One of the first things you notice when you travel to Asian cities is how the Western corporations appropriate the local traditions to fit in. Usually it’s about as culturally comfortable as your dad wearing a bindi to a Hindu wedding (this analogy doesn't work if your dad is Hindu, of course).

In Bangkok, for example, the sight of Ronald MacDonald doing his forced clownish bowing outside the Thai outposts of his fast food chain never fails to illicit a cringe though maybe it’s better than him not doing it? I don’t know, you’d have to ask a local, but to me it feels a bit ‘white person wearing native headdress to Coachella’.

Starwood are a western brand but with their much-vaunted W Bangkok hotel, they’ve thrown themselves into placing this property with so much gusto you can only really admire it. Just walking into the lobby is an assault in the senses as vivid Thai imagery comes at you from every corner.

Some 80,000 crystals have been employed in huge collages amid the black marble backdrop and foreground of young fashion bloggers looking at their phone screens. A tiger fights a phoenix for…reasons? A lobby nymph does explain it to me but my old ears lose the thread beneath the curated trip-hop.

The other motifs include Thai Boxing – lobby drinking booths are fashioned over traditional ringside fixtures – and pimped-up tuk-tuks with artistic light installations. It’s kind of spectaular, like if young people had a go at redesigning Vegas.

In London or New York, you’d expect a hefty dose of disdain from the staff if you didn’t show up wearing Skrillex t-shirt but that famed Thai hospitality shines on through and the staff can’t help but be wonderfully helpful.

If you’ve stayed at Ws before, you know what you’re in for with the rooms – bold colours and tech-forward amenities with local touches that double as expensive souvenirs. The latter in this case is a delightful pair of oversized gold Thai boxing gloves (no, YOU danced around in your pants pretending to be Rocky).

Adjusting the lighting and temperature from a tablet still feels wonderfully futuristic to me, but I remember Friendster, so what do I know? In short, the rooms are great and if W prices are a bit too rich for you in Western cities, then the value on parade in Thailand provides a good opportunity to try it out.

Across the forecourt is a very different experience altogether. Still part of the hotel, the House on Sathorn (named after the road/neighbourhood we’re in) is a painstakingly-restored 19th century mansion that was formerly the Russian embassy in Thailand. It has beautiful, wood-framed colonial dining rooms and an expansive courtyard which had a DJ even at 10am when I looked around (possibly still there from the night before).

The to-be-expected modern freebies are all present and correct – fast, free WiFi so that stream of Instagram updates of you wearing your pants and huge boxing gloves needn’t suffer, and a breakfast buffet (if you book that rate) that is on a par with the city’s most sumptuous. If you’re into that sort of thing, the spa is pretty space-age and the rooftop pool delivers what all rooftop pools are supposed to in terms of views and a feeling of quiet superiority.

The immediate neighbourhood, Sathorn, took a few years to catch up to the W but there should now be enough cafes, bars and restaurants to keep those fashion bloggers happy. I didn’t see a bowing Ronald MacDonald, but it’s probably just a matter of time.  (PO)

The last time I was in an Anantara property, around a decade ago, I took a weird driving test. It was in the northern Thai city of Chiang Rai, and out in the forest, the hotel’s resident elephant expert taught me as best he could how to steer an elephant, with – let’s be honest – mixed results.

Memories of that (very ethically run) camp came flooding back as I checked into the palatial Anantara Siam Bangkok, coinciding with a curiosity about the city credentials of a brand I’d previously associated with grand resorts.

The Anantara Siam Bangkok is downtown, but, like, posh downtown – that stretch round the corner from Chit Lom where the Royal Bangkok Sports Club is and the Grand Hyatt and the St Regis. You’re in a fairly average shopping district and then you turn down Ratchadamri Road and it’s like one of those lifestyle magazines you only see in airport lounges.

Its previous incarnation as the Four Seasons, and some characteristics remain, though it’s been given a colourful flourish. The marble staircase steals the show in the lobby, which is no small feat considering the silk murals and frescoed walls and intricate mandalas on the ceilings. I’d arrived pretty late, and though welcome drinks are never that much of a chore, I didn’t stand on ceremony and hightailed it up to my room.

The view would have to wait until morning, and I just had chance to note the solidly 5-star décor – nothing too flashy, marble bathroom, dark woods with colourful silk accents – before conking out.

The next morning, I got the full postcard treatment, the panoramic greenery of the Royal Bangkok Sports Club’s horse racing track and golf course spread out before the hotel, like you’d paid to be in a particularly nice stand. I’m a fan of the shambolic chaos of Bangkok, but this landscaped oasis works as well.

I went to stretch my legs, and was grateful for the handy smartphone that comes with the room, my jetlagged fug meaning my already poor sense of direction was way off kilter, the online maps helping me find my way back for further exploration of the property.

The hotel restaurants and shops are largely collected around a large indoor tropical garden, and it’s here that we can finally address the elephants in the room. They’re here largely due to an apparent partnership with the famed Jim Thompson House, hanging on the walls in colourful silks and carved from dark teak.

Thompson, of course, is the mysterious (he disappeared without a trace) importer/exporter of Thai artefacts and his empire is now a museum and retail one. The main court at the Siam enjoys a healthy dollop of his tasteful décor, some of the arcade walls also home to some striking contemporary local art.

It felt rude not to eat a lunch that Mr Thompson might have approved of, so despite the international dining options available, I lunched at the Spice Market. The deep-fried fish cakes and crab meat salad leading into a spicy sour orange curry, a new one on me but something I’ll look out for again.

​Sadly, that was the extent of my one-night stay and I left the Anantara without having taken any elephant driving tests, instead just wishing that I could steer my tuk-tuk driver with anything approaching the same amount of control. No, sir I do not want to drop in on your cousin’s jewel shop on the way to the next hotel, but thanks for offering…

In January 2013, I was sent to Nepal for the weirdest of reasons: to write about conference facilities in Kathmandu. Yes, not exactly cutting edge reportage but whatever gets you there, right? I counted myself pretty lucky - I stayed in a plush hotel and by day, a couple of local guides took me around the Boudha Stupa (one of the holiest places in the world for Tibetan Buddhists) and Durbar Square  (pictured). Despite the mud tracks that sometime passed for roads in what is a capital city and the obvious disparity of wealth, it was hard not be charmed. There's a Monkey Temple. Who doesn't love monkey temples? Sociopaths, that's who. 

After almost a week (during which I'd also hopped over to Pokhara), I was desperate for some nightlife, and one evening, I headed to the expat neighbourhood of Thamel. After an astonishingly great Whiskey Sour in Maya Cocktail Bar, I wandered into a music venue, where some kids were playing feedback-heavy versions of 90s rock songs. I heard English voices across the table, introduced myself and was soon talking to, and trading shots with, Nicole Wick Thakuri. I found out that she was a Swiss national who had lived there for years, and ran an orphanage called Nawa Asha Ghira (NAG). As we said our goodnights, she asked if I'd like to see it the next day. It was too weird an offer to turn down. 

The next day, a rusty taxi lurched out into the suburbs, a side of the city outside the tourist bubble. My hangover was firing up nicely, and as we pulled up, I told the driver I wouldn't be long. Let's get this courtesy call over with and I'll be on my way. I wandered into the compound, dozens of children eyeing me, one of the older ones asking in perfect English if I needed help. I told her I was here to see Nicole and I was lead to an outlying building, the admin centre of the orphanage, where Nicole, with consumate timing, was making tea. 

I got the full story, unfettered by bad Nirvana covers in the background. Nicole had arrived here 20 years previously and started with 6 kids in her living room. Now there was a compound looking after hundreds of children who would otherwise live on the streets. Some lived here, some came for the day. If you're currently thinking that this woman is kind of amazing, then yes, you're right. I told Nicole I needed to tell the taxi driver I was going to be a while. 

Some of the older kids showed me round. They wore Manchester United shirts and were obsessed with football and music. It became clear that NAG was more than an orphanage. It was a legitimate school with trained teachers (and classrooms for everything from English to woodwork), it was a sporting academy (their basketball team was currently dominating the local kids' league), it was a shelter and a food bank and a social life for the city's worst off. 

Only they didn't seem downtrodden. Economically, yes, but here was a genuinely loving and creative and nurturing environment that - thanks to Nicole's self-professed weakness of not being able to turn away any stray (cats included) - had, over two decades, grown into a functional lifeline for the capital's street children, forming bands and gaining skills and not living in the slums. 

As far as I know, Nicole and the children survived the earthquake and are making the best of things in trying conditions, taking in as many people as they can, offering their neighbours use of their mobile phone chargers and sleeping under makeshift tents. All being well, they'll recover and life will resume, but as with most disasters, the poorest are hit the hardest. It's not my story to tell. I just got to hang out for a day and feel the optimism. Now they need money. You can do that HERE. Kathmandu needs you to keep on being that House of New Hope. 

Poor The Tourism Authority of Thailand. They should really stop trying to Make Social Media A Thing for them. After the perma-cringe of I Hate Thailand, which itself followed the bizarre and insulting Extreme Makeover promotion, they've maintained the weirdness levels of their sinister series of invitations with 'Love En Route'. 

To save you a click, this NINETEEN MINUTE promotional film follows the whacky adventures of an unnamed American who travels to Thailand to forget an unspecific episode of heartbreak, ostensibly by stalking a young Thai woman (Pim) and vaguely coercing her into the world's most awkward friendship. 

Yes, to get over what was presumably a recent failed episode of stalking in some other country, the American starts to show up at each place that Pim takes a photo of and via the medium of pained expressions and never leaving her alone, somehow worms his way into her affections. Because what unaccompanied female traveler doesn't like an entitled dreamer plotting her every move without her knowledge, tracking her down and then forcing her to talk about her emotions while staring at rural mist? 

Hey, ladies. THIS GUY: 

He's like Christian Grey for the backpacking community - instead of bellying up to the DIY store you work at, he'll be peaking at you from behind a reclining Buddha and driving his Volkswagon Pass-Ag straight into that holiday you planned so that you could take time to yourself and reflect for one minute. Sadly, The Need With No Name has decided, from the soulless luxury of his Bangkok hotel room, that "It would be nice for us to meet". So that's THAT settled, then! 

Shifty Shades of Grey sets off in hot pursuit, finally tracking her down on a boat where he can sidle up to her in full SCUBA gear. He asks if she's the owner of the Instagram account (of course let's presume she speaks English, not sure what his plan was if she didn't) and EVEN IN THIS FANTASY WORLD she tells him she isn't because everyone on the project presumably feels we at least need a nod to how insanely creepy this is. He's got the wrong girl. Only he knows he hasn't because HE KNOWS EVERY LITTLE DETAIL ABOUT HER AND PROCEEDS TO PROVE IT. 

Thai boat operator, one of he few voices of reason in this film, calls laughing boy out, but only so he can go on to defend himself. "I'm not a stalker. I'm a follower," he says, quickly avoiding eye contact. The first phrase he then asks the boat guy to teach him in Thai is, "Come with me and you will be safe". He practises this before invading her space, captive as she is on the boat.

We then learn that Pim is on her trip to remember her recently dead sister. We see Pim pour her sister's ashes into the sea, and then enjoy 1.3 seconds of quiet spiritual reflection before Stalking Heads is all I FOUND PLACES FOR US TO GO FOR DINNER YOU HAVE TO COME WITH ME NOW YOU WILL BE SAFE. He then manipulates a crowd of street urchin children and says his outrageous Thai lie about not flirting. Art direction note: Pim has now taken to wearing an Iron Mike Tyson t-shirt, a particularly worrying development. By monopolising the only car out of town, our hero has in any case inserted himself into Pim's journey of remembrance, and off they go hiking, presumably because at this point it's way too tiring to resist. 

En route they stare into rural mist and Pim cries about her sister and he casually takes a surreptitious photo of her crying. But it's OK because NOW YOU WILL BE SAFE and Pim realises she is in love while a baby elephant holds her selfie stick. Our hero's feelings are more ambiguous, though he does say he thanks Pim for helping him fall in love with Thailand, so she does get SOME credit. Just time for a balloon ride before the denouement of awkward at Bangkok Airport, where Pim's feelings are winkled out with the now-customary levels of tact.  

Put on the spot, Pim Cup impressively stays strong and keeps her counsel for all of a minute before blabbing it all out in a soppy Instagram post to give our now-departing Man in a Cyan Star Trek Uniform justification for the entire trip, and presumably the impetus to go ahead and stalk other vulnerable women the world over. How do you say COME WITH ME NOW YOU WILL BE SAFE in every language, Google?