2023-06-13 14:34:33
Whe pool docks on the ninth floor of the hotel like a slender spaceship. There it hovers, an elliptical aluminum pool, above a garden whose lush green cannot be seen from up there, even if you lean over the edge. You can see other high-rise buildings, on whose terraces the smog of the hazy afternoon hangs.
This is Pathum Wan, the quarter Bangkok’swhere business is done, where the embassies are located and consequently the most exclusive hotels and department stores can be found off the Chao Phraya shore.
Drowsing, row after row, one imitates familiarity
This pool up here is not intended for swimming, the water in the pool is too low, two pillars prevent you from being able to swim straight. It is designed for lounging while waiting for massage appointments at the spa, which occupies the entire floor.
Three young men are bobbing at the edge of the pool and laughing softly, two children in neoprene suits are being gently pulled through the salt water by their father. An elderly woman, the only other European, keeps her eyes shut in the bubbling jacuzzi. The sun keeps breaking through the clouds, but everyone here knows: After that, like every day, the sky will pour out over the city for hours. The pool does not need windows, ten more floors cover it.
On a firm terry towel you lie there, far from home, by the water with strangers, bathing, dozing, row by row, imitating intimacy. It only takes a few pages and you’re nodding off, into a light sleep that feels like an hour when you wake up a few minutes later. No cell phone, no watch. The young stranger on the couch next door knows it’s a quarter past three.
He always has his business phone with him. He hasn’t been home for four years, he says. He has long black curls, an olive complexion and is from San Francisco. He went to Hong Kong for his investment company, he continues, but because of the pandemic he had to leave China. Now he lives in Bangkok, not far from the hotel. He tells many anecdotes from his many travels, from the people he met on trains and planes and on car journeys. Companion for hours.
He often comes here by the pool on the ninth floor. That’s what some Bangkokians or farangs do, westerners like him. For the spa and fitness, he tells himself, shakes his head and laughs. No, actually he just lies by the pool and then goes out to eat. There’s a pizza restaurant down by the garden, that’s where he likes to go. But pizza in Bangkok is forbidden for travellers, after all it’s available everywhere. He knows the best restaurants and jazz bars, many to recommend, many to share.
The clouds are closing in imperceptibly, it stays warm. The woman from the jacuzzi has donned a robe and nods politely as she slouches by. Two Thai women photograph themselves on the pool steps in mint-colored bathing suits cut like tutus. They stay dry because their hair is too pretty. Did he know the time again? “Right, time to go?” Two appointments are pending, up here in the ninth, a Vichy massage, a Thai massage. With the unread book under your arm, the sliding door to the spa quickly slides open.
The cell phone lights up the next day. It’s just after three. “At the pool … if you want to say hi.” He will remain what he is: stranger in Bangkok, pool attendant for half an hour.
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