And then — glancing out of the left window of my car — I saw a man.

Late middle age. Likely working as a security officer. But probably the coolest one I have ever seen.

A clean, dark navy double-pocket shirt-jacket, close to a British colonial officer model. Matching-fabric pleated trousers with plain hems. Layered over it, a short coat worn open — four pockets, utility cut, perhaps polyester. Chunky black leather boots.

He walked past my window with a cigarette in hand, letting the smoke vanish into the cloudy air.

That sight stayed with me.

Not because smoking under a grey sky is cool by nature. Because of the naturalness, the ease, within the man himself.

None of his gestures, none of his clothes, signalled any attempt at anything. And every piece he wore had a context supporting it. His job as an officer. The wind. The chance of rain — which made a utility short coat the obvious layer rather than a chosen one.

Which made me realise something. This man was not a style icon from Pinterest, or from a curated Instagram feed. And yet he embodied the exact quality I cherish in individuals.

Elegance.

The comparison I cannot get out of my mind is the first moment I landed in Milan back in last February. A car from Malpensa into the city, luggage dropped, and then walking the city for the first time in a black Prada fine worsted-wool jacket, a silk knit tie, calfskin JM Weston tassel loafers.

That was the first time I felt tremendous ease wearing full tailoring. The first time I felt I belonged to the environment around me.

Half a year back in Bangkok now, after that voyage to Lombardy, I had come to believe that tailoring — or any unconventional clothing — has no real place in this city. That the state of elegance is simply not achievable here.

That man, in his utility short coat, walking and smoking and living his life, made me think differently.

Elegant can describe an object. A jacket, a shirt, a cardigan, a dress, a suit — each can be made in an elegant form, on its own terms.

But worn on a body, the craftsmanship and the fabric and the details will not do the whole work. It is the individual who wears the clothes, not the clothes that wear the individual. Which means two further factors come into play:

Person. And context.

When I saw the man in his security-guard ensemble, layered with that four-pocket water-repellent coat, I saw something believable.

Among the concrete walls, the uneven footpaths, the unpredictable monsoon sky, the humid but breezy air — everything he wore was aligned with the environment. He works here. He lives here. He stays here, as part of an ordinary life in a city called Bangkok.

There was no contradiction in the sight — in other words — ‘frictionlessness’.

That is the thing — the alignment between a person’s own nature and the surroundings they move through.

And it is perhaps why a full tailoring ensemble, here in Bangkok, rarely produces the effect it produces in the continental cities.

Which led me to a realisation that seems largely overlooked within the sphere of style discernment, and among people who want to dress better:

The problem is that the style-inspiration images on Pinterest and in Instagram feeds are almost all seen through the lens of the major-city archetypes. New York. Milan. Paris. London. Tokyo. And directly copying the visual cues from a perfectly curated pose taken in one of those cities will rarely give you the same outcome in your own.

The security guard in his short coat. A creative kid in barrel-silhouette jeans with white socks and leather mules. Someone upper-middle-class wearing the Polo Ralph Lauren pony so convincingly that Ralph’s world transcends its continent entirely.

The biggest matter, in my own case, remains this:

That elegance I keep looking for and it is still something to be experimented with.

Refined.

Developed further.

Perhaps for a very long time.

For me, it’s a conversational place, a space that serves drinks (ideally crafted ones; either cocktails, niche wine, or some IPA beer rarely found in department stores). To tender the heart and soul of visitors, whether they come in a group, as a couple, or alone. But it’s always a place for connection (or hopefully so).

Now, I would like you to imagine the scene of a Wednesday evening, past 9 o’clock, and what I saw was a different kind of people than I normally saw at the bar called ‘Mutual Bar’—by regular standards, it’s a cocktail and after-work hangout place for white-collar workers in the CBD area; but this time, it was quieter and contained an ‘intentive aura’ that went beyond drinking and talking endlessly about life.

A ‘Lecture Bar’ is a trend that came out of nowhere but surprised me plenty. The idea of turning bar into cultural symposiums, lectures, or discussions from artists, influencers, and KOLs from different industries and sectors, from finance, sociology, and psychology to pop culture.

The first time I heard about it 3 months ago, to be honest, I was skeptical. I thought it was just a trend, a ‘counterculture’ to previous decades of hedonism, just like the mass adoption of “Longevity” buzzwords, where everyone in Bangkok seems to wake up at 6 am and go to Benjakitti Park with a ‘run club’…and perhaps I still might be right, since it has been less than a year since dozens of ‘Lecture Bars’ across the city have occurred. Only time will tell, but the more interesting thing I’ve come up with is that—whether it’s a trend or not—it’s proof that ‘meaningful conversation between humans’ is still a concern among the public and still matters—and it ‘can be done’ alongside alcohol.

This made me think of the visual image I always romanticize—the idea of intellectual salons back in the Belle Époque in Paris during the late 19th century or ‘cafe society’ in Manhattan during the early 20th century. A gathering of artists, writers, socialites, or just social climbers; both sides of interesting thinkers and, on the other, ‘clout chasers’; yet it doesn’t deny the image of well-dressed people, well-curated venues, and well-thought-out conversations. Vanity or not—it’s an experience that feels sophisticated to be in.

Back to the ‘Lecture Bar’ of 2026—that happens in Bangkok (and perhaps other major cities around the world), the reason why it relates to urban people is perhaps the erasure of ‘tradition, excessive formality, and rigidity’ from it. No dress code, no salonnière, no exclusivity based on status. Only a ticket price, a price for a drink, and that’s it…entering the ‘well-cultured’ space of modern days.

Sure, there’s certainly one who just went there for ‘content’, as I witnessed the act of taking a photo or short video of the guest and moderator on stage for an IG story, and after that, ‘got hooked’ by endless scrolling instead of what was really happening on the stage; but most people actually sat, listened, and engaged (since the discussion itself was far from a business seminar or something hyper-intellectual that sprays quotes from Schopenhauer or Descartes).

Another aspect that has shifted in context and shown itself to me is ‘how people here treat alcohol differently’.

In Europe, the idea of having a bottle of wine and a 3-hour-long conversation is certainly not a new thing. Aperitivo is an ingrained culture that unconsciously blends into the everyday lives of natives who were born and live there. However, back in the last decade, the perception of alcohol in Bangkok was far from that ‘slow burn’ but rather an intense hedonism of escapism.

Now, with this thing happening, an after-work drink, a group of people in a single space, gathering for an idea, a conversation, a connection between other humans—is another proof that drinking alcohol is not entirely bad here anymore. It serves as a companion for the night that makes dialogue smoother, ideas flow more freely—with the ‘optimal amount taken, of course’.

Hope might be the word I’d have for this trend.

Even if it’s a temporary hype for some to attend and post on IG to accumulate social capital, it doesn’t matter. It’s evidence that there’s a demand for meaningful conversation between humans. Moreover, with depth, with critical thinking…these are virtues that never fade away.

By the end of the night, after a glass of Negroni and Gin Rickey, and over an unexpected connection with another individual, I could reassure myself that night that my idea of creating my own ‘salon’ might not be a daydream anymore.

Big cities always carry a distinct narrative that serves both romance and melancholy at once. Considering that I walk past hundreds of people daily — thousands on some days — why is the idea of isolation, of loneliness, of whatever word we use to describe the disconnection between one another, still so profound?

Especially on the matter of romantic relationships.

When it comes to love, I am far from the best person to speak intelligently about it. I do not even know what that would mean. But something that happened three days ago might have brought me closer to the layers of meaning behind the term.

A rainy Thursday evening in Bangkok. Traffic jammed, as ever. A street called Song Wat — which is really a thing here right now, for tourists and locals both: the old-world neighbourhood, the cultural heritage, and the recent pop of cafés, restaurants, and creative spaces. A new area to explore.

The occasion was the grand opening of a new brand by a well-known friend, who had invited me.

It was fascinating. Very unusual, and distinct from the events I am familiar with — most of mine are menswear, design, classic-culture circles. To be exposed to a contemporary, more fashion-forward scene was a genuine shift.

I still kept my own register, of course. My obsession with tailoring, in the form of a Polo Ralph Lauren double-breasted blazer as a layering piece — though this time over a white T-shirt and white jeans, with Cuban-heel boots instead of the conventional preppy lookbook.

There were many interesting people there. People I would rarely have the context to speak with. I met plenty.

But no one compared to a young woman — very bright, very attentive — who walked the length of the store with her iPad. Clearly working the event in some capacity.

I saw her sit down for the first time in the inner part of the store, and had the chance to open with:

“Love your style. Very working-woman vibe.”

She laughed.

Teased me about the line for a while. And the rest of that half hour was a continuous exchange of respect, of ease, of stories from both sides.

Then reality arrived, in the form of a glance at my watch and the knowledge that I had to get back to editing a film.

As you may guess — it felt too bad to end the encounter like that. So I asked for her Instagram. Followed her. She followed back. Everything perfect on paper.

Until that night, after the work was done, when I found out that she was already with someone.

And once again, the city gave me its usual response:

This is more times than I can count now. A very strong connection at the first encounter, in real life — and a reality harsh enough that it could not care less how perfect the moment was.

Which is understandable. Timing rarely arranges itself for anyone’s convenience, and the people worth wanting are, almost by definition, already wanted.

That is the reality of it in 2026, I suppose.

What happened three days ago is one good example.

And what did I do afterwards?

I returned to the medium called cinema. Considering that cinema is a way of understanding the worldview someone else holds on the same subject — the writer’s, the director’s — and how they want you to experience it.

But this time it was not the nostalgic fantasy of old Hollywood. Nor an existential piece from a European auteur of the 1960s.

Something contemporary. And surprisingly, the messages there made me accept the harsh truth of it better than any of the old canon would have.

First, the film Roger Ebert described as “sweet, funny, and observant” — Swingers (1996). Which reminded me that all the gloom comes from the inside. That it comes from your own mind, and does not necessarily mean you are what your mind says you are.

Then Past Lives (2023), which I consider very faithful to Celine Song. And which arrived with a simpler and heavier idea: “Timing is crucial to a relationship. And it is unbearable that you cannot control it.”

Watching both, in a single day, after finding out the unpleasant reality — it gave me a kind of clarity.

Not in a hopeful romantic way. Not in a pessimistic one either.

Just a reminder of the reality of life, and of the nature of a big city. That it is normal to be hit by the timing factor. That it hurts a little when you find a rare individual you want to know more about, and find them unavailable, and have to shut off any further interaction.

And that it is also fine to feel it. And to continue doing it anyway.

Because that is part of being human, is it not?

The evidence that one still has the thing called a heart. And the feelings that come with it.

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.