Namaste, India. You have been truly wonderful. From opulent palaces to cows crossing the road; from the colourful ceremonies and funerals at the ghats to dolphins diving into the murky waters at Fort Cochin. You were brutal and beautiful and everything in between – and more than I ever could have anticipated. And despite what everyone had warned us (‘Great food, hideous Delhi belly…’), neither Train Man nor I got sick once. Well, nothing that wasn’t self-inflicted by too much Kingfisher, Cobra and chana…
So here we are in beautiful Thailand, and getting here felt like going back to the future. We boarded a plane in the beige dust and 1970s décor of the Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi (complete with actual piles of paper at the check-in desk and one of those Rolodex flight departures boards that flickers in old movies) and disembarked to change planes in low-lit and futuristic Singapore, which was so clean, so slick and so minimalist, it felt as though we could have been on the International Space Station in the year 3000. Another swift flight brought us to Bangkok, and, wow, what a city.
BKK as it seems to be called on billboards and in bars is majestic yet fun; gilded yet clammy; energising yet tiring – and it has shopping opportunities aplenty. It’s been hard to resist looking in the multiple malls many of my friends raved about, but my capsule wardrobe is fit to bursting, and backpackers don’t do McCartney or Miyake anyway. Not unless they’re fakes. So, we sidestepped the shopping for Wat Pho, one of the most serene of the many temples around the Grand Palace, whose golden spikes prod the balmy skies above Bangkok like spears, whose reflections glimmer in the Chao Phraya river, the city’s artery, when the moon is up. Wat Pho is sometimes called the Temple of the Reclining Buddha for its 46m golden statue, which fills a grand room. It’s a peaceful world, away from the flying phlegm of India… until us tourists ruin it by trying to get a shot that does the Reclining Buddha justice (trust me, it’s impossible).
Bangkok has felt so refreshing. We even went to the cinema. Bollywood gods Amitabh Bachchan and Shah Rukh Khan still have my heart, but we were craving a good high-octane Hollywood movie that wasn’t four hours long, so we plumped for The Force Awakens at the mall. It felt like Date Night – not just because of the double armchair, the big tub of popcorn and the cosy blanket. It was so special, as it’s something Train Man and I have barely had the chance to do even before we started this trip.
Now we’re at the beach and I feel like we’ve finally found our stride. I’ve got so good at this backpacking malarkey, I’ve forgotten the hormonal panic that hit me on a night bus to Bundi. I’ve stopped thinking about how much I wanted a baby – although Thai babies must be the cutest in the world. And it’s so idyllic, I’m tempted to suggest we stay here.
Our days are lazy and leisurely, spent lying on pristine sand and eating Magnums – and Train Man is looking even hotter than Leonardo DiCaprio in The Beach – his skin is as deep brown and as bronze as his eyes, and I’m just so… happy. The only trouble in paradise? Choosing whether to go Almond or Double Chocolate Caramel – and whose turn it is to go to the beach bar to buy them. We’re off to a Full Moon party this week. Is twenty-nine too old for fluoro make-up, glow sticks and buckets of SangSom? I’m not sure I have the energy, but I’ll report back…