A love letter to Bangkok (written in a slightly passive-aggressive way)
Thaiger’s satirical cultural commentary volume 8: An ode to our beloved capital city by Daniel Holmes

Dear Bangkok,
Before we get started, you know I love you, right? And everything I say in this letter is because I love you so much, Bangkok.
We have a lot to unpack, so let’s get started with your housing. In your city, success isn’t about square footage; it’s measured by the BTU of your air-conditioning, how close you live to an MRT or BTS station, and whether Grab drivers can actually locate your building.
Condos and apartments? Judged solely by WiFi strength (if you lack WiFi, you’ve already lost) and proximity to a 7-Eleven. Bonus points if you never have to see natural sunlight. Farangs living in a townhouse ( i.e. families, men on prolonged bachelor parties, or groups of mainland Chinese tourists) quickly realise you aren’t playing around, Bangkok.
Between epic wars with ant colonies, biblical flooding episodes, and forced friendships with neighbours who won’t take “no” for an answer, living here is not for the faint-hearted. Foreigners also believe owning a washing machine is luxurious. Locals know true luxury means never touching laundry thanks to an aunt, a maid, or a rotating cast of grandmothers who magically get it done.

And about your kids, honestly, Bangkok, they’re little miracles. Raised on iPads, speaking three languages by age six, and ready to helm an international startup by puberty. Their accents are straight from America, their math skills Korean, and their confidence level Indian (off the charts).
Foreigners always remark how polite the kids are; clearly, they’ve never met the ones still stuck in Sydney. Modern parenting here is simple: toss your child into a Montessori coding yoga camp, sit back, and remember to livestream it.
Now, Bangkok, let’s address culture. You strive so desperately to be New York or Singapore, forgetting you’re already endlessly fascinating. You have art gallery openings that are overrun with influencers photographing everything but the art. A sheer number of podcasts that outnumber actual listeners. Every rooftop has a DJ. There’s always a party happening in the streets, and your sois are overflowing with decorative plants.
Your traditional Thai culture survives valiantly at temple fairs and, strangely enough, in Thai Airways’ safety videos featuring dancing aunties, glowing incense sticks, and a street vendor grilling squid beside a spinning Ferris wheel. You are pure magic.

Transportation in your city, Bangkok, isn’t travel; it’s a daily emotional crisis that inevitably costs 500 baht for a tuk-tuk. Farangs attempting to walk 600 meters are viewed with stunned disbelief by Thais comfortably sheltered beneath their UV umbrellas.
When it rains, you’re in Venice, but replace the gondolas with Grab bikes and gondoliers with monitor lizards. Motorcycle taxis are less transport, more trust exercises: handing your life to a flip-flopped driver, masked up but helmetless, and no suspension. The beauty of it all is that the traffic equalises everyone, rich, poor, influencer, monk, we all sit in the same motionless cars.
As for food, in Bangkok, eating is your religious devotion measured by Instagram likes and Google ratings. Farangs hold Pad Thai sacred; Thais eat it only under airport-induced desperation. Everyone’s brave until confronted with som tam that doesn’t acknowledge your digestive limits. Meals here are never casual, whether you’re on a spiritual noodle quest or you’ve given up in a mall food court. Either way, it’s delicious.

Finally, Bangkok, you’re fun wrapped in silk. You’re sweaty yet sweet, rude yet kind, ancient yet always brand new. You’re infuriating, hilarious, and impossible to leave. Where else can you openly weep on the back of a motorcycle, consume five meals before noon, and unconditionally fall in love with a local that never once asked your opinion? That’s precisely why we stay. Especially now that we have our DTV.
Yours sincerely, a devoted (and permanently overheated) resident.
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