Silom Road Walkabout

[These past weeks have been full—moving quickly through places, especially in China, where I had little space (or WiFi) to pause and reflect.

Now, being in Kathmandu, something has opened. There’s room again to take in what’s been lived.

So rather than strictly following the timeline, I’ll be sharing in a slightly different way—moving between where I am now and moments that are still unfolding in me from earlier parts of the journey.

Not a travel log, exactly. More like glimpses as they come into focus.

I hope this lets you experience the trip with me, not just as it happened—but as it’s being understood.]

March 6 2026

Arriving in Bangkok was abrupt. Even at sunset the heat was intense—hovering around 94 degrees. The long passage through immigration, baggage claim, and finding my ride added another layer of friction. Sparse signage, long lines, luggage already pulled aside.

Yet none of it troubled me much. Travel has a way of presenting small hurdles that sort themselves out.

The drive into the city offered a first impression. Unlike the fluid, improvisational traffic I had just experienced in Manila, Bangkok felt more structured—lanes mostly held, movement channeled through an elaborate network of elevated roadways.

The following morning, airline issues kept me in my hotel room longer than expected. By the time I stepped outside it was nearly two in the afternoon. My plan to visit a temple across the river would have to wait.

So I stayed close and simply walked.

When plans fall away, something opens. Attention returns. Instead of seeking, I let the street show itself.

What followed was a quiet, multi-textured exploration of the area around Silom Road.

The “sidewalk” outside my hotel was barely that—a narrow strip of concrete edging drainage grates, with tangled electrical wires overhead and motorcycles weaving through the same space. Walking required constant awareness.

On Silom Road itself, I slowed and kept to the shade where I could. A tall building—stacked like a Jenga tower—appeared and disappeared between lower structures, subtly orienting my movement.

Everywhere, small spirit houses marked the unseen—offerings placed for the spirits believed to inhabit the land. Even modern skyscrapers held elaborate versions of these shrines, scaled to their prosperity.

Vendors lined the pavement. Food, lottery tickets, small exchanges of daily life. The street felt like a living organism—movement, commerce, and improvisation woven together.

Then, unexpectedly, a Hindu temple appeared.

The Sri Maha Mariamman Temple rose from the street in a riot of color—gods, goddesses, intricate carvings layered across its façade. Inside, devotees moved steadily through the space. A simple mantra repeated continuously, its rhythm softening everything it touched. Despite the density of imagery and movement, the atmosphere felt strangely quiet. I lingered.

Back outside, the city resumed—vendors calling, pans sizzling, traffic weaving.

I wandered through back alleys looking for another temple—Wat Hua Lamphong. Locals pointed the way with ease.

The contrast was immediate.

Where the Hindu temple gathered the world’s activity into itself, this space felt like a gentle release from it. The hall was ornate, but the atmosphere carried an ease. It was simpler to sit, to let go, to feel the stillness already there.

A line from Sydney Banks came to mind which I paraphrase here:

“If you are having a nice feeling, throw away the words”.

In that moment, the statues and teachings felt secondary to the quality of mind present.

I recognize this reflects my own conditioning. Someone else might feel more drawn to the vibrancy of the Hindu temple. Still, for me, something settled.

Eventually hunger returned me to the street. I found a small restaurant and had a bowl of chicken curry noodle soup—simple, satisfying.

From there I walked to Lumphini Park.

The park was alive—people exercising, gathering, moving. A Zumba class pulsed in one corner. Paddle boats circled the lake. And yet, even there, it was easy to sit on a bench and let the evening unfold.

By the time I returned to my hotel, night had settled over the city.

The day had begun with friction—heat, delay, disorientation.

But somewhere along Silom Road, without effort, the city had opened.

I felt full—both physically and inwardly—though I had wandered only a short distance.

You don’t have to go far to encounter what is already here.