Bangkok

The heat doesn't stop when the sun goes down. It just trades harsh brightness for neon glow and the smell of sizzling oil. Found myself at a plastic table with strangers, everyone pointing at menus they couldn't read, trusting the vendor to bring something good. She did. Pad kra pao so spicy my eyes watered, beer so cold it sweated through the bottle, a breeze that felt like mercy. The couple next to us shared their sticky rice. We shared our laughter. No common language, just food and humidity and the universal language of "this is delicious."

The reclining Buddha is 46 meters long. I knew that. Knowing didn't prepare me. You walk in and your brain can't process—a golden figure so large it defines the room, so serene it silences the crowd. I spent an hour walking its length, pausing at the mother-of-pearl feet, watching Thai families make offerings and pray. Tourists like me photograph; devotees like them believe. Both responses felt valid in that space. I dropped coins in the 108 bronze bowls along the wall, making wishes I didn't know I had until I made them.