Yesterday marked my first full week spent traveling alone. It was more emotionally taxing than I could have ever imagined. But I did it. I’m still here. I didn’t hop back on that plane no matter how much I wanted to. (Mostly because I didn’t yet have my luggage.)

They say do what scares you and I did a lot of it. Dealing with missed flights and lost luggage, taking cabs alone, haggling with tuk-tuk drivers, booking stays, walking around with my pack in tow (I was desperately afraid it’d be too heavy), staying in hostels (my first), even just crossing a Bangkok street. Some of these already sound so insignificant, but each one marked a positive step forward and the beginning of this big adventure.

A lot of bad shit happened, but a lot of good, too. And when my mind was too buried in the bad to glimpse the good, friends reached in and pulled me out, sending me love, encouragement, resources, and in my friend Nina’s case, a five-star hotel and a Thai massage. (What!?) Thanks, friends. Thanks for saving me from myself.

Best of all, they reminded me that whether I leave in five months, tomorrow or in the next five minutes, it doesn’t matter. I still went for it. And no one is going to love me any less.

But for now, I’m movin’ on, luggage in tow. I spent my remaining Bangkok days in the Sukhumvit area, which was a welcome relief from the cluttered chaos of Banglamphu. I brought Lizzie, a sassy young Brit with me for my five-star adventure at the Grand Sheraton Sukhumvit—because pay it forward and Buddha knows I need to keep growing that karmic bank account.

Before I left Banglamphu, Lizzie and I ventured to Wat Pho to see the Reclining Buddha, an image that represents the final goal of Buddhism: Nirvana. And I was feeling its effects. There were 108 bronze bowls that lined the inside wall of the wat (temple). For 20 Baht (about 60 cents) you received 108 coins to drop in the bowls for good luck. Just to be sure, I sent each one off with a little blessing and many thanks.

The Reclining Buddha chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool. — The Reclining Buddha chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool.

Twinkle toes. People are snapping the bottoms of his feet which are inlaid with mother-of-pearl to display the 108 auspicious signs which distinguish a true Buddha. I don't want to spoil the surprise.

I should have gone to the temple days earlier. For the first time since arriving in Bangkok, I felt at peace and a sense of relief. Maybe it was the sea of orange we floated in as hundreds of young monks ate their lunch. Or the temple cats that dodged in and out of entryways. Maybe the smell of incense or just the feel of my bare feet on cool tile.

As my finals days in Bangkok passed, I slowly made my way back to myself. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the city started to grow on me. I spent my final nights at Pause One Day Hostel where I did rooftop yoga and met the first Americans of the trip: Jenny (from Vail, CO) and her sister, Katie (from Connecticut).

Jenny left the next morning, but Katie kindly let me bum around with her, her cousin and his Irish friend, who are both living in Hong Kong. We ate Chinese food at a place that had a wall filled with pictures of supposed celebrities. None of whom we knew. We then trekked to a couple of rooftop bars where (through conversation not experience) Katie learned that Ping Pong shows do not involve keeping score.

On my last day, I made my way to the Vietnam Embassy at 4pm sharp, collected my visa and nabbed a taxi to the airport. Chiang Mai here I come! I sat in the back of my taxi smiling and thinking about the relaxing days ahead, right up until the taxi pulled to the side of the highway. I looked up to see the engine steaming as my driver poured a water over it. Bangkok’s last attempt to keep me in its grasp. Curse you, Bangkok!

I fumbled with Google Translate (“Help, going to miss flight, please call taxi”) while my driver grabbed another water bottle. He attempted to hail me a new taxi, but all he got was a farmer in a pickup truck. Not sure what that was about. Next a cop arrived.

After ten minutes, my imagination began running wild. I’m alone with all my stuff, sitting beneath an underpass with a cop, a farmer and a taxi driver. Surely this was some sort of scam Lonely Planet missed (and also the start of a bad joke). Twenty minutes later, to my surprise and relief, a new taxi showed up. He raced me to the airport, all the way insisting that he was going to pull over if I didn’t pay for all the tolls he paid to get to me. Tolls I had already paid my previous driver. “The Government called me so you have to pay them.” He wore me down. And honestly, I was ready to pay anything just to get the hell out of Bangkok.

That giant sweatbox of a city officially tested my every muscle, but I’m stronger for it. I’m slowly adapting to this new place and this new routine, developing a rhythm, just as my Aussie roommate assured me I would.

Tonight I’m sleeping in a treehouse, which sounds all Swiss Family Robinson, but is skewing Blair Witch. It’s also quite possible I’ll be eaten by some sort of large frog type duck out my window. I’m still homesick, a little shaken up from the taxi debacle and was berated by airport security for basically not speaking Thai, but I went for it. And that’s everything.

A lush, rooftop jungle oasis hidden in the middle of the city. And a glimpse into how the other half lives. Thank you, Nina.

“Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.”

— Neale Donald Walsch

Don't I know it, Neale.

Yesterday I got kicked off a bench by a security guard who I’m certain thought I was a vagabond. I can’t blame him. It was day four in my same, stretched out jumpsuit, wreaking of sweat and fish sauce. My disheveled, greasy hair piled onto my head into what, at the time, seemed like a classy top knot, but upon finding a mirror looked more like a possum nest.

My luggage is still on walkabout. An occurrence that punctuated a stressful travel day (27 hours) that began just as I sent Harper a pic of me on the plane with two empty seats on either side and the caption, “So lucky.” To which the universe replied, “Jinx, sucker!”

As my text message reached its destination, the pilot garbled through the crackle of the loudspeaker that our plane’s parking brake was stuck. And since he was apparently without WD-40, we were instructed to get off the plane and find new flights.

I was rerouted to O’Hare and Narita instead of LAX and Seoul. My plane out of Chicago was delayed, which caused me to miss my Narita connection. Then my new Narita plane was delayed, at which point I began to question my sanity and also the whereabouts of my luggage. I wasn’t the only one. The flight attendants told me with sad, friendly eyes that there was no record of me checking any luggage, and maybe there would be someone a United agent I could talk to at Suvarnabhumi, but also, maybe not.

Once I arrived in Bangkok, I filed a report with the airport, but the number they gave me to check on it wouldn’t work. And when I called the airport direct they said I was delusional. Or that’s what I heard. After much back and forth, a few days, and the Columbo-like efforts of Harper, my elusive pack was discovered in San Francisco, hanging out at Delores Park, no doubt. It is set to arrive at my hostel today, but I’ve been told a lot of things, so I’m hopeful, but skeptical.

Needless to say, it’s been a rough start. Sure, not having a comb or toothbrush (or change of underwear) is not ideal, but it’s not the end of the world. However, when you’re on the other side of said world, it can feel like it. It made me realize how vulnerable I am. I have no one to lean on, no one to tell loan me their deodorant, no one to sleep on the street with if I can’t find a room. (My biggest concern.) Safety is in numbers, and I’m just, well, A number.

Don't get me wrong, I knew solo traveling would be a little hard, but I thought, I enjoy being alone. Yes, I enjoy being alone at coffee shops and city parks and running trails. Places I drove to in my car, carrying my cell phone and surrounded by people who speak English. Not the same.

I think my feelings of vulnerability have been compounded by the culture shock of the wild metropolis of Bangkok. I felt the same way my first night in Accra, but then day two I was whisked away to a small village with new travelmates also thrown off by the hissing in the streets and the kids chasing us yelling, “Yevu, yevu!” But slowly, we began to understand the culture and the people, and we loved it and them.

So I’m hoping things will be easier once I leave Bangkok. Unfortunately I’m stuck here until Monday. The Vietnam Embassy stole my passport (and my hopes and dreams) when they told me that despite what I read online, an express visa is no longer an option.

All this is not to say that Bangkok doesn’t have its charms. I’m just seeing it at the wrong time to appreciate them. I walked ten miles my first day, in and around Chinatown (Yaowarat), sneaking down tiny back alleys crammed with street vendors, bright textiles, young monks, and golden buddhas. Slipping past mango slices and suckling pigs, occasionally getting slapped in the face by the stink of Durian. It's an endless cacophony of sounds, mixed with exotic sights and smells. It's sensory overload at its finest.

I visited Wat Thepthidaram and saw the Erawan Shrine. I rode my first tuk-tuk, then haggled with my driver who wanted me to pay 400 Baht! (For context, that’s how much I pay to stay in my hostel’s bunk room.) Today I may walk to Khoasan Road and wherever else these stinky feet lead me.

In the meantime, a friend suggested that I move to a different neighborhood, noting that she feels Banglamphu isn’t the best representation of Bangkok. And so tomorrow (assuming my luggage gets here), I’ll book it to Sukhumvit to see a different side of Bangkok, one I only glimpsed yesterday, just before I was sent away to buy deodorant.

p.s. To the countless friends and family who have been checking in every day, I’m indebted. You’ve made me feel so loved and supported. Thank you.