I Came to Thailand for the Temples and Fell for a 7-Eleven Toastie

Nobody warns you about this part. You plan a trip to Thailand imagining temples and beaches and long-tail boats, and then somewhere around day three you find yourself standing in a fluorescent-lit 7-Eleven at eleven at night, genuinely excited about a ham and cheese toastie.

It started as a practical thing. It was raining, everything else was shut, and I needed something to eat. The girl behind the counter took my sandwich, dropped it into a little machine, and thirty seconds later handed it back hot and pressed flat, the cheese leaking out the sides. I ate it on a plastic stool by the window and watched the rain bounce off the motorbikes. It cost about a pound. It was ridiculous how happy it made me.

After that it became a ritual. Every night, no matter what I had eaten for dinner, I would end up back there. Sometimes for the toastie, sometimes for a cold Milo, sometimes just for the blast of air-con and the little chime the door makes when you walk in. The staff started to recognise me. One of them began pressing my sandwich before I had even reached the counter.

I think the thing I did not expect about travel is how much you remember the small, unglamorous bits. I have photographs of golden temples and turquoise water, and they are lovely. But when someone asks me about Thailand, the first thing I think of is that toastie machine and the sound of the rain and the girl who knew my order.

You go looking for the big moments. It is the tiny ones that follow you home.