When I sit waiting for my flight to Delhi at Heathrow, I look around me. Every Indian man in the departure lounge has their face adorned with a moustache, and some of the women do too. The nakedness above my upper lip makes me stand out culturally, and this is accentuated moreso upon boarding, when several conversations in various Indian dialects surround me. I understand only basic Gujurati, and I have to several times ask people to translate into English when they address me in Hindi. Therefore, cultureshock does not wait until Bangkok but begins on Flight AI112 for me. I share a quiet but respectful friendship with an elderly Indian man one seat away from me, who beams gratefully when I pass over his flight meal, and is positively ecstatic when I lend him my Biro to fill in his immigration card.



In the immigration queue to board my second flight connecting at Delhi airport, the line moves with bovine sluggishness. In sixty minutes, I cover as many metres and the gentleman behind me stands so close to me and snorts so fiercely it is as if he is trying to do coke off the top of my skull. I grimace, check my watch repeatedly, clear immigration, and break out into a run to reach my second flight to Bangkok. I turn when I do and the man behind looks upset.



On the second flight, it becomes apparent I have lied on my LinkedIn profile when I have listed that I have a ‘working proficiency’ in the French language. In conversation with the French girl next to me, I manage to tell her in her language 'I like to eat the food’, which impresses me a lot, but her less so. Between bouts of somnolence, she passes on some travel advice for the beaches in Southern Thailand, which I note. The monitor in front of me endlessly loops the same Bollywood songs, and I memorise the dance moves for one track aptly titled 'I am very very sorry’, which takes place on a film set stylised to look like a beach.



Arriving at Bangkok Suvarnabhumi airport, I take the Rail City link into the heart of the city, and take the BTS Skytrain to the National Stadium, and check in to my hostel. Upon entering my dorm, a couple are viciously arguing in Korean and on sighting my head appear round the door, suppress their argument for a few minutes so I can drop off my backpack and unpack a little. I walk in to the street and Bangkok’s battery of sights and sounds greet me. Bangkok is in 'shutdown’ at the moment- tents line the streets housed by dissatisfied workers, trying to force the government to topple. I end up in the middle of a rally, escape, and turn back to my hostel after buying some fresh pineapple from a street stall. It has been a long long day without much sleep, and I cannot be bothered with a revolt.



The next day, I take the BTS Skytrain to Saphin Taksin station, where I transfer to the river ferry, which takes me up the Chao Praya River, alighting at The Temple of the Reclining Buddha. Next to me, an Asian girl with a camera lens bigger than her head leans over me and snaps shots of nothing in particular. I meet a Malaysian banker on the ferry who accompanies me to the Temple, which is spectacular. The feet of the Buddha are inlaid with mother-of-pearl and seeing it up close is frankly amazing. From Wat Pho, we go to a local market, and I order Pad Thai, a fish stir-fry meal popular in Thailand, which at 70p, is excellent. After this, we visit the Grand Palace, the royal seat since 1782, now largely used for ceremonial events. It is grand and elaborately detailed, and I am humbled by its majesty, exaggerated by the fact I have to borrow some jogging bottoms from the information centre, since shorts are considered inappropriate for the sacred surroundings. I am comforted when I see other souls suffering having to wear hareem pants with images of Babar the Elephant stitched into them. These could just be hipsters, however.



Exiting the Grand Palace, we move toward Khao San Road, which Alex Garland described in his novel The Beach as being a 'perfect decompression chamber for those leaving East or West’. The place is awash with low cut vests, tacky tattoo parlours and fried scorpions on skewers. The worst of the East and West jar against each other in this busy, packed road. I had told my new friend that I would try a fried cockroach when we got to KSR, but after seeing them, I lost my appetite quickly. I had initially planned to stay on this road and was pleased I hadn’t- the street booms with the same bass beat for the time we are there, and the three times we ask for directions on the way to this backpacker hub, we are told adamantly that locals never go there. I am offered an Armani suit as we turn down a side street. I follow the hawker to his stall where he shows me a suit. It is not Armani and disappointed, I leave.



Despite my upset at this, I am happy to be in Bangkok. Despite the news, the city is safe and seems to continue business as usual.