Mr and Ms Prudence at the Khaoyai
by prudence on 24-Jan-2013
You remember the movie Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont? Came out in 2005. I liked it.
Well, we're not exactly there. Our place in Songkhla is not filled with fading retirees. It would not like to be mentioned in the same breath as gloomy gentility.
But it does have something of the feeling of a residential hotel. There's us, for a start. We've been here for ages. There are the oil-workers, too. They seem to rotate between the hotel and the rigs, but they're around for a good stretch at a time, and become familiar faces at the breakfast table. Then there are those who come for a few days, disappear, and come back, like homing pigeons. Language issues prevent too much conversation. But one of the oil-workers now asks us solicitously about our visas when he sees us.
You also get to know the staff. The lovely lady who straightens our room and gives us extra tissues and water. The dining-room girls who expend such effort on their make-up every morning while the rest of us are chomping through our brekkie. The dining-room guy who comes in some mornings and changes the channel (from syrupy ballads and melodramatic music videos to recognizable-anywhere breakfast TV).
And when you've been somewhere a while, it inevitably acquires an institutional feel. The rhythm of the day starts to establish itself. You start to look forward to its vital components.
Breakfast, for example. I've long been a huge fan of breakfast, and this hotel does it very, very well, with lots and lots of choice.
So every day starts with some big questions. They might just be anticipatory at first, as you descend in the lift. But once you hit the dining-room, you need to gear up immediately for implementation:
For a start, do you want rice or noodles this morning? Big one, this -- affects your subsequent choices.
What else will be on offer today? Will there be any of that lovely yellow curry? Or that juicy roast chicken? Or those soupy vegetables so delicately flavoured with star anise? Or those deliciously spicy greens? Or -- little leap of excitement here -- could it possibly be a fried-egg-salad day?
Will there be any of those little pancakes, that go so well with the daily pineapple and watermelon (and occasional papaya)? If so, will there be syrup to go with them? (Syrup is a rare treat, served only if guests have been extra-good.) Or is it a day for Chinese doughnuts? Sometimes they bring those in a bit later, so it doesn't do to be too quick with your final cup of tea. Or -- it does happen sometimes, and you have to be ready for it -- will there be pancakes AND Chinese doughnuts?
Just once -- once in nearly a month -- there was a basket of rambutans and a tray of steamed buns. Why was that, do you imagine?
One day quite soon, I will miss all this.
UPDATE: 29 January
This morning there were MANGOSTEENS! One of my favourite fruits. Grabbed three big ones, and had got them back to the table before I discovered they were running in ants... Farce from there on, as I attempt to break into the mangosteens, avoid getting their ineradicable red dye on my clothes (fingers are a lost cause), and repel the droves of ants now trying to invade all parts of my person. By the end, the table looks like the aftermath of a battle. Wow, they were good though...
Well, we're not exactly there. Our place in Songkhla is not filled with fading retirees. It would not like to be mentioned in the same breath as gloomy gentility.
But it does have something of the feeling of a residential hotel. There's us, for a start. We've been here for ages. There are the oil-workers, too. They seem to rotate between the hotel and the rigs, but they're around for a good stretch at a time, and become familiar faces at the breakfast table. Then there are those who come for a few days, disappear, and come back, like homing pigeons. Language issues prevent too much conversation. But one of the oil-workers now asks us solicitously about our visas when he sees us.
You also get to know the staff. The lovely lady who straightens our room and gives us extra tissues and water. The dining-room girls who expend such effort on their make-up every morning while the rest of us are chomping through our brekkie. The dining-room guy who comes in some mornings and changes the channel (from syrupy ballads and melodramatic music videos to recognizable-anywhere breakfast TV).
And when you've been somewhere a while, it inevitably acquires an institutional feel. The rhythm of the day starts to establish itself. You start to look forward to its vital components.
Breakfast, for example. I've long been a huge fan of breakfast, and this hotel does it very, very well, with lots and lots of choice.
So every day starts with some big questions. They might just be anticipatory at first, as you descend in the lift. But once you hit the dining-room, you need to gear up immediately for implementation:
For a start, do you want rice or noodles this morning? Big one, this -- affects your subsequent choices.
What else will be on offer today? Will there be any of that lovely yellow curry? Or that juicy roast chicken? Or those soupy vegetables so delicately flavoured with star anise? Or those deliciously spicy greens? Or -- little leap of excitement here -- could it possibly be a fried-egg-salad day?
Will there be any of those little pancakes, that go so well with the daily pineapple and watermelon (and occasional papaya)? If so, will there be syrup to go with them? (Syrup is a rare treat, served only if guests have been extra-good.) Or is it a day for Chinese doughnuts? Sometimes they bring those in a bit later, so it doesn't do to be too quick with your final cup of tea. Or -- it does happen sometimes, and you have to be ready for it -- will there be pancakes AND Chinese doughnuts?
Just once -- once in nearly a month -- there was a basket of rambutans and a tray of steamed buns. Why was that, do you imagine?
One day quite soon, I will miss all this.
UPDATE: 29 January
This morning there were MANGOSTEENS! One of my favourite fruits. Grabbed three big ones, and had got them back to the table before I discovered they were running in ants... Farce from there on, as I attempt to break into the mangosteens, avoid getting their ineradicable red dye on my clothes (fingers are a lost cause), and repel the droves of ants now trying to invade all parts of my person. By the end, the table looks like the aftermath of a battle. Wow, they were good though...