I had been in Bangkok for four days, but time felt like a blur—jet lag had tangled itself into my sense of reality. Somewhere between navigating chaotic streets and soaking in the neon-lit skyline, I lost track of the days. A booking mix-up left me scrambling for a place to stay, and in a rush, I picked a random Airbnb. Or so I thought.

Fate had a different plan.

The elevator doors opened, and I found myself in a familiar place—though I had never been here before. The towering glass windows, the opulence, the eerie sense of déjà vu. It hit me like a plot twist in a movie. The Hangover 2—one of the most infamous Bangkok stories ever told—had been filmed in this very building. And now, here I was, unknowingly stepping into its world.

From my window, the city sprawled endlessly in every direction. Bangkok doesn’t just stretch—it pulses, breathes, transforms. By day, it’s chaos. By night, it’s electric. A jungle of concrete and light, moving in rhythms only it understands.

That night, long after the honking tuk-tuks had settled and the crowds had thinned, I stood at my window, camera in hand. The city glowed beneath me, endless and alive. I clicked the shutter, capturing more than just a skyline—I captured a feeling. A moment. The quiet realization that I was exactly where I needed to be.

Bangkok wasn’t just a place. It was a beginning.