Bangkok is a luxury hotel lover’s dream. There are so many options, and they are all affordable by global standards. This trip I decided to stay at the new St. Regis Bangkok, overlooking the Royal Bangkok Sports Club. It was simply amazing!
A very comfortable room:
A very comfortable room with a view:
A lovely birthday surprise delivered by my personal butler!
Views of the Royal Bangkok Sports Club from the bar:
Rooftop infinity pool:
Forget New York; Bangkok is really the city that never sleeps.
Sixty stories above the city, at the Banyan Tree’s open-air bar:
Silom Road, bustling at all hours:
A (relatively) quiet side street:
The gay bars of Silom Soi 4:
Most people take a love-it or hate-it attitude toward Bangkok. It reminds me of Steinbeck’s opener to Cannery Row: it’s “a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream.” It is complete chaos, but fascinating. If you want an Asian experience, you can have it. If you want a purely Western experience, you can find that, too. You can do nothing, or everything. It’s also the most convenient jumping-off point for exploring Southeast Asia, so I dropped in for a few days during my 30th birthday week travels.
Lumphini Park, where I attempted to run despite the swampy climate:
The contrasts of Bangkok:
The last photo ever taken of me as a 20-something (do I look terrified?):
The new CB2 on Robson Street, part of the new PaPa development, formerly home to Kimpton’s Pacific Palisades hotel (and my own home in Vancouver for longer than I can remember).
The Shangri-La, Vancouver’s tallest tower (and best hotel, of course):
A little art outside the Shangri-La:
With my friend James for a leisurely afternoon of libations atop the Oasis:
I’ve been a slouch in the running department all winter, but that didn’t stop me from continuing my annual spring tradition of doing the Vancouver Sun Run. It was my slowest time in seven years – but I survived! The Sun Run has one of the best courses anywhere – winding through downtown streets, Stanley Park, across two bridges, and with the most amazing views of mountains and the sea. It’s a runner’s must-do.
Here’s the start, looking east down Georgia Street to the 50,000 runners!
The annual New York benefit for the National Lesbian & Gay Journalists Association is always a blast – a great party for a great organization.
The gang (very Vanity Fair, if you ask me):
With Aaron:
Eva and CNN’s Don Lemon:
I’ve never had much desire to go to Palm Springs – until my friends Brian and Dean rented a house for a month and invited me to come visit last week! I fell in love with the place and can’t wait to go back.
Amazing little airport that I could happily never land at again (scary!):
Cute house and pool:
In-pool margaritas and serious conversation with Brian:
Less serious conversation over Palm Springs Iced Tea at Wang’s in the Desert:
Dean is not amused:
After making it safely and swiftly out of Brussels, I headed to Paris — perhaps the most reliable destination on the planet! And as always, it was perfect.
A bit of ice skating at the Hotel de Ville (Paris City Hall):
My favorite corner of the Marais, outside Open Cafe:
Mourning Whitney:
Place des Vosges (no DSK sightings):
Quite the window display on rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie!
My fav bar in Paris, Cox:
Very cool (and ancient) storefront:
Like all good things, Paris eventually must come to an end. But not before an Air France A380 adventure across the Atlantic:
When you find yourself in Brussels, there’s nothing better to do than get out – fast. Thank god for Thalys! And thank god Paris is only 80 minutes away!
Paris Gare du Nord:
Thalys Comfort 1 service:
Occasionally, one is so desperate to get out of town that we make poor choices. Such was the case last weekend when I hopped on a plane to an incredibly dreary and cold Brussels. Next time I’ll save Belgium for summer.
Palais Royal de Bruxelles (Royal Palace of Brussels):
Mail slot on a tiny side street:
Grand Place:
Six years ago today, I moved to New York, a place I never wanted to live — and that now I can’t imagine ever leaving.
Within an hour of arriving on that dark and dreary Saturday night, my friend Paul whisked me to Therapy (the Hell’s Kitchen bar, not the counseling session, thank you very much) for a raucous night of cocktails and meeting new friends.
Immediately, my biggest fear of moving to New York–not being able to break into this famously tough town–proved unfounded.
I moved for work, not because I’d ever desired to live here. Growing up, our lives were more oriented to Montréal and Boston, where I lived for years. New York was never part of the picture.
In the interview for the job that brought me here, my future boss even cited an excerpt from this very blog in which I wrote that I couldn’t imagine wanting to live in New York. (But I was depressed then, I told her. And times change!)
It turns out I fell in love, and six years on, New York is still magical.
The other night, as I crossed Sixth Avenue in a drizzle and gazed south, to the twinkling lights of lower Manhattan, I had one of those New York moments. Like that feeling you get when the skyline swings into view on the drive in from LaGuardia, or during walks across Central Park, when you can’t help but stop in your tracks on the Great Lawn or the Sheep Meadow to marvel at the expanse of green and the towers beyond.
To me, New York is not Times Square, the image it often represents to the world. New York pulses with energy, that is a known fact. But the city is also incredibly intimate, despite its size.
New York is the quiet nights at Turks and Frogs, talking politics and books with the bartender. New York is the day your barista tells you she’s moving away and will miss serving you every morning.
New York is the friends. The sad days when we say goodbye to old ones, and the hope that comes from the new ones we’re constantly meeting in what must be the most social city on the planet. New York is always having a place to go where people know your name, and just as many where no one knows it, when that’s all you need.
New York is the dog days of summer on the sidewalk at the Duplex that you don’t want to end, and that you wish you’d worn the sunscreen for.
New York is high brow and low brow. The simple pleasure of brunch at Jackson Hole and the indulgence of drinks in the clouds at the Mandarin. Lincoln Center. The Met. The Monster. Laying on the grass and reading a book at the Christopher Street Pier. Walking down Fifth Avenue with the sun in your face.
I don’t know how better to describe New York.
“The deepest aspects of life are about wordlessness,” Pico Iyer wrote. “Something you can’t articulate.”
With 2,190 New York days under my belt, I don’t think I’ve gone a single one saying I hate this place. And while it’s true I’m a compulsive traveler and love nothing more than to escape to the wilds of Maine or British Columbia, or lust after the romance of Paris, the truth is, there’s no place like this.
“Once you have lived in New York and made it your home,” Steinbeck said, “no place else is good enough.”
My friend Donny had the bright idea of escaping New York for Ireland in January…fortunately it turned out there was snow in New York, so this windswept isle was actually warmer…but nevermind.
Although I’ve been to Dublin before, I apparently missed the memo about St. Michan’s Church being a must-see destination (according to Donny). This completely nondescript church features a bizarre crypt where the creepy tour guide insisted we touch a fully exposed dead body for good luck. This, he explained, as he switched effortlessly between Italian and English for no apparent reason (or maybe he was just speaking in tongues).
Dublin is an incredibly fun town. And being only 5 1/2 hours from New York, it’s hard to resist (but only for two nights and then it’s time to go home).
Only in Dublin…
Seen around the city:
I love end-of-year lists! Here’s a quick look back at 2011:
RANDOMS
High point: A jubilant New York Pride after same-sex marriage is legalized
Low point: The devastating goodbye to my friend Andrew Embiricos
Best concert: Sade (unreal!)
Best film: Incendies (even if you know no French or Arabic, you’ll be gripped.)
TRAVEL
Countries visited: 13
Best day trip: Paris for Bastille Day
Biggest let down: Atlanta and Rome
Most surprising destination: Cambodia
Place I won’t be able to shut up about: Beirut
Best hotels: Raffles Phnom Penh and Louis Hotel Munich
FLIGHTS
Total flights: 59
Total airlines: 11
Total mileage: 114,619
Most flown airlines: Lufthansa (14 flights); JetBlue (13 flights)
Best flight: Qatar Airways New York-Doha
Worst flight: I’m not telling
10 GREAT BOOKS
1. From Beirut to Jerusalem
2. Persian Mirrors: The Elusive Face of Iran
3. Vancouver Special
4. Odessa: Genius and Death In a City of Dreams
5. Shut Up, I’m Talking: And Other Diplomacy Lessons I Learned in the Israeli Government
6. Justice on the Grass: Three Rwandan Journalists, Their Trial for War Crimes and a Nation’s Quest for Redemption
7. Dubai: Gilded Cage
8. The Shia Revival
9. The New Lion of Damascus: Bashar al-Asad and Modern Syria
10. The Invention of Paris: A History in Footsteps
10 GREAT SONGS (my iTunes most-played)
1. “Sirens of the Sea” (OceanLab)
2. “On a Good Day” (OceanLab)
3. “Heartbreak” (M’Black)
4. “Voyage, Voyage” (Kate Ryan)
5. “Wrapped Around Your Finger” (Police)
6. “The Edge of Glory” (Lady Gaga)
7. “The Unwinding Cable Car” (Anberlin)
8. “Million Dollar Bill” (Whitney Houston)
9. “Someone like You” (Adele)
10. “Sooner or Later” (Matt Kearney)
“To travel is to discover that everyone is wrong about other countries.” -Aldous Huxley
After a great Christmas in the real Paris, I decided to head off on a whim to the Paris of Middle East. It turns out that the Beirut’s old nickname is not far off the mark.
My first impression of Beirut was a unique one: nearly 90 minutes to get out of the airport, standing in long queues as every stamp in my passport was scrutinized by one agent, then a second, and then a third. They don’t seem to mess around with those who have stamps from Israel, with whom Lebanon remains officially at war.
Finally in a taxi, I quickly got over my initial pockmarked views on the drive into town from the airport and ultimately found an incredibly welcoming and beautiful city that lived up to its reputation as the region’s sophisticated party capital.
Beirut was the first city I ever visited where I saw a tank in the street. Soldiers and security guards seemed to be found every few yards — even more than in Cairo, a place where they crawling around everywhere — making the city feel incredibly safe (some might feel the opposite is true). One Cairo similarity: both cities have such oppressive, smog-choked air, that it’s nearly impossible to breathe.
Here, contrasting architecture abounds:
It’s hard to believe that for most of my lifetime Lebanon has been immersed in civil war. There are few signs of strife left in the streets, with most of Beirut having been rebuilt, flush with money from Europe and the Gulf. The city feels incredibly safe, with only the occasional vacant lot or bombed-out building to remind us of how things were:
The still-standing shell of the Holiday Inn, site of the 1975 “war of the hotels“:
For a language fanatic, Beirut is a dream. Every interaction in shops, restaurants and on the bustling streets is a melange of Arabic, English, and French (with all three often used in a single sentence!). I made use of all ten words in my Arabic vocabulary this trip (a simple shukran goes a long way), but having passable French made life easier. An English-only speaker would probably encounter no problems.
The impressive Al-Omari Mosque:
In contrast to the rest of the Arab world, gay life does indeed exist here! One day I lingered at Bardo, one of the gay bars highlighted in the 2009 New York Times article that described Beirut as the “Provincetown of the Middle East.” At lunchtime, I was the only person in the place. By late night, even on a weekday, the place was packed. In that piece, The Times wrote that “Beirut represents a different Middle East for some gay and lesbian Arabs: the only place in the region where they can openly enjoy a social life denied them at home.”
For a tourist, Beirut feels incredibly carefree — which seems even more incredible, given the city’s war-torn past and still-heightened security concerns. With its glittering downtown, spectacular Mediterranean climate, and its relatively liberal French-influenced attitude, living here seems good (certainly as long as you don’t happen to be one of the refugees living in camps on the southern fringes of the city).
Still, there is no denying that Beirut is in a bad neighborhood.
It was hard not to think, as I sat in the beautiful Place de L’Etoile enjoying a cappuccino and watching kids dance in the pedestrian-only streets, that just 60 miles to the east, the regime of Bashar al-Assad was carrying out unbelievable atrocities in Damascus.
Sometimes it’s just so hard to stay home in New York when Paris beckons! This year I took off for France a few days to celebrate the Christmas holiday. It’s a great time to be in the city – the weather is not too shabby and it’s as romantic as ever.
A spectacular day outside the Louvre:
Fabulousness at Les Jardin des Tuileries:
A shop in Le Marais:
A fabulous installation outside the Centre Pompidou:
In Le Marais, at Sly Bar, a fabulous Santa drag queen. On Christmas Eve, they served profiteroles and macarons on a silver tray to all! (Only in Paris.)
Some festive decorations at Raidd Bar in Le Marais:
“With death comes honesty.” -Salman Rushdie
Today would have been the 26th birthday of the one and only Andrew Ali Aga Khan Embiricos (1985-2011), my unbelievably gregarious friend who died one week ago.
I don’t know exactly when he entered my life. It was maybe four or five years ago, on Eighth Avenue in Chelsea. He was bopping down the street, listening to music with gigantic headphones I thought looked ridiculous. But he had a look about him, something mysterious that intrigued me. Time passed, and I’d occasionally see him around, in restaurants and bars, and of course still bopping on Eighth Ave.
Then one day a couple years later, a friend said he wanted me to meet a guy he knew. The three of us showed up at a bar, and when I saw him, I was floored. “This is Andrew?” It was the same handsome guy I’d seen in passing for years, but had never met.
Our connection that night was instant (Planes. Paris. Various other “P” words perhaps not fit for publication.) It was if I’d reconnected with a long lost friend. Of course that’s how Andrew made everyone feel.
On a Sunday morning last April, around the time he started the job at Virgin Atlantic that he was so excited about, he suggested we wake up at the crack of dawn to do the JFK Runway Run. I picked him up to drive out to Queens (he brought Cascada CDs, of course) and I was confused when I saw him toting along a loaf of sliced bread. When I asked him what the hell that was for, he explained he’d gone on Google for racing tips, and found one about starch-loading before a race to improve performance. (I don’t think Wonder Bread was what they had in mind.)
That morning was so brisk, and Andrew so poorly dressed, he put on the free race participant t-shirt, which was only available in XL (or XXL?). With his trim figure, he looked so ridiculous, but laughed it off as we ran five kilometers under the path of jets landing from places like Dubai and Johannesburg. He was so excited be in the thick of the airport action. His energy was always contagious. I’m surprised we ever crossed the finish line because we spent so much time plane-gazing and laughing and joking along the course. He ended up beating me — the one of us actually on a running team! — by four seconds and I never forgave him.
One of us in Lululemon, one of us…not.
Another time, we were on a Delta flight (who else would he fly?) when I had an allergic reaction that caused my lip to swell. We landed in Salt Lake City and in typical Andrew fashion, he expressed increasing and genuine concern at my new “plastic” look before laughing uncontrollably and suggesting I just tell everyone I’d been to Orange County. That night in Park City, it was my go-to line.
A true aviation geek, he once called me to debate — for 45 minutes — the merits of spending nearly $1,000 on a massive set of KLM delft houses on eBay. “This asshole keeps outbidding me!” he said. I eventually talked him out of it. With all his Delta “collectibles,” there was no room in his apartment for another village of airline crap. His agonizing over the purchase made for a good laugh, just like every interaction with him did.
“Death is a great revealer of what is in a man, and in its solemn shadow appear the naked lineaments of the soul.” -E.H. Chapin
This past Thursday, after days of dreading the prospect of it, his funeral came.
I tried to hold back the tears as hundreds of loved ones came together on the Upper East Side to celebrate his life. The tributes were all so touching. His friend Czarina read comments that had poured in from around the world on Facebook. “Andrew had 1,211 friends on Facebook,” she said, “and I think every single one of them has posted a remembrance this week.” They all described him the same way: smart, unselfish, and always full of laughter. One person announced that although Andrew didn’t know it, he was soon going to receive a promotion at Virgin Atlantic. (Back in April, when he started there, he texted me SO excited to say “I think I’ve found my industry!”)
His friend Aaron remarked that there was no shortage of people who considered Andrew their best friend, but there was never competition for the title because he was so generous with his love and friendship there was enough to go around for everyone.
I was doing OK until Andrew’s casket was carried out of the chapel. I finally broke down. It was finally real. He wasn’t coming back.
I decided to walk the 60 blocks home that day to clear my head. It was a beautiful day; all the way down Fifth Avenue, the sun was shining so bright and high in the sky. I stopped at a church (quite a feat for this agnostic), lit a candle, and sat and closed my eyes for a few minutes. Later, when I reached Andrew’s building — we lived steps away from each other — I stopped and looked up and just cried at the drawn curtains of his sixth-floor apartment.
That day, a friend remarked online that the streets of our city seemed oddly void of their usual energy. It does seem duller, less vibrant without Andrew’s smile and incredible energy.
Andrew’s death has left a hole in the heart of all who knew him well.
Boo, we’ll miss you, but like your mom said to me when she tried to comfort ME (how selfish of me!) as I wept at your funeral, we’ll always smile at the memories. (Except for those awful sneakers you know I hated. And your inability to ever decorate your apartment.)
La mort c’est jamais la fin d’une histoire.
Last month, I attended the International Center for Journalists annual awards dinner in Washington, where Cambodian documentarian Thet Sambath was honored. His film, “Enemies of the People” chronicles years of interviews he conducted with Nuon Chea, the Khmer Rouge’s no. 2 man. It was only after a number of years of filming him before Thet Sambath admitted to Nuon Chea that his own parents were among those killed by the regime. The film is excellent — scary, enlightening, and heartbreaking.
I’ve never been keen on Thanksgiving cuisine, so this year I bailed on the entire holiday and fled for Italy. A few snaps from around the Eternal City:
My first morning in Phnom Penh, I stopped by the hotel concierge for tips — after all, I came to Asia not knowing I would even end up in Cambodia, so I came with no plans and no guidebook.
“Would you like to do the happiness tour or the sadness tour?” he asked me. The “happiness tour,” he explained, involved shopping. The “sadness tour,” of which he spoke so plainly, was really the Khmer Rouge tour. I admittedly only had a cursory knowledge of the Khmer Rouge years before visiting Cambodia, so I jumped on it.
The first stop on the tour brought me to the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, the school-turned-prison where Pol Pot and his regime killed held, tortured, and killed everyone from city dwellers to intellectuals to kids.
The simple “museum” seemed more like an untouched relic from its 1975-1979 reign of terror, with implements of torture available to touch and feel:
Photos throughout the museum reminded of us those lost here. Of an estimated 17,000 people who were detained, fewer than a dozen came out alive.
From the prison, we headed out into the countryside, past endless miles of factories where labels like Gap and J. Crew are stiched, to the killing fields at Choeung Ek. One of countless Khmer Rouge killing fields throughout the country, this one-time orchard was beautiful and utterly depressing.
The memorial tower, the only bit of “formality” on what is otherwise acres and acres of seemingly unspoiled greenery. The tower is filled with the skulls of Khmer Rouge victims:
A couple of the many simple, horrifying placards on the site:
With teeth and bits of clothing rising to the ground’s surface after heavy rains, you could feel the recency of the genocide. In that sense, there was no comparing the experience of visiting the Khmer Rouge sites versus visiting Holocaust sites. The two feel very different, perhaps because Cambodia’s darkest years occurred almost during my own lifetime. Also, in every encounter, the people of Phnom Penh were absolutely willing to talk freely and frankly about those years.
A gorgeous site, where unbelievable atrocities occurred:
