The elevator ride felt like a confession.

Not the kind you make with words—but the kind your body makes when it realizes it’s rising too fast for your nerves to catch up.

Sixty-four floors up in Bangkok, gravity takes a step back and lets you walk into something impossible.

And then, the door opens.

You don’t walk into Sky Bar By Lebua, State Tower—you emerge into it.

There’s no transition. No warm-up. Just you, the skyline, and a bar glowing orange like it was ripped out of a Ridley Scott film and dropped onto the edge of the earth.

It should be chaotic. But it’s not.

It’s curated. Controlled. Calm, in a way only places that know they’re the center of the universe can afford to be.

To your right, the golden dome glints under the moonlight like something holy.To your left, Bangkok spills out beneath you—rivers, towers, heat, and movement. But up here? It’s quiet. A whisper wrapped in neon.

And dead center: the bar.

Sky Bar by Lebua, State Tower isn’t just one of the highest rooftop bars in the world—it’s a character in its own story. A bar with credits in a Hollywood blockbuster (The Hangover Part II), a signature cocktail born from that film’s chaos, and a reputation that hangs heavy with altitude and attitude.

You ask for the Hangovertini—because how could you not?

Gin. Green tea vermouth. A swirl of rosemary honey and crisp apple.

It tastes like someone distilled the memory of your wildest night and then dared you to drink it before making the same mistakes all over again.

The LED-lit counter pulses around you—colors shift every ninety seconds: violet, orange, emerald. It makes your drink look like it’s in costume. It makes everyone around you look cooler than they probably are. It makes your heartbeat line up with the light.

The crowd is a cocktail of its own—stylish couples with cameras, solo travelers nursing silence, influencers chasing golden hour, and then someone like you: in it, but not quite of it.

You take a sip. The breeze catches your collar.

The bar staff doesn’t pitch you anything—they offer. A tequila cocktail kissed with burnt orange and smoked vanilla. Then something mezcal-forward with roasted pineapple and a chili foam that lingers like a memory you don’t want to admit you miss.

These aren’t just drinks. They’re declarations.

Each one crafted with the precision of a watchmaker. Each one balanced for altitude, not ego. Thai herbs and citrus oils. Global spirits with Bangkok’s pulse running through them. 

There’s no menu for this part of the night—just trust and glassware.

The bartenders don’t serve—they compose. And they don’t ask if you like it.

They already know you do.

There’s no food here. No distractions. Just drink and view.

You lean against the edge. The rail is glass. The city below looks like it’s dancing. 

Someone’s laughing too loud. Someone else just proposed. And somewhere, far beneath it all, tuk-tuks still scream and street food still sizzles.

But none of that touches you here.

Because this isn’t the Bangkok of chaos.

This is the Bangkok that floats. That glows. That lets you breathe.

You look down. You look up. You order another.

And then you remember: this is where they shot the scene.

The wolfpack. The aftermath. The myth of the lost night.

But here’s the truth the movie didn’t tell you—

Sky Bar by Lebua, State Tower doesn’t give you a hangover.

It gives you clarity.

It doesn’t get you drunk. It gets you honest.

Because somewhere between your second drink and your third silence, you start to realize—this place wasn’t built for hype.

It was built for you.

The version of you that wanted to taste what it feels like to be suspended in the sky.

The one that needed to stand still while the world kept spinning below.

The one that didn’t come looking for a drink—but found one that said, “I know who you are.”

And that’s the thing about Sky Bar.

You don’t just leave with a buzz.

You leave remembering how to feel small, tall, and alive—at the same damn time.