SUSIE CHOW

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"As we strolled along the cobblestone streets heading back to the hotel, the late afternoon breeze felt crisp on our faces and the comforting aroma of coffee grinds tickled our noses. Leafy olive-green trees rustled gently and if we stopped and listened very carefully, we could still hear the words of philosophers and poets lingering in the air.

We arrived at a quaint little bridge crossing over the River Seine, and as it would happen, our timing was impeccable, as with each step we took over the bridge, the wrought-iron lamps that lined our path began to flicker on one by one. At the same time, all the buildings and streets began to light up too, filling the city like an ocean of stars, and as the entire city lit up around us, there we stood spellbound on the bridge, amidst this magnificent panorama of lights. Indeed, it was some time before we could breathe again.

When we passed through the iron gates of this palace that was once home to Prince Roland Bonaparte, we were met by a doorman donning a most endearing smile. His welcome was so sincere that we could literally feel it in our hearts, and his whole demeanour was so exceptionally amicable that I could not help but ponder what wonderful legacy the good prince had left behind.

Inside the lobby, an ethereal brightness embraced us gently, and two white and gold Chinese vases flanked the hallway, and were so impressive it was as if they had come from a real Ming Dynasty palace. Burnt caramel and cream coloured marble tiles embellished the floor, whilst up above, elegant chandeliers dangled with that unmistakable Parisian charm. What we had found most remarkable, however, was that despite the hotel’s opulence and grandeur, it had an aura that was genuinely welcoming, settling us from deep within.

Leaving a panorama of glittering stars outside, we stepped into L’Abeille restaurant where a flurry of silver, grey and taupe tones greeted us politely. Bright yellow roses dotted every table set perfectly with delicate porcelain tableware. Coffee-coloured taffeta curtains draped the walls, and up above, smoky crystal chandeliers softened the room. In true Parisian style, the restaurant possessed an incomparable refinement, and with our blue lobster entrées poached to perfection, we were transported to an unchartered world of culinary excellence.

The next night, the dazzling Shang Palace whisked us back to the imperial days of China with its interior of mahogany carved screens, luminous jade columns and a collection of Chinese artwork and vases reminiscent of the Ming Dynasty. The restaurant’s signature dish was as appetising as it was artistic — an iridescent rainbow of finely shredded vegetables, delicate slices of salmon sashimi and lashings of a deliciously piquant sesame dressing.

The day ended perfectly out on the terrace of our suite with a kaleidoscope of colours glittering before us. The Eiffel Tower stood poised by our side shimmering with a soft golden glow, towering over the city and miniaturising everything in sight. As we let our minds wander through the adventures of the day, a soft Parisian breeze swirled majestically at our feet, and with every sip of our champagne, the day dissipated and filed itself away into a neat little album of enchanting memories. Finally, when we could not keep our eyes open any longer, we retired to our plush white tea scented room. We drew the heavy velvet drapes behind us and nestled into the king sized bed that was so comfortable that within minutes we were back outside, adrift on a cotton-candy like cloud sailing over this incredible City of Light."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"Having just dipped under some cumulus clouds that looked more like a bunch of billowing white balloons, the rumble of the plane’s engine slowed to a purr, confirming that we were about to land. I gazed down below where a dozen or two thatched-roof villas dotted the ocean, framed perfectly with no less than two kilometres of angel white beaches and a flurry of emerald green hinterland. Even from 100 feet in the air, I could see right through the water, sparkling with a shade of blue so brilliant it would have put a sapphire to shame. Just beneath the surface, schools of fish darted this way and that, and intricate coral formations swayed from side to side, as if welcoming us to their abode. Taking it all in with a deep and long inhale, my heart skipped with elation; finally, we had arrived at our resort, this sanctuary of pure perfection somewhere in the midst of the magnificent Indian Ocean.

We awoke that morning to the sound of waves rippling beneath us and a view of the ocean stretching for as far as the eye could see. Feeling refreshed, I rolled out of bed and dangled my feet off the deck of our villa and into the crystal clear waters below. A lone fish, aglow with orange and blue stripes, flittered around my feet curiously, and all around, the water glistened in the morning sunlight, as if a million tiny diamonds were afloat on its surface. Perched there in the middle of this vast expanse, I was awash with a deep and sincere contentment. Nothing in the world made me happier than being in the company of the sea; its enormity put everything into perspective, and with my heart filled with nothing but joy, I could not wait to see what the day was going to bring.

Whilst the restaurant faced the Indian Ocean, it was a warm breeze from the Arabian Sea next door that sailed in, filling the room with the mysteries of the Middle East.  Warm clay tiles and a beautifully carved wooden ceiling complemented our meze platter perfectly.  Our second course, a fragrant Vietnamese salad of mint, herbs and prawns fresh from the South China Sea, reminded us that there, at Dr Ali’s, we were truly blessed with the company of the fine seas.  The next night, dinner was served in the jungle between two banyan trees, their gigantic roots embracing our table, immaculately set for two.  The ambience was dreamlike, with fireflies flickering high in the branches, crickets chirping in the distance and the golden flames of two torches crackling beside us.  Everything was so intimate, so perfect, that for most of the night, we had lost sense of where we were, but it hardly even mattered.

Like a grumpy old man, the turtle peered at me from behind a rocky wall of coral, his beady eyes watching me closely. Keeping my distance, I observed him too; he was solid, stoic, yet there was a remarkable peacefulness about him. Thinking it best to give him his space, I swam away, only to sense him a moment later by my side. Every bit as surreal as it was exhilarating, we swam together for a few metres before he veered off into the blue yonder, leaving me alone again, my heart beating fast.  Our snorkelling trip ended perfectly back on land in the company of towering banyan trees and hundreds of hibiscus flowers blazing across the sky like a ruby necklace. We trekked into the afternoon and finally found ourselves at a beautiful blue lagoon just as the sun had dipped under the horizon, leaving its incandescent orange spray all over the twilit sky."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"All too soon, twilight had hit Batu Feringgi Beach.  A single brown leaf made the perfect bookmark and I lay my head back on the pillowy white sand.  The rain trees above must have been more than a hundred years old, their leafy canopy so thick, only tiny slivers of electric blue skylight could shimmy through.  The waves rolled onto the shore with gentle conviction and an orchestra of crickets began their nightly symphony.  Mother Nature was bidding us farewell for the day.  It was time to head back to the resort.

The lobby was captivating with its beautifully carved wooden artefacts, colourful batik prints and golden jewellery.  Each piece mesmerised, drawing me closer to its own narrative from centuries past.  A young porter came to take my bags and when he smiled, I felt an extraordinary sense of familiarity.  As if I somehow knew him, like a friend, even family.

A seductive breeze, carrying the sweet aromas of cinnamon and clove, coasted through the air leading me to the Spice Market Café, where inside, a bizarre culinary circus seemed to be in procession.  The pungent aromas of nutmeg, cumin and ginger danced a waltz around the room; and chefs prepared colourful Peranakan dishes, as if they were performing some sort of flamboyant magic act, that moments later transported me to a deliciously alternate cosmos of Chinese and Malay cuisines.

Outside the Feringgi Bar and Grill, the rain trees swayed dramatically as if serenading the moon above and there was something cool and mysterious in the air.  But inside, the mood was different.  A waitress welcomed me with a smile that felt more like a hug; and familial warmth radiated the den-like dining room with its rustic red brick walls and candlelit lanterns.  The first course, a delicate yet robust tomato soup prepared right at my tableside, warmed my soul and set the night sailing to pure perfection.

As darkness spread quickly across the island, the Batu Feringgi market awoke, row by row, like a colony of fireflies.  Savoury treats like satay and popiah allured and enticed, and stalls upon stalls of beaded slippers, wooden knick-knacks and delicate coral sculptures cajoled with their beauty.  But after a long day of nature walking and exploring nearby George Town, it was the enchanting tranquility and sanctuary of the resort that beckoned with the most allure.

The bathtub on the balcony, filled with its ambrosial jasmine-scented water, was almost anaesthetising.  In the distance, the blackened sea rumbled softly in the night, and all around, the giant rain trees rustled, whispering secrets in my ear.  And when it was time to sleep, I lay down on the king sized bed, that was more like a freshly formed cumulus cloud, and let the Peranakan artwork on the walls tell me old love stories of Baba and Nyonya until I fell asleep.

A soothing massage of long sweeping strokes over splashes of sweet lemongrass oil sent everything floating into a dreamlike universe.  Thick lush foliage spread for miles painting the rainforest every possible hue of green, and ancient rain trees soared high in the sky as if reaching for something spiritual beyond the clouds.  The air quivered with the intoxicating scents of exotic Malaysian herbs and everything was surreal, fantastical; only the percussion-like sounds of the rainforest were a reminder that we were, in fact, still here on earth.

Then adrift, somewhere between sleep and consciousness, smothered in a luscious concoction of fresh cucumber and aloe vera, I might have lost myself in the pure indulgence of it all, as it is not uncommon that during a visit to the spa, one might feel as if he or she has perhaps become closer, if not one, with the mystical forces of the rainforest."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"Across the harbour, it was a beautiful morning, not a single cloud occupied the sky emanating a blue so bright, it was as if it had been lit up by some sort of electrical force. I stepped out of the hotel feeling fresh, and with my face held up to the warmth of the sun, I prepared myself for the decadence that was about to unfold. For here, in Tsim Sha Tsui, there was nothing one could not acquire; it was truly a shopping mecca where spirits were lifted and dreams really did come true.

When I returned to the hotel, darkness had arrived at the promenade. I slumped exhausted onto a bench, staring out at the glistening harbour before me, when all of a sudden, the sky exploded in a spectacular flurry of laser beams and lights. It was the city putting on its nightly show, as if telling us again what a spectacular city it was, but we already knew.

No sooner had I stepped into the magnificent lobby, I fell under its spell. A beautiful three-tiered white marble waterfall cascading in the centre of the room was immensely soothing, and all around Viennese chandeliers glittered invitingly. Everything seemed as if it had been dusted with a magical charm, and awash with an overall sensation of pleasantness, I hardly even noticed when a kind-hearted porter whisked my bags away into his care.

On the other side of the lobby, a striking mural featuring a mythical kingdom high in the Tibetan mountains emanated a deep sense of serenity, echoing the hotel perfectly. Saturated in shades of red, green and brown, the mural was arresting, reaching all the way from the floor to the ceiling. Gazing at it with admiration, I lost myself for a moment in its captivating beauty, and when I came to, for a second I thought I might have seen myself inside the mural, looking out, admiring the beautiful lobby.

When the Mediterranean sea bass, baked to perfection, arrived at our table, it still had that unmistakable ocean freshness, whisking us away to a quaint seaside village on the Tuscany Coast. We could have spent hours, perhaps even days, adrift in that sunny Mediterranean dream, if it were not for our waiter returning to our table with another bottle of Pinot Gris, bringing us back to the beautiful Angelini Restaurant with the stunning harbour shimmering just outside the window.

That evening, the chilled autumn air sat obediently at the door as we entered the golden warmth of the Shang Palace. Adorned with intricately carved wooden screens, silk tapestries and elaborate yellow lanterns hanging from the ceiling, the restaurant had a somewhat palatial glow. But it was not until the most authentic Cantonese dishes had arrived at our table that we truly felt we had been transported back to the grandiose days of imperial China.

Leaving the thrill of the city behind for another night, we returned to our hotel room and for the first time that evening, I could breathe. Like a lush green meadow, the room was invigorating, almost intoxicating. From the window, Hong Kong Island glittered intensely as if beckoning us to return, but nothing could coax us from our bed.  Afloat on what seemed like a gigantic white feather, l drifted seamlessly into a psychedelic dream, with the rackety sounds of the city as my only link back to the real world.

The next morning, from the reception, I could see my limousine pull up just as the sun burst on to the horizon. Walking to the lobby doors, slowly, reluctantly, my favourite doorman who always remembered my name, gave me a smile that made me want to hug him. Then, settling into the plush leather seats of the car, I looked back one last time as we pulled away, to see him still waving at me affectionately."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"Weaving our way through leafy boulevards and narrow alleyways, we finally arrived at the magnificent Bund. I could not help but feel a little small with its grandiose line-up of art deco buildings, all brimming with history and yearning to be heard. For there by the river, they must have seen a thing or two in their lifetime. And, whilst we wanted to stay a while to soak up the splendour, something else enticed us that evening. Just across the glistening water, amidst the skyscrapers of Pudong, was our hotel, beckoning us back to its warm embrace.

Crystal chandeliers flooded the lobby with warmth, enveloping us the moment we arrived.  Intricately sculptured columns of toffee-coloured marble soared three stories high, and an intriguing collection of artwork captivated without arresting the eye. The whole atmosphere was exceptionally pleasant, and awash with the calm one feels in the moments before sleep, we could not think of anywhere else on earth we would rather be.

Clad in a traditional Chinese cheung sam, the woman welcomed us with a heart-warming smile, and I found myself holding her gaze for just that moment longer. There was something about her that comforted me; her face was fresh, as if she was merely in her twenties, but somehow she seemed more mature and infinitely wiser. With a walk so gentle her feet hardly touched the ground, she whisked us up to the Horizon Club Lounge where we were settled in to our favourite suite so seamlessly we could barely recall it happening at all.

That night from our room, I gazed across the river at the buildings on the Bund, each one more magnificent than the next. Their soothing babel comforted me, all of them reciting their narratives at once, telling anyone who would listen, their life story. And listen I did, into the night, to tales of desire and virtue and Shanghai’s infamous love stories until my eyelids became heavy with a deep and slumberous contentment.

That night, with the Bund glittering alluringly across the river, there was something exhilarating in the air at Jade on 36. Every dish was masterminded as if there was a genius at the helm, and so immaculately presented they ought to have appeared in an art gallery rather than a restaurant. Fresh sea bass steamed with Lapsang Souchong tea, red radishes and cauliflower was the first masterpiece to arrive, delighting us all with a deliciousness that unfolded layer by delicate layer.

At Gui Hua Lou, a heavenly piquant and spicy Szechuan sauce lathered over succulent deep fried ribs stole the show with its flavour, so full of zest, it seemed fit for an Emperor. A luminous scattering of red chillis over the dish lured and seduced me with its promise of pleasure - that delightful burn verging on the edge of pain that sent me rushing with euphoria with every bite.

Despite the city at its doorstep, the spa exuded an exquisite tranquility as if one had found themselves in the depths of the Himalayan mountains. An extraordinary stillness in the air was flavoured only with the soft ringing of Tibetan bells, so faint that I was not sure whether I could hear them or I was merely feeling their presence. The calm of the Jade Foot Bath radiated all the way to my head, where every thought that had consumed my mind that day melted away like a lone snowflake at the break of dawn.

The smooth Jade stone kneaded my back with long firm strokes, taking with it a deep muscular ache that had resided there for months. Beyond its dark emerald green, the stone possessed a purity that must have rubbed off on me, literally, for when I left the spa that day, I felt immeasurably different, as if the Jade had brought about a spiritual healing, restoring me in body and soul."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"The air is effervescent with a contagious sense of joie de vivre. The city resounds with an unfathomable depth of history, evident in a multitude of museums and art galleries. A coastal climate caresses the streets with a pleasantly warm breeze and the fresh scent of the ocean.  A beguiling mix of the ancient and modern world, the metropolis drips with culture; jazz festivals, open-air theatres, bazaars, spice markets and uber cool bars stand side by side, serenading both visitors and locals, day and night.

As your speedboat glides effortlessly across the beautiful blue Bosphorus, for a second you feel like a movie star with the wind rushing through your hair. The city, distinguished by buildings short and wide, and sprawling over its seven famous hills, pulsates as it anticipates your arrival.  And when your boat finally approaches the strait’s jagged shores, you catch your first glimpse of it — a stately yet soothing testament to superlative architecture and your home for the next few nights — the new and notable Shangri-La Bosphorus, Istanbul.

The room emanates a spirited and carefree vibe, as if fairies had just made the bed and puffed the pillows seconds before you arrived.  A colour palette of cream, caramel and teal perfectly echoes the Turkish cityscape outside, and right by the window, a silver velvety sofa cajoles you with its stunning view of the Bosphorus, glittering gloriously under the hot Mediterranean sun.  And indeed, the dazzling Bosphorus is a beauty to behold.  A many-time meeting place and battleground, it has seen empires come and go, and ferried billions of people from Asia to Europe and back again for as long as the history books could record.  It possesses wisdom as deep as its shade of blue, a shade so striking it pierces one’s eye and registers deep inside the brain where no other colours can reach.  It is neither secret nor revelation: Istanbul is a magnificent city, and there is no better place on earth to admire such beauty than from your very own room at Shangri-La Bosphorus, Istanbul.

The fragrant bouquet-like aromas of peking duck waft gently through the air at the sophisticated Shang Palace.  A perfectly roasted duck is carved with culinary mastery right in front of your eyes, whilst another waiter prepares a most artfully assembled appetiser of extraordinarily crispy duck skin, spring onions and lashings of a divinely piquant hoi sin sauce, wrapped delicately in a paper-thin pancake.

Captivated by the delightful sweet and savouriness of the dish, the only thing to steal your attention is the arrival of a waiter with a rather intriguing teapot.  Cast in copper, the teapot looks like it has just arrived from 18th century imperial China and sports a most remarkably long spout.  After a moment of stillness, the waiter suddenly and dramatically leans back, pulling the pot with him.  And then, with one swift swish of his arm, hot honey-coloured tea comes shooting out of the teapot’s spout and straight into your cup.  Everything tastes just that little more delicious after the tea… indeed, it is a magical night in the making."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"As our boat sashayed down the winding Li River, I gazed across the mirrored surface of the water as it reflected the incredibly beautiful mountains like elaborate jadestone jewellery made for a goddess.  Like the poets and painters before us, who had flocked to this dreamy seductive landscape, the river captivated us with its enchanting, almost haunting beauty.  In between the mountains, water buffalos patrolled the vast expanse of land and fishermen floated nostalgically past rice paddy fields on charming bamboo rafts.

The river sparkled fervently in dusk’s magical light, bidding us farewell for the day as we stepped into the hotel lobby.  A woman dressed in boldly coloured traditional Miao costume greeted us at the door with a smile that lit up the entire room; and whilst it had taken us days to travel here from the other side of the world, in the instance of her smile, the days suddenly felt like minutes.

The treatment room was called “Mountain” and it must have been given its name from the remarkably peaceful aura that could be felt the moment one had stepped inside. Even the air in the room smelled different; irrefutably sweeter, like fresh mountain air that had never, not even remotely, been subjected to civilisation.

With this elixir-like air filling my lungs, I began to feel a calmness take over my mind and my thoughts drifted to the soothing warmth of the hot basalt stones that had been placed along my spine.  The stones were immensely pacifying with their satin smooth surface, and radiated a rather intense heat of which I did not mind at all - for this healing heat had found its way deep inside my body, relaxing me to my core, and allowing my energy to flow as freely as the wind that circled the ethereal mountains outside.

Inside our room, the air was rife with familial warmth enveloping us like a mother’s embrace and making us feel incredibly warm and safe.  On the wall behind the bed, a mesmerising mural of jagged mountain ranges and rippling rivers echoed the view outside perfectly.  For outside, in the distance, dramatic karst mountains stood majestically on the Earth's surface, exuding an immense pride, and rightfully so - taking no less than several million years to perfect, each mountain was a different shape and size, and together, they filled the land like teeth in the jaws of a giant.  Indeed, they were Mother Nature’s masterpieces.

Deeply relaxed, we lay back on the plush lounges by our room window and drifted in and out of sleep, all the while listening to the gentle rumbling of the mountains murmuring tales of emperors and empresses, and dragons and dynasties, and filling our heads with mystery and our hearts with happiness.

The lively Li Café shimmied with the mouthwatering aromas of tandoori and teppanyaki favourites, made especially flavourful by delightfully fresh herbs and vegetables plucked straight from the chefs’ garden outside.  Almost edible wafts of fragrant mint, pungent basil and plump ripe tomatoes swirled through the air, whetting our appetites and preparing us for the first course of the night: Guilin rice noodles, the city’s signature dish made of a deliciously hearty soup drizzled with pork, peanuts and pickled vegetables.

The next night, we looked out at the limpid waters of the river again glistening majestically under a canopy of glittering stars and a perfectly crescent shaped moon.  Whilst outside, the mood was cool and mysterious, inside, the air was warm with a welcome that was palpable.  Even the waiter, who had brought us our all time Cantonese favourite, crispy pork belly, possessed a most gracious disposition, making us feel like we were very important guests at this most sensuous Shang Palace."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"When we emerged from Tokyo Station, it was apparent the first signs of spring in the city had arrived.  A huddle of cherry blossom trees across the street had started sprouting tiny pink flower buds that perfumed the air with a subtle sweetness.  A nearby park was resplendent with lush emerald green grass upon which we rested for a moment, gazing at the hotel’s reflection glistening majestically on the river’s glassy surface.  As we soaked in the serenity, the day echoed through our minds with memories of goths and geishas, karaoke and ramen bars, and countless electronic gadgets and gizmos that looked as if they had been acquired from another century – in the future.  Exploring the city that day, eclectic beyond comprehension, had been quite a sensory roller coaster and we looked forward to returning to the warmth and familiarity of the hotel.

As soon as the lobby doors closed behind us, an air of tranquillity materialised and the city outside, reverberating with life, suddenly ceased to exist.  Before us, a mesmerising curtain of chandeliers made up of thousands of crystal teardrops hugged a marble staircase behind it, from which a kimono-clad woman descended so gracefully and slowly it appeared as if she was not taking the steps at all but was somehow gliding down them.

The most striking flower arrangements made up of sweet peas and orchids splashed the interior with pink and purple hues and together with the golden light from the chandeliers, the lobby emanated a most harmonious atmosphere to which we happily surrendered without any resistance at all.  Few moments, if any, were as poignant as the times we returned to the hotel, and we melted into its deeply soothing peacefulness and warm embrace.

Lunch at Nadaman was enthralling as we watched the chef at his helm, preparing all the mouth-watering treats of traditional Japanese teppanyaki. Succulent morsels of Wagyu beef and fresh king prawns sizzled animatedly as they were tossed and tumbled on the hotplate before us.  Then, relishing every bite slowly and attentively, we took great delight in the way they melted in our mouths, slathering our taste buds with sweet and buttery heavenliness.

That evening, we found ourselves at a library that possessed an atmosphere more of discernment rather than learning, as it was a library of wine rather than books.  It was the Sommelier Suite at Piacere restaurant, with its dramatic high ceiling, lush velvet furnishing and golden portoro marble giving the room an almost ethereal glow.  When we arrived, we were greeted by the sommelier himself, who was already decanting for us a bottle of his finest red wine, which we later discovered paired perfectly with our flawlessly grilled veal fillets.

I let the tepid waters of the bath embrace my body, feeling the silkiness of the sweet potato sake soften my skin.  As I soaked my weary body in this secret shochu brew, I could feel an achiness melt effortlessly from my muscles.  Even my mind, which had once held on to too many thoughts to consider, had finally let go, allowing me to drift into a deeply slumberous state.  When I left the spa, the world seemed different – colours were brighter, smells had become more aromatic and the noise of the city sounded more like Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 than peak-hour traffic.  My brain, it appeared, was operating on another level, where every thought, every idea had suddenly become possible, and I could not wait to discover what the rest of the day was going to bring."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"As we walked, the dark waters from the harbour lapped playfully at the sea wall and a cool autumn breeze licked at our faces.  The waterfront was ablaze with intense hues of orange and red, with cheeky maple leaves cartwheeling across our path and the dazzling sun sashaying downwards, taking the temperature with it.  A little shiver tickled the back of my neck, and with the evening chill fast at our heels, we hurried back to the warmth of the hotel.

Leaving the brisk ocean air at the door, we basked in the warmth of the lobby with its crackling fireplace wrapping its heat around us like a cashmere scarf. An extraordinary feeling of contentment permeated our bodies touching all of our senses, and feeling the slightest bit woozy from this intense satisfaction, we perched for a moment in the lobby's quaint bamboo garden to contemplate what other heavenly pleasures awaited us inside. 

Barely 10 minutes had passed before the man from concierge returned to the hotel, hair glistening ever so slightly from the misty drizzle outside.  In his hand, he triumphantly held up my coat that I had left at Robson Street whilst shopping earlier that day.  With the warmest of smiles, he handed me the coat that I had cherished for years, neatly folded and perfectly dry.  I could not remember the last time I had encountered such kindness, and overcome with appreciation, I hugged this man as if he were my best friend.

As if afloat on a gigantic white marshmallow, we lay on the enormous king sized bed and let the dark chocolate and caramel tones of the room swirl around us.  Sprinklings of gold glittered cordially and despite the expansiveness of the room, we felt incredibly cosy and snug.  And as we lay there, totally at peace, an immeasurable amount of happiness filled our hearts and we sailed blissfully into the rest of the night.

With one deep breath, the fresh smell of the Pacific Ocean filled my lungs, invigorating every cell in my body.  The warmth of the sun caressed my face, and I could hear the waves crashing gently on the side of the boat. Suddenly, a gentle voice called my name, and when I opened my eyes, I was back at the Market restaurant.  The waiter had come to check if my tuna tartare was satisfactory.  Satisfactory?  It was sensational; so exceptionally fresh that it had whisked me away to the beautiful place it once came.

The day began with an explosion of flavours at the Ginger Juice Bar.  The zesty tang of orange and mango performed a gymnastics routine in my mouth, juggling silky batons of soy milk and frozen yoghurt.  I watched dreamily as the early morning sun rays danced frivolously on the deck, whilst beside it, the pool glistened invitingly.  And with a crisp breeze skipping joyfully in from the harbour clearing my mind, the day was off to a sterling start.

Under the water, everything went all warm and fuzzy.  Like a floppy rag doll, I let my head bob up and down to the muffled beat of classical music and watched my hair float in all directions like some sort of bizarre coral formation.  Feeling utterly relaxed in this gigantic hot water bottle of bliss, I happily lolled about in the pool watching the world go by; the rest of the day could wait.

The afternoon at CHI, The Spa was more like a trek through the mystical mountains of the Himalayas.  Inside, dark wood dominated and the soft ringing of Tibetan singing bowls reverberated in the air.  A fireplace flickered cheerfully in the corner as the soothing scent of sandalwood circulated the room.  Feeling miles away from the city, and for that matter, the Earth, I surrendered to the deep calm of the spa and let the lush Mountain Tsampa Wrap heal me from head to toe."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"Like fire in the sky, the sunset blazed across the bay and we watched it intently until twilight finally arrived, putting out the flames with its sapphire blue veil.  Only a few wispy clouds stained with orange remained, and just metres from where we lay on the beach, the ocean rumbled affectionately like a sleepy cat at our feet.  Indeed, everything was perfect and we did not know of a reason to leave until we heard the faintest growl from our stomachs, telling us that it was time to return to the hotel.

The lobby was particularly pleasing to the soul. A rustic yet captivating collection of artwork was on display with no boastfulness to speak of.  In a pond, sculpted globes of iron were afloat and aglow; and bronze statues of a girl and her buffalo, frozen in time, quietened our minds and evoked in us a humbling appreciation of the more simple beauties in life.

The pool appeared to go on forever stretching out as far as the ocean and eventually meeting up with the lighter powder blue hue of the sky.  We spent the afternoon lazing in the perfect quietude of our Loft Villa, nestled high in the treetops like some sort of luxurious tree house. Up there, the air shimmered with stillness, and time seemed to have lost its meaning, simplified only to warm carefree days and cool intimate nights.

When we returned that night, the villa was not as we left it. Everything had been put back in place, every bed made to crisp perfection and on the balcony table, fluttering from a cool breeze off the ocean, there was a handwritten note. It was from our butler, who had felt compelled to leave us his personal phone number in case, his note stated, "we needed anything at all during our stay."

That night, perched on top of the cliff at Sirena, the sky glittered furiously with stars as if a diamond had just exploded, spraying a billion shattered pieces over a black tarpaulin.  The waves rolling on to the beach below created the most befitting music for the restaurant and mature hillside trees rustled in the breeze like real life pieces of art. Our poached lobster appetiser was extraordinarily succulent, as if fit for the gods, and the whole atmosphere so agreeable we felt a genuine merriment that stayed with us well into the night.

The next night, we found ourselves dining at a most romantic and secluded hideaway, high in the treetops, at a charming little restaurant called Rima. There, we savoured impeccably grilled beef tenderloins that had been tucked into delightfully fluffy beds of rosemary infused mashed potatoes -exquisitely simple yet exceptionally flavourful. The entire night, in fact, had been one moment of perfection after the other, but what pleased us the most was the intimacy we felt, as if it was just the two of us, possibly on another planet, on the other side of the moon.

The ambrosial scents of pomelo and calamansi greeted us along a rocky pathway leading to a small village known on the island as CHI, The Spa.  In this village, an exquisite tranquility hung in the air, which seemed to be a little thinner than usual, and with every breath we took in a blissful serenity that had the effect of calming us to a depth we had not experienced before.

Sweet pomegranate oil swirling in rose-scented water warmed our feet, permeating a deep relaxation that radiated upwards like a sunset on the horizon.  In the ethereal light of the village, overlooking the clear waters of the bay, our therapists scrubbed and massaged our weary feet with a touch so magical that when we closed our eyes we felt as if we were possibly adrift somewhere beyond the earth."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"As our yacht sailed gracefully across the water, I felt as Captain Cook would have done 200 or so years ago, discovering for the first time the splendour of the eastern shores. Of course, the captain was not privy to the architectural wonderment of the Sydney Opera House and the Harbour Bridge, but we were truly fortunate to bear witness to such brilliance; both icons perched illustriously on the water’s edge, like jewels in the city’s crown.

Strolling back to the hotel on that glorious summer’s day, we could feel a certain buzz in the air. Maybe it was the sun shining brilliantly in the azure sky, or the temperate breeze that meandered in from the ocean, or the stunning view of the harbour that stole our breath every time; it was clear the city had a remarkably positive vibe, and everyone, locals and visitors alike, felt intoxicated by its beauty day after day.

Our room perched 35 storeys above the harbour, and its spaciousness and blissful silence allowed my thoughts to drift as freely as the seagulls circling down below. Sat by the window, I closed my eyes and let the sights of this sun-kissed city flitter through my mind; from glamorous Bondi Beach, to fashionable Oxford Street and laid back Manly, the city had seduced me with its endless allure.

When I opened my eyes, the brilliant diamond sparkled waters below welcomed me back to the harbour. Curling this way and that, the shoreline embraced the water gracefully as a dozen or two boats that looked more like toys zigzagged about, leaving trails of white water in their wake. Few cities possessed such striking beauty, and utterly mesmerised, my intentions of stealing a moment’s sleep slipped away; not much could contend with the beautiful panorama that appeared before me.

That night at Altitude, we admired the harbour below, glittering like a gigantic treasure chest left wide open for the world to see. Again, the same two structures dominated the view: the bridge like a twinkling jewelled tiara and the opera house like a diamond ring sparkling with all its might. The only thing that vied for our attention that evening was the arrival of our main course; roasted beef fillet with nettle puree, silverbeet and butter poached escargots. Dinner ended perfectly with drinks next door at Blu Bar, where a kind barman greeted us with a hearty smile and two of his favourite cocktails, as if somehow he knew it was a special occasion. Everything thus far had been flawless, and high up there on top of the world on the 36th floor, we did not feel even an inkling of returning to our room – yet. Indeed, the night was still young.

It was late afternoon and the desert sun was much more forgiving, its distant rays showering a healing warmth all over my body. The air was dry and amidst the sweet aroma of bush honey, a cool breeze carrying the refreshing scent of eucalyptus wafted in and out, clearing my head. Lying there, in the middle of the Australian outback, I felt peaceful and truly at one with the land, and just for a moment I thought I might have heard the deep echo of a didgeridoo in the distance. I must have drifted off for a minute or two as when I opened my eyes, I was not in the desert; I was mid-treatment at the hotel spa, my therapist massaging my body with a unique blend of local native ingredients. Utterly carefree, I sighed a deep sigh of contentment, closed my eyes and returned once again to the vast spiritual expanse of this great southern land."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"That afternoon, we found ourselves at the towering Burj Khalifa, 124 storeys high and literally on top of the world. As we shuffled around the observation deck, we looked out at the horizon and followed it intently, examining how it first straddled the sandy dunes of the desert, then the erratic streets of the city, and then the cobalt waters of the Arabian Sea and around again.  The sky was an electrifying blue, and every now and again, a flurry of clouds sailed right past our eyes with all the grace of a ballerina pirouetting across a stage.  Hovering dreamily over this dazzling metropolis, the city down below seemed so very far away, and we watched intently as tiny black dots in the form of people and cars scrambled in all directions.  When I looked out before me, I spotted something incredibly mesmerising.  It was our hotel – a most beautiful oasis, a lush verdant sanctuary, right in the heart of the city, known as Shangri-La Hotel, Dubai.

As we sat in the lobby sipping on traditional Arabic coffee, we felt extraordinarily at home, just as one would feel when visiting an old friend’s house.  The coffee, which seemed darker than usual, had a most robust flavour, and was lusciously sweet with delicate hints of nutmeg, cardamom and cinnamon.  In between sips, we nibbled inquisitively on delicious Emirati dates that were slightly chewy and not too sweet, complementing the coffee perfectly.  When the gahwaji, dressed in a traditional white dishdasha, came to refill our cups, he brought with him a most disarming aura and a smile that was evidently not just for show, as it would appear from his example that when a person smiles from their heart and not from their brain, the smile can truly touch another person’s heart.

That night at Marrakech, we felt like a Moroccan prince and princess, dining in such elegance and sophistication.  Traditional white and blue bone china set the table perfectly and a charming collection of latticed screens, mosaic tiles and wrought iron lamps whisked us away to the labyrinthine alleyways of the city of Marrakech.  There, we shuffled our way through a menagerie of donkey carts, snake charmers and juggling monkeys before returning to the restaurant just as the chef arrived with a rather rustic looking tagine.  When the chef lifted its lid, all the mouthwatering aromas of Moroccan cuisine burst into the air like a mushroom cloud, and I wondered just how many dishes had been prepared in it, each time infusing its walls with the exotic spices of North Africa.  This time, a medley of succulent lamb cutlets drenched in lemon and tomato juice was on offer, with meat so tender it could have just fallen off the bone if we stared at it hard enough.

As the therapist massaged my body with an almost intoxicating wild lavender spray, I lapsed in and out of a light slumber and dreamed of floating through a field of lavender flowers swaying in a warm spring breeze, and parting gracefully whenever I approached, allowing me to flutter by.  The sweet ambrosial scent of the flowers wafted rhythmically in and out of my head, blurring the line between dream and reality, of which later I pondered if there was really any line at all.  I was awoken gently by the warm touch of smooth healing stones being carefully placed on my back, and who knows how long I lay there for letting the stones work their magic, but once they were done, they rolled off my body one by one, leaving me feeling extraordinarily balanced – my soul closer to the earth and my spirits soaring for the skies."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"With the Spring Festival approaching, every day another flower market emerged on the streets and the city became increasingly colourful, as if an artist were completing his masterpiece using every hue on his palette.  Red peonies, peach blossoms and golden kumquats blossomed around every corner and the atmosphere verged on electric.  Yet in the company of the flowers, I felt strangely at peace, as if the flora was already imparting its positive energy on to everyone that stopped to admire it.  I took my time to meander back to the hotel, strolling through the streets of Guangzhou contemplating its dichotomies.  One minute I was being dwarfed by a towering skyscraper, home to one monstrous corporation or another, and the next, I was adrift down a quaint alleyway admiring an old Chinese temple or teahouse.  It was not too long, however, before I found myself back at the tranquil gardens of the hotel, my home, my sanctuary for the week.

Upon arriving at this flourishing oasis, I was greeted with a notable hush and a remarkable freshness in the air.  The hotel, with its lush gardens, was like a miniature rainforest nestled in the middle of the bustling city, where the sounds of chirping birds and rustling trees were surreal; for if one had not voyaged through the city to arrive at this peaceful haven, it would not be unexpected to be completely oblivious to the city’s existence at all.  An intriguing bronze sculpture perched on top of a quaint marble fountain greeted me the moment I stepped into the lobby.  Drawn to it, I admired it closely for some time, looking down into the water cascading ever so gently from one tier to the next.  Its soothing sound must have taken me somewhere rather far away, as when I returned, darkness had already fallen on the city outside, whilst inside, the lobby was aglow with a brilliant golden light.

At Summer Palace, the dim sum was of such authenticity that when I closed my eyes I was transported back in time to a quaint teahouse on the side of the famous Silk Road.  Before me, a sumptuous array of delicately wrapped dumplings was on display, and as I savoured the dumplings one by one, sipping oolong tea between bites, I did not desire to return to the real world for quite some time.  The city was nothing but a distant memory the moment I sat down at the poolside bar, hidden amidst the hotel’s lush gardens.  The week had been manic, but slowly, surely, I began to unwind, my mind emptying into a blissfully vacuous state.  To perfect the moment, a kind-hearted waiter took it upon himself to bring me my favourite drink, a green apple martini, saving me the bother of having to engage myself in any thought processes at all.

The soft pounding of Himalayan drums and a quaint lotus pond welcomed me warmly at the spa doors.  The musky aroma of sandalwood incense drifted in and out of the room, bringing about a gradual and genuine calm that one can only achieve during meditation.  Nonetheless, there in the spa I felt utterly at ease, and try as I might to hold on to my worries, I could not fight the spa.  Its peacefulness permeated every inch of my body and everything that had troubled me that week dissipated into thin air.  When the heavy teak door closed behind me, the detachment from the outside world was palpable.  There, in the secluded sanctum of the spa suite, my therapist touched on all of my pressure points with the utmost of accuracy, and slowly, gently, months of built up tension began to dissolve away, until I was left almost unrecognisable to my own self: relaxed, happy and carefree."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"We zigzagged our way through the narrow alleyways of the Muttrah Souq where some stalls were virtually glowing in the hot afternoon sun, whilst others were in relative darkness, buried deep inside the market where the sun could not permeate.  Be it light or dark, the bazaar was a colossal labyrinth overflowing with practically everything: Omani silver, spotless white dishdashas, Arabian spices, frankincense and possibly every kind of household good known to man could be found around every corner.  When we finally navigated our way out of the maze, both arms laden with shopping bags, we realised dusk had already fallen on the Muttrah Corniche.  A sudden cool breeze off the ocean was a stark reminder that the chill of the night was about to transpire and without a moment to waste, we headed back to the hotel that had just lit up majestically in the twilit sky, in the not too far away distance.

As we neared the hotel I could not help but notice its incredible charm, in particular, the way all of the buildings were of different heights giving the impression it was a quaint little town of its own.  Once inside, we were welcomed with the sweet scent of frankincense and an enchanting interior of horseshoe arches and elaborately latticed Mashrabiya screens, reminiscent of Old Muscat.  In fact, the entire place seemed to emanate a rather deep and soothing soulfulness with which we felt entirely at peace.

Behind a magnificent staircase leading three stories high, a gigantic window framed the ocean outside which was only barely still visible. As it seemed, day had just turned into night, handing over the illustrious job of lighting our surroundings to an incredible eight-tiered chandelier made up of thousands of glittering crystals cascading down from an opulent domed ceiling above.

Just like the muttrah souq, Al Tanoor was brimming with baskets full of spices, jars of condiments, pottery works and a collection of copperware in the form of trays, bowls and utensils, still gleaming as if they had just been plucked from an ancient Omani castle.  Not far from our table, chefs put on a spectacular show, preparing a scintillating array of Middle Eastern favourites and the whole atmosphere was so exhilarating that the busy morning of meetings that preceded us was soon forgotten.  One of the chefs, who reminded me of a dear uncle of mine, personally delivered to our table a serve of his specialty dish – a succulently baked king fish infused with cardamom, cinnamon and cloves.  As we admired the gift before us, I thought I felt a soft ocean breeze sail in from the window and over our table, sprinkling the fish with the lightest dusting of sea salt fresh from the ocean, completing this simple but magical dish.

The Italian marble on which I lay flat, felt surprisingly cool, whilst the rest of the room radiated an intense but rewarding heat. For there in the hammam, with its healing frankincense-infused steam, I could literally feel the toxins melting from my body and evaporating into the hot steamy air.  Later, in the rasul, I found myself slathered from head to toe with some exotic multi-coloured muds that had the effect of not only cooling my skin but my entire body.  The spicy aromas of cedar wood and sage swirled around my head, and together with the mud, had a remarkably therapeutic effect that felt somewhat otherworldly.  Then without much of a warning, a warm tropical rain from the ceiling above showered down on me, gently washing away the mud and leaving me feeling not quite myself, but liking it."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"From far up the rocky mountainous peak, we travelled down towards the glittering sea, stopping for a moment at the quaint Qantab village to admire an old Arabian boat perched gracefully on a roundabout.  We marvelled at the boat stitched together intricately with rope, which had once traversed the seas from Muscat to China in the wake of the legendary Sindbad the Sailor.  Then, continuing on our way, we hugged the coastline all the way to Muscat City and to a most striking architectural achievement – a fort-like wonder of thick sandstone walls and small intricate openings, our home for the next few nights, the Shangri-La’s Barr Al Jissah Resort & Spa, Al Waha.

A young Omani porter, with eyes as soft as his face, greeted us with a most disarming smile.  He led us cordially to our suite, and along the way, I could not help but notice a most soothing collection of photographs portraying the more simple beauties of desert life – mountain villages, camel trails and vast sandy dunes – that seemed to settle me from deep within.  That night in the full shimmer of moonlight, the beach was surreal with what looked like clusters of incandescent ping-pong balls hiding in the sand.  We stared at them curiously, as if waiting for something magical to happen, and we were not disappointed.  For all of a sudden, the balls, which were in fact turtle eggs, began to hatch one by one.  Dozens of tiny heart-shaped hatchlings began to emerge, falling out of their shells and heading towards the ocean.  Perhaps it was the sound of the waves or the moonlight reflecting off the water that attracted them, but there was one thing for sure, they knew exactly what they were doing.  We watched into the night until every last hatchling made it to the water, and feeling immensely blessed to have witnessed the miracle of life, we returned to the warm embrace of the hotel where we dreamt of swimming freely in the ocean with the beautiful green turtles by our side.

As we drifted along the lusciously cool waters of the Lazy River, snaking all the way around the resort from one pool to the next, who would have known that not far away were vast plains of sweltering desert.  For there in the water, with a clarity and a sparkle that was almost effervescent, we felt incredibly cool and refreshed and could not foresee leaving its respite any time soon.  Later that afternoon, I found myself up on the headland gazing out at the mysterious Sea of Oman.  My mind wandered back to some thousands of years ago when the first settlers roamed along the gulf’s sandy shores, but thankfully, before I became too lost in that mind-boggling thought, the shrill sounds of children playing at the nearby water park brought me back to the present day, and with not a single cloud in the dazzling blue sky above, what a glorious day it was.

From our table at bait al bahr, perfectly fronded palm trees provided a most appropriate picture-frame for the sky ablaze with a brilliant scarlet red.  The sun was setting steadily over the gulf again, and just like every night we had dined there, we watched the sky intently, watching and waiting for that faintest hissing sound just as the sun hit the horizon.

That night at the restaurant we felt genuinely happy and carefree. We enjoyed the company of our waiter; his hearty laugh made us feel at ease, and somehow, maybe because of his smile or his genuinely caring demeanour, he felt more like a friend than a waiter.  When he arrived with our seafood platter still redolent of flames from the grill, we felt compelled to ask him to join us, but of course he declined. Still, he remained chatty throughout the evening, letting us in on intriguing little Omani secrets one would never find in a travel book."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"The heavy carved wooden doors of the museum closed gently behind us and we shuffled away silently, awe-struck at what we had just seen.  Inside the Bait Al Zubair, an enchanting collection of ancient Omani jewellery, costumes and instruments were on show – all crafted with an unfathomable amount of detail, one could only imagine how many months, even years, the skilled artisans must have taken to complete each piece.  We strolled through the streets of Muscat lined with dusty white buildings, relishing our freshly painted memories of exquisite craftsmanship, and soon found ourselves at a resplendent palace-citadel with glistening pools, elaborate arches and bronze flamingos.  For a moment we thought we might have arrived at the home of some Omani royal, but of course, we had not.  It was, in fact, the Shangri-La’s Barr Al Jissah Resort & Spa, Al Husn, dripping with regal opulence and a familial warmth that was palpable.  And when a charming doorman welcomed us with the sincerest of smiles, suddenly the one thousand miles between the hotel and our home ceased to exist.

That afternoon on the beach, we were utterly spellbound by its beauty; but it was not just the angel-soft sand or the sapphire blue waters that enamoured us, there was something more to the beach that moved us.  Maybe it was the air drenched with tranquillity, or its spirit filled with a profound wisdom, or its mysterious sandy cliffs steeped in history; it was certain the beach had something special.  For as we rested there on its pillowy golden sand, we felt an extraordinary peacefulness deep within our souls, a feeling we had never experienced before.  Gazing out at the ocean, we did not feel the urge to engage in conversation at all; in fact, the moment had called for silence.  So in silence we sat, relishing each other’s company, the quietude, the beatitude and the sheer serenity of it all.  Only memories of the sweet harmonic melodies from the night before’s performance at the Royal Opera House lingered softly in our ears.

As we sat by the window and gazed out at the mysterious waters, I could only imagine how the Sultan of Oman must have felt, over two centuries ago, sailing the seas on his famous ship, The Sultanah.  Up above, the boundless expanse of the sky was filled with no less than a trillion glittering stars, through which I happily floated about for some time, contemplating the tales of the sultan and his mighty empire.  When I eventually returned to earth, and to the Sultanah restaurant, I discovered our main courses had arrived, and it appeared the food was just as rich as the history we had been pondering; for before us lay two exquisite servings of succulently roasted lamb complemented perfectly with borlotti bean purée and delightfully fluffy fondant potatoes.

It was that magical time of day again when the sun had dropped down below the horizon but darkness had not yet fully arrived.  When the remaining light of day was spread so thin across the side of the earth that everything became soft and fuzzy, and the things in the distance once sharp, began to disappear one by one.  It was during this time, we found ourselves in the tranquil embrace of CHI, The Spa.  Its soothing blend of woody scents and tinkling music had an almost intoxicating effect sending us drifting in and out of sleep whilst our therapists massaged our bodies all the way from our heads down to our toes.  In the soft light of candles, and with the waves lapping an almost hypnotic lullaby, everything felt surreal and we soon realised there was not much else to do but to close our eyes and float off into the mystical Arabian night."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"Next door, the park was majestic with every shade of green and seemed to possess a distinctively old soul, imparting its wisdom on to all who visited it.  I strolled back to the hotel that morning feeling extraordinarily calm, as if the luscious park had bestowed on me a beautifully harmonious composure.  In a matter of minutes, I had arrived at the hotel porte-cochere, where there was a soothing waterfall and two immaculately dressed porters standing cordially by the lobby doors, welcoming me with heartfelt smiles.

Inside the lobby, the air quivered with sheer loveliness. Crystal chandeliers and a charming collection of paintings and sculptures exhibited themselves proudly, giving the impression of a private art gallery.  As always, it was the same two pieces behind the front desk that captivated me: two brilliant and sizeable circular oil paintings of deep red peach flowers, so magnificent they made time stand still, not even a moment would dare to pass.

In the cosiness of Fook Lam Moon’s private dining room, the golden glow from the chandeliers above softened our faces.  Formalities were forgotten and conversations lightened, as if the warmth of the waiters had rubbed off on everyone in the room.  The whirr of chatter was immensely relaxing and was silenced only by the arrival of the freshly sautéed lobster and its ambrosial aroma that filled the room.

In the middle of the room at Café Zen, three oversized vats of soup awaited, each one double-boiled and rich with layers of exquisite flavours.  The first to be savoured was as delicious as it was healing; a robust brew of pork broth and watercress intricately woven with hints of ginseng and Chinese wolfberries.  I was certain, however, there was something more to the soup, something almost too delicate to be detected.  Although it would not be until after I had left the restaurant that it came to my realisation that the mysterious ingredient was love.

With just one window, one single piece of glass, two impossibly different worlds were separated.  Outside, the cacophonic city rumbled from morning to night with the incessant clamour of people and cars.  But on the inside, everything was different.  Dark wood and throws of red and gold decorated the room beautifully, but more to my liking was the expansiveness; an invaluable sense of personal space, a precious silence, that stirred in me a deep and sincere contentment.

The piping hot water filled the glass teapot causing the chrysanthemum to unravel and blossom into beautiful white and yellow flowers that danced elegantly in the pot, steeping the tea and releasing the fresh smell of spring time into the air.  Contentedly perched, high up in the Horizon Club Lounge, we sipped the sweet fragrant brew whilst gazing out at the glittering city skyline; and slowly, surely, everything that had consumed our minds that day ebbed silently into the night."

Just one of over 80 coffee table books written for the hotel's rooms and suites.

"A kaleidoscope of fuchsia, turquoise and yellow gold whirlwinds around as you shuffle through a cluster of colourful antique bazaars.  A glistening skyscraper towers over crowded street stalls.  Sophisticated cocktail bars nestle comfortably amidst art deco relics, colonial monuments and cacophonic temples.  The heat is intense and all your senses are racing in overdrive.  In this city that never fails to exhilarate, you want to take in more but the day must come to an end.

You head to the double doors of a magnificent glazed facade that swing open releasing a gush of cold air that could bring you to your knees.  A doorman welcomes you with a smile that touches your heart.  Inside, the air is chilled and crystal chandeliers glisten like extravagant ice stalactites. Contemporary lines and modern architecture incongruously compliment traditional Indian artwork.  All around you, the cool air is filled with a familial warmth and you breathe a deep sigh of contentment.

At last you are home, at the new Shangri-La Hotel, Mumbai.

Like a sleepy old dragon, the Arabian Sea sighs another breath of salty air that meanders listlessly through the High Street Phoenix and eventually settles on the luxurious Shangri-La Hotel, perched unabashedly atop the ultra modern Palladium Mall.  In years past, the area flurried with reams of intensely hued fabrics regurgitated from hundreds of cotton textile mills, since replaced with an eclectic mix of residential and corporate buildings.  Nearby, Mumbai’s historical sites still remain.  The Victoria Terminus railway station is perhaps Mumbai’s most outstanding architectural landmark with its medieval turrets, pointed arches and stone dome —a fascinating fusion of traditional Indian and Victorian Gothic Revival architecture.  At sunset, a fiery orange glow can be seen exploding over Mahim Bay casting the exquisitely constructed Haji Ali Dargah into silhouette.  And when the moon pulls the Arabian Sea into low tide, a mysterious path is exposed leading to the famous Mahalaxmi Temple, dedicated to the Hindu Goddess of Wealth."

These long copy ads were published as short stories to raise awareness of honour killings. The United Nations estimates up to 5,000 honour killings happen every year, around the world, yet remain unreported.

2008 D&AD Copywriting Finalist

2008 AWARD Copywriting Finalist

"I never took for granted the life the Ahmeds gave me.  The day they took me into their London home, I instantly felt warm and safe.  My favourite memories were of Saturday afternoons when the women of the family gathered together to gossip and cook.  Sonja and I started in the kitchen at the crack of dawn and by mid-morning, the three girls, Farah, Adiva and Nadja would saunter from their bedrooms to join us.  Together we would chat about our week's work while preparing an enormous feast for the family.  It was as much a day of therapy as it was of productivity, as by late afternoon we were all up to date on each other's business and the house was filled with the mouth-watering aroma of roast lamb, lentil soup and baking aubergines.

On these Saturdays, Omar stayed out of the kitchen.  He knew better than to get in the way of women's business.  But more importantly, he and Uncle Naveed had business of their own.  After breakfast they would head to their rented garage in Greenwich to spend the day working on their cars, but they would always be home for dinner at six o'clock sharp because that was the rule and Omar was nothing if it were not for his rules. Indeed, Omar ran a tight ship and whilst he was mostly authoritative and staunch, he was complex at the same time.

As a husband, Omar remained distant and aloof, but as a father, I knew he was softer.  Underneath that hard exterior there was a man full of compassion and sincerity.  It would not be wrong to say that he loved his girls more than life itself, and it was no secret he was fiercely protective of them.

As for me, however, I was nothing to Omar.  He hardly gave me any attention; rarely a glance, and in fact, not once over all the years even a "hello". But I understood.  It was clear we had nothing in common, except of course our place of abode, within which we managed to stay out of each other's way with hardly any effort at all.  In fact, our paths never crossed until one day in December, four years ago, which I will never forget.

That Saturday afternoon, we were all in the kitchen enjoying its warmth while outside the first sprinklings of snow danced in the air.  The girls were bickering over who left the butter to burn and Sonja and I were chopping vegetables for the lamb roast.  Suddenly Omar and Uncle Naveed stormed into the kitchen in a rage.  They marched straight up to Nadja, the youngest and in my opinion, the prettiest of the girls.  Nadja looked up at her father, terrified.

"Nadja!" Omar yelled into her face.  "Did you forget the rules? I know what you've been doing."  His fist shook just centimetres from his daughter's nose.  "The neighbours tell me you have been seeing a boy. Sneaking out in the middle of the night. You are only sixteen years old, Nadja." Omar lowered his voice.  "People have been talking. They think you are a whore."  He began to tremble. "Do you know how this makes our family look?"

Omar's face reddened to the shade of a beetroot.  He grabbed Nadja's neck and shook her violently sending Sonja into a screaming fit.  Omar slapped his wife hard across the face before turning back to Nadja. "You have ruined our family name. What am I going to do?" he screamed.

Suddenly, Omar stopped and closed his eyes, and everybody froze with fear.  When he came to, he stared into his daughter's eyes and took in a long deep breath.  He turned around and that's when he saw me by the kitchen sink.  I was terrified for what was about to happen.  Omar made me do something, something I will never forget.

He made me kill Nadja.  I cut her throat wide open so her blood poured freely covering the kitchen floor like a red carpet.  Omar said it was the price that she had to pay for dishonouring the family name.

I will never forget what I did that day. But what could I have said? What could I have done?  I am only a rusty old kitchen knife."

Thousands of honour killings go unreported every year. If you know something please speak out. Because if you don't, who will?

www.stophonourkillings.com

These long copy ads were published as short stories to raise awareness about honour killings. The United Nations estimates up to 5,000 honour killings happen every year around the world, yet remain unreported.

2008 AWARD Copywriting Finalist

"I began to feel Sofia's blood dry up on my body.  I haven't washed since we got to the police station and the pungent smell of death lingers in the air.  I replay the events of the night over and over again.  First her struggle, and then how I delivered every blow after blow to her head, until it was just a bloody mess of broken skull and brains.  And then, when I get to the part where she is just about to die, I freeze the frame.  I study her face - how sorry she looked for every mistake she had made in her twenty-six years, and how she was especially sorry for what she had done to Sayid.  And suddenly I remember about Sayid. What the hell had happened to Sayid?

The day just wasn't like any other day.  Sayid didn't whistle while we worked on Mrs Khan's rosewood cabinet.  He didn't complain about Pakistan's loss to Ireland in the World Cup that year. And he didn't play his favourite band, Mizraab, full blast as we drove home for the day.  Today, Sayid was pissed. Real pissed.

"That fucking bitch", he cursed as he punched the dashboard of his decrepit Datsun 120Y. Ah.... That Fucking Bitch.  He was talking about his wife Sofia - a five foot nothing sack of potatoes with a face like an English bulldog.  I despised the bitch.  The woman was opinionated and disrespectful, and as far as I was concerned, a pathetic excuse for a wife.  Once, she even dared to talk back to Sayid when he accused her of bringing dinner late. Nobody, and I mean nobody, deserved to be married to a wench like that, especially not my best friend, Sayid.

"She shamed me..." Sayid confessed lowering his eyes solemnly.  "She talked to another man", he muttered angrily and then paused for a second.  "How dare she talk to another man!" he yelled, this time smacking his palm on the cracked plastic steering wheel.  I was speechless.  Shocked.  Disgusted.  How could Sofia do this? She was Sayid's property and had no right to talk to another man.  As I sat there and thought about what this would do to Sayid's reputation, my anger grew.  I fantasised about how I would break her neck, crack open her skull, smash every two hundred and six bones in her wretched body.  The slut made me sick.

We drove the rest of the way home in silence.  Sayid didn't utter a word but I could tell his mind was racing - trying to make sense of what Sofia had done, wondering what he had done to deserve this, and thinking about what he was going to do. What was he going do?

When we got home, Sofia was laying on the floor flicking through an old issue of Visage.  We stood at the doorway for a couple of minutes examining her putridness - her mangled pink toenails tapping on the dirty vinyl floor and the fat from her upper arm wobbling as she turned the pages of the magazine.  The woman was vile. And contemptuous - even though she knew we were there she didn't even bother looking up.  Sayid, however always the opportunist, took that as an invitation to grab her by her black greasy hair and drag her across the room.

"What are you doing? You're hurting me!" Sofia screamed pulling at Sayid's hands.  What the hell did she expect? A fucking bunch of roses?  "You stupid whore. I saw what you did and now you are going to pay".  Sofia saw her husband's eyes filled with nothing but hate and revenge and she started to scream for help.  But her screams were futile.  In just a matter of seconds, Sayid had a cushion to her face and was pushing down with all his might.  At long last, Sayid was going to kill Sofia and I was going to watch.

Sadly, however, things did not go as planned.  With Sofia's arms and legs thrashing about, her right knee managed to connect with Sayid's groin sending him crashing to the ground, and giving Sofia an opportunity to escape.  But luckily for Sayid, I was right there next to him and jumped in to help out.  And, well, you know what happened next...

So now, here I sit, waiting for them to come and get me.  I forget about Sofia for a moment and think about Sayid.  Where is he?  What has he told them?  I want to tell him not worry and that I'll take the rap for everything.  After all, what are they going to do?  Arrest me for murder?  Put me in jail?  They won't.  They can't.  I'm only a rusty old hammer."

Thousands of honour killings go unreported every year. If you know something please speak out. Because if you don't, who will?

www.stophonourkillings.com

These long copy ads were published as short stories to raise awareness of honour killings. The United Nations estimates up to 5,000 honour killings happen every year, around the world, yet remain unreported.

2008 AWARD Copywriting Finalist

"Dear Melek,

I am so thankful that you are now at peace and that I could finally help you after so many months of adversity.  I want you to know that I am deeply sorry for how much you suffered and that I never agreed with the family and I never will.

I did not tell you, but I knew long before the others that you were pregnant.  I was certain of it - just by the way you stroked your stomach when you thought no-one was watching, and how you always felt sick but never let anyone know.  But sadly, you knew as well as I did, you could not hide it forever.  The day Mother suspected, she told Father right away.  Melek, if you had seen Father's face when he found out, you would understand how my heart broke right then and there.

That night, as you slept soundly in your bed, Mother and Father argued until morning.  Father wanted you dead.  He said that you had put a black mark on the family's name and that you had to die in order to clear it.  Mother was devastated.  She did not agree with Father, at first, but when she realised that the other sisters might not have a chance to marry, she finally gave in.  But not without a proviso.  She forbade Father to ask Cahil to kill you.  Cahil was their only son, and if he were caught he could go to jail and Mother would never allow that. In the end, Mother and Father agreed that they would force you to kill yourself, however, Father wanted you punished first.

My dear Melek, I cannot tell you how sorry I am for all the times I did not help you.  Like when Father came into your room on the morning of your birthday and cut you all over your body with his razor, while calling you a prostitute and a whore.  And when he put Mother's burning iron to your face while you slept, so no man would ever find you attractive again.  I am so sorry for not helping you then.

I am sorry for the death threats they sent you.  And how they put rat poison and drain cleaner in your room waiting for you to eat them.  I am sorry for all the nights you cried yourself to sleep, knowing that your own parents wanted you dead, and having no-one to turn to.

I cannot even imagine how you felt, every day being beaten and abused, so that every day the lure of suicide grew stronger.  I know you would have given in long before, if it were not for that little person growing inside of you.  That little person who you grew to love like no other and who gave you a reason to keep going.

But it was inevitable, and the day came when your suffering became too much.  How could you possibly go on with all that malice and hate?  I was glad when you finally agreed to take your own life, and thankful you came to me to help, and that this time I would not sit back and do nothing.  I felt comforted to know that an end to your suffering was near and you would finally be free from this life of condemnation and shame.

So that night, I watched you fill the bath while the rest of the family slept.  I watched you take off your clothes and caress your hard round belly as you lowered your body into the warm soothing water.  And I watched you calmly lay your head back as I cut along the radial artery in your arm turning the water a chilling crimson red.  And then, I sat back and waited, and when you finally closed your eyes and drifted off to the sanctuary of Heaven, I cried.  I cried inside, for you and for your baby, but not because I was sad.  I cried because I was happy. I knew at last, no-one could ever hurt you again.

So now, I bid you farewell my dear sweet Melek.  And I want you to know that I will miss you.  I will miss you terribly.  Even if I am just a pair of scissors."

Thousands of honour killings go unreported every year. If you know something please speak out. Because if you don't, who will?

www.stophonourkillings.com

2005 D&AD Illustration Finalist

The brief :  A remarkably quiet engine.

"Scratch here to reveal the latest in Mercedes-Benz technology"

The reader is invited to scratch off the grey area however when they try to, it does not come off. 

"Mercedes-Benz Nano-Particle Paint, now three times more scratch resistant".

The Brief : A leader in its class.

When OCBC Bank was giving away chances to win a holiday, we launched a "Sorry No Ad" campaign to demonstrate how many people were not at work due to winning the holidays.

The campaign appeared in a local newspaper to drive awareness to a video store in the neighbourhood.

The Brief : Lose weight.

The Brief :  Every year, land mines kill over 15,000 people around the world, many of them children.

Cheeky ambient media appearing in lingerie store changing rooms.

With actual gold properties in this new anti-aging line, Pond's wanted an epic story for its launch.

"Refreshing" was the brief

For women in Asia, a fair complexion gives you the confidence to achieve your dreams. 

In Asia, women fear nothing more than the sun's darkening and damaging effects on their skin.

A desperate group of fathers known as "FAFF" (Fathers Against Facial Foam) protest against Pond's who are responsible for making their teenage daughters irresistible to boys.