Thailand, between adolescence and adulthood - Final, Part 1

The shower water falls warm over my head, running down around my neck, my shoulders. It wets my eyelids, my lips. It glides softly along my back, my arms, my stomach. It caresses my legs, my feet. The sensations blur together with his kisses, his hands, the warmth of his skin. I try to focus, but I can’t erase his trace from my body. I suppose some memories are too strong to remove from our minds.

I turn off the tap and wrap myself in a towel. I notice how heavy the air feels—steam fills the entire bathroom and the mirror is fogged up. I’m surprised the water isn’t colder, considering it’s around 40 degrees outside. I’m taking clothes out of my closet when a voice startles me.

—Hi! I’m Eve, how are you? Have you been here long?

I stare at her for a few seconds, puzzled, because I didn’t expect to see someone so young in this hostel at this hour of the morning.

—Hi, how’s it going? I arrived a few days ago. You? Where are you from?

—That’s great! I’m so happy to see someone my age. I’m from England—I’ve been traveling around Phuket for a few days, and honestly, I hadn’t met any girls my age. Are you planning to do anything now?

—I get it, the same thing happened to me. Honestly, not much. I wanted to find a new beach to visit.

—Have you been to Freedom Beach?

—No. The name sounds a bit like a nudist beach —.

She starts laughing, and I realize how beautiful she is. Her wide smile lights up her olive-toned face, and her thick lashes frame dark green eyes. Corkscrew curls fall over her shoulders, which align perfectly with her wide hips.

—Well, as far as I know, there are no nudists or anything strange —she says with a smile—, but look at these photos—it looks beautiful.

She shows me some images on Google Maps, and honestly, yes—the place looks paradisiacal, with or without nudism.

—Where is it?

—It’s past Patong Beach. Do you like walking?

—Yes, of course.

—Then we can take the bus to Patong, and from there we’ll have to walk along the road for a bit and then through the jungle until we reach the beach.

—I love adventures. Let me change and we’ll go.

We start the journey at the Big C Kamala stop. We get off the bus at Patong Beach and walk to the end of the coastal street. We stop at a Seven Eleven to buy water, fruit, and some Orion grape gummies to eat along the way. We head up a road that first borders the beach, offering an incredible panoramic view of Patong Beach, then cuts through shrubs and small villages with food stalls. The walk to where the paved road ends and the dirt path begins—that is, where the final stretch through the jungle starts—takes us at least an hour. During that time, I learn that Eve is only 19 years old, that her mother is from India and her father from Ireland, that this was supposed to be a trip with a friend after finishing school, but in the end her friend couldn’t come, so she decided to go alone anyway.

—Do you already know what you’re going to study? —I ask. She thinks for a few seconds before answering.

—Well, it’s a bit complicated for me right now. I’ve done contemporary dance my whole life—I was going to dedicate myself to that—but in the last year I felt it didn’t fulfill me like before. I started looking into studying at an Art Academy in Italy—I feel like that’s something I’m passionate about too, but I don’t know. I feel the pressure that my family expected me to be a dancer, and at the same time I’m afraid that if I choose to go to Italy and then don’t like it, it’ll be a huge expense for my parents and a waste of time for me.

—I understand, but you should never see those changes as a “waste of time.” It’s normal to change your mind—to think you wanted something and then realize it’s not what you were looking for. There aren’t really right or wrong decisions either—whatever you choose now, you’re choosing within a specific context and with a specific goal. If you try it and a month, one year, or five years from now you discover you don’t want to continue down that path, that’s okay. You’ll definitely gain knowledge that will serve you for life.

Eve looks at me for a while but says nothing. We keep walking in silence until we reach the Freedom Beach Viewpoint. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful: lush trees frame a turquoise sea that slowly deepens into navy blue. Small boats move from side to side, leaving white trails that look like scribbles drawn by a child. The peace the place radiates is absolute.

We realize how tired we are—we’ve walked for over an hour uphill under the sun—so we hurry to reach the jungle entrance and descend toward the beach.

We venture into the trees, following the trail left by the hundreds of people who pass through here during the year until we reach a point where the path splits in two. We choose the right and continue descending. The jungle seems endless, and the path becomes a bit tricky, with steep drops and rocks. The humidity clings to the skin like a second layer. Sweat runs down our backs. Eve laughs when she almost slips. I begin to wonder if the beach really exists or if it’s just a strategy by Google to sell us an illusion.

Just as we’re about to give up, we hear the sound of water. We quicken our pace—and then we see it. A not very large C-shaped beach, with glowing yellow sand, huge patches of vegetation on the sides, and water so clear you can see your feet beneath the surface.

We find a spot under the palm trees to sit. Then I notice there are a lot of tourists for such a remote place. I observe and start to understand the business they’ve built here. You don’t actually have to walk like two slaves under the sun as we did—you can come by long-tail boat, which is basically a water taxi, or by tuk-tuk from Patong. And if you have your own motorbike or car, there’s even parking with a private descent to the beach. In fact, if the jungle path is too hard, there’s a 4x4 that takes you. There’s also a Hawaiian-style bar with drinks, food, and a bathroom—which you can only use if you buy something.

—What was it like for you? I mean, does it get easier as you grow up? —Eve asks, interrupting my market analysis. I look into her eyes—eyes that right now resemble the sea in front of us. And then I remember: exactly six years ago, in this same month, March, I was going through one of the biggest crises of my life. I was also 19.

00:30 a.m., March 19, 2019, Buenos Aires City.

The hiss of the fan keeps me alert. The apartment window is open, but not a single breath of air comes in. The noise of cars and people wandering the night filters into the room. Although the Recoleta neighborhood isn’t as lively as Palermo at night, there’s always the occasional zombie roaming around. I’m lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, arms at my sides. I want to move, but I’m immobilized by guilt.

I was supposed to go train at the gym and spend the afternoon preparing essays for university, but my friends invited me to have mate at the park, and FOMO got the best of me. We met, as always, at Plaza Francia, blanket and mate in hand. I wanted to be there for them, but just as I wasn’t at home studying, I also wasn’t present in the moment. Every few minutes, I found myself thinking about how many calories I had eaten, how I should spend more hours at the gym, how my lifestyle is far below that of my friends, how I don’t fit at all into the circle I live in, how I should try harder to belong, what I could write for the class I’m taking, whether I made the right decision changing majors, and how everyone thinks I did it because it’s easier.

Just a few days ago, I started studying Communication Sciences at the Faculty of Social Sciences, after a year and a half in which I nearly destroyed my body, my mental health, and my social life—I decided to leave my previous degree. Since I was 15, I had developed an obsession with being perfect. It wasn’t something I consciously chose, but all my actions revolved around having a model-like body; performing at 100% in the softball and hockey teams and in every school competition; getting the highest grades; and never, ever having conflicts with others. Years later, I would understand that it was really about having everything under control—but since I couldn’t control the outside, I had to focus on controlling my own body. And nothing fits better for someone with an eating disorder and an obsession with excellence than a degree in Food Engineering.

For a year and a half, I studied in the Natural Sciences building at the University of Buenos Aires. Every day, I woke up early, took bus 31 to Ciudad Universitaria, and didn’t return home until late afternoon or evening. I had three classes a day: theory, practice, and lab. The building was massive, and although each course had dozens of people, making friends was very difficult. Everyone fought for themselves, for their place in the jungle—and in a degree like this, where even the laziest student has a published paper, competition left no room for alliances. I felt alone. Every night, I stayed up late doing endless calculations, solving twisted physics problems, and writing down every tiny detail of lab experiments. After the first semester, I had passed all my courses with outstanding grades and was among the small historical percentage who passed Inorganic Chemistry without retaking it. And yet, I was dying.

My body was collapsing: I couldn’t sleep at night, I was so thin that my body stopped producing the hormones necessary for my menstrual cycle, my hair was falling out, I was freezing even on the warmest days. My friends didn’t want to see me, and I constantly argued with my family. I knew I was on a dead-end path—that I had to choose between clinging to the same patterns or opening myself to a new life. So one day, I took a bus across half of Buenos Aires, sat on a blue couch, looked at the woman in front of me, and with a knot in my throat said: “I know I’ve hurt myself a lot, but I also know it’s not too late.”

After weeks of therapy, I chose to leave my degree and start a new one—because if I really wanted change, I had to make radical decisions. But the path wasn’t going to be easy. Everyone thought I switched to Social Sciences because it was easier. They told me I would never find a “good job” studying that and that in Argentina I would “starve.” Meanwhile, adapting was difficult: unlike engineering, nothing here had an exact answer. Somehow all authors were right, and professors never gave you exact pages to study. Everything floated in nothingness—and for me, it was an apocalypse.

So here I am, immobilized in my bed by my thoughts, too exhausted to move and too worried to sleep. At some point, my eyelids grow heavy—the Natural Sciences building merges with Social Sciences, my friends melt into the park grass, and my family fades into the distance. I fall asleep.

03:30 a.m., March 19, 2019, Buenos Aires City.

Something bothers me. I get out of bed and head to the bathroom. My eyelids are stuck, so it’s hard to see. I sit on the toilet—it’s cold. I yawn. I go back toward my room, and then I smell something strange coming from the hallway. I ignore it and keep going. I’m about to get back into bed when the intercom starts ringing. That’s strange. A sharp pain hits my stomach—I know something’s wrong. I pick up the receiver and say “hello,” but no one answers. I repeat it several times and only hear noise from the street. I rush to the balcony, lean out, and see the neighbors from the building across the street waving their arms.

—Get out of the building! It’s on fire—get out now! —they shout.

I run to my brother’s bed and shake him until he wakes up. I don’t know how to explain what’s happening—I just tell him something’s burning and we need to leave now. I grab my keys. I’m in pajamas, barefoot. We step into the hallway—black smoke engulfs us. Seven floors. Darkness. My brother behind me. No time to think. Just go down. One. Two. Three. My throat burns. He coughs. I shout. Is he okay? No answer. I call him. He keeps going. I hear him. We keep going. Ground floor. Outside. We breathe.

The scene on the street feels like a movie. Almost all our neighbors stare upward, desperate, disoriented. Two fire crews prepare to attack the flames. An ambulance parks nearby. The neighbor across from my apartment cries and screams: —My things! My apartment, all my work! Why? Why? —

My brother and I stand side by side on the opposite sidewalk, watching flames burst from the windows of the third apartment on the third floor. Suddenly, the fire reaches the electrical cables running up the building, and a flare shoots upward like a rocket—spreading fast, everywhere. It’s radiant, fierce—almost beautiful. We hold hands, and suddenly I feel like I’m seven years old again—just the two of us against a hostile world, taking care of each other because our parents are too busy still being children themselves.

04:15 a.m., March 19, 2019, Buenos Aires City.

I start to feel unwell. Suddenly, a sharp pain pierces my head. Everything around me sways like I’m on a boat, and I can’t think clearly. My brother takes me to the ambulance. The paramedics check me gently until the doctor arrives. They start arguing about who’s responsible for treating me. Meanwhile, I sit on the stretcher, trying to understand what’s happening. The doctor grabs something and puts it on my finger—he doesn’t even introduce himself—and then forcefully opens my mouth with a stick, making me gag.

—Your oxygen level is below 80—you have severe hypoxemia. And your throat is black. This could cause irreversible brain damage —he says in a robotic tone that sends chills down my spine.

First, I stare at him in shock. Then I look for my brother. He’s outside the ambulance, standing in the pose he always has when he’s worried or thinking: one arm crossed over his chest, the other resting on it, hand holding his chin. Everything happens too fast. The doctor puts an oxygen mask on me, brings my brother into the ambulance, and we speed off to somewhere I don’t know.

I cry. Tears run hot down my cheeks and slip along the edge of the oxygen mask. I close my eyes and see my life flash before me. What have I been doing? Who am I trying to prove I’m perfect to? Why did I waste so much time valuing things that don’t really matter?

05:10 a.m., March 19, 2019, Buenos Aires City.

After a 40-minute ride, we arrive at a hospital on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. They change my oxygen mask, give one to my brother too, take blood samples, and leave us in a narrow room. Minutes feel like hours—the agony is endless. But I’m exhausted. For the first time in my life, I feel like I completely surrender. There’s nothing I can do.

My brother, who has an iron armor and never lets himself be carried away by emotions, starts reading Reddit trends. At first, I can’t focus, but eventually I get hooked—and he makes me smile. I watch him: always so stoic, so intelligent, so composed—and yet carrying so much weight. I wish it were different. I wish I could take all that pain I know he carries and bear it for him—save him the way he has saved me so many times.

Finally, the nurse arrives. She says my tests are fine and scolds my brother for being a smoker—something clearly visible in his blood results. She tells us we need to stay on oxygen for at least 40 more minutes, and then we can leave. We’re relieved to know I’m not seriously hurt, but I’m barefoot, my brother is covered in soot, and we don’t even have a transit card to take a bus. My mom is in the United States, so calling her makes no sense. The only option is to call our dad, who lives outside the city, to come pick us up. We end the night laughing because we look like two homeless people, and my brother takes pictures of me standing next to a children’s dinosaur height chart in the pediatric ward.

07:20 a.m., March 19, 2019, Buenos Aires City.

The left side of the building is destroyed. Fortunately, my apartment is on the right side, so it’s intact. There’s no power, of course, and some water got in from the hallway when the firefighters put out the fire—but otherwise, everything is the same. I shower to get rid of the smell of burnt plastic. I get dressed, grab my backpack, and head to university.

09:30 a.m., March 19, 2019, Buenos Aires City.

I’m sitting in a front-row seat. The girls around me shift in their seats, exchanging worried ideas about what the professor will demand in the essays. A brown-haired girl with straight hair sits next to me. From her appearance, I judge her to be a “mili-pili.” She has at least ten bracelets hanging from her wrist, chiming metallically every time she moves. Suddenly, she turns and looks at me intently.

—What did you write today? I heard this professor is very strict with spelling mistakes —she asks. Months later—after becoming my best friend—she would confess that she spoke to me because she was sure, based on my appearance, that I was “studious,” and therefore a good ally to have nearby.

I cough and cover my mouth with a tissue before answering. I look at the paper—it’s black. My lungs are still expelling carbon particles.

—Honestly, I didn’t write anything because I decided to go out with my friends and drink mate. So if the professor is strict, I don’t really care—“nothing” is too perfect to be corrected.

—What are you thinking about? —Eve asks, handing me the water bottle. I blink.

—I was thinking of an answer to your question. I don’t know if it necessarily gets “easier,” but I can assure you—it becomes clearer.