Arriving in Thailand: Our First Day in Bangkok

New Year’s Eve happened somewhere above the North of England, possibly over the English Channel, or possibly still crawling along Manchester runway waiting for clearance to emotionally commit. The plane departed late, I was shattered, and midnight arrived quietly. No fireworks. No champagne. No half-hearted “Happy New Year” from the cockpit. One minute it was 2025, the next it wasn’t. A very muted start to a supposedly exciting new chapter.

We flew with Norse Airlines. Not out of loyalty, curiosity, or reckless optimism, but because they were the only airline flying direct from Manchester to Thailand and the price didn’t involve selling a kidney. Fair price, yes. Luxurious, no. It felt like a budget airline that had accidentally wandered into long-haul territory and decided to wing it. The plane was a bit tatty, the crew uniforms looked tired and vaguely defeated, and customer service was more of a concept than a reality. Drinks were available, but only if you buzzed — which felt less like ordering and more like asking for help.

To add to the ambience, Craig’s seat neighbour was a young lad who appeared to be travelling alone. No wonder. He snorted for the entire flight – loudly, repeatedly, and with such gusto that you could hear the contents of his nostrils sliding down his throat. It was utterly vile. Why do men do this? Do they think it’s silent? Is it confidence? Territorial marking?

Despite the nasal soundtrack, I managed some sleep. Not elegantly, not continuously, but more than usual thanks to my new aviation miracle: the foot hammock. A simple sling that hooks over the tray table so your feet can rest like they do in normal life, instead of dangling uselessly and slowly cutting off circulation. As a short arse, this is revolutionary. Craig immediately named it my bunion sling. Romance lives on.

We landed at sunset — that surreal, syrupy time when your body has no idea what day, year, or planet it’s on. We were both punchy and not quite with it after weeks of poor sleep and pre-trip chaos. The walk to passport control was long. Not metaphorically — physically, emotionally, and spiritually long. We wobbled along together, attempting to look happy and victorious, but exhaustion overruled.

Craig announced he was hungry, as he always does, and began eating anything within reach. Everything except the bacon butties, which looked stale, joyless, and possibly from a previous reign.

Passport control was one long queue of all nationalities, and it was oddly entertaining. The British stood quietly, pretending none of this was happening. The Australians were relaxed, chatty, and already behaving like they’d been here weeks. The French looked faintly offended by the concept of queuing at all. The Chinese were highly organised, efficient, and making the rest of us look deeply amateur. A full cultural showcase before we’d even reached the desk.

We didn’t need visas for Thailand, but you do need to complete the TDAC three days before arrival. Immigration had two queues: those who’d done it, and those who hadn’t. Floating between them was a third group — people who had absolutely no idea what was going on. They exist purely to provide entertainment for everyone else.

Passport control itself was slow and soul-sapping, but thankfully we weren’t asked any questions — unlike the two poor blokes before us who appeared to be required to prove their entire life history, future plans, and possibly the size of their underpants.

By the time we reached the baggage carousel it had stopped entirely, with all remaining bags dumped to one side like lost property at a leisure centre. Ours were there. A small but meaningful victory.  We hauled them off and began he long, weary trek towards the taxi point. The moment we stepped outside, the heat hit us like a warm kiss. In my case, more of a sloppy one. I immediately began sweating and stripping off layers like I was escaping a crime scene. Craig, meanwhile, remained unchanged, fleece zipped to the chin, looking irritatingly comfortable.

There is a specific kind of tired that only comes from being no longer young but still stubbornly adventurous.

Stepping outside properly was the moment it really hit. We weren’t in Manchester anymore. The noise, the heat, the shouting, the smells, the neon lights — it all slammed into us at once. Tuk-tuks weaving through traffic like they were in a video game, horns blaring with no apparent purpose, people moving in every direction at once. It was chaotic and overwhelming and completely alive. And despite the exhaustion, or maybe because of the madness, I felt that familiar spark of excitement. The quiet little voice that says: this is why we travel.

We opened the Grab app (Asia’s Uber) and immediately descended into farce. For context, Craig is completely tech-savvy. He can design, problem-solve and fix almost anything. But he absolutely hates phones and apps. Loathes them. If you ring him on his mobile he finds it invasive, as though you’ve climbed through a window rather than made a call.

He had no glasses on and had slipped into full dictator mode, barking instructions at me to press things that were clearly wrong.  All of it wrong. I could see it was wrong. He couldn’t. I was too tired to argue, so I just pressed anyway. Chaos followed. Wrong screens. Wrong options. Mild panic. Then uncontrollable laughter. We must have looked like two pensioners trying to hack into the Pentagon.

We asked a security lady where the Grab station was. She shouted “OUTSIDE” repeatedly until we physically moved away from her. Such warmth. Such hospitality.

The Grab station itself was hilarious. A makeshift chicken pen surrounded by temporary barriers, plonked in the middle of a six-lane highway. Total chaos. People trapped in the middle couldn’t see if their taxi was coming, so they stepped outside the barriers — resulting in either a near-death experience with a moving car or being aggressively shouted at by one of the controllers. For their own good, obviously.

Eventually, our taxi arrived. The journey to the hotel took 45 minutes and cost £12. We arrived at the New Siam Riverside, right on the river and just around the corner from Khao San Road and the Grand Palace. £40 a night for bed and breakfast, which feels almost suspiciously good value.

We checked in, dumped our bags, and headed straight to the poolside bar and restaurant before it closed. And it was perfect. Twinkly lights over the pool. A postcard view of the river. Boats gliding past, some carrying neon-lit party crews still pretending it wasn’t a work night tomorrow.

We ordered two large beers and our favourite Thai dishes: pork with garlic and black pepper, and chicken with holy basil and chilli. Both were fantastic. Total cost: £10. The restaurant was comfortably busy with tourist couples, all wearing the same expression of quiet relief.

We were totally happy. We raised our glasses to a new year, a new chapter, to us, to our loved ones in heaven, and to all our friends and family.

Later, lying in bed with the hum of the river outside and the air thick with heat and unfamiliar sounds, it finally sank in. We weren’t on holiday. We weren’t just visiting. We were here, properly here, with no return date and no real plan beyond the next few days. Forty years together, one new year, one slightly tatty plane, a bunion sling, and no idea what to press — and somehow it all felt exactly right. A new chapter had begun, not with fireworks, but with beer, basil, and the steady feeling that this was where we were meant to be.

Look at that nosey so and so to the right!