drenched, as I would have been from a good workout in the gym. This meant I had to do more laundry. amanjiwo returned it the same day, freshly washed and nicely folded, while we rested in the daybed.

For dinner tonight, our last at amanjiwo, we wanted something special, so we took up the GM’s recommendation of a resort-prepared meal cooked and served in the home of a villager named Bak Pilal. A resort Kijang carried us to the elderly man’s home, nearby one of the ancient temples we had seen on our first bike ride. The villager himself greeted us on our way in to the kitchen/dining area of his home, which amanjiwo had decorated in a traditional style, lighting it with paraffin lamps. Inside the lamp and candle-lit room, we found a small square white table-cloth covered table to the right, and a three-burner traditional “stove” on the left, where a resort chef was preparing dishes over wood-fueled open flames. In retrospect I’m not exactly sure how the smoke and carbon monoxide were carried out of the room, but we didn’t smell any fumes, just the rich smells of the food being prepared. A resort waiter tended to us throughout, bringing each dish as it was finished before our eyes. The menu, specially printed for us and mounted on a leaf-covered cardboard, is as follows:

MAKAN MALAM
The Javanese Evening Meal

Starter
Sop Udang
Prawn Soup with Wood Ear Mushrooms

Main Course
Trancam
Local salad with Shredded Coconut, Lime and Chili

Semur Daging
Braised Beef with sweet Soya Sauce

Ayam Bakar Bumbu
Grilled coriander chicken

Pepes Jamur
Grilled marinated mushroom wrapped in banana leaves

Kare Ikan
Snapper with Curry Sauce

Sambal, Acar, Kerupuk Udang
Chili Sauce, Pickles, Prawn Cracker

Nasi Putih
Steamed Rice

Dessert
Rambutan and Mangosteen

Our served offered an Australian chardonnay from amanjiwo’s wine list. How did he know we like chardonnay? Having been kept on ice anticipating our arrival (the preparations at Bak Pilal’s before we arrived must have taken a good hour, at least), the wine was a bit cold, but it warmed up to a good temperature quickly in the warm Javanese evening air. After confirming with our waiter than Javanese traditionally eat with their hands, we decided to forego the Western utensils and give it a try. Even perfectly polite Westerners eat plenty of food with their hands: bread, canapés, fresh fruit and vegetables (sometimes), French fries/chips, chips/crisps, cookies/biscuits, candies, pizza (some of us), cheese and accompaniments (sometimes), sandwiches, hamburgers, and so on and so on. But Westerns and plenty of Asians, including Thais, eat most of their principal meals with utensils. Most Westerner and Thais would eat a meal like tonight’s mostly with fork, spoon, and knife. Eating instead with our fingers—strictly of the right hand—brought us very much more “in touch” with our food, both literally and figuratively. Feeling the grains of rice, the spices, the sauces, the texture of the fish, meat, and poultry, gave us a more complete appreciation for the food and the exemplary job the chef had done. The chef and our server quietly ducked out of the cooking/dining enclosure to allow us to enjoy the moment and romantic setting ourselves, while a lone Javanese musician played a traditional instrument in the next room.

Upon returning to amanjiwo, I called guest relations and followed-up on a request for a draft copy of the bill. An attendant brought it promptly and stood by while I perused it, checking it against my notes, for amanjiwo (like all amans, I understand) does not present bills for signature after each expense is incurred, be it breakfast, spa treatments, activities, dinner, whatever. I had one or two questions about the bill, and they were both resolved without controversy. That night, we packed our bags, thinking we wouldn’t have a great deal of time in the morning. Doing that, we discovered nice pleather nametag holders discreetly affixed to the handles of our rollers, with the stylized name amanjiwo embossed on the all-leather side and name tags for each of us visible through the panel on the other. We also discovered a woven basket box containing a light paperweight in the shape of a gong, also with amanjiwo embossed on its face. More flowers and candles too were left for us.

We drifted off to sleep around midnight. I was awakened from a light phase of sleep by a loud pop and what I sensed as the mild shaking of the main sliding door of our villa. A series of another five pops made me conclude it was no earthquake rattling windows and doors. Though I have mercifully little experience of it, it sounded to me like gunfire, at least possibly gunfire. I woke Mr. Megatop from a deep sleep and tried to keep him quiet. I knew, as the local papers reminded us, that terrorists have struck around Christmas and New Year’s in Indonesia several times in the last ten years. Thoughts of the Mumbai attacks just a month earlier flashed in our minds, as did the soft security perimeter around the resort. In the darkness, I found my watch and learned the time: five past two. I resolved not to call the front desk, thinking that a terrorist seizure of the resort would start there, and I did not want to give anyone additional indications of which suites were occupied. We huddled in the bathroom, our ears wide open, and listened for more sounds. Sounds of any kind. Ten minutes or so passed in silence. Total silence. I figured, perhaps wrongly, that any assault on the hotel would have resulted in at least some more noise. At that point, I decided to call the front desk. “Yes, Bapak?” the night manager answered. “Is everything okay?” I responded. “Yes, Bapak, everything is fine. Is something wrong in your villa?” “I heard what sounded like shots, five or six of them, about ten minutes ago, very close to our villa, it sound like right outside the door.” “I see, Bapak. We will look into it.” “Please do. And please send security to our room to check on us.” Ten minutes or more passed. We were calming down but still scared. I called again. “Yes, Bapak. We determined that someone in another villa had some firecrackers. Five or six of them, shortly after two this morning. We have spoken to them and asked that no more be used.” “Firecrackers? Jesus.” “Yes.” “Well, please send security to our villa at once anyway.” Within a few minutes, the night manager’s voice called out. He and a security guard had walked around our villa and found nothing amiss. With a flashlight, I did a walkaround myself. I thanked the night manager and security man for coming. Mr. Megatop, finally relieved, knew we couldn’t possibly get back to sleep without checking things out some more ourselves. So we pulled on some clothes and set out. We walked around the main building, finding everything other than ourselves perfectly peaceful. We went back to our villa and tried to relax, Mr. Megatop at once blaming me for frightening him and thanking me for having the presence of mind to act deliberately if something had been happening.

Last Morning
We got up the next morning around 7:00, planning to take our time to enjoy our last breakfast at amanjiwo. I couldn’t resist another serving of those featherlight lemon pancakes with the vanilla butter. Mr. Megatop went with the equally light eggs benedict. We took our time this morning, pouring over yesterday’s newspapers, reading those in-depth stories the International Herald Tribune tends to run around this time of year.

We went back to the room and changed from resort clothes into travel clothes. As always, for me that meant jeans (in this case Edwin brand, purchased almost exactly a year earlier in Tokyo), a polo shirt, and Vans (Off the Wall!). Mr. Megatop went with jeans, a t-shirt, and athletic shoes, as I had long ago convinced him not to wear sandals (slippers, to the Thais) when flying for safety reasons. We called the front desk to say our bags were ready. An attendant came quickly and promised to take good care of our bags. We did a last check of the room, feeling guilty about leaving a pile of thisandthat in the rubbish bin, then headed to the main building. Checkout was relatively quick. During the process, the GM paid a visit to apologize personally for what had happened overnight and assure us that he would speak to the guests in question. Though we could hardly believe anyone would have thought it appropriate to light off firecrackers at two in the morning in such a setting, we certainly did not blame amanjiwo for the disturbance, nor did we let it spoil our fond memories of this peaceful place.

All of our bags had been loaded into the Kijang by the time we descended the stairs under the porte cochere. The GM and others gave us many warm thanks for staying with them, thanks that we returned in kind. We waved goodbye as the Kijang pulled away, and tucked our two parting gifts, beautifully wrapped sarongs in the distinctive print used at amanjiwo, into our carryon totes.

MI 213 SOC-SIN
12:40 pm – 3:40 pm
Equip: A319
Reg.: 9V-SBA
Seats: 12B, 12C (Economy)

The ride from amanjiwo back to Solo City was a particularly bumpy one. We pitched and rolled in the back seat up and down the tight mountain roads. Over an hour into it, and almost off the mountain roads, we just had to stop for a break. “No problem, Bapak.” We didn’t need the loo, just a breather to steady our sense of balance. The total ride took about an hour and forty minutes, with traffic only on the fringes of Solo City. We pulled into the airport parking lot and parked near what turned out to be the front door of the terminal, though we couldn’t really see it through the throngs of people intently watching something or other going on inside.

Never did figure out what they were watching. Begging everyone’s pardon and trying not to run over toes with our rollers, we made our way to the entrance. All of our bags went through an x-ray and were treated to some security tape on the locks. It wasn’t hard to figure out where to go inside. The checkin hall, using that term very liberally, was about half the size of the arrivals hall and had a ceiling a good five feet lower. At least, that’s how it seemed. There was a desk for AirAsia on the left, and SilkAir used the two desks on the right. Our two 24” expandables had both been expanded to carry home Java’s bounty, turmeric and all. Together, they weighed in at over 47 kilos, but the agent didn’t collect overweight baggage charges. I blathered about being on a US-bound itinerary and made a point of Mr. Megatop being *Alliance Gold. It probably didn’t make a difference. We were handed boarding passes for 10B and 10C. I didn’t like the sound of that, so requested reseating at a window. The agent assured us they were good seats: the exit row in a two-seat pair with no A seat in the row.

We paid the departure tax in cash at a small desk on the right side of the “hall,” 100,000 rupiah apiece (~$9 each). Then we went through another security checkpoint, the officers at which didn’t care to see the liquids and gels in my carryon. Two young ladies at a small “desk” (two portable tables) immediately inside security took our boarding passes and invited us to sit. A small area of the “gate” had some nicer-looking seats behind a sign reading “Business Class,” but that was the only thing at all remarkable about the place.

The aircraft arrived shortly after we entered the gate holding pen. Turned out, it was the very same aircraft as we’d flown in on seven days earlier. After the incoming pax disembarked, a PA went up inviting pre-boards to come forward. A crush of all passengers promptly ensued. Our BP’s were checked again, cursorily, at the door. Stairs were rolled up to both the front and rear exits of the Airbus, and the agent at the foot of the first flight directed pax to take those stairs or proceed to the rear. We went up the first flight and onboard.

Exit row pax on this aircraft, in rows 10 and 11 (both rows served a single window exit over each wing), were not allowed to put any carryon baggage under the seats, much as you would expect in a bulkhead row. The FA did an in-person Q&A about understanding the emergency exit procedures, much as we get on US domestic carriers. The safety video didn’t go as smoothly. They must have tried ten times to get it to play properly. Ultimately, it did. The door had closed about 15 minutes before STD, but we didn’t push back until right on schedule. Must have been loading bags or waiting for ATC clearance.

Service was good overall but not outstanding. A quick pass through the aisles with newspapers was nice, but would have been nicer if we’d been offered any. Food and beverage service was similar to the inbound flight. I passed, but Mr. Megatop had chicken in a red curry sauce that he thought was good enough.

After descending through some fairly thick cloud cover, we landed to the northeast on the left runway. We taxied past Terminal 1 and toward the nape between the E pier and E gates attached to the main building. Gate E10, I knew, meant a strong possibility of security screening upon arrival. (With the intense procedures at Solo, I wasn’t surprised.) Mr. Megatop knew this well, and when we saw that pax were not being allowed to use the travellators guarded by Singapore security guards, we hustled to overtake as many of those in front of us as possible. It worked. We walked right up to the checkpoint and made it through smoothly with no waiting.

I ducked into the wine shops in T2 for a sniff around, thinking I might find something for Sunday dinner. At the large one, I found a single-vineyard Craggy Range 2007 Chardonnay, a wine I had “discovered” while in New Zealand a year ago. To my great surprise, the clerk wouldn’t let me buy it when I showed an incoming boarding pass stub. “Departures only.” That makes positively no sense. The design of Changi deliberately allows inbound and outbound pax to mix freely on the airside of Immigration and Customs. I hadn’t passed through Customs yet, so why not let me buy it? Irritating.

Immigration was a non-event. In the baggage-claim hall, I went over to the duty free shop (same as upstairs) for arrivals and looked for the wine I’d found upstairs. They had Craggy Range, but only the Sauvignon Blanc, not the Chardonnay. I asked whether it was true that I couldn’t buy upstairs as an inbound pax. “Yes, that’s correct.” I politely expressed my frustration at the nonsense of it all. “Singapore regulations.” “Yes, I understand that. My point is that the regulation makes no sense.” “We just have to follow the rules Customs makes.” “I wanted to buy something that you have upstairs, but not down here, and now I can’t.” “Well, we can go get it for you and bring it down here. What is it, specifically?” I told her, and someone went off to fetch it. Waiting there, I thought long and hard. This “solution” takes nonsense and makes it just plain crazy. I can’t buy upstairs, but I can buy downstairs. I’m not allowed to carry the product downstairs myself, passing only Immigration and not Customs, but the clerks can go upstairs and bring the products down for me, bypassing the Immigration checkpoint. What the hell? Seriously, if someone can explain the rationale for this rule, I’m all ears.

It took a good 15 minutes, but the chardonnay made it downstairs. We’d already collected our bags, so we went through the green channel with nothing to declare, passing Customs officers who seemed completely disinterested in it all. Landside, we turned right and walked the length of the hall (you could fit forty Solo City terminals in here) to the large and completely empty taxi queue. Into a cab and on our way back to the Ritz.

It just gets better! ^

Wow, fantastic trip report!

Wow, fantastic trip report!

Thanks! Knowing someone's reading keeps me writing. :)

Stay tuned. I'm working up the amanjiwo bit now from my notes. I should have it posted in a day or so.

fantastic report - very evocotive and a good reference guide ...

could the Swiss grape variey you're looking for be "chasselas"? It's a pretty safe bet for the whites from this area ...

To my great surprise, the clerk wouldn’t let me buy it when I showed an incoming boarding pass stub. “Departures only.” That makes positively no sense. The design of Changi deliberately allows inbound and outbound pax to mix freely on the airside of Immigration and Customs. I hadn’t passed through Customs yet, so why not let me buy it? Irritating.

Hi MegatopLover,
great trip report. Am thoroughly enjoying it. Anyway, to answer your question - I think the prices for "Departures" and "Arrivals" are not the same. One includes GST or something like that while the other doesn't. It's "duty free" but for some reason some duties are not free. ;) I think it was like that a while ago. Not too sure if it's for the same reason you were denied the purchase.

fantastic report - very evocotive and a good reference guide ...

could the Swiss grape variey you're looking for be "chasselas"? It's a pretty safe bet for the whites from this area ...

Thanks for your support.

I looked at the menu this morning. The white was a "Riesling x Sylvaner" combined with Sauvignon Blanc. Very interesting blend. Think of it as a light-bodied version of the Chardonnay/Viognier blends commonly seen coming from Australia.

I lost a day of working on the amanjiwo installment. I should have it up in a day or two. Thanks for everyone's patience.

After reading MegatopLover's fantastic reports (with so much still to go!) I think many of us now think of ourselves as MegatopLoverlovers

Thanks megatoplover for a great report.

More, please!

The X chalk mark story always cracks me up, because it happens to us every single time we land in Bali.


This past trip in November, we brought 2 bottles of wine each and when asked "Any alcohol?" we both shook our heads. As we were waived through, my knees were so weak, I could hardly walk!



Thanks megatoplover for a great report.
Looking forward to the amanjiwo section.

Wonderful report! I'm enjoying it.

Good read, thanks for sharing ^

Dear MegatopLover

2 questions / comments:

Our first destination was Narai Phand, the “Thai industry shop” sponsored by the government for Thai handicrafts, which had moved into a sprawling space in the back of the Inter-Continental’s President Tower complex.

We went to the Amarin Plaza - located right across from the Intercontinental (big McDonald's on the ground floor) where a group of handicraft sellers had just been relocated to. I'm assuming this is not the same as Narai Phand (?), but interesting how the handicrafts sellers seem to be relocating to this area.


to the soi that leads to the Oriental. We popped into one of the Lin Family jewelry shops for Mr. Megatop to buy my Christmas present.

I didn't realise there were several Lin jewelers. We've always gone to the Lin Oriental Gems at 14/7 Oriental Avenue (Soi Charoen Krung 40). Is that the one you're referring to. We've been very happy with our purchases there.

Looking forward to the rest of your report.

PS--- I notice on hotels.com that the Peninsula is now offering rooms for almost half of what the Oriental is charging...

Thanks again, everyone, for your supportive comments. And thanks too for your patience. I've got about half of amanjiwo written and plan to write the rest after I get back to ATL on Monday (I'm in SFO now). I've also got most of the second RC Singapore written, so that should go up fast.

Amarin Plaza has long had lots of handicraft sellers, though more might have moved in recently with the closing of the old Narai Phand. Amarin also had a small branch of Narai Phand in the back on the second or third floor. That is not the location I described in the report. The new Narai Phand is on the ground floor in the back of the Inter-Continental's President Tower complex. You should be able to enter from the shopping arcade at the rear of the hotel's lobby. But you can also enter from the courtyard/driveway between Gaysorn and the President Tower-- just watch the traffic.

There are indeed lots of Lin family jewelers on Soi 40 and in the vicinity. I'm not sure exactly where 14/7 is (the numbering system for Thai street addresses mystifies me), but I'm sure that's one of the family's stores, of which there are probably five or six in a two-block area. Look carefully next time you're there, and you'll see some variation of "Lin" in many store names. Kind of like the Brennan family restaurants in New Orleans. Or maybe not. ;)

This is a great trip report. I read quite a few reports on various boards as I learn so much above traveling. I always find useful information in each report. This report is a perfect example of this.

It is also a perfect example of how fascinating the human brain is. A report like this with no photographs allows my brain to form images of what I am reading. My brain always does this for me as I am mostly a visual learner.

So, as I am reading along my brain as it always does is focusing 90 percent on the story, and the lessons to be learned; while the other 10 percent is busily forming mental images for me off on the right side of my brain. In this case the mental image of the author my brain has formed is of a small in stature, female, with Asian features, about 20 or 30 something. Then as I am reading along a light flashes off on the right side of my brain that indicates, incongruity. As my brain is 90 percent focused on the lessons from the story I ignore this. Then it flashes again. I read on. It begins to flash continuously. The left side of my brain, stops reading, looks over to the right side of my brain and says “What?” After the left side of my brain listens to the list of incongruities to my conception of the appearance of the author of this trip report presented by the right side of my brain, my left side says “Oh, I see” Then, we proceed to read on to the end of the report with a new mental image of the author resting comfortably on the right side of my brain.

The brain is such a marvelous device.

The Ritz-Carlton Millenia Singapore
Two nights
Room: ????

If our first stay at RC Millenia Singapore on this trip was brief and unremarkable, our return quickly proved to be anything but. The cab pulled up the long circular driveway and right to the entry carpet square at the front door. No one made the slightest effort to open the doors of the taxi for us. As I alighted from the rear passenger side feeling a bit like I needed to channel Vishnu with full tote bag in one hand, duty-free purchases in the another, sweatshirt sort of on my arm and sort of on my shoulder, and nothing but a knee to close the taxi door, never mind pay the fare. Mr. Megatop had similar difficulty climbing out of the other side. A doorman/bellman finally approached: “Anything in the boot?” “Yes, actually, our luggage is in the boot. We’re checking in.” I think he nodded, though I’m not sure. He did seem terribly inconvenienced by it all. While I laid my parcels on the pavement and picked twenty Sing from my wallet, Mr. Megatop handed in the luggage check to retrieve the bag we’d left a week earlier. We opened the front door ourselves. Halfway to the front desk, a pleasant young lady chased us down, determined to show us where the desk was, lest we get lost. No one offered to take our totes or parcels. Younglady asked a perfectly legitimate question: “Is there one room or two for you?” “Just one,” I replied.

At the desk, we experienced the unusual two step I’ve never encountered anywhere else. Younglady talks to us and sometimes communicates with the Front Desk clerk, while the clerk asks us this or that question. Younglady offered us tea or juice. I declined, but Mr. Megatop asked for juice. Younglady returned quickly with his juice and a couple of cold towels, just as Deskclerk was finding our reservation, which led him to ask us, “Is there a second reservation for this gentleman?” “No.” “Oh, I see. We have you booked in a king bedded room.” “Yes, that’s correct.” He seemed at once confused and irritated by this. Surely it was a mistake on somebody’s part—somebody else’s. Deskclerk turned to Younglady and whispered, “King bed. One bed.” Younglady nodded curtly. Deskclerk remained unconvinced. Typing ensued. Mouseclicks. Typing. Mouseclicks. More typing. Deskclerk asked Younglady again, at a whisper across the desk (she was standing beside us), “King?” Younglady nodded with more persistence than the first time. A slight and quiet but nevertheless exasperated sigh came out before Deskclerk reached for some keys. Then he showed us the normal registration forms and went over the details. He made two cards, with the “Club” legend visible to me. Younglady shook her head. Now Deskclerk was really confused. She shook her head again. He gave up and made new keys, sans “Club” legend on the tag. Finally we were away, Younglady escorting us upstairs.

Trying to turn the page, Younglady asked, “Is this your first time in Singapore?” Wrong question. “We’ve been to Singapore many times. Stayed in this very hotel. Not ten days ago, in fact.” “Really. You stayed with us ten days ago?” She sounded incredulous. “Yes.” “Well, welcome back.” It had been only seven days, but who’s counting?

Younglady showed us to Room 2222, a Deluxe King Marina Bay room much like the one we’d had a week earlier. We put our parcels down, and she quickly showed us the room features. I asked whether occupancy was high at the moment. The lobby had been bustling with afternoon tea patrons, but it was hard to tell how many guests were in residence. She avoided the question, very much unlike her colleague had done a week earlier. “Well, I was wondering because we’re supposed to be upgraded at checkin, subject to availability, and this is the second stay in a row we haven’t been upgraded, both have been weekends, and we were even told that the hotel had low occupancy a week ago.” “I see. You have been upgraded. This is a Marina Bay view room, which is upgraded from a Kallang room.” “No, ma’am. We’re confirmed with a Marina Bay King, and we’re supposed to be upgraded to a suite if available at checkin.” She reached for the phone. “I’m very sorry. We’re not full tonight, but our suites are quite booked up and nothing is available.” I nodded and let her excuse herself.

I was irritated first by the insolent doormen. That made me call for the manager to complain about them. Then I thought about what else had gone wrong with our arrival, including the fact that this is the only hotel in Asia where anyone has ever given us even the slightest hint of a hard time about two men being booked into the same room with a king bed. It has happened clearly on two out of four stays, and indirectly on a third. I called the operator and asked for the manager. I was connected to the manager’s line, which rang off the hook. I gave up after fourteen rings. I called the operator again, which took its turn ringing off the hook. I called a third time and got, off all people, Deskclerk. I remembered his name from his nametag. “I was trying to reach the duty manager, and the phone just rang and rang and rang.” Here I was, having just checked in not five minutes ago, now wanting to speak to the duty manager. He knew the chances were high I was calling to complain about him. “Is there something I can help you with?” he asked. “Yes, you can get me the duty manager.” “I’m sorry, the manager on duty is engaged, perhaps I can help you.” “No, I don’t think so. Please take a message asking the duty manager to call me.” “Yes, sir. But is there something I can do?” “No.”

Three minutes later, the phone rang. It was Deskclerk. “Sir, I understand you were asking about an upgrade. I’ve done some searching to find something for you. Though we are quite fully booked, I have found an available suite if you would like it. The problem is, though, that it’s a smoking room on the fifth floor.” So now they do have suites available. “Well, I appreciate you’re looking for something, but I don’t think a smoking room would be very good for us. Thank you.” “Perhaps I could extend to you Club access.” He went on to explain the Club floor. “So at least you can get free alcoh—I mean, five food and beverage presentations daily.” “Well, I guess that’s something.” “I’ll have some new keys sent up right away.” “Yes, but please do have the duty manager call when he or she is available. I still need to speak with him.”

At that point, Mr. Megatop and I headed off to see Molly at Eyes at Work, the spectacles store in nearby Millennia Walk who has taken care of us for many years. This time, she couldn’t prevail on me to go for the really edgy selections, and I went for a quite conservative pair of Theos, albeit is gloss scarlet.

Back at the hotel, we had a written message waiting from the Manager on Duty. I returned the call and had to leave a message of my own, though the MOD called back within minutes. In a carefully measured but plainly upset tone, I explained the problems with our arrival: 1) unhelpful doormen who never welcomed us; 2) grief over two men sharing a king bed; 3) not being recognized as repeat guests; 4) saying we’d already been upgraded when we hadn’t. In the hotel’s defense, the MOD noted that we had been extended Club benefits. “No, no. That’s because I called asking to speak to you. The same gentleman at the front desk happened to take the call, and he knew I was calling to complain, probably about him. So he tried to cover it up. And that just irritated me more.” “I see, MegatopLover. Well, I’m terribly sorry, none of this should have happened. Is there something I can do?” Translation: I don’t know what I can do and I won’t do anything unless you ask me for it. To me, asking for some benefit or other feels like money-grubbing, and it puts the onus on me to correct their mistakes. This wasn’t going well. “Well, I don’t know. But I have to say, I come to Singapore with some frequency, and I’m really not enthusiastic about making a reservation at this hotel in the future. In fact, I’m thinking about checking out.” “I see. Perhaps, MegatopLover, you could give me ten minutes and I’ll call you right back and see what we can do.”

Now we had just an hour ‘til dinner, across town at the Regent. I didn’t want to deal with it after dinner, and the MOD was being helpful, so I said we’d await his call. Call he did in ten minutes’ time. They had found yet another suite. The MOD offered to move us to it personally right away. I really had to get in the shower and cleaned up for dinner, and explained as much to the MOD. He assured me all would be handled straight away. Ten minutes later, he appeared with a bellman and gathered our bags, which we had opened to get our dinner clothes and just closed again so we could be moved. Our suits and shirts were on hangers, and they went on the rack. “MegatopLover, how will you be getting to the restaurant tonight? May I arrange a taxi for you? We will take care of the charges of course.” “That’s not necessary, but I suppose it would help, as we’re starting to run tight on time.” “It would be my pleasure.” First time we’d heard that famous Ritz-Carlton line since we’d arrived. “Uh, MegatopLover, these suits are quite rumpled, perhaps we could press them for you? I would be happy to take care of that.” “Actually, we need to wear those to dinner tonight, and we were going to run the iron over them once we got to the room.” “I see.”

By now, we were just getting to Room 2516, which I think is called a Millennia Suite. It’s not the double-size double-door suite in the middle of the building, but the suite in the corner, with an octagonal window in the bedroom and another octagonal window on the side of the building opening into the bathroom. The room itself was quite nice, much better than a standard room, except that the closet is positively tiny. You can get two bags in there, but you can’t open them, much less can you actually hang clothing above the bags. We asked the bellman to just leave our bags in the living room because we had to get into them to get things for dinner. The MOD was going to hang our suits in the closet. “Uh, MegatopLover, perhaps after dinner tonight we could take these suits and press them for you. It’s quite easy for us and we’ll make them much more presentable.” Ooops! I said nothing. The MOD had a few seconds in the closet to think. He emerged. “You know, MegatopLover, we can get these pressed for you very quickly. I will see to it myself. It will take less than 15 minutes, and they will be ready for you for dinner tonight.” “Well, if you think it can be done.” “Yes sir, it will be done. It will be my pleasure.” The MOD apologized again for our difficulties checking in and hoped our stay would get much better.

We showered and cleaned up. Meanwhile, the MOD returned with our suits, the jackets pressed. At five minutes of eight, we were finally ready, the room-change have cost us enough time to make us late. When we opened the door, the MOD was there, waiting to escort us downstairs to our waiting taxi. He complimented us on our fresh look and suits and apologized again, saying there are no excuses for service lapses but hoped we would understand. “I understand. It’s a big hotel. There are a lot of staff. People make mistakes. But I have to say that since you’ve become involved, things have gone much more smoothly, and we really do appreciate what you’ve done for us tonight.” “It’s the least we could do, the least we could do.” A premium taxi, a Mercedes, was waiting for us at the door and delivered us to the Regent just ten minutes late for our reservation. It’s wedding season in Singapore, and the Regent had at least three receptions under way. We found iggy’s restaurant upstairs.

Although the Regent is one of those poured-concrete open-air-atrium-cum-glass-elevator monstrosities popularized by Hyatt in the 1970s and now looking rather dated, iggy’s somehow manages to feel a bit like Kyoto. You enter through a narrow passageway with a low ceiling, much like going into one of those Kaseiki restaurants in downtown Kyoto. To the right is a small room with a counter, again not like a diner but rather like a fine Kyoto restaurant. To the left is a small dining room decorated like a library with two larger round tables for up to six, and two smaller tables for up to four. The menu had only one choice on it: truffle or no truffle.

GASTRONOMIC MENU
December 2008

Ikura
Marinated salmon roe, orange jelly, egg royale

Jabugo Iberico Bellota
Jamon Iberico, grilled watermelon, tomato concasse and micro herbs

Foie Gras
Foir gras crème brulee, cinnamon sugared pear, pan-fried foie gras on toast

Spanner Crab
Spanner crab meat soufflé, shellfish bisque, rocket sprouts

Cappellini
Cappellini with zucchini, smoked mullet roe and shallot
or
Cappellini, poultry jus, Alba white truffle (2g)

Halibut
Pan-roasted halibut fillet, red curry-scented pumpkin puree, green mango salsa, roasted shallot oil, glacier lily and balsamic reduction

Challand Duck
Spicy herb-crusted Challand duck breast, braised red cabbage, Puy lentils, baby turnips

Pre-Dessert

Chocolate
Christmas spiced chocolate dome, home-made gingerbread ice-cream

The Captain brought the big truffle to the table for us to see. The temptation worked. Both of us went truffle. The meal did not disappoint. The menu speaks for itself and needs little embellishment by way of description, except that each dish delivers delicate, nuanced flavors. To match, we brought one of my lovelies: a 2006 Williams Selyem Bucher Vineyard Russian River Pinot Noir. I had tasted some a different 2006 Williams Selyem pinot six months earlier, right after release, and it was disappointing: watery and without much flavor. Six months had done wonders, as the wine had started to come into its own, not overly floral but with lots of delicate red fruits and body delivered by notes of cedar and incense.

After dinner (pricey at S$225++ per person, thanks to the extra S$30 for the truffle, but very much worth it), we took a stroll out to Orchard Road, past the gleaming new St. Regis. We grabbed a cab on Scotts Road and headed back to the Ritz.

The next morning, we had breakfast upstairs in the Club Lounge. The selection is similar to that available downstairs in the Greenhouse, but the selection is more limited. There were lots of servers looking after guests, but the room was so crowded that it all seemed rushed and impersonal. The beautiful view, though, is reason enough to go for the Club instead of the restaurant.

We headed out for some shopping, taking the MRT from City Hall to Orchard Road. We went to Jack’s Custom Tailors in Far East Plaza to order some shirts. I’ve ordered shirts from Jack in the past, and this time I placed an order for another dozen, selecting the fabrics myself with Mr. Megatop’s good counsel. For the design, I wanted a duplication of another Jack shirt, with some modifications. A sample shirt would be ready late the following afternoon, in time for me to go for a fitting so final adjustments could be made before all the shirts were made. After Jack’s, we popped into Wheelock Place, where we found Wooonderland on the second floor, right at the top of the escalator. As my friend google had told me, Wooonderland stocks Edwin jeans from Japan [LINK]. They had a decent selection of styles, but not a huge range of sizes, certainly nothing like you’d find at an Edwin store in Japan. But this wasn’t an Edwin store, and this wasn’t Japan. Thankfully, one style I liked was available in my size, and that was that. Next, we hit Shanghai Tang in Ngee Ann City (the Takeshimaya mall) but found the selection uninspiring. Mr. Megatop wanted a polo shirt, but he said it was all either too much or too plain. Can’t please everyone, I suppose. Back underground, we took the MRT to Chinatown and headed straight for our favorite restaurant for lunch: the Hometown Restaurant in Smith Street. We ordered the same thing as always: spicy cold Sichuan noodles with shredded chicken, and delicious Chongking chicken, a fiercely spicy stir-fried dish with dried Sichuan chillies, garlic, sesame seeds, and some sort of spice that burns hot then cold. Then we hit some of the tailor shops to buy fabric for suits, finding some very nice fabrics at very good prices.

Back at the hotel, we had a message from the fitness center offering to draw a bubble bath at our convenience, for it was a benefit available to us thanks to our Virtuoso/STARS booking through DavidO. Mr. Megatop likes a bubble bath, so I asked that it be drawn at 7:00 pm, in time to have before dinner. A manager called to see if everything was going more smoothly. I said it was, and paid a specific compliment to MOD for his fine service-recovery work the previous night. Then we went downstairs for a workout. Mr. Megatop did some weightlifting, while I got on the elliptical. It was a decent workout, but the machines were not set the way I like them, so I couldn’t get the kind of workout I can at home or, thankfully, at the Pen in Bangkok.

We got upstairs a bit before 7:00. By a quarter past, as I was starting to get ready for dinner, I called down to inquire about the bubble bath. “Oh, I’m sorry. We forgot. We can be right up to draw it for you now.” With dinner on the other side of town, we simply didn’t have time. A minor foulup, but on the heels of the others, not good.

Dinner this Sunday night was a Min Jiang, a Sichuan restaurant recommended by the concierge in the Rochester Park neighborhood west of Tanglin, a good twenty-minute ride outside the C.B.D. Rochester Park is home to a dozen or so restaurants, all in beautiful black-and-white buildings popular in Singaporean architecture a century ago. The meal was delightful, with lots of fresh ingredients and clearly pronounced flavors, none overwhelming another. Service was very good, and we ate every last bit. Definitely recommended, even if it’s presently overshadowed by its next-door neighbor, the fusion restaurant Graze.

We took a cab back to town and met up with a colleague of Mr. Megatop’s for a late drink at his flat on Mosque Street in Chinatown. After a very pleasant evening of making new (to me) friends, and a rich conversation ranging from politics to religion to the state of the economy, we headed back to the hotel. Because our hosts were very interested in a particular book that I’d read and thought they might enjoy, I promised to buy them a copy the next day if I could find one.

Breakfast in the Club Lounge was no less chaotic than it had been the day before. We took a table in the spillover room, which has a couch in addition to restaurant tables. It was a little tough to catch a server’s eye from our table there, when we needed more coffee. The fresh-cooked breakfast items look okay, but you couldn’t get through the crowd to actually order something. After so many big meals, I decided to take it easy this morning, keeping it to cereal and a couple of tasty shot-glass-sized portions of rich muesli. Mr. Megatop managed to get a sloppily made omelet but only picked at it. Breakfast breads were decent but unremarkable.

Over breakfast, I spoke to the Club concierge. I explained that I had an unusual but hopefully straightforward request. I needed to find two copies of a particular book in stock anywhere in Singapore, as I wanted to buy them that day so I could give them as gifts before leaving town that evening. I wrote the name of the author and the title of the book out. The Club concierge returned forty minutes or so later with a printout listing Times (IIRC) bookstores, including one in a mall next door, and another showing the title of the book and price. “Do they have it in stock right here, at this store?” “Yes.”

I left Mr. Megatop in the room to do some work and headed out to buy the books. I found the store in the mall next door and was instantly skeptical from its size. Unable to find a category that sounded even remotely plausible, I asked the clerk. “I am looking for a copy of [best-selling book]. Do you have any?” Taptaptap. “No, I’m sorry, we don’t. You can order it, though.” “Hmmmm. I understand you have many other branches. Do any of them have this book in stock today?” “No. None of them do. This is a special-order item only.” “All right. Thank you.” I was frosted. Positively frosted. A very simple request. All it would have taken is a few phone calls. But, no, they managed to screw this up too. Frustrated most by the waste of precious time, I headed back toward the Ritz.

Near the end of the mall, before exiting and walking across the plaza to the side entrance to the Ritz, I took the decidedly non-glamorous fire stairs down to the entrance to the Mandarin Oriental. Nobody at that door bothered to welcome me either. What’s going on? I approached a front-desk clerk and explained where I was staying, that I was disappointed, and that I would like to see some rooms to help me decide where I should stay on future visits. The pleasant but businesslike clerk understood, has some keys made, and asked a colleague to show me some rooms. I rather liked the post-refurbishment look of the atrium lobby and the sleek look of the guestrooms, though they were definitely small in comparison to the Ritz’s famously large standard rooms. I thanked the young lady for the tour and headed off.

Back at the Ritz, I went to the main concierge desk. I explained what had happened. The same concierge who helped us with dinner reservations apologized profusely, took down the details of what I was looking for, and assured me he would look after it personally. Shortly after reaching the room, the phone rang. The duty manager—the one from the afternoon after, not MOD, who patched up our arrival— had already heard about what happened, apologized again, and said she would keep on top of it. Mr. Megatop told me to go downstairs for a workout to calm my nerves. I did. Running short of time, and worried about our appointment for lunch with the same fellows as we’d met the previous night, I cut my workout short. The fitness center attendant bid me farewell by name (I had to provide my room number to get a locker key). Within moments of walking back into the room, the phone rang. It was the duty manager again. She explained that they had calls out to a number of bookstores but had not heard confirmation of any inventory yet. The manager advised that they would be happy to have staff pick up two copies of the book for me and deliver it to my room, if copies could be located. “No charge, of course. The least we can do.” I tried to say that it really wasn’t necessary, but the manager insisted.

We headed to Chinatown to meet the fellows for lunch, our second in a row at the Hometown Restaurant. We even had the same dishes. Our efforts to learn the name of the cold-hot herb or seed, whatever, in the Chongking chicken dish, even if in Chinese, failed. The herbs store up the road tried as best it could but just did not have the item.

Back at the hotel, an attendant was waiting at our door to draw a signature bubble bath for Mr. Megatop, a few minutes earlier than scheduled, but that was okay. I had a message from the manager saying that the book had been found at Kinokuniya in Ngee Ann City, and two copies would be delivered within hours. While he took the bath with the spectacular view of the Raffles/Marina area, I finished most of our packing and returned the manager’s call. I thanked her very much for finding what I was looking for, and said again that it wasn’t necessary for them to get the books for me. They were already on their way, I was told. And by the way, we should keep our room until our departure for the airport that evening, which meant extending our guaranteed 4:00 pm checkout ‘til about 7:00.

The books arrived right at 4:00, as we headed out to pick up my new glasses from Eyes at Work in Millennia Walk. Molly and her colleagues made sure they fit properly, making quite a lot of adjustments. From there, we grabbed a cab to Ngee Ann City. Traffic was terrible. The driver got us most of the way there, then suggested dropping us at a hotel near the mall rather than fighting traffic into the entrance. We appreciated it. I ducked into Kinokuniya to pick up two more copies of the same book. Mr. Megatop wanted one. And I decided to re-read it myself, for the first time in eleven years.

After Ngee Ann City, we took the underground walkways beneath Orchard Road then up Scotts Road to Far East Plaza. Jack’s tailor shop, where Jack was in residence this evening, had the sample of my new shirts. It was pretty good, but I wanted some adjustments. After quite a bit of back and forth, we decided what should be changed. We also decided to have the shirts shipped directly to me in the U.S., rather than rush the shirtmaking process and even then risk them not reaching me in Bangkok before I left, what with Thailand’s five-day holiday weekend.

We grabbed a cab at the stand and headed back to the hotel to grab our bags and get going on our way. It took quite a while for the bellman to answer our call—not huge, but not a good mark either. In the meantime, I completed an in-room comment card, identifying all of the problems we had and specifically praising the two managers who did their level best to fix mistakes, summing up the stay as a near disaster. An awkward moment occurred at checkout. The only available desk clerk was none other than Deskclerk. “How was your stay with us, MegatopLover?” “Not that great, actually.” “I’m sorry to hear that. Please, let me speak with the manager on duty before you leave.” “Yes, I would like to speak to MOD,” who was then helping another guest at the desk, “to thank him again for his efforts.” As I reviewed the bill, I saw a miscellaneous service charge for the books, a taxable charge no less, giving the government tax on tax. (I know, because I had paid the very same amount, including GST, only a few hours earlier.) Whatever. No use fighting over it. I got the goods I wanted and had always intended to pay for them. Besides, the tax on already-taxed goods was worth barely two Sing. Water over the dam.

MOD hadn’t finished with the other, particularly chatty, guests by the time my patience wore out. Deskclerk came rushing over. “I thought you were going to wait and speak to MOD.” “I have to go.” “You can’t wait?” “I have a plane to catch. I can’t wait forever.” Does this guy have the faintest clue what he’s doing? Honestly. As our bags were loaded into a cab, MOD and another suited manager caught up to us and thanked us again for staying with them and expressed their regrets over the mistakes. I thanked him for his efforts and bid him farewell.

The Ritz-Carlton Millenia Singapore will not go on my black list of never-go-back places. But the severity of the problems with this stay, combined with the recurrence of some of them, and the persistently disappointing quality of the food will cause my search for a new hotel in Singapore to resume.

In the more than three weeks since we checked out, we have not heard word one in response to my scathing comment card. Not word one.

LX 183 SIN-BKK
9:20 pm – 10:45 pm
Equip: A340-300
Reg.: HB-JMB
Seats: 8J, 8K (Business)

Dour old Terminal 1, desperately in need of the facelift presently underway, shows its age most in the checkin hall. There, floor tiles vaguely reminiscent of a McDonald’s lie underfoot, and the checkin desks have more Formica and yellowed lighting than you can shake a stick at. The Swiss desk was uncrowded when we arrived, a bit on the early side. A Swissport contract agent checked us in and, after catching glimpse of Mr. Megatop’s ROP Gold card, didn’t give us any grief about the extensive collection of luggage. Another bullet dodged.

Although T1 was quite crowded this Monday night, outbound Immigration was not. I hadn’t had time to unwrap a Foxe’s Crystal Clear hard candy before the officer had stamped my passport and nodded me inside. Mr. Megatop made it through equally quickly. Then it was time for a walk. He wanted me to see the Butterfly Garden in Terminal 3, so we headed for the airside AirTrain. Unfortunately, the butterflies were mostly sleeping. In fact, we didn’t see any in flight. But those we spotted asleep were certainly beautiful specimens. Whether you an animal or nature lover or not, a kid or a grownup, the Butterfly Garden—actually outdoors in Singapore’s tropical heat and encased by an aviary-like two-storey arched façade—is worth a visit. If you like koi, so is the T3 indoor koi pond, which sports bigger fish than I’ve seen in any koi pond.

Mr. Megatop picked up some duty-free gifts for his family at the sweets store, and I had a sniff around for some wine. Our purchases in hand, we bypassed the AirTrain walked back to T1, noting that those gates formerly in T1 now redesignated as part of T3 have been much more convincingly incorporated into the design of T3 than the similarly converted gates in T2.

Swiss gave us invitations to the SATS Premier Lounge. From experience with the unimpressive and crowded SATS Premier Lounge in T2, I suggested that we give the TG Royal Silk Lounge a go. The dragons were perfectly welcoming, especially to an ROP Gold member, but told us that the lounge would be closing in ten minutes, as the evening’s last TG flight would be departing soon. With that, we headed for the SATS lounge and found it far less crowded and much nicer than the T2 lounge. I had a small plate of Thai chicken over steamed rice, and Mr. Megatop had cake. As always.

Thirty minutes prior to STD, we headed downstairs to find Gate C20. Turned out, it was right where the main C pier touches the terminal, so it was not a long walk. At-gate security screening gave Mr. Megatop a hard time of his duty-free purchase, and the gate agent gave my BP a tear sufficient to put a nice big rip in the stub. So much for my collection. On the jetway, we discovered that LX had decided to go cheap again—just one jetbridge available. No big deal. It still got us on the plane.

This aircraft was very similar inside to the one we’d taken down from Bangkok ten days earlier, with nice long-haul seats and full AVOD. The only difference I detected was that the Airshow had the same program as SQ uses on Megatops, not the fancy schmancy Crouching Tiger display on HB-JMM. I had a sip of champagne during boarding, but Mr. Megatop went for juice. After takeoff, the crew set up for a dinner service from the rear of the cabin forward. A francophone FA approached us with the cart. “Messieurs… chicken or fish?” Puzzled, I asked, “Do you have a menu?” “No, monsieur. This is a short flight. No menu on this sector. Chicken or fish?” “We flew LX 182 ten days ago, and there were printed menus on that flight.” “For the Zurich-Bangkok longhaul sector yes, but non for Bangkok-Singapore.” “I’m certain there was a menu and a wine list.” “No menu, monsieur. There are only two choices. Chicken or fish.” I gave up. As I rarely have fish on planes, I took the chicken. It was a Western preparation. Mr. Megatop, equally perturbed by Madame Attitude, asked for the fish. Upon seeing it, he asked to switch to the chicken because the fish dish had rice, which he didn’t want. (We agreed that how a dish is prepared and what it’s presented with might affect our decision, which—in addition to collecting—is why we wanted to see a menu.) Well, this seemed to really irritate Madame. She walked off to the galley in a huff. We never saw her again, not once. I think she’d been signaled by the steward who spoke French, German, and Swiss German and was evidently more senior. He addressed me in Swiss German at first, but quickly and effortlessly switched to English. He was eminently polite and looked after us well for the rest of the flight. He even brought us a deck of playing cards for our collection.

On descent into Bangkok, while the FAs were checking the cabin for safety and collecting headsets, we asked about Suvarnabhumi Premium passes. The FAs, including the Thai one, had never heard of it. They all asked around, but it soon became clear that no such passes were on board, so they suggested that we show our BP’s to get Fast Track treatment. After disembarking, we found a huge line at the westernmost Immigration checkpoint, so we decided to try and use our Business BP’s to get into the Suvarnabhumi Premium channel. As when I arrived on SQ, the dragons were asleep when we went through the passageway toward the completely open Immigration desks. A couple of dragons came chasing after us. Mr. Megatop explained that Swiss gave us Suvarnabhumi Premium passes outbound but didn’t have any onboard the inbound plane, and we showed our Business BP’s. One dragon said that we had to have passes as invitations to Suvarnabhumi Premium and it was really for First Class passengers, but she assured us that we could use the diplomatic channel of the main checkpoint just by showing our Business BP’s. We walked toward the easternmost checkpoint. “She’s lying.” “Why would she lie? She was nice.” “She lied to get rid of us. That is the Fast Track. It includes Business Class passengers, who get CIP cards. There is no special section in the main area,” I said. Mr. Megatop doubted that the sweet innocent dragon had the power to deceive. She did. I was right. But it didn’t matter. There wasn’t a soul in line at the easternmost checkpoint, and we breezed through.

Our bags were circling Belt 19 by the time we got there. They were among the first five up on the belt. Such luck. I can’t remember why, since we had no dutiable merchandise, but we decided to separate for the walk through the nothing-to-declare line, thinking that a big pile of bags usually attracts attention and invites screening. Oddly, I was told to put my tote (and only my tote) on the customs x-ray belt, and Mr. Megatop was told to put his big roller on it (but nothing else). Nothing came of it in any case.

We put everything on a single cart and made our way up to the Departures level, then out onto the island in the middle of the drop-off roadway. A huge section of it was blocked off by police, and cabs dropping off passengers were crammed into a small area in front of the first door. The police present didn’t force cabbies to move to quickly, and we were able to duck into one waiting to catch a return fare to town. Mr. Megatop felt slightly guilty about supporting the rule-breakers. “This is Bangkok, not Singapore,” I pointed out. He was unconvinced. Further along the roadway, near the last few doors into the terminal, we saw that the police were not blocking that area and were allowing lots of cabs to wait there. We even spotted one backing up fifty meters or so to get into that zone, a holding pen of sorts. In the future, we’ll head for that end of the terminal, not the end we used this time.

Mr. Megatop, no doubt eager to hear and speak his own language again, chatted with the cab driver about the political situation and the volume of travelers he was seeing. A decent rebound, the driver thought. The familiar ride into town along the expressway went as it always did, except slower. This fellow might have been the slowest taxi driver on Bangkok’s expressways, rarely breaking 90 km/h. No matter. Traffic was light, even on perennially jammed Surasak Road, the connecting road between Silom and Sathorn at the foot of the expressway exit ramp. Security at the Peninsula was light too, with a few more or less handsome guards standing around to check the boot and the undercarriage for bombs but not much else. Unfortunately, security at most other leading Bangkok hotels is no better. Mumbai changed nothing in the Land of Smiles.

This is a great trip report. I read quite a few reports on various boards as I learn so much above traveling. I always find useful information in each report. This report is a perfect example of this.

It is also a perfect example of how fascinating the human brain is. A report like this with no photographs allows my brain to form images of what I am reading. My brain always does this for me as I am mostly a visual learner.

So, as I am reading along my brain as it always does is focusing 90 percent on the story, and the lessons to be learned; while the other 10 percent is busily forming mental images for me off on the right side of my brain. In this case the mental image of the author my brain has formed is of a small in stature, female, with Asian features, about 20 or 30 something. Then as I am reading along a light flashes off on the right side of my brain that indicates, incongruity. As my brain is 90 percent focused on the lessons from the story I ignore this. Then it flashes again. I read on. It begins to flash continuously. The left side of my brain, stops reading, looks over to the right side of my brain and says “What?” After the left side of my brain listens to the list of incongruities to my conception of the appearance of the author of this trip report presented by the right side of my brain, my left side says “Oh, I see” Then, we proceed to read on to the end of the report with a new mental image of the author resting comfortably on the right side of my brain.

The brain is such a marvelous device.

Fascinating description. I've often wondered how that works for readers, since I don't necessarily make it obvious from the start. And no wisecracks about being obvious, please. ;)

The amanjiwo section has been posted above.

I've also done RC Part II, and LX J part II. Next up will be back at the Pen, then the journey home. That'll take some time to write from my notes. Hope to have at least parts up this weekend.

More to come....

Fantastic report Megatoplover
I forgot how good the Nasi Goreng is at AmanJiwo.
You are also quite adventurous, I think we spent nearly all of our time in the Bale!
I wonder was Toni Tack (sp?) the woman who gave you the lecture on archaeology/Indonesia at Amanjiwo ? Toni was there the first Christmas, I wouldnt blame her for staying.

This part was just as good as the beginning. Thanks for putting so much time into this for us.

I see Deskclerk should have been reading the trip report along with me. Any confusion would soon have been rectified.

Thanks for a fantastic report. I have been to Amanjiwo and had a wonderful time there, but your report made me long for more!!

When our host departed, Mr. Megatop let go: he couldn’t believe how beautiful it was.


I must admit that I recognise this behaviour. A lot! :)


Wanting a real local experience, we had asked for an introduction to a local “warung,” a streetfront casual restaurant.

We had this experience as well, though we were allowed to help cooking (I remember that I cut tomatoes and liked my left hand finger and felt TERRIBLE hoping that noone had seen it). In addition they had arranged for the tourist minister or something similar who could speak english to be present together with us, which we found very funny since we were well used to a combination of luxury or street-dinners where one would just point at something and hope it would be tasty (and it would always be).

For the sake of completeness, I feel obliged to note that I received a follow-up email overnight last night from MOD at the RC SIN, thanking me for my comment card, apologizing again for the problems, and assuring me that any future stay will be incident-free.

I'm falling terribly far behind on completing the report. I'll set a goal of finishing it this weekend, and see if I can make that.

Thanks again for reading and for your good words of support. Glad folks are enjoying it.

The Peninsula Bangkok
Five nights
Room: 3202 (Grande Deluxe)

We arrived at the hotel at nearly midnight, greeted by doormen we've come to know well over the years. We entrusted our rollers to a familiar bellman, and I headed for the front desk while Mr. Megatop saw the bell captain about retreiving the bag we'd checked ten days earlier. I didn't get far. The pageboys opening the double doors waied and smiled warmly, welcoming me back by name. The concierges, too, waied and welcomed us home. Behind them, I could see that activity had returned to the lobby. It wasn't packed, but at least there were people around. At the front desk, three or four of the young desk staff offered a warm welcome too, casting off memories of the frigid desk girls who were one of the hotel's weak points several years ago. No more. One took charge of checking me in, as I presented my passport so they could record my immigration card number. She retrieved a deep green folio with my registration materials already prepared and offered me a fresh garland of jasmine as a welcome. "Oh, MegatopLover. Do you know this is your twenty-fifth stay with us?." "No, I had no idea. That's remarkable." "Well, we want to thank you again for making the Peninsula your home in Bangkok." "The pleasure is ours entirely," I responded as she came around the desk to show me upstairs.

This time, we had room 3202, a Grande Deluxe King with a view upriver to the Temple of Dawn and Rattanakosin Island. The room was exactly like the other high-floor 02-stack rooms we've stayed in, save for 3502. The sitting chair had to be moved at once, as I prefer it on the interior side of the sitting area, clearing a more spacious area near the desk and window. The day's newspapers and fresh flowers were on the desk, a small arrangement of orchids, roses, and greens. A welcome card from the general manager was on the table, along with a tin of chocolate-chip cookies and the usual fresh fruit arrangement, plus an evening treat from one of the restaurants. Mr. Megatop arrived a few minutes later, followed by the bellman with our bags. A few minutes further on, the doorbell rang. A waiter who has brought us more room-service dinners than I can count arrived with fresh orange juice and a quite healthy-sized but completely unhealthy-for-the-waistline four-layer yellow cake with white-chocolate-flavored cream cheese frosting, topped by a white-chocolate plaque with a dark-chocolate inscription reading "Welcome home. 25th visit" or something like that. Another welcome card, more special than the usual stationery one, was presented with the cake to commemorate our 25th stay. It was a very nice, completely unexpected treat. And for Mr. Megatop, who loves cake of all kinds and descriptions, it was ideal.

We had had enough to eat in the lounge and on the plane, so we didn't order anything before bed, as I had originally thought we might. The cake was enough.

The next morning, we went down to breakfast relatively early, around 7:00 am. Things were quiet, but RC&T was at least back in full operation. Waiters and managers alike greeted us, usually by name. They were glad to see guests coming back and relieved to have ridden out the worst of the post-crisis slump in guests. We couldn't see direct evidence of that at first, but by 8:00, as we were finishing, streams of guests were coming in for breakfast.

Mr. Megatop had to work today, so we retrieved his computer and such from the room and went to his car. He dropped me in the driveway as he turned toward Charoennakorn. I tended to this and that for a while in the room before heading down to the Fitness Center for a much-needed workout. The staff there all greeted me warmly, fetched a cold bottle of water for me (water is room-temperature bottles unless you ask for cold), and set up hand towels on my favorite machine while I changed in the locker room. I spent about 45 minutes sprinting on the elliptical, but my workout took over an hour because I had a chat with the staff on my breaks.

It was after 11:00 am by the time I finally headed for the pier and the boat ride to Saphin Taksin. My shopping list was long today. I had to bring my Theo frames to the eyeglass store at Siam Paragon to have the new lenses put in. I kicked around the Jim Thompson store there a bit, buying a picture frame for a colleague and, yes, some more ties for me. I just had to get above the VAT-refund minimum. While my glasses were being done, I went down to the sporting-goods store in the Central World complex to pick up workout shorts. Then back to Siam Paragon to pick up the lenses. From there, I headed down Thanon Henri Dunant toward Chulalongkorn University, hoping to find the bookstore and buy a sweatshirt, since I'd lost the Vanderbilt sweatshirt I used to like to fly in on a previous visit and Mr. Megatop had ignored repeated requests for a sweatshirt from his undergraduate college (not Chulalongkorn). The campus maps were in English and Thai, making it easy to find the bookstore. Unfortunately, the selection of school-branded clothing was very small, and they had no sweatshirts at all. Not entirely surprising, given the climate. I picked up a t-shirt and that was that. From there, I headed to Suriwongse for a bit more shopping, again with little success. Finally, after taking the SkyTrain from Sala Daeng to Saphan Taksin, I battled the crowds on Charoen Krung to get yet more sesame-encrusted sweet cashews. Now completely weighed down with packages, I took Soi Oriental to the Oriental Pier to catch the boat across the river, to our ivory-towered city sanctuary. Then it was time for a nap before Mr. Megatop got home from work.

More to come...

Excellent TR, monsieur. Looking forward to the continuation.