“I heard about the job abroad – I got it!”
This was the first time the idea of moving to another country went from a distant possibility to a concrete reality. From the cold, windswept streets of Melbourne to the humid, thick-air warmth of Ho Chi Minh City. After a lot of planning, packing and preparing for the big move, we landed in Saigon just before Christmas.
After navigating the airport and being picked up by a driver, we made our way through the most chaotic traffic I’ve ever seen in my life to our new home – a residential apartment in an international hotel chain you’ve probably heard of.
The idea of seemingly living in a hotel may sound strange, but time is the only thing needed for something to become normal.
Once we were certain we were leaving Collingwood, we were offered a few different accommodation options. Price was certainly a factor, but for a variety of reasons renting from a company rather than a private individual was non-negotiable. This narrowed the options down by about 90%, and we were pretty much left with a choice of a gated community-style apartment complex or a hotel.
Location was ultimately the deciding factor in our choice of location. After all, convenience is key – especially when moving to a new country.
Our airport driver pulled into the semi-circular driveway of the tower we would soon call home. A smartly dressed man in uniform helped us with our luggage and we thanked the driver. They opened the door from the inside and men in identical uniforms greeted us with a smile and a nod downward as they pulled on their respective door handles.
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but I assumed that the process of moving into a hotel for what seemed like forever would be different if you were only checking in for one night. But that wasn’t the case. We went to reception, showed our passports, got our keys and took the elevator to our apartment where our luggage was waiting for us.
It was fully furnished, in the kind of neutral, understated, almost forgettable decor that hotels have elevated to an art form. The cupboards and drawers were filled with exactly six of everything – plates, bowls, glasses, the whole lot – and we were given papers listing everything in the apartment. We checked it over, signed it, and were left alone. The hotel management was happy that we agreed to be charged for anything we broke.
The days and weeks that followed were an adjustment period to say the least. With no friends at the time and my wife in the office while I worked from home in Australian times, I explored the facilities on offer. The pool was never empty, either of holidaymakers’ children or elderly women swimming laps without goggles. Despite the truly oppressive heat outside, the saunas and steam rooms were full of Korean and Japanese businesspeople, while the gym was frequented by a few housemates and mainly Europeans and Australians looking for a holiday gym.
For several months, most of my interactions – apart from my wife in person and my colleagues online – were uncomfortably asymmetrical. From hotel staff and waiters to taxi drivers and shopkeepers, there was a consistent line of attentive service that was as far removed from the bitter disdain displayed by the baristas in Fitzroy as it is possible to get. It’s a strange thing to complain about, I admit, but it’s equally strange to miss the doors of your own taxis.
The other weird thing about living in a hotel is that while it may be your home, calling it a home is a stretch. Negotiations have to be made to hang artwork on the walls, the staff servicing the smoke detectors can surprise you in your living room if you don’t hear the doorbell, and most of the items in the apartment aren’t yours. It doesn’t feel permanent, but at the same time, it’s not supposed to be.
Having lived in Ethiopia as a child, I was fully aware that life in Australia was not exactly difficult. But despite the early and ongoing teething stages, living in a hotel has taken everyday comfort to a level I didn’t know existed. The beds are made, the towels are changed, and if you fancy an omelette for breakfast, all you have to do is roll over in bed, pick up the phone, press four buttons and ask nicely.
There’s a dry cleaning service that not only returns your clothes to your closet, but also returns each item to its place in the closet (I honestly couldn’t believe it the first time it happened). When your friends come for a dinner party, you get a courtesy call 30 seconds before the doorbell rings to let you know they’re in the elevator. And if your air conditioner breaks or there’s a problem with the toilet, a maintenance guy comes to fix your problem. It’s all very, very nice.
If I’m honest – and I think anyone in a similar situation would agree – it’s the kind of arrangement you could easily enjoy for the rest of your life. However, as the name suggests, fixed-term contracts don’t last forever and soon we’ll be returning to Australia where true normality must return.
However, the time we have left is a balancing act. On the one hand, you want to enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime experience as much as possible. On the other hand (and this applies to all “normal” people who experience luxury), it is self-preserving not to “get used to it”, hoping to reduce the psychological fall when you inevitably return to earth.
Soon, the same airport driver will come back and my wife and I will plunge headlong into the traffic I love so much. But in the meantime, we’ll do our best to remember every moment we spent in a hotel.
