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In a humid hotel room in Koh Tao, an Island off the South-East coast of Thailand, I lay on the bed with a decision to make. The air was viscous and heavy with the tropical downpour of the previous day and the noise of the building work from the bamboo construction site across the street penetrated through the tiny bathroom window. We had been stuck on the island for a week longer than expected due to some inadvertent trouble we had run into with the local authorities but, like our faces to the shimmering sunsets each evening, things were starting to look up and it was almost time to embark on my first solo journey. Unable to choose where was next, I decided to flip a coin; it’s gleaming silver face sending me, for the first time, along a path that was only mine. The next day I bid farewell to the last remaining familiar face and wished her well for the rest of her time on the island. With butterflies in my stomach and a spring in my step, I made my way to the pier and awaited the ferry which, in three hours, would see me back to the mainland town of Chumphon, where I would catch a bus to the train station. Whilst waiting for the night train to carry me the next few hundred kilometres of my journey, something out of a movie pulled into the station. It was an eastern and oriental express train. Through the semi-drawn curtains of each window I glimpsed the polished, wooden trimmings behind old lamps which cast a stylish, cosy glow over the pristine interiors. The dining cars came next, with their white tablecloths and tuxedos. A waiter gracefully filled the glasses of an elderly, silver-haired couple, who sat opposite each other at the window. When I finally blinked, a second train came into the station and blocked my view of this spectacle which had me questioning when and where I was. Upon realising that this was in fact my home for the night, I began to hoist my bags onto my back and stepped onto my, significantly less decadent, sleeper train. The contrast was immeasurable. Having bought my ticket last minute at the station, I was left with the only available option: third-class. I entered the dingey carriage and was met by dozens of curious, brown eyes. Perhaps for the fact I was nearly as wide with luggage as I was tall, however after quickly glancing around I couldn’t help feeling it was more likely due to my being the only ‘foreigner’ in the carriage. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Both to my surprise and relief, I spotted a free window seat and apparently made a scene of shedding my bags and lugging the biggest onto the overhead shelf with trembling arms. As the train left the station, I looked up to soft, smiling faces and felt instantly reassured with where I was and what I was doing. I tried to settle into my hard, unforgiving seat, wondering whether the piles of people sprawled across the floor had a better deal! The darkness beyond the window reflected the image of the carriage, as if looking in from the outside. I spent the evening exchanging friendly grins with mothers and children and watching my new companions pass their time. Amid stints of half-sleep, I politely declined offers of cigarettes and snacks and swapped stories and origins with a group of young-looking men who sat across from me. The night drew on in bouts like this and eventually we pulled into the metropolis of Bangkok the following morning. Another train, a border cross into Cambodia, a coach, and over 10 hours later, I arrived in Siem Reap. I ate and slept alone and rose before the sun to catch a tuk-tuk through the fresh dawn air to the ancient temple complex of Angkor Wat. Marvelling at the sun’s steady ascent behind the world’s largest religious monument, I felt humbled; grateful for the steps I had already taken and anticipation for where my path would lead me next.