Thailand isn’t just a place on the map; it’s a living, breathing beast. You land in Bangkok, and it grabs you by the throat. The streets pulse with a chaotic energy – tuk-tuks zipping past, street vendors shouting, and that inescapable smell of sizzling street food filling the air. Travelling to Thailand isn’t about ticking off tourist spots – it’s about diving into the real, raw, and often messy heart of a country that somehow finds beauty in its chaos. From the ancient temples to the neon-lit madness of Bangkok, there’s no shortage of stories waiting to be told, and no shortage of food to devour……
Have you ever looked around and thought, “This can’t be it, right?” Same bars. Same job. Same weather. Same everything. Maybe you just wanted something different — new food, new faces, a new you. That was me.
I’m from a small town on the east coast of Canada. Picture snowbanks higher than your car in winter, swimming holes and skateboards in the summer, and that tight-knit crew you think will never drift. It was a good place to grow up — community college after high school, then the logical next step: move to the nearest big city and find work.
I lasted four months.
My dad drove hours to haul me home after that attempt at “adulthood” cracked open. Everyone had left town by then, chasing jobs, dreams, or just the exit. I bounced through a few dead-end jobs until one day I packed up and moved cross-country. West Coast. A friend got me a plane ticket, and just like that, I was couch-surfing in a town full of people from back home. We had nothing — and everything. Jobs, freedom, laughter, late nights. Six months on a couch turned into our own place. It was beautiful for a while.
But time passed. People left. Life got quiet. Too quiet.
The West Was Wild — Until It Wasn’t
Eventually, it was just me. Working one of the best jobs in my field — on paper, at least. Four days on, five off. Five on, four off. Shift work. Twelve-hour days. You lose track of what day it is, who you are. I stopped living in those “off” days and just started preparing for the next grind. Sleep. Eat. Work. Repeat. Eight years of that — I could feel something in me dying. Not loudly, but slowly. Like water dripping on a rock.
I started to crack.
No Plan. No Luggage. Just the Itch You Can’t Ignore
Everyone around me took the usual vacations — Mexico, Jamaica, the all-inclusive scene. I wasn’t interested. I didn’t want to be served cocktails by a guy in a Hawaiian shirt. I wanted something real. Something that slapped me in the face. Around then, I was watching American Netflix with a VPN, and stumbled on Anthony Bourdain. There he was, slurping noodles in Hanoi, laughing with fishermen in Sicily, breathing in spice and sweat and life.
I saw the Thailand episode and said, “Nope. Not for me. Too loud. Too chaotic.” But it stuck. And then one day, I asked my boss — let’s call him Dave — if he’d ever traveled. He said, “Yeah. I went to Thailand in my twenties. Gave away everything I owned. Smoked weed on the beach. Rented a bungalow for two bucks a night. Wore potato sacks as shirts. It was total freedom.”
I couldn’t shake that story. That image. So I did the only thing that made sense.
I bought a ticket.
I didn’t even bring a suitcase. A friend picking me up said, “What the hell are you bringing that for? You don’t want to drag that on the Bangkok BTS.” So I left it. Just a backpack, a hoodie (terrible choice), six protein bars, and one-way courage.
The Heat Hit First. Then the Reality
The flight was long. Japan layover. I was too nervous to buy food or even exchange money. Sat there with old men watching some random TV station in silence. Next flight — Japan to Bangkok — I met a lady in the window seat who told me you could get as much wine as you wanted. Five hours later and a few glasses in, I was actually relaxed. She’d been to Thailand a dozen times. Me? First time leaving the continent.
We land in Bangkok. First thing I notice? It’s clean. Bright. Organized. Then I walk outside.
Boom.
Wall of heat. Humidity like a punch in the face. Across the road, two taxi drivers are screaming at each other. I’m sweating, confused, overwhelmed. I stare at the sky and, in my head, I see a red line connecting my tiny west coast Canadian town to where I’m standing — 12,000 kilometers from everything I know.
What the hell have I done?
I froze. Then I breathed. Then I moved.
Jet-Lagged, Paranoid, and Paying in the Dark
The pre-arranged driver’s blowing up my phone. (Rookie mistake: didn’t get a Thai SIM — my phone bill was a war crime.) I meet him. We drive through the city — lights, scooters, street food, chaos, beauty, poverty. He talked about Bangkok China town Yaowarat, Bangkok market haggling, Bangkok hidden bars , Bangkok Roff top bars Bangkok Night Markets.
It’s everything at once. I check into a little spot called Bourbon Street Boutique Hotel in Asoke a Bangkok districts neighbourhood. It looks like a bar. No lights. No front desk. I think I’ve been scammed.
But a tiny Thai lady appears from the shadows and says, “You stay two week. You pay now or pay later?”
Is this how hotels work?
I shrug, pay, and figure if it sucks, I’ll just leave.
Upstairs, I check all the locks. I’m paranoid, still half-expecting to wake up back home. I text everyone. “Made it! No problems.” (Lie.)
I pass out.
The Curtain Opens, the Circus Begins
Next morning, I wake up to light spilling under the curtain. I pull it back and bam — the most blinding sun and warmest breeze I’ve ever felt. The street below is a riot of sound: scooters, honking, shouting, sizzling meat. And I’m hungry.
Time to find breakfast. Time to start whatever the hell this is
