Thailand, what goes up must come down. Days 2 and 3.

My recommended playlist to set the mood for this chapter here .

I wake up because a ray of sunlight streams through the large window of my hostel room and hits me directly in the top of my left eye. I stretch and toss and turn. I'm so comfortable that, if it weren't for being in Thailand, I'd stay like this for a while longer. I open the curtain that separates my bed from the rest of the room. There are three bunk beds in total, meaning there can be up to six people in the room, both men and women. I sit up and look at the guy in the bed across from me. He looks Middle Eastern. I greet him with an innocent "hello." He just nods and continues staring at his phone screen. "How rude," I think.

I'm walking to Kamala Beach , which is only 500 meters away. Outside, it's clear, the sun is so hot that your skin quickly turns red, and the daylight is so bright that without sunglasses it's hard to see where you're going. Walking in Thailand is like playing Russian roulette: you never know when it's your turn. Sidewalks are almost nonexistent, except on the main avenues. When you're walking down the street, motorcycles dodging cars zip right past you, and if you try to cross, the vehicles don't brake; they rush past you before you. I smile a little because it reminds me of Argentina.

When I arrive at the beach, I confirm why Thailand is one of the most dreamed-of destinations: 1,500 meters of white sand stretch from one end to the other, bordered by rocks of various sizes and trees several meters high. On the left side, colorful long-tail boats decorated with ribbons and flowers as offerings for good luck and protection at sea. On the right side, along a paved path that runs the length of the beach, small stalls sell fruit juices, cocktails, typical snacks such as fried rice (Khao Pad) and papaya salad (Som Tum), clothing, and souvenirs. On the sand, several rows of pink lounge chairs and umbrellas remind me of Barbie's playhouse.

I walk from one end to the other and start looking for a shady spot to lie down. I find a nice spot under the palm trees, lay out my towel, drop my backpack, and sit down. I look around.

Ok, now what?

Anxiety begins to close in on me like a black cloud arriving on the sea wind. I see it approaching over the horizon, dark, dense, fast. It takes up so much space that I can't focus on anything but it. It's so imposing that it takes my breath away, and I start to breathe in great gulps of air because I feel like I'm suffocating. The shadow extends beyond the shore and the sea disappears, darkening the sand and now surrounding me completely.

Voices are coming from all sides, overlapping, yet I understand what they're saying: "So what are you going to do now? Are you going to lie on the beach all day, alone? You're going to be bored," "You're alone, you're always alone," "Why did you come here?" "You're not good enough, that's why he left you," "What are you going to do with your career? Because you're not going to make a living wingfoiling," "Have you seen his stories yet? Did you see that he's already with someone else? Surfing with someone else, laughing with someone else, doing the same thing he did with you?" "They'll never really choose you."

I squeeze my eyes shut, rub them, and try to see something beyond the black vortex enveloping me, but nothing is clear. I mentally review all the tools I've learned over the years to manage anxiety and stressful situations, and decide to use a breathing technique: inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for eight, hold with empty lungs for four, and repeat this over and over again, until the cloud begins to dissipate.

It's three in the morning in Argentina, but I still decide to call my mom because, besides being my go-to person, she's also an ontological coach and always knows how to change my approach. I tell her that, although I love traveling alone, I'm afraid of not having things to do and getting bored, that I'm afraid of feeling lonely, that I compare myself to someone who's probably still in school and that I feel inadequate, that I still miss them, and that I'm afraid of thinking they'll never choose me.

“Let’s see, let’s take it slow,” my mom tells me, still half asleep. “First, you won't get bored; you'll find things to do. And if you don't, that's okay too. You have to learn to relax. Life isn't about 'doing, doing, doing.' It's also about resting, and you don't know how to do that. You've been busy all your life, and doing yoga and meditation don't count if you just use them to fill time. You have to learn to do nothing. To enjoy being with yourself in the present without doing anything. Second, this is something you've been working on for a long time. You already know that your mind plays tricks on you. But just because you know this doesn't mean it's going to change overnight. Your brain is used to thinking this way, to believing that you're not enough, that if the other person leaves, it's because you're not worth it. And you know that's not true, that no one is more than you, and that you are not more than anyone else. So, you have to rewire your brain, teach it to think differently. Tell yourself a different story, but you have to tell it to yourself every day. Until this new narrative is stronger than the one of 'I'm not enough.' And don't be an idiot and stop seeing things that hurt you, because as the saying goes: out of sight, out of mind.

I think about her words. I go into the sea and imagine the water washing everything away: the pain, the fear, the doubts. And I'm left empty. I sit on the sand and tell myself I can do it, that I can lie in the sun all day doing nothing.

The first few minutes are difficult; my mind is restless and foggy, but I focus on what's outside. I observe the contrast of the green of the trees with the chalky white of the beach and the crystal-clear blue of the water. The children running around. A group of women sunbathing and chatting. A couple riding waves on the shore. The palm leaves swaying in the wind. The sun turning everything golden. I relax and stay that way all afternoon. When I return to the hostel, I'm so tired that I decide to take a nap, something I rarely do.

When I wake up, it's already nighttime. I smell a strong odor that makes me dizzy. I look around for the source and see that all the beds are unoccupied except for the boy across the hall. His sheets are rumpled, he has chargers hanging from the outlets, and his bookshelf is piled high with stuff. His nightstand is on, but he's not there. I hang over the edge of the bed and look out the window. I see him sitting on the terrace, smoking weed and watching videos.

What's he doing here? Why does he never go out? It's strange that he's in Thailand and doesn't go out to see the beaches, to eat something, or whatever. Is he sick? Maybe he came looking for work? But it doesn't make sense. If he were sick, he wouldn't be out on the balcony smoking, and if he were looking for work, he'd have to go out during the day. He comes in and out of the room several times, leaves all the lights on, the doors open, and it starts to bother me because the air conditioning is on and it's filled with mosquitoes. I realize it's just us in the room tonight, and I start to worry. I don't want to be judgmental, but as a woman, you can't help but think about all the bad things that could happen: him robbing me, masturbating while I'm sleeping, saying something to me, doing something to me. I don't know.

I go out to buy food and I can't stop thinking about it. I often blur the line between being paranoid and being cautious, but I blame society for making me that way. When I get back to the hostel, I talk to the girl at the front desk. I tell her I feel a little unsafe alone with a man in the room, but she tells me someone else should be arriving tonight, and I feel calmer.

The next day, I walk to the SmartBus stop to take the bus to Patong Beach , one of Phuket's most famous and popular beaches for its vibrant nightlife: bars, clubs, and cabarets. I'm sitting at the stop when a taxi pulls up. It's an old, light-blue car with a hand-painted sign on the roof that says "TAXI." A short man in his 50s or older gets out.

"Where are you going?" he asks me.

- To Patong Beach, I'm waiting for the bus.

- Ah! But the bus comes in an hour, I'll take you for 200 baht.

- No, thanks. The SmartBus should be here in 20 minutes.

"Are you sure?" he asks, raising his eyebrows. "I'll take you for 100 baht, the same as the bus, but faster," he insists.

I look at the tinted car, I look at the gentleman who seems friendly, I look at the car again. I think that if something were to happen to me during the trip, I'd have no one to turn to; I don't know anyone in Asia, and my family and friends are all asleep at this time. So I tell him thank you very much for the offer, but I'd rather wait.

Despite my reluctance, the gentleman pulls out a deck chair and sits next to me. He asks me where I'm from, and I tell him about my country, its customs, and its people. I tell him about our friendliness, our mate, our passion for soccer, our long after-dinner conversations, and our endless financial struggles. I ask him about Thailand, what it's like for him to live there, and if he's ever thought about moving. He tells me about the old and new Thailand, how tourism has eroded the nature and culture of certain beaches. How locals have their own shopping spots. How Phuket is completely different in the off-season; it rains torrentially, and the ocean currents bring in a lot of trash that turns the idyllic beaches into a city street.

I watch him as he speaks, sitting in his deck chair, wearing his gray pants and white T-shirt, his dark skin characteristic of this region, his slow, measured gestures, and his composure. And he reminds me of my grandfather, my favorite person in the world. The whole scene reminds me of afternoons in the countryside, sitting on wooden chairs, bare feet on the grass, drinking mate or tereré when it was too hot. Talking about life, playing I Spy, and telling each other bad jokes.

The sound of an engine pulls me out of my reverie. A red tuk-tuk approaches, and the taxi driver starts waving his hand at them. They speak to each other in Thai, and I try to understand what's going on. The taxi driver calls me and tells me they can take me to Patong. He tells me he's made sure I get the same price as he offered, and asks if that's okay. I say yes, thank him, and we say goodbye. I get into the small van in front of a couple in their 40s or 50s. I realize that it makes me very happy to meet people who, even though they don't have to, decide to care for me and help me. Although at the same time I'm sad about the goodbye, I would have liked to keep talking. But the few minutes we shared will be remembered forever.

I'm sitting, staring at the blue sea through the leaves of the trees, like tiny flecks of paint on a canvas, blending together thanks to the speed of the vehicle when I hear them. The unmistakable "sh" that identifies us, the melody that rises and falls as if we're singing, and the catchphrase "che" that can be used as a preamble to any sentence.

"Are you Argentinian?" I ask bluntly.

- Yes! – they answer in unison, – you too?

- Yes, I'm from Buenos Aires - I tell them.

"Really? Us too. I'm from Vicente Lopez, and he's from the Federal Capital," the woman replies.

They tell me they're on vacation, that they've been to Japan and Vietnam before Thailand. They're surprised that I'm traveling alone and explain that they have two children working in the capital who also want to move to Spain. I tell them about my experience on the island, how different it is to live when you have financial predictability and know that food prices won't go up overnight. However, we agree that there's nothing like the Argentine warmth, and the way we interact with our loved ones. We say goodbye when I get off in Patong, wish each other the best on our travels, and I leave confident that I'll always find an Argentinian around the world.

Patong Beach is much longer than Kamala Beach. It's lined with a semi-pedestrian area filled with food stalls, hammocks adorned with flowers hang from some trees, giving it a dreamy feel, and palm trees cast a small shadow where all the tourists hide. I spend a few hours on the beach, alternating between reading and taking a dip in the water to resist the heat. In the afternoon, I walk down one of the main and most famous streets: Bangla Road .

It's not yet dark, but you can already sense the atmosphere: cabarets completely open to the street, allowing you to see the long bars with some fifty-somethings already seated, mugs of beer in hand, and pole-dancing poles around the tables. Neon lights coming from inside the bars and from signs illuminate everything, and the music mixes and rumbles softly in my ears and chest. Girls gather at the entrances to the cabarets, waiting for some interesting customer. PR people jump on tourists walking by and try to persuade them to stay and have a drink. I feel completely out of place, observing everything as if I were in front of a big movie screen. I decide to leave before it gets too late.

When I pay for the bus back to Kamala, I realize I'm out of cash. Luckily, I have 100 THB to cover the fare. I get off near the hostel and approach an ATM. Just as I'm about to complete the transaction, I realize it doesn't have Apple Pay. I walk several blocks, trying more than 10 ATMs, but none of them accept digital cards. I'm starting to get frustrated. I ask at dozens of exchange offices, but none of them accept cards. I don't know what to do. I keep walking, trying ATM after ATM. I feel stupid. Have I forgotten that I'm also from a developing world? In Buenos Aires, ATMs don't offer the option of withdrawing money with virtual cards, but so many months of living in Europe have instilled in me a privilege bias.

Not having cash isn't that big of a deal. Of course, there are some bars and restaurants that accept Apple or Google Pay, but they're usually the most touristy ones and, therefore, the most expensive. What worries me most is the bus, which only accepts cash, and I also wanted to buy some souvenirs. I suddenly remember I'd brought one of my Argentine credit cards in case of emergency. Well, I don't know if it exactly qualifies as an emergency, but it could fall under the "urgent problems to solve" category. I go back to the last ATM, insert the card, enter the PIN, select withdrawals, 200 baht, and accept what they'll charge me in Argentine pesos, including fees. I wait a few seconds; it seems like it's going to work.

Incorrect PIN. Please try again.

I'm sure that was my password. I try another PIN, go through all the steps again. It's loading, processing, and then it happens. The screen goes black, I hear the machine make a rattling sound, and it goes back to the beginning.

No, it can't be. I frantically hit "back" and "cancel," but the damage is already done. There's no going back; the ATM ate my card.

Shit.