Perhaps it is the fact that the spot sits on the 56th floor, among the thirty tallest buildings in town — offering the full, wide landscape of Bangkok, especially at dusk. You see the LED lights everywhere. From the vibrance of Ratchaprasong, full of traffic jams and malls, to the end of the horizon that vividly gives you the feeling of the city that never sleeps.

Cocktails are probably the other thing that brings me back again and again. As a bar recognised by Tatler, the classics I love — Americano, Negroni, Martini, Whisky Highball — have never disappointed me.

Though lately, since every concierge, waitress, and bartender remembers my face and the dinner attire I wear for the place, I have taken to asking the bartenders to make something unique, something that fits my mood. My last drink was a Bangkok Sling. Normally it would be the Singapore Sling, which uses pineapple juice. This one used guava, with a spiced garnish, to make it Bangkok in his own interpretation.

That is the charm of cocktails, I suppose. The art of making a drink to tend someone’s soul, in whatever mood they arrive in.

But the true highlight — the reason I am addicted to this place, and to many great cocktail bars across Bangkok — is the ambiguity of it.

The experiences vary.

From witnessing a shouting match that almost turned into a fistfight, at the very level of five-star hotel prestige. To the economist who also adored Martinis and James Bond, and ended up in conversation with me until midnight. To the elegant lady in a black dress who walked over and asked me to take a photograph of her, and who later became a companion hard to forget — an orchestra performance one night, an afternoon museum walk another.

Which has led me to a realisation.

A big city. Especially Bangkok, where lights, neon, and the sound of automobiles and motorcycles run at all hours. Even with millions of lives living in the very same city, to find someone to simply sit down with — to have an inspiring conversation, to connect at a substantial level beyond a shallow exchange on social media — is rare.

And putting myself alone at the bar allows me to deal with it.

Not perfectly, for sure. Some nights, it gets even emptier than before.

But many times it has given me unforgettable evenings. And a small hope that real-life connection — without mutual followers, without the algorithm’s introduction — is still possible. Even if it becomes harder and harder to find.

So: the evening, in modern evening attire.

Think of a midnight-blue worsted wool dinner jacket with a satin shawl lapel — the kind Cary Grant wore in To Catch a Thief, or Sean Connery in Dr. No. But forgo the bow tie. Forgo the galon-striped trousers. Keep only the jacket, as a reminder of the ritual, of the sophistication of wearing one to a place that still deserves it.

Even if no one else is wearing it anymore.

And then the place itself. The 56th floor, carrying that prestigious Manhattan name. The gold shimmer of the Art Deco interior.

I think it is a charm that nothing else replaces. Especially if you go alone — and see what the universe might hand you.

Something, or someone, to observe. Or to engage with.

“I used to wonder what kind of an armchair costs $2,500. Now I understand.”

That was a quote from my friend, who invited me to the showcase of vintage furniture and objects called Open (House) Vol. 1, presented by the curator and manufacturer Archives Design.

While my eyes and mind were far from functioning at 100% — since I had to direct a campaign at the airport at 4 a.m., and had not gotten any sleep — by the time I arrived at the showroom at 11 a.m., my brain was in less than an ideal state.

However, every piece there energised and fascinated me, just like when a boy sees an exotic car, or a girl sees a beautiful dress.

The highlight was certainly the Chandigarh works by Pierre Jeanneret — which have recently ridden a wave of hype among Bangkok’s upper-class, design-conscious crowd. Though, for me, they do not quite speak to my own taste.

The others were from iconic names that any design-oriented person would recognise — Isamu Noguchi, Poul Henningsen, Le Corbusier. And I would say the prices of those pieces are very tempting. High enough to make them worthwhile as collectible vintage pieces, but not so overhyped or inflated as to become questionable. Of course, Pierre Jeanneret remains the exception. I still think the prices are relatively high compared to decades ago.

(Though it seems that almost every piece by the Frenchman has already been sold, based on what my friend told me.)

Then I finally asked her the thing I had been tempted to ask her — or anyone in this sector — for a very long time.

The context is that there is an ongoing debate, both online and in real life, that I have encountered from two sides.

One side says that anyone who does not buy a vintage or officially licensed piece — like an Eames Lounge Chair from Herman Miller, or Mies van der Rohe’s Barcelona Chair from Knoll — is “just a pretentious broke person violating the designer’s copyright.”

The other side says:

“One of the core ideas behind furniture — or any well-designed object — from Eames, Wegner, and many other twentieth-century designers, was to make good design accessible to more people. Not just to a privileged few.”

“And a replica, if it is well-crafted and true to the original designer’s intentions, can be a direct homage to the core philosophy of mid-century design.”

The answer my friend gave me… I promised to keep between us.

But if I have to share my own take, it would be this:

I like to think of it from the perspective of reproduction clothing in the workwear and vintage denim market.

Think of the Levi’s 501 during the golden era of denim in the 1960s. It inspired many purist Japanese denim makers to craft their own jeans as a tribute — recreating the authentic silhouette and details of Levi’s from that era. Something that Levi’s itself can no longer do. Or simply chooses not to.

But the difference between the reproduction of vintage clothing and the replica of iconic furniture probably lies in one harsh truth:

You can still buy a brand-new piece from the exact licensed manufacturer.

So by choosing not to do so, you are clearly not staying true to the commercial rights of the original design.

That remains an argument that cannot be denied.

In the end, I do not think I have the right to judge someone for buying a replica of an LC4 Chaise Longue. They might genuinely admire the purist expression of modernism made famous by Le Corbusier — yet they are in their early twenties, living in a developing country, and do not come from a wealthy family with money to spare.

I do not own any replica pieces myself. Not yet.

Just like with clothing, when it comes to furniture of such iconic status, I would rather buy pre-owned. Though in cases like the Chandigarh series by Pierre Jeanneret — where there is no longer an official manufacturer, and the vintage market has pushed prices so high — ownership is reserved for only those who earn handsomely.

This morning was different from most.

Normally I would drive to a local park where the hanging bar, the dip bar, and the 3-kilometre runway are used for training. But this morning, I was driving past the usual spot. Along the highway to the airport — with less traffic than usual. Of course, it was 4 a.m., and the city was surely silent. Only trucks, taxis, and the restless nocturnal creatures shared the road with me.

The idea was this.

Lately I have been thinking about the thing I wished I had done as a teenager. Watching Miami Vice. Seeing Don Johnson as Sonny Crockett in a black Ferrari Daytona — which I later learned was a replica built on a Corvette chassis. There is a special allure to that scenery. The idea of you, a car, and an empty road. Cruising along without any worry.

Decades later, I thought to myself:

The spot I ended up at, by 5.00 a.m., was the upper roofless parking area of an airport. I was the only person there, obviously.

The sun began to rise. The sky had turned blue and brighter over time. In my hand was a cup of iced black coffee, picked up from a 24-hour drive-through along the highway I had cruised. I stood there, beside my car, sipping the coffee — tasting the deep aroma of the northern-Thai beans — with the air of freedom flowing in and out of me.

I spotted two planes in the hour I stood there.

One arriving.

One departing.

The airport is a place I have always enjoyed. Whether picking up a friend, departing on my own, or, like this morning, simply being there — watching planes take off and land. The symbolism of it is likely the idea I adore:

The endless possibilities of how one life can be lived. The places one can go. The experiences that await in the unknown future.

No wonder the idea of the airport still lingers whenever I think of it — the romantic visual of the Golden Age of aviation, the glamour of air travel, airport style in the 1980s and 1990s, the jet-age destinations.

But the romance of solitude in the parking lot soon came to an end.

The tropical rain of Bangkok began its run, as the city awoke. And — with my shirt in pure silk from Ermenegildo Zegna, my trousers in linen, and suede fisherman sandals on my feet — this ensemble was far from friendly with water.

I opened the car door, started the engine, placed the remaining quarter of my coffee in the cup holder, and drove back to where I had come from.

Before the Friday roads began to get hectic.

Before the typical tempo of the city disrupted my agenda.

And once again — this suit is going to be one that fails to function as a suit, just like the first one. A tan-cream cotton seersucker, single-breasted.

I do not know why I love the idea of making a tailored bespoke piece — one that reflects the taste and worldview of my own, in the form of a suit — and having it be rebellious. Existing outside the expectation that society places on the function of it. But that, perhaps, is the thrill.

Imagine a navy suit that fails to be a navy suit. One that you cannot wear to the business meeting, the boardroom, the professional setting — unless you are the chairman, working in the tech sector, or holding enough leverage in the room that your decision affects the whole agenda.

This double-breasted suit, made of Solbiati Art du Lin: the jacket is unstructured, unlined, 6x1 configuration, low buttoning stance. The trousers are full-cut, wide leg opening, double reverse pleated, cuffed hem. Known, in effect, as a flowing with the wind suit. Beautifully drapes, without any rigidity. A suit to be lived in.

Very Richard Gere in his breakthrough film — American Gigolo (1980).

But why am I so obsessed with the suit?

To be honest, even I — who consider myself a man deeply devoted to sartorial matters, a connoisseur, in and out of the industry — I rarely wear a full suit anymore. Perhaps it is the fact that I am living in Bangkok now. But even in Milan earlier this year, I also preferred odd jacket and odd trousers.

So why do I keep dreaming of, imagining, and desiring the experience —

Of selecting fabric.

Of talking with the clothier.

Of choosing the details of the garment.

Of the feeling of a measuring tape around my body —

Knowing that the piece will be mine, and mine alone?

And then there is the recent Ralph Lauren Purple Label & Polo Spring/Summer 2027 menswear collection — the talk of the town, and the thing that stormed my social media feed. I found myself thinking out loud: “God, these models look so good.”

Even after the hundred or so times that Ralph Lauren — both as a brand and as an individual — has portrayed this aesthetic.

The dinner jacket worn with cream trousers. A tailored jacket paired with shorts and fisherman sandals. Even the slim-fit Polo-line pinstripe suits that I know, for sure, only look good on a specific type of body.

That runway show reminded me of why I fell in love with tailoring in the first place.

They are a reminder of where I have come from — and of how I can become the person I want to be.

It reminds me of the first time I bought a very poor-quality off-the-rack navy suit for $100, and felt like Sean Connery in From Russia With Love — even though the fit was completely off.

The first time I went to a local tailor and commissioned a linen, high-waisted, double forward-pleated pair of trousers — even though the resulting silhouette was a disaster, and I basically wasted the $250. Because once my knowledge and taste had developed enough to realise what my ideal silhouette actually looked like, I could not bear to look at the mirror.

And I guess — this is the reason.

Even though practically, culturally, and realistically, the modern world dictates that suits no longer need to be worn in daily life. Even though commissioning one — which certainly costs some money — will likely mean the piece hangs in the closet more than it is worn.

Though I always try to come up with creative ways to wear it out as often as possible.

It is like a guilty pleasure, I think.

One that logically is not enough to justify.

But that serves as an emotional anchor. As identity reinforcement. Something that happens to be worn — even though it is worn less often than a pair of vintage Brooks Brothers wool trousers I bought for $15, which turned out to be the garment I wear almost daily.

Mostly well known for the golden shimmering of temples, the long walls of the Grand Palace, and a bright tropical sun — that is the visual of this city through the lens of travellers and cultural mass perception. But most of the time, including the morning at the beginning of this weekday, the place has always held a different tempo.

Seamless roads. Effortless parking. Walking along to a café that resembles a patisserie in Paris. At my usual spot: the balcony that allows me to absorb the moment and come to the thought —

“This is a life that few would experience.”

There is a chance you might read that thought as a snobbish voice. Trust me, it is the opposite.

Even for me, sometimes.

Because the urge to take photos, to check emails, to check social media, to see whatever the world is up to — is there all the time. Even with the quiet morning. Even with monks doing their alms-gathering walk. Even with the noise of the city that has yet to come. At the most peaceful vantage point, it is still happening.

I do not have the answer to it. Not yet, and perhaps not for a long while.

What I do have is this morning. The espresso, gone slightly cool by now. The temple monastery across the road, catching the early light against its tiered roof. A motorcycle that passes and then is gone. The sound of a metal shutter being lifted, somewhere down the street.

And the small, persistent recognition — sitting here on this balcony, on this Tuesday — that the answer to the question I have just asked myself is being given, quietly, by the morning itself.

Sit longer. Notice more. Resist the next thing for a little longer than the day before.

The question of why presence is so difficult does not need to be solved in one morning. It only needs to be held, gently, while the morning continues to happen.

Which, in the end, is what the balcony is for.