Thailand, between adolescence and adulthood - Final, part 2

March 1, 2025 – 10:30 p.m.

We raise our beer cans and make one last toast with Elena. I get up from the lounge chair, take a few steps away, and take in the scene: her golden curls move with the ocean breeze, her tanned skin contrasts with the white of her dress. The sand slopes down into the black of the sea and, far in the distance, an abyss—there is no difference between sky and earth. Elena curls into the seat to see my face. One of her hands delicately holds the back of the chair; the other rises softly and rests on her chest. She smiles sideways and says goodbye without words. I stand there for a few seconds, completely absorbed in what could be a Botticelli painting.

I throw the beer cans into a bin on the way to the hostel. I get to the room and let myself fall onto the bed with the laptop on my legs. I’m just in time to check in for my flight to Australia. I go onto the airline’s website, find my booking, fill in my details. The page keeps loading.

The following passenger(s) cannot check in due to not meeting certain government requirements. Please proceed to the counter for more information.

What?!

March 11, 2025 – 8:30 a.m.

I hug Eva at the hotel entrance. She takes the street to the left, heading north of Thailand, where she’ll meet friends. I head to the right, ready for the excursion to Ko He Island. Hat, sunglasses, sunscreen, bikini, and water bottle in hand—the shuttle is waiting on the corner. I greet the driver, who crosses my name off the list, and we begin the ride south.

We pick up a Polish family, a Latin American couple, and a guy who looks English. I put on my headphones, open the curtain, and let the warm sunlight paint the landscape like a watercolor canvas. Street vendors cook at full speed, preparing fried rice, marinated fish, papaya and mango skewers, and fruit juices for early workers. A tourist here and there appears with a cooler and umbrella in hand, ready for a bright beach day. I let myself be carried away by the music. It’s what I enjoy most about traveling.

When I was a kid and visited my dad during the hot Buenos Aires summers, we spent our days driving from one place to another. As an architect, he had to visit different construction sites across the province, so he had no choice but to pile the three of us siblings into the car and pray we behaved during the trip. I remember lying in the back seat of the blue Fiat Duna, feet up on the rear shelf, head almost hanging off. I can still hear his deep voice: —Sit properly, don’t you see that’s dangerous?— But I ignored him, closed my eyes, and got lost listening to the records that always played in the stereo: Pink Floyd, Pearl Jam, Foo Fighters, The Doors, and Los Piojos.

We arrive at the east coast of the Phuket district. We get off the shuttle and walk toward a large arch of bushes with a red sign that reads “Kan Eang at Pier Restaurant”. The place exudes luxury: glass tables surrounded by iron chairs, covered by pristine white umbrellas. A smiling woman guides us to a table where three young staff members look up our names, give us a wristband, a bag with merchandise, and send us to a hall with large windows and tables full of food.

I’m drinking coffee, lost in my thoughts, when two blonde women, around 40 years old, with red lips and long nails, sit across from me. It takes me a moment to realize they’re watching me. I return their gaze and smile. They giggle quietly and type something on their phone. The shorter one shows me her screen. On it, a message translated from Russian into English:

—Hi! Where are you from? We are from Russia and it’s our first time here.

—Hi! I’m from Argentina, but I live in Spain now. It’s my first time here too—, I reply. It amuses me to hold an entire conversation without saying a single word.

—Wow, Argentina! Iguazú Falls, how beautiful. So far—you’re brave. Are you going to Banana Beach? Do you have the snorkeling package?

—Yes. I haven’t done it in many years, so I’m a bit nervous.

—Don’t worry, you’ll love it.

A young man enters the room and asks us to get ready to board. We get onto a semi-covered speedboat with a double deck. As they explain the itinerary, the boat starts and moves away from the shore. It excites me to see the lush trees and the giant Buddha getting smaller and smaller.

The ride is fast and bumpy because of the waves. An older couple laughs, a newlywed couple embraces, and the young girls can’t stop taking photos.

We arrive at the island. Boats can’t get closer than 300 meters from shore, so they anchor next to a floating walkway. The newlyweds go first. The woman steps confidently, but the walkway ripples like a flag. The husband jumps to help her, and they both end up crawling to the end. The elderly couple and I hold back laughter. I walk slowly behind them. At first it’s strange, like when you’ve spun around too many times and end up dizzy, stumbling without knowing exactly where you’re going. But the more you move forward, the more you understand the rhythm, and your balance improves. Once I get used to it, I can appreciate what surrounds me. On both sides, a crystal-clear turquoise sea so transparent I can see little fish swimming effortlessly. Ahead, a white-sand beach that ends in rocks, trees of such a bright emerald green they dazzle me. A wooden restaurant blending Hawaiian style with big-city glamour. Toward the end, to the right of the walkway, small colorful boats add a magical touch to the place.

I spend the first two hours under an umbrella, mixing reading (The Hunger Games, for the second time) with moments of contemplation. Who would have thought? On the first day I couldn’t sit still for five minutes, and now I could spend the entire day reading, listening to music, and sunbathing. I remember an author I read at university who said we live in constant temporal acceleration, trapped in productivity and consumption. I narrow my eyes. I watch children splashing in the water, unconcerned about tomorrow, with their own perception of time… Yes, I think my revolution will be lying here all day.

The guide calls us. It’s time to go snorkeling. The boat takes us near the next island and drops us about five meters from the coral. I float with one arm and with the other I adjust my mask and snorkel. I put my head underwater, but I forget to inhale through my mouth and end up choking inside the mask. I come back up. I practice a few times outside. “Okay, I’m ready. I can do this.” I dip my head again, this time focusing on breathing slowly through my mouth. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Little by little, I get used to it. Then, that invisible world appears: fish of all colors moving in every direction. Some rush, others rest. An entire life unfolds there, with its own rhythm and rules. I start swimming slowly, afraid of disturbing that order—and then, just as I’m above the coral, a school of small, bright orange fish surrounds me. And I stay there, suspended, body light, heartbeat slow, mind empty. Just observing in awe what lies before me—pure magic.

March 11, 2025 – 7:30 p.m.

I walk into the hostel room and find it almost empty, except for a large bag of clothes and makeup scattered across the bed opposite mine. I sit with the laptop on my legs, ready to check in for my flight to Australia. Am I really? I’ve dreamed of traveling to that country since I was 18, but lately I’ve been wondering if it’s still my dream. Suddenly, the door opens. A girl walks in cheerfully. She organizes her makeup, and I don’t know why I can’t stop looking at her: shoulder-length wavy blonde hair, golden skin under a beautiful dress. Her movements are agile and delicate, as if she had practiced them many times. She turns around and says: —Hi, I’m Helena! Nice to meet you, what’s your name?— I look at her, stunned by her smile. Without taking my eyes off her, I close the laptop and forget about Australia.

We spend the night walking through a local market, trying Thai food, and talking about art, politics, and religion. Helena is my age, she’s Greek but lives in Germany, where she works as a therapeutic companion for people with mental disorders. She misses her hometown, but she loves traveling and doesn’t mind doing it alone.

—Are you religious? —I ask as we walk along the beach. She looks a bit surprised —I’m asking because I saw you making the sign of the cross earlier, when we were eating —I explain.

—Ah, yes! Well, I wouldn’t say religious—I’m a believer.

—And what’s the difference?

—Religion is a way of life. Being a believer is a path in life.

—And you? —she asks after a long silence.

—I don’t consider myself a religious person. My family raised me Catholic, but I decided to stop practicing because I saw many inconsistencies in the Church. Then I tried Hinduism, and now I’m exploring Buddhism—but I don’t like it when things become institutionalized, you know? When they tell you “if you don’t pray ten times you won’t receive God’s blessing,” or “if you don’t take this meditation course then you’re not spiritual.” I stay away from that.

—But in the end, you’re always searching for something to believe in, right? —she says cleverly.

—Well, I wouldn’t say believe. I prefer to learn —I reply, with a hint of irony.

—And what have you learned so far?

—That we all pray to the same thing. There was a mantra we used to recite at the Hindu center that I really liked, and it said: “God, let me love you under all your names and all your forms.” We think we’re different—that we speak different languages, eat different foods, don’t go to the same places, don’t have the same economy—but in the end, when we’re afraid, don’t we close our eyes and ask, please, to be saved? And when we love, don’t we look up at the sky and give thanks for such joy? God is in that space, in that moment when we are all the same.

We lie back on lounge chairs facing the sea with a six-pack of beers between us. We open a can and stare at the ocean.

—When do you think you became an adult? —I ask.

—Am I? —she laughs—.

—I think I knew when I decided to work with people with mental disorders, even though my family was against it. They told me, how could I work with “crazy people,” that it was dangerous, that I wouldn’t have a future. One day we were having lunch and I told them: “I enrolled in the program. Am I sure it will be good for me? No. Is it what I want with all my heart? Yes. So I hope you respect my choice—and if I fail, I hope you’ll be there for me.”

—That’s brave —I say.

—And you?

—I was 17. It was Christmas, and I had one of the biggest arguments with my dad. I told him that when I started university in Buenos Aires, I wanted to live alone. He got so angry… I still have flashes of that moment: me inside the car, in the passenger seat. Outside, people celebrating the holidays. Inside, his voice shouting at me. Outside, laughter and fireworks. Inside, me squeezing my eyes shut. Outside, people hugging.

I spent the whole night lying in bed, unable to stop crying. Hours later, he came and lay down next to me, his face in front of mine. Suddenly, we were equals: two completely vulnerable human beings. We looked into each other’s eyes. Mine were red and swollen from crying. His, a deep brown, turned glassy until tears began to surface. And I could see the pain on his face when he said:

"I will never understand you".

And that’s when I understood that he did love me—but not in the way I needed. So I had to choose: stay frozen as the child waiting to be chosen by her father, or become the adult who accepts that her father does the best he can with what he knows, and loves her the only way he learned how.

That dawn, I packed my suitcase, stole my sister’s transit card, and left without making a sound. I never went back.

—Here’s to adulthood —Elena says, raising her beer.

—To adulthood —I reply.

We make one last toast. I get up from the lounge chair, take a few steps away, and take in the scene. Elena curls into the seat to see my face. One of her hands delicately holds the back of the chair, the other rises gently and rests on her chest. She smiles sideways and says goodbye without words.

I throw the beer cans into a bin on the way to the hostel. I get to the room and drop onto the bed with the laptop on my legs. Just in time to check in. I go onto the airline’s website, find my booking, fill in all my details. The page keeps loading.

The following passenger(s) cannot check in...

What?! But I have my visa! I try several times, unsuccessfully. I talk to the help bot for half an hour until I give up. The next morning, I take the Smart Bus to the airport. I walk nervously, waiting for the counter to open. What’s wrong with my visa? What if they don’t let me travel? The screens update:

SCOOT – Destination Sydney – Desk A2 – Check-in open

I move forward in line. I show my ticket: green. Passport: red. The agent tries again: red. She calls her colleague. They send me to the next counter. My hands are shaking.

—I have the Work and Holiday visa —I explain, showing the printed document. She types frantically. She turns pale. —Nothing —she says. Nothing? That can’t be. My blood pressure drops. She makes a call, explains the situation. I cross my fingers. “Universe, I know I hesitated a lot about coming to Australia, but I promise now I really want to go. Please, let me travel.”

The woman hangs up. —Do you have another passport?—

—Yes, the Spanish one and the Argentine one.

I give her the Argentine one. She scans the ticket: green. She scans the passport: green. I look up at the sky. Maybe I’m a believer too.