Cambodia is not a country you can just “do” quickly. It’s more the kind of place that gently asks you to stop for a moment. To take a breath. And to resist treating everything as a backdrop for the next pretty photo. The history of the Khmer Rouge isn’t finished here, not neatly filed away and archived—it still lingers between houses, in faces, sometimes simply in the silence.

I know this journey won’t be an easy one. But it feels like the right one. Because if you want to understand why this country is the way it is today, you’re allowed—no, required—to face its past. In Phnom Penh, I don’t just want to count tuk-tuks, drink coffee, and sit by the Mekong (even though I will absolutely do all of that). I want to understand how people live with a chapter of history so brutal that you’d never wish it upon anyone—and yet, it has to be told.

You hear a lot about the temples. About Angkor. About overwhelming beauty and sunrises that bring Instagram to its knees. And yes, all of that will be part of this journey. But just as much so are the places where things go quiet. Places like Tuol Sleng or the Killing Fields—names you recognize long before you truly understand what they mean. What drives me is the question of how people live with these memories today. How everyday life works when the past is still so loud. And how, despite everything, people laugh, love, raise children, and look forward.

At the same time, I’m deeply curious about modern Cambodia. The here and now. What does life look like in this millennium, caught between tradition, religion, and global change? Is it shaped by Buddhist calm—or simply by pragmatism? By hope—or by daily improvisation? Probably a bit of everything, like life often is, just more honestly. I’m just as interested in today as I am in yesterday. What does life in Cambodia feel like right now? Easy? Definitely not. Challenging? Absolutely. Deeply influenced by religion? In many moments, yes. Or do people here—perhaps because of lived experience—exist more consciously in the present than we Europeans do, with our calendars, apps, and constant self-optimization?

I travel with respect, curiosity, and no expectation of quick answers. Maybe that’s the greatest luxury of this journey: having time to listen. And to accept that adventure isn’t always loud, wild, or spectacular. Sometimes it consists of becoming quiet, of empathizing—and, in the end, of feeling grateful that you get to leave again, while others stay and continue living their lives. With dignity. And an astonishing amount of strength.

Thailand from the center up to the north and then all the way back down south—that’s the rough outline of our plan. Rough being the key word. Because as always when traveling, the map looks far more orderly than reality ever will. And that, really, is part of the charm.

I start in Bangkok, that never-quite-silent metropolis that manages to hug you and overwhelm you at the same time. From there, the route heads first into the northeast, close to the Cambodian border. How far I’ll actually get has less to do with my sense of adventure and more with the political situation on the ground. A land border crossing isn’t possible at the moment—so pragmatism wins: airplane instead of border post. Not ideal, but travel also means accepting that not everything bends to your plans.

Back in Thailand, the part I’m most excited about begins: a proper road trip. Our first stop is the old Siamese capital of Ayutthaya, where history doesn’t sit behind glass but simply exists—between ruins, trees, and glowing sunsets. From there, we head further north to Chiang Rai and Chiang Mai. Winding roads, mountains, temples, markets—and that feeling that Thailand breathes a little differently up here.

On the way back toward Bangkok, we pause in Kanchanaburi province. A region of striking natural beauty that also carries a quiet reminder that history here hasn’t always been gentle. It’s exactly this mix of nature, calm, and reflection that makes the place so special to me.

From Bangkok, the journey continues south to Phuket. Waiting there are the rainforests around Khao Sok National Park, emerald-green water, surreal limestone cliffs rising from the reservoir—and that humbling sense of suddenly feeling very small. With a bit of luck, there’ll even be time for one or two dives, those moments when the rest of the world simply dissolves.

And then, as the grand finale: Songkran in Phuket. Wet. Loud. Warm-hearted. Boundless. A festival that doesn’t ask whether you’d like to participate—you’re already in it. And that’s exactly how this trip should end: slightly exhausted, very happy, and with that quiet thought in the back of my mind that maybe, just maybe, it’s already time to set off again.