With the sight of lovely geisha walking down ancient streets lined with traditional wooden-style homes and merchant shops that stood the test of time, you really do feel transported through history in Gion. (Except that the crowds of tourists will kindly burst your dreamy bubble.)

Continuing straight ahead from the Yasaka Shrine I found myself in Maruyama Park. I didn’t know that this park served as the main attraction site for Sakura or cherry blossoms in Kyoto, until now, when I read about it. This knowledge made me shrivel a bit in sadness, because of all things I wanted to witness in Japan, were cherry blossoms in the springtime.

Look what I found. I’m a big fan of green tea and red bean desserts, and this little guy was a combo of the two. I don’t know any liaison between two lovebirds more dainty than this one.

A stroll around Nishiki Market later, led me to this adorable little alleyway between shops and cafes. Hidden alleyways were one of the pleasant things to stumble upon in Japan, and were often very picturesque.

The Fushimi Inari Shrine is a Shinto shrine in Kyoto dedicated to Inari, the god of rice, and is famous for its thousands of torii gates that seem to extend forever into infinity, lining nature’s path all the way to the top of Inari mountain. Of all places in Kyoto, this site was among my top favourites, for the long and arduous climb for me was more than a physical one: It was also symbolically a process of transience and perpetual self-growth.

After twists and turns and going in the wrong direction, I made it to the top of Mount Inari, which stood at 233m high. For those who persevered, reaching the summit was a treat. Unlike on the grounds, the summit was deserted with only a small number of fellow hikers — a pleasant breather! More importantly, as a foreigner to religious and cultural customs in Japan, it was an honour and a beautiful moment to witness locals paying their respects.

I hadn’t eaten anything since waking up, and feeling hungry from the hike, I sure was glad to see food stalls lining the entrance, especially one that sold takoyaki (octopus balls), a popular Japanese street snack which consists of batter, octopus, pickled ginger, green onions, takoyaki sauce, mayo, and tempura flakes! It was a food item that I’d intended to try while in Japan, and finally, I got to check it off my list.

The Shinkansen (bullet train) ride to Kyoto was not only a fun experience — like a kid I was deathly amused the whole journey — but at the depths of it all, it was also a meditative one. In fact, for me, one of the highlights of Japan was riding the Shinkansen.

There’s something of a romantic and philosophical dimension to riding trains for long hours and observing the naturesque sceneries, alone deep in thought. I was tired and my body demanded sleep, but more than anything, I longed to witness Japan’s marvellous sceneries. With vast green fields, imposing mountains, and dark and mysterious skies in sight, I felt at peace again; and at that moment, I believed that wherever I tread in the world, I’d eventually find my way home.

Home was a feeling, one of safety, love, connection, and belonging. I found home in Kyoto, in the kindness of people, in moments of solitude and contemplation, and in nature — a reflection of myself and life in its authenticity. If my early moments in Fukuoka had shaken my core, and unravelled the unchartered territories of my psyche, then Kyoto had restored my balance and pointed to me the way back.

It was my first day in Kyoto and after checking in to my guesthouse — and snapping photos of the vicinity to make sure I can find my way back, because as everyone knows, I have no sense of direction — I took the subway to visit the Arashiyama Bamboo Grove.

Entering this magical realm felt surreal; the green bamboo stalks were colossal, and at such an impressive height, seemed to kiss the cosmos; and the sound of birds chirping was music to my ears. I was saddened that the majestic sight was over within just a short walk. However, that didn’t mean the exploring had stopped. There were still nooks and crevices to explore, and off the beaten path I went.

I guess some things appear in your life when you need it or when it resonates with your soul. Sitting in my room that evening, I opened up the YouTube webpage, and there it was: a title of a song that appeared at the right moment. The song was called “Alone in Kyoto” by Air, and when I listened to it, I knew it was meant for me — the rhythm, the story, the emotion. And for what remained of my time in Kyoto, I’d listen to it every night, earbuds plugged in, until I fell asleep in the early hours of the morning.

Breakfast on the go: spam onigiri and a cafe latte. Something I really appreciated about Japan was the abundance of convenience stores. My hostel was only a few minutes’ walk from 7-Eleven, Lawson, and Family Mart, which housed a pleasant variety of healthy and delicious food items — affordable, too, especially when you’re on a budget. Oftentimes I’d pick up some onigiri, croquettes, or sushi when I wanted a quick bite. Admittedly, I was also hooked on their cold cafe lattes and milk coffees.

It was my second day in Fukuoka and I dedicated it to deciphering Japan’s holy grail of subway and train systems, and to visiting shrines and temples. I liked walking along the streets as well; they were quiet and surprisingly clean and spotless. Interestingly, while there weren’t garbage bins around, there was never any garbage on the streets, either. I became a garbage bin myself, and carried my garbage with me everywhere I went until I found a mall or until I got home. Many things about Japan were awe-inspiring, including the strive towards sustaining the environment.

The Shofukuji Zen Temple is the oldest Zen temple in Japan. Taking a stroll here in the quiet away from the crowds was relaxing; no one was around and I was alone, with only temple cats and vocal crows for company.

Here’s the Tochoji Temple. The complex facing the entrance gate (which I didn’t take a photo of) is home to the largest wooden sitting Buddha in Japan.

My pal introduced me to dessert heaven at Hakata station. Frankly, I think she wanted to kill me (it’s no secret given her homicidal tendencies). I felt lightheaded when I saw the abundance of sweet treats; my world was rocked and I began seeing stars, rainbows, and unicorns. I couldn’t decide what to try! Alas, since it was my mission to eat melon-pan in Japan, a popular type of sweet bun, I did just that — only this one came with green tea ice cream! The best of both worlds. Needless to say, the rainbows and unicorns returned after that due to a sugar overdose.

That evening, it was pouring rain by the time my friend and I were about to leave Manu Coffee, a cute-as-a-button local coffee shop. As we were leaving, the barista asked us if I had an umbrella, and then proceeded to give me his with a warm smile. I was grateful for his generosity and couldn’t thank him enough. This was only the first instance where I had been met with kindness from strangers, and as I travelled some more, I found a sense of belonging through people’s generosity, kindness, and hospitality.

Looking down from the airplane and seeing the views of mountains paradoxically contrasting the tall, modern buildings, I felt an air of fresh excitement. This was my first trip to Japan, and I was travelling alone — another cause to feel free and uninhibited.

However, it was when I arrived at my hostel that suddenly the atmosphere turned somber for me and I longed to return to Phnom Penh. I missed my loved ones and daily life there; I was anxious about their well-being and safety in Phnom Penh; and more than anything, for the first time, I felt disillusioned and disconnected from my surroundings.

In its air of modernity, Fukuoka looked and felt much like what I had always seen and known, and I felt a gentle punch to my gut. Yet the city, and everything about it, was starkly different. And it was both the paradoxical similarities and differences, that incited in me a feeling of gloom.

I was even surprised I felt this way. For a long time, I longed to embark on a journey far away from everything that was familiar. But when I finally got the opportunity to travel to a foreign place on my own, suddenly, I felt misplaced and estranged — a strange and perplexing emotion even for myself, an adventurous and free-spirited individual who appreciates the unknown.

Yet it wasn’t so much because I was in a new country; of course I can attribute my emotions to the fact that everything was new — the language, the culture, and people’s mannerisms and dispositions, among other things — but there was something deeper than that. The collective energy felt different — there was a feeling of gentle sadness looming in the air. And for an empath, I felt it deeply and was helpless in mirroring it.

Walking along the streets of Fukuoka, I studied the motions of passersby, ordinary people going about their daily lives. Each individual walked with purpose and precision, the majority of them dressed in neutral-coloured business casual attires. Sometimes a passerby and I would exchange a discreet smile; other times, if we made eye contact, we’d kindly look away. There was an air of politeness and modesty in the way the Japanese carried themselves. But, I wondered, beneath the social graces and the strive to uphold group harmony, were people happy? Did they feel themselves free?

Times like these, and time and time again, words fail me. I try tracing Murakami’s footsteps in his deepest thoughts, and I’m reminded just how eloquently he’s able to unravel the mysteries of the human mind and soul through the written word, exposing the imperfections of humanity, and all that is raw, vulnerable, and authentic — the result of profound self-awareness.

In spite of everything, my first day in Fukuoka was a real treat because I got to see a friend who’s currently working and living in Japan. How awesome it was to meet again, in a foreign place and at a different stage in our lives. As usual, we did what we do best when we see each other: eat. Some of the delicious eats I tried were green tea ice cream (you’ll find out later that my life in Japan revolved around green tea desserts) and ramen at a yatai stand.

The car ride from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap was squishy with four of us sitting at the back — maybe five, even, if I count the fact that my cousin was pregnant. Yet it was a pleasant ride, for we all bonded. What’s nice about road trips, too, is that in the event of hunger strikes, food and fruit stalls are always readily available. If you’re Khmer, you’d know that a road trip isn’t complete without having bags of exotic fruits in the car. Sliced mangoes dipped in salt, sugar, and chili peppers were my favourite!

The sceneries were very picturesque. I enjoyed soaking in the beauty of my surroundings, especially the statuesque sugar palm trees lining the fields at sunrise — a national icon in traditional Cambodian paintings — and observing animals go about their daily lives in the wee hours of the morning. Away from the hustle and bustle of Phnom Penh, the countryside was a breath of fresh air.

And finally, after years of dreaming and planning, we got to visit Angkor Wat — together as a family. It was a scorching hot day with many tourists resting at the footsteps of the Temple in complete exhaustion, and we knew that with Mother Nature against our human threshold, a single day wouldn’t be enough to explore the magnificence of Angkor Wat.

Yet after a brief round of exploration, skies darkened, thunder shook the grounds, and rain began pouring heavily. We all took refuge within the walls of Angkor Wat, many of us getting wet through the cracks and openings of the old Temple. Huddled close together in the quest for warmth and safety, we looked on in silence. And for me, it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.

My sister and I jokingly blamed our mother for the heavy rain.

“It’s because of you and your prayers, Mom,” we laughed. “What did you pray for?”

“Nothing,” she said with a look of innocence. “Just for it to cool down and rain a little.”

In all honesty, I’m not sure what my mother was chanting or praying upon entering the sacred grounds of Angkor Wat, but whatever it was, the gods of the Temple sure answered her prayers. We all got a good laugh out of it because we knew her ways, and she’s one funny woman.

The following day, we visited the Bayon Temple along with other temples along the way. To my surprise, the Bayon was empty this year — so much so that I could capture photos anywhere I wanted without tourists hanging in the background. And then I understood: It was of course way too hot for anyone to travel in Cambodia this time of year.

It was also on this day that we got to dine authentically in Siem Reap, Khmer style. At lunch we ordered food from stalls and had a picnic by the water in front of Angkor Wat! The Khmer food was delicious — stuffed frogs, grilled chicken and fish, and prahok being my favourite — and the scenery was absolute eye candy.

Visiting temples in Angkor was a treat as well because I’d often stumble upon local artists, who I enjoyed getting to know and supporting. In the strokes of every artist, there’s a gentleness that softens all that is cold and hard in our world, ultimately reminding us of all the beauty that remains.

A year later, I found myself back in Cambodia for a second greeting, and as my time here reached an end, I experienced an array of emotions. Unlike last year’s trip, this year was ever more sentimental, as Cambodia had been narrated to us through my parents’ heart and soul, what was for my sister and I, a voyage into the past where we were given a chance to experience our parents’ lives from childhood right through to the Cambodian Genocide. It was also heartwarming to visit the temples where my family has long been active in building abodes and schools for monks.

Leaving a place is always hard when you’re tied to it through memories. I miss everything and everyone, especially my family whom I’ve met for only the first time. I even miss the bellmen at the hotel (whom I’ve met the year before) and the tuk tuk drivers, who never ceased to greet us with a smile. I also miss the atmosphere of our temporary abode and its warm and damp air upon entering the lobby, and eating breakfast by the pool on the rooftop. But most of all, I miss experiencing life on a daily basis — hibernating in a home with only arm’s length space, yet generous enough to house five dogs; taking the tuk tuk to crowded markets; and even the sound of beeping motorcycle and car horns every sunrise.

There’s a great deal to miss about Phnom Penh, the food being unquestionably one of them. I had no filter when it came to food; I ate anything and everything. A bit reckless perhaps — which is why I was deathly sick in Siem Reap and my soul just about left my body — but alas, food is one of the wonderful ways of exploring a place, and I was certainly on no diet. Chives pancakes were among my favourite eats, and before I left for Japan, I visited the Central Market (Psar Thmei) for the last time.

Another thing I appreciated about Phnom Penh: the Aeon Mall, just because the food section was heaven on earth for me. With a raging sweet tooth, naturally I’d gravitate towards the dessert section, only to find the love of my life: sweet sticky rice with durian and coconut milk, a classic Khmer dessert. I love durian. I think it’s the sexiest fruit in the world.

Not many people can relate to my sentiments — not even individuals I’ve spoken to, who were born and raised in Cambodia — but some days, upon reflection, I feel like I could call Phnom Penh home. In the midst of chaos and unease, its crowded streets, polluted air and scorching temperatures, and the poverty and political injustices that loom at large, somehow, there’s a feeling of sweet serenity in Phnom Penh.

Here are some photos of our recent trip to the beautiful Cayo Santa Maria, an island known for its breathtakingly soft, white sand and translucent teal water. This trip was a spontaneous one. At the last minute, I’d been asked to go to Cuba in an individual’s place and go though a name switch on the plane ticket, because the individual was no longer able to leave with the sudden occurrence of personal matters.

While part of me was excited, another part of me felt guilty for going on a back-to-back trip. Not to mention, burnt from my recent trip to Asia, the last thing I wanted to see was the sun — much less spend all day in it. (At this point, I was ready to hibernate in pure darkness and surrender my soul to the dark lords.) But I was lucky: I was free from the shackles of the responsibilities of daily life and had a lot of time on my hands, so it was good reason for me to live life on the edge a lil bit. And so, just about two weeks of being home from Asia, I found myself in Cuba again — on a second vacation.

This resort might’ve been every kid’s dream come true — it had an ice cream parlour. “Be still my heart,” I mumbled to myself. Truth be told, while normal people would’ve looked forward to heading to the beach upon waking up first thing in the morning, I was romanticizing about getting my first ice cream cone of the day. My unruly obsession with the ice cream parlour and my companion’s deadly snoring which prompted me to want to sleep on the balcony, both made for comical jokes. Another memorable moment was walking on the beach together every morning. We found a conch underwater! Finding one involved teamwork, I realized. Your own limbs weren’t enough; you needed extra ones on the side.

I never thought that I’d have a chance to do some travelling at this point in my life. Although like many young’uns I’ve been knocked upside the head by a crippling case of wanderlust, travelling has always been a goal that’s reserved for the far-off future — and for practical reasons. Come to think of it, even my future has a future. How silly it sounds. Psychological time, this mental construct and prison that we invent for ourselves, is stifling, isn’t it?

Yet as we know, life has a funny way of working and is filled with constant surprises. Suddenly and unexpectedly, I found myself in Southeast Asia, and, just recently, spontaneously visiting Cuba for the second time. That’s one of the beauties of life, I think: the unknown, which houses endless possibilities. And this now is as close to the future as we’ll ever get.

First night in Bangkok. After checking into our hostel, it was time for eats and exploring the night markets. Whatever it was that I ate that night, set the tone for my debilitating existence the following day.

It was unfortunate that I was sick throughout what little time we had in Bangkok, which meant that I couldn’t muster the energy to see the Royal Palace, the floating market, and all of the tourist-y attractions that are characteristic of the city. However, for what remained, I appreciate having had the chance to do a skeletal run of Bangkok. I especially enjoyed the boat tour on the Chao Phraya River which was very scenic.

After Bangkok, we flew to Koh Samui. Something I appreciated about the island was the clear night sky. There were nights when I’d stand outside of our villa and star-gaze, admiring the beauty of the universe, just as I’d done in Varadero. The stars and the moon have always reminded me that wherever I tread, I’m always connected to everything and everyone, no matter the distance.

Another moment which deserves mentioning is the safari tour. Driving up the steep mountain and at such an incredible speed, I think it’s safe to say that we were on the most intense roller coaster ride of our lives. We sat on the wooden seats lining the back of the truck; had we not been strapped in, we would’ve flown out! It was a great deal of fun. Though I felt for those who sat on the roof; being at such a height, they got what I call a natural face massage (featuring tree branches). The safari tour also included a monkey and an elephant show. I fed Bambi here (I named her Bambi) bananas, and her trunk gave me quite the tickle.

We also visited a coconut plantation where I tried an all-natural coconut ice cream cone with some surprise sticky rice at the bottom. For a hot day, it was heavenly! (Except that returning to that roller coaster ride of a truck with my ice cream cone in hand meant that I couldn’t enjoy it in peace without giving myself an ice cream facial.)

The infamous Hinta Hinyai rocks — aka Grandfather and Grandmother Rocks — on Koh Samui. You can only spot Grandfather here.

Koh Samui was followed by a ferry ride to Koh Tao. We stayed at a diving resort as some of us decided to take diving lessons. The manager was a friendly fellow with an even more fascinating life story, and to my surprise, his hometown wasn’t too far off from mine back home. When he helped me carry my luggage, which was twice my size, up the flights of stairs, he jokingly said, “Such a big bag for someone so small; it must be all that makeup,” to which I replied, “I actually don’t have any.” We all laughed.

My companions knew the ins and outs of travel, and this is why they brought backpacks. As for me, I was causing a traffic jam everywhere I went (at least in my mind I was). That’s how you knew I was a travel novice: my luggage looked as if it was carrying my entire life savings. For someone who lead a simple, minimal life, I sure appeared otherwise. And that was because I didn’t know what or how much to pack on my first trip to Asia, so I did what every so-called normal person would do: pack their whole existence. Suffice it to say, I lived and I learned.

After unpacking and settling in to our new abode, I took a stroll on the beach and stumbled upon a friendly boy and his handsome little monkey and confidante.

Colourful fishing boats abound on Koh Tao which was always a lovely sight. After an adventure-filled snorkelling round, we stopped on Koh Nangyuan. Here’s a picturesque view of the island after a hike to the top.

Haad Rin beach on Koh Phangan. Feeling adventurous, we rented a car and with one of us behind the wheel and myself sitting in front studying the map, we set out exploring the whole island. The drive itself was an adventure, for the roads were unbelievably steep and serpentine. We were also surprised to see dogs everywhere, even on the roads.

After dinner one night, it rained incredibly hard and we ran and laughed the whole way home, and by the time we arrived, we were completely soaked. I can’t think of something more romantic than running in the pouring rain in the empty streets of a far-off island, in what feels like the middle of nowhere. That was something I appreciated while being on the island: rainy days.

Night food market on Koh Phangan. That night, we had squid on a stick, ribs, and a Thai papaya salad, as well as some fruits and fried snacks for dessert. I wish I had extra pockets like kangaroos because there were delicious eats everywhere and I had no space left!

After exploring the islands, we took the ferry back to Koh Samui. My final night there before flying back to Bangkok was low key, and involved sitting on the beach listening to James Taylor’s “You’ve Got A Friend” all evening. It was during moments when I sat on the beach in solitude, surrounded by nothing but water and the shadows of the far-off mountains, that I truly felt that home is where the heart is.

Paradoxically, my heart wasn’t in Thailand. I felt no emotional tie during my time there. Prior to my arrival, I understood that I wouldn’t be experiencing Thailand’s culture and history, rich in all their beauty and grace, for the simple reason that our trip was a touristic one, as reflected by the choice of our destinations. Venturing to the islands, I knew that they’d be tourist-infested and overly commercialized, which is why, had I been on my own, I would’ve opted to travel to the nooks and crevices of other regions instead. But that’s one of the major downfalls about travelling with companions whose interests and yours clash, and whose veils of perception are intimately tied to their Lonely Planet: you have to settle. (As with other areas of life, where the crowd goes, don’t go.)

Time was another factor. We’d spent one full day tops in Bangkok — that we’d spent such little time there was itself a major setback; and the one day that we had to visit sacred shrines and temples, I was sick with crippling dizziness and nausea and I was unable to walk without feeling a dire need to find something to support my body. It didn’t help that it was unbearably hot and that tourists were everywhere. (That’s one of the things I liked least about being there: not the monumental number of tourists per se, but tourists whose fans and umbrellas held the capacity to knock out whatever life I had left in me, which comically, was not much.) Suffice it to say, I took a cab back to my hostel — at which point I was already on the ground while trying to wave one — and spent the major part of my time vomiting and in bed.

Beyond the little mishaps (which I couldn’t help but laugh about because they made my adventure more amusing), my quest for Asia was, in essence, a way for me to experience life beyond my Western roots. In Cambodia I had a chance to interact with locals and experience life with them, and it’s unfortunate that I didn’t get to experience the same in Thailand. Based on what little time and experience I had in Bangkok and on the islands — which of course constitute a false representation of Thailand — I concluded that these places weren’t for me, as they were a replica of everything that I’d wished to escape.

In retrospect, I had a memorable time filled with adventures and laughter, and the people I did meet were full of zest. I just know that if I’d spent more time in Thailand and ventured into the soul of the country, then I would’ve experienced its people, its culture, its history in all their true colours and authenticity. Being raised by Cambodian parents who’d taken refuge in Thailand following the Cambodian Genocide, I’m well aware of the depth of history and culture that Thailand has to offer. My time there was a touristic one, and with that came a superficial experience — a scratch of the surface with no depth.