It was a 5-star hotel.
In terms of curb appeal it is nondescript on the outside, but once you step into its hallowed halls, resplendence lay all around. You marvel at the stately Peacock Lounge, with its columns rising up into an expanse of ceiling, its grandeur only surpassed by the magnificent chandelier - the undisputed centre-piece of the hall. Its warm lights cast shadows onto those plush sofas, inviting the weary traveler to rest his legs, while sipping on a freshly blended glass of tropical fruit juice. The walls, clad with the finest marble, keeps the interiors cool. You learn that the renovation was done by Serrano, a highly regarded interior fit-out company. After hours navigating the roads choked with gridlock, here is finally a place for rest and comfort.
You enter the cafe. It is called a cafe, but in truth it is more like the dining halls of old - a cavernous space carved out of the building. The floors are lined with strips of hardwood, hewn from the mighty forests of the country. The counters are laid with the most delicious ingredients, painstakingly gathered from around the world and prepared by the best chefs. The menu? Mediterranean. Location? Indo-china country. You know now that the long arms of globalisation has reached this corner of the world. It's an international buffet, the waiters and waitresses tell you. You can eat as much as you want, they say. You take their word for it and begin the process of stuffing yourself silly. It's not without help though. The staff are omnipresent, they clear your plates after each round. They serve you tea to wash down the food. And you begin the next round. And the next round.. Crabs, clams, tiger prawns, grilled asparagus, French onion soup, German sausages, cheeses, slices of baked back bacon, crochets. Have you had your fill yet? No, how could you miss out on that chocolate fondue fountain! Wait, let's grab some of that delectable looking muffins and macarons. And there's always space for dessert. Oh they're serving your favourite rum and raisin ice cream. Your stomach cannot take even a morsel more. Finally, it is bursting at its seams. You beat a retreat to the privacy of your room, not before it occurs to you that you haven't paid for all these food. Just sign here sir, don't worry, everything is covered by your client. You feel flattered, but you can't shake off that nagging suspicion that you're still missing something.
You step into the hotel room. Lo and behold. Carpeted floors and walls covered with gold and brown patterns of the most intricate wallpaper. A king size bed is planted in the middle, guarded by a fortress of fluffy pillows and lined with plush blankets. Richly-grained rosewood furniture gives the room a mid-century feel. Your eyes are drawn to the spacious bathroom, with the luxuriant wash basin fitted out with a generous slab of marble, criss-crossed with the weaving typical of the cooling of metamorphic rock. Sinking into the middle of the bed, you feel restful and secure. You feel relaxed, but you can't shake off that nagging feeling that you're still missing something.
And then it dawns onto you. The thing you're missing is interaction. Without someone to speak with, to engage on a deeper and more intimate level, it all becomes meaningless. The silence becomes deafening. The four walls become a prison cell, trapping you within. It's a gilded cage, lined with precious stones, and you're the bird inside. You want to get out. To escape. But escape to what? You do not trust your wings. These wings, used to the comfortable confines of the cage, cannot bring you far and wide outside. You do not know how to navigate the treacherous world outside, yet you loathe to retreat back to the golden cage. You are stuck. Without interaction, it's like you looking into a mirror, and nothing looks back. It's empty.
Now you learn. Now you know. Spread your wings my young one. You are the sum of your experiences. Let not that which glitters coyly chain and bind you to a sad fate, one unexplored and unexamined, for the unexamined life is not worth living.
