The Unmissable Temple House in Chengdu: Experience a Unique Ambiance

## A Night at Temple House The Temple House in Chengdu seems to be designed for those with deep pockets and refined tastes. I wouldn't normally stay at such a place, but at a friend's invitation, I hesitantly stepped inside. At the entrance, several black-clad "greeters" approached, their faces adorned with measured smiles, precisely revealing eight teeth - not more, not less. They took my luggage and led me to the front desk. The receptionist smiled too, though hints of weariness lurked in her eyes, presumably from a full day of smiling. The room was spacious, with several "artworks" hanging on the walls, supposedly by an emerging artist. I couldn't make sense of them, finding the colors rather jarring. The bed was immaculately made, its sheets so pristinely white that one hesitated to lie down, fearing to disturb its perfection. Welcome fruits sat on the coffee table - apples polished to a waxy sheen and bananas curved just so, clearly carefully selected. At night, I stood by the window watching Chengdu's lights. Though situated in the bustling downtown, Temple House strives to create an atmosphere of "urban seclusion." The thick window panes filtered out most of the city noise, leaving only a distant hum. These expensive windows effectively blocked out the urban clamor, but also sealed away the authentic pulse of city life. The next morning at breakfast, the restaurant displayed an impressive array of both Chinese and Western dishes, plated so exquisitely one almost felt guilty disturbing them. At a nearby table, a young couple sat - the wife complaining about some sauce's authenticity while her husband nodded absently, eyes fixed on his phone. A server stood nearby, maintaining that measured smile, though the fatigue in her eyes had deepened. After breakfast, I wandered through the hotel and found a space labeled as a "cultural area" - essentially a shop selling overpriced crafts and books. The shelves held pristine hardcovers, mostly biographies and self-help books, their spines gleaming gold but showing little sign of use. A guest briefly picked up a book, quickly set it down, apparently uninterested, and moved on to examine the startlingly expensive tea sets. The rooftop pool's water was an unnaturally perfect blue. Several guests sunbathed poolside, their skin already lobster-red, yet still diligently applying tanning oil. Their poses resembled a solemn ritual - as if making offerings to the sun god. During checkout, the front desk asked about my stay. I said it was fine, though privately thinking how exhausting such a meticulously calculated place was, where even guest smiles seemed pre-designed. They offered me a membership card for room upgrades on future visits. I thanked them and pocketed it, knowing it would end up with other expired promo codes. Stepping out of Temple House, the city's sounds rushed in - vendors calling out, car horns honking, the buzz of pedestrian chatter - suddenly feeling wonderfully familiar. I realized then that I belonged to this earthly realm, unsuited for such rarefied heights. Luxury hotels are merely carefully orchestrated plays, and we're all temporary actors. Once our scenes are done, it's time to exit the stage.