Thailand, beautiful in its own way. Day 1.

I'm at Dubai Airport, sitting near a large window where I can see the majestic buildings and a highway packed with cars. It almost looks like a model. The morning sunlight warms my face, and I feel a little sleepy. I think about these last two months living in Fuerteventura : my friends, my incredible group of friends that formed almost by magic. From one day to the next, Costa Calma went from having one Argentinian girl to eight and two German girls, whom we've now dubbed Argentinian as well. I think about the afternoons of surfing, playing guitar on the beach, laughing, gazing at the stars. I think about school, the clients who are just passing through and others who will stay with you forever. I think about the after-work sessions, when there were just two of us sailing in the sea as the sun set. I think about... No, better not think about him. I run my finger over my wrist, brushing the bracelet he gave me. I feel a lump in my throat. I sigh, look out the window, and force myself to think about something else.

I arrived in Thailand around 8:00 PM, after a marathon journey through five airports and taking four flights. The first thing I felt when I got off the plane was the weight of the heat, mixed with extreme humidity. Suddenly, breathing and walking at the same time felt like crossing the Sahara with someone in tow... Well, probably a child, because the only luggage I brought was a 7.5-kilogram backpack.

In my head, I knew I had two important things to do upon arriving at the airport: 1) exchange my euros for Thai currency, and 2) find the bus stop quickly because they aren't very frequent, and at certain times of the night, they don't run anymore. I breezed through immigration—I was afraid they'd ask for my return ticket, my health insurance, sufficient funds, or something like that, but they didn't—and headed to the "Tourist Assistance" counter with my best "I prefer to say I'm a traveler rather than a tourist, but I'll smile at you like it doesn't matter" face. I asked where the bus stop was, and he pointed at the back of the airport. I walked about three or four blocks and found "the SmartBus," but before I could even realize it was that one, the driver was already herding me onto the bus like a herd of cows.

The next hour of the drive to Kamala Beach , where I'm staying, was a kind of trance, occasionally interrupted by the Italian man traveling with me, who was eager to talk. I couldn't stop staring at the sight: colors, so many colors. Cables dangling everywhere. Motorcycles coming and going. Tuk-tuks with lights and music playing. Small cottages, shacks, and tents. Palm trees and lush ferns. Women in purple outfits, very long nails, and red lipstick.

I get off the bus at Kamala Beach and feel like I'm in the middle of the Amazon. There's only a long avenue lined with immense tropical trees. I search Google Maps for the hostel's location and start walking with more faith than certainty.

After a few blocks, signs of civilization begin to appear: bars, houses, food stalls, a supermarket. To get to the hostel, the map directs me down a fairly dark alley with a few bars that, given the lights, look more like dives. Anxiety begins to creep in: What am I doing here, in the middle of nowhere, alone? Why am I doing these crazy things? Is my hostel really a hostel, or is it a scam? Are they going to kidnap me and sell all my organs?

Enough with the delusions, I tell myself. You're on another continent, with another culture, you have to change your mindset and look at your surroundings with different eyes.

I finally find the hostel next to a small restaurant, and the Thai girl serving me gives me a glass of iced tea—I drank it like an elixir because the heat from the walk had nearly dehydrated me—and leads me to my shared room with a smile. And I'm the one who smiles next when I see the room has air conditioning. I breathe deeply. Everything is fine. I fall into a deep sleep.