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.