Fawlty Towers
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re on the island of Koh Libong, in southern Thailand.
Fawlty Towers
We’re currently (December 5, 2025) staying in a small, independent hotel on a tiny little island. It’s operated by very, very nice people, doing pitched battle against nature and a remote location. Our journey here involved a taxi, a flight, an SUV, a long-tail boat, and a pickup truck. Our morning walk includes monkeys and stray dogs; earlier today there was a monitor lizard wandering by the pool. Yesterday the power went out three times, but today we have internet AND hot water—yay!
In other words, it’s island life, mon.
The last small island we visited was the Scottish Isle of Lewis. I wrote the following while we were there, and even though Thai weather is worlds away from Hebridean weather, much about this essay holds true here and now:
As I write this, I’m sitting on someone else’s couch. Her name is Helen—she’s very kind, always around, and hopefully not offended that I’m cross-legged, barefoot, and have taken up residence in the living room with all my devices and a cup of tea. I’m not completely uncivilized—I put the tea on a coaster.
Helen runs a three-room bed-and-breakfast; we’re here for five nights. I’m guessing most people don’t stay that long. Several couples have already come and gone.
We have the best room—the one with the en-suite bathroom. The other two rooms have to share the hall bathroom. I flat-out refuse to do that—I’m too old to be stumbling down someone else’s hall, trying to find the toilet in the middle of the night.
We all sit together at breakfast (at an assigned seat and time). On the third morning, when I fumbled (again) for an answer to what are you doing today?, it slowly dawned on me that most people probably don’t check into a bed-and-breakfast just to hang out in the living room. The other guests—and eventually even the host—look at you strangely if you say you’re not going to do anything today.
This is why I find bed-and-breakfasts awkward.
We stay in them often enough that I know what to expect: I’m going to creep around trying to be quiet, breakfast will require more sociability than I can muster at that time of day, and I will always be hyper-conscious that I’m a guest in someone’s home. Because I am.
The Airbnb platform has an option for staying in a bedroom in a private home. Lee and I have each tried that (when traveling solo), but as a couple, we avoid it. Sitting at Helen’s dining room table, I realize that a traditional bed-and-breakfast is basically the same thing, except perhaps with a few more guest rooms.
Then there’s another whole category—the homestay. Been there, done that, have the ‘family’ photos to prove it.
I’m not sure whether there are official differences between these types of small accommodation, but they’re all intimate enough to make my introvert self feel a bit clumsy and discombobulated. I either want my own completely private space, or I want the anonymity of a hotel with more than three rooms. Probably more than ten, if I’m being honest.
Small, intensely personal places like guesthouses and bed-and-breakfasts are both rewarding and utterly exhausting. I’m not good at being on my best behavior all the time. A big hotel allows me to disappear into anonymity.
And best of all: no one has to wonder why my underwear is hanging from the lamp.
Take care,
Lisa
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