Nowhere on this trip to Thailand – at least not yet – have I been overcome by the traumatic nostalgia I felt upon arriving in Koh Samui on the second Wednesday of 2022, which makes perfect sense. The last time I walked through the airy arrivals hall of Samui airport and along the bewilderingly long route to the meeting point, the world seemed to have come to a standstill.

Of course, I had no idea. After meeting my driver, who had been arranged by the company sponsoring my trip to the island, I felt like a VIP for 96 hours. I felt particularly elite after gathering the data for the white paper I was working on. Koh Samui was at my fingertips; unfortunately, for me, it was a paradise on the verge of ruin.

This time, a sad-looking man (well, as sad as one can discern emotions through a face mask) was one of the few standing in the arrivals area. "Mr./Mrs. Robert Schrader," it said on the thin paper sign. They hadn't even bothered to note my damn gender.

That was perfectly fine: This time Samui was just a stopover, not the destination. "Yes, just one night," I confirmed to the extremely attractive receptionist at the surprisingly chic Bang Rak Hotel, where I would be spending the night before my boat trip the next morning. "Tomorrow I'm off to Koh Tao and then on to Koh Pha Ngan."

We exchanged a few friendly words on the way past the pool to my villa, which was basically a detached two-bedroom house (three if you count the private roof terrace, as I did), just 45 seconds from the beach, though not the most beautiful on Samui. From this beach, I could see the Big Buddha, admittedly from a somewhat unflattering angle.

Apart from the slightly musty smell and the occasional drone of jet and propeller planes overhead, it was far more than I had expected for the 1,000 baht I paid for it, especially as a stopover that was only necessary due to the meager ferry schedules during the pandemic.

Of course, I didn't take the ferry to Koh Tao. Due to low demand (which is also due to Thailand's constantly changing border regulations), the Lomphraya ferry company has converted most of its ships to speedboats. On board my overcrowded boat, I sat next to a German couple in KN95 protective suits who were visibly horrified.

Well, as far as one can tell what a person looks like when their entire face is covered (they were wearing sunglasses, after all). When I took off my own mask after we reached top speed, the two of them were clinging to each other as if death itself were sitting opposite them; I could practically feel the contempt in their eyes.

Luckily, the young man next to me was sensible – he too had realized that it was not only safe but also wise to speed across the open sea without a mask – and friendly, even if he was too shy to speak to me directly. Instead, he played with my feet for several minutes before breaking the ice by asking me about an unsightly scar on my left calf.

“I got it from a motorcycle,” I explained matter-of-factly.

I shook my head. “In Texas. I got too close to a parked, still glowing hot lightbulb – I guess it had just been switched off.”

"So you're from Texas?" He turned around, pulled down his sunglasses, and looked me in the eyes.

I laughed. "Sort of, yes, but also kind of not. It's complicated. Where are you from?"

"It's also complicated. I come from Indonesia, but I've also lived in Italy and Germany."

“Where exactly in Indonesia?” I asked, assuming that, as travel-loving Indonesians almost always do, he would reply “near Jakarta”.

Instead, he surprised me: he was originally from Sumatra. And I surprised him when, although he himself is not a Muslim, I called him "Banda Aceh" when he told me that he came from one of the most conservative Islamic regions of Indonesia.

“You are definitely the most impressive American I have ever met,” he corrected himself, downplaying his exaggeration. “As far as geography is concerned.”

The bad news was that, as I learned, Michael would only be making a day trip to Koh Tao. The good news? We both ended up going to Koh Nang Yuan, an island group (more precisely, three small islands) just off the northeast coast of Koh Tao.

Michael was on a diving trip and wanted to be back on land for lunch around noon. When I finally arrived in Nang Yuan – the journey had taken longer than expected because of a rickety longtail boat and a driver who kept stopping to make personal phone calls – I sped up to the famous viewpoint, which offers a fantastic view of the two sandbars that connect the three landmasses.

I was naturally disappointed when I received his message shortly after reaching the summit. "We're eating on the boat," he wrote. "Maybe we could meet around 3 p.m.?"

Luckily, while I was photographing myself (and the scene below) with wild nonchalance, I met an extremely attractive Thai man who apparently knew who I was.

“We have some mutual Facebook friends,” he said, as if it weren’t totally unusual (and great, since he looked good) to have bumped into each other on a foreign island in the middle of a pandemic. He pulled out his phone to confirm. “Robert, right? I sent you a friend request—you didn’t accept it.”

I took out my phone and corrected the mistake. "Now I've done it. We should stay in touch. Should I send you a message when I'm back in Tao?"

In the end, I didn't have to write to him. Just as I reached the more northerly sandbank (and received a message from Michael that he wouldn't be going to Koh Nang Yuan after all), I met the Facebook guy (whose name was Prus) at the island's only restaurant.

I won't go into detail about what we did there, except that we walked to the end of that sandbar, where some very… hidden boulders had accumulated. Different strokes for different folks; and when you're on Koh Tao, you should do different things than the Romans did in Rome.

Prus, who was on a day trip, left shortly afterwards. I hid in the restaurant, whose pregnant cook took my request for "Phet Dai" (hot chili peppers) when ordering Pad Grapaw Gai seriously: they added so much chili that a burning, suffocating smell filled the air, whereupon a passing Frenchman shouted "Putain!" as he strolled past me.

I spent the rest of the afternoon chest-deep in the lagoon's crystal-clear, warm water, like a swimming pool. While I sat there and another Frenchman on shore ranted (in English) about how rich he expected to become this year through NFTs, zebrafish circled my feet like half-developed sharks.

The sun slowly sank towards the horizon, and my departure by longtail boat at 4 p.m. drew near. I reflected on my good fortune. Playful swimming partners instead of predatory ones; such an intimate connection with someone not entirely a stranger in a place hardly known for such encounters.

Some people will make a fortune with blockchain this year – I just want to regain my sense of control.

On Koh Tao, nobody wears masks, much to the dismay of the somewhat old-fashioned Germans (as I can imagine). I don't even know why I only mentioned this now; probably because I was so distracted and enjoying Thailand like in the old days, when you could still see people's faces.

I suppose it's a good thing that this is now the most noticeable thing about Koh Tao, given the island's rather short-lived reputation as Thailand's "murder island". (On the other hand, if you ask the sloppily dressed German from my speedboat yesterday, the lack of masks on Koh Tao could be tantamount to murder.)

In fact, only the bars, restaurants, and most of the hotels are deserted; it's by far the most desolate place I've visited in post-pandemic Thailand. On Thursday evening, while eating at a restaurant where I was the only customer, I drank only my second beer in as many years (the first having been earlier that day on Koh Nang Yuan). I couldn't find a single open bar selling cocktails or even Thai whiskey.

I met up with Prus again and asked him to let me know as soon as he was back at the hotel, since I knew I'd already be asleep by then. So I was all the more surprised when I woke up at 5 a.m. on Friday, as usual, and found he was already awake.

“I am trying to become a morning person,” he wrote, without explaining why.

Somehow, even though I was having breakfast alone and seriously considering whether to join an organized island tour, I knew I would be spending the day with Prus, however dangerous that might be. (I don't mean "dangerous" in the sense of doubting his driving skills, and certainly not with murderous intent.)

You see, it was like this: as we sped south towards Freedom Beach, me on the back of the blue motorcycle and Prus at the wheel, a profound wisdom underpinned the enthusiasm I might otherwise have felt. Or that I actually did feel.

It was intoxicating, this feeling of wild surrender, racing up and down hills, only my hands around his body keeping mine from flying away, the butterflies fluttering in the darkness of my stomach like moths without a light source to fly to.

I would be lying to you if I claimed there was nothing romantic about it; I would be lying to myself if I had completely lost myself in it. It's flattering to still be fascinated by it at almost 37; it would be tragic if I let it consume me.

As we reached the viewpoints, first the aptly named "360º" viewpoint and then the "John Suwon" viewpoint, I tried to focus on the beauty of Koh Tao itself, to distract myself from its captivating nature. I gazed upon two beaches—Shark Bay to the east and Chalok Bay to the west—and the quality that set Koh Tao apart from its neighbors became clear: it was the island in the Gulf of Thailand that most closely resembled the Andaman Sea, with its massive rocks and the fluorescent shimmer of its waters.

Down at Freedom Beach, on one of those rocks that stood like the Little Mermaid statue, I saw my reflection in the onyx of his pupil, which blended into the mahogany of his iris. It was as if we were two characters in an alternate version of "Call Me By Your Name" (only without the uncanny age difference), or as if I were one of Jack's French girls from "Titanic."

And yet there was sadness, and not only because I knew that nothing would ever come of our little affair. How many such fleeting romances never came to fruition in 2020 and 2021 (and perhaps will in 2022 and beyond) due to restrictions that should never have existed?

As we sped north towards Sairee Beach, my arms wrapped around his waist again, I thought back to the two fortunes I had won by twice making the mistake of ordering takeout from the disgusting Chinese restaurant near my apartment in the St. Louis neighborhood of Dogtown.

“A journey to the East will bring great rewards,” one had said. The other: “You’re taking a risk, but it will be worth it.” Was meeting Prus my great reward, and how would it be worth it? Would it even be worth it?

As we enjoyed our late lunch overlooking Haad Sairee, Taylor Swift's "Wildest Dreams" played in the background. I'll spare you my cheesy, adolescent interpretation of the lyrics in relation to my situation at the time. Nor will I describe in too much detail our carefree dip in the shallow surf just off the narrow strip of sand.

I'd rather tell you about a dog we encountered while eating. Well, "encountered" might be more accurate—he wanted nothing to do with us. Instead of bringing his tennis ball to someone to throw it to him, he dug deeper and deeper holes in the sand, let the sand sink back in, and retrieved the ball again and again, countless times.

From my own experience – in fact, from every moment of my adult life when I wasn't in love with someone – I knew that this dog's seemingly lonely routine was a surer path to happiness than even the best human retrieving partner.

The question that went through my head, taking a similar but opposite direction to the butterflies in my stomach, was: Do I want to play it safe or do I want something good?

The moment I said goodbye to Prus – I got off the ferry in Pha Ngan; he continued on to Samui – it was as if I had traveled back in time two days. Back to the time before I even knew he existed. Because shortly after I found out, he became the only person in my life.

Sometimes distance makes love grow. Sometimes, however, it weakens the heart, so that the mouth can barely speak. Fate has brought me to this predicament; I await its judgment.

My prince may be gone, but my friend Nath (a prince of a very different kind) is coming soon. I last saw him exactly two weeks ago when we took a day trip from Bangkok to the giant Buddha at Ang Thong. I'd love to say something funny about "friends before women"—after all, I should take that saying to heart myself—but I'm not in the mood for humor right now.

While I was arranging my things in the rented bungalow so that someone else could stay overnight, I thought back to a video that YouTube's sinister algorithm had recommended to me the previous evening. It was about "limerence," a kind of obsessive, superficial love that people often fall into whose needs were not met in childhood.

That was definitely the case with Ken, I had to admit, when I thought back to how my fixation on my brief affair with a manipulative Taiwanese man had prevented me from being even remotely present during my last big trip with Nath to Koh Yao at the end of 2019. But with Prus it's different. I'm not obsessed.

I continued waiting for Nath in the house built on stilts on the hill. Because of its construction, it wobbled and swayed, though it never moved. When he arrived, he had something to take care of; I went down to the beach, to what I took to be our hotel's restaurant. However, it turned out to belong to the exclusive, extremely private estate next door.

On the way down, I slipped on one of the steps, which were clearly of much poorer construction than the bungalows themselves. Despite the beauty of the place and the breathtaking view, it was completely impractical.

Nath and I spent the rest of the day at "Top of the Rock," a makeshift bar—as the name suggests—perched on a clifftop with breathtaking views of Koh Pha Ngan's west coast. Shortly after we'd enjoyed our cocktails—a mojito for me and a Cuba Libre for Nath—behind the islands of Ang Thong Marine Park, the sun set. Because of its distance on the horizon, I initially mistook it for Koh Tao.

I found it difficult not to see symbolism in the sunset at that place, even though it was ultimately a completely different location. As the light disappeared, taking the warm colors of the sky with it into the sea, I tried instead to focus my attention on the future: an important day lay ahead of us.

On my first day on Koh Phangan, something strange happened when I made myself a coffee. The fancy espresso machine in the bungalow spat it out ice cold, even though it had the color, consistency, and aroma of a hot cup. I'll never be able to explain how or why that happened, but it was exactly what I wanted, so I can't complain.

It set the tone for the day, at least once it got underway. For the first hour, I wasn't quite sure what to make of Pha Ngan. There were many farangs – in most places, there were only farangs – and Indian vegetarian restaurants called "Shanti," baggy elephant trousers, and beaches accessible only via private roads. Only foreigners dared to venture there.

So Nath and I finally arrived in Haad Salad, after a disappointing trip to Sri Thanu and after reaching Mae Haad at high tide, which made walking to Koh Ma impossible even if we had wanted to. Nath preferred to stay on private property to get to the beach (Salad Beach), but I refused to believe that one of the island's most popular beaches wasn't publicly accessible.

“I’m glad we came after all – it’s beautiful,” said Nath, gazing at the emerald-green water from our table. We had both ordered iced coffees, but the Burmese staff (everyone who works at Pha Ngan – and most of those who work on Koh Tao – are Burmese) tried to push green smoothies with goji berries on us.

“You can recognize them by their Myanmar origin,” Nath explained, “because they lack the Thai smile.” In Pha Ngan, as in Tao, almost no one wears masks.

Behind us, a British woman was telling her friend about the "incredibly amazing person" she had just met. "Incredible energy," she said. In front of us, another woman was doing yoga poses in the waves; her underwear was completely soaked as she walked around.

“I guess that’s why they call it ‘Salad’ Beach,” I thought aloud.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Nath.

"I mean, because the water is kind of green, like lettuce leaves."

After lunch, as I immersed myself in the cool, spinach-colored water of the haad salad, Pha Ngan suddenly made sense. But everything else became more unclear—I kept thinking about Prus and whether and how I would see him again. How was I supposed to find time for romance amidst my meticulously planned, indeed, essentially business-related and therefore completely inflexible trip?

As Nath and I continued our journey, first to a Thai temple mistakenly advertised online as Chinese, and then back to Mae Haad, where Koh Ma was still inaccessible due to the tides, I searched for clarity. I was looking for signs. I saw clouds shaped like Brazil and Iceland; at a dried-up waterfall called "Paradise," I spotted a small statue of Phayanark. None of it made sense.

Strangely enough, my clearest moment came as we approached the southeastern part of the island. The road to Haad Rin, the famous beach of the Full Moon Party, was much wilder than I had expected; in this untamed nature, I found a deeper meaning.

The beach itself reflected this – the destination combined all the best aspects of the journey. The waves weren't particularly high, but they broke in and receded so quickly that it was a miracle they even left the longtail boats moored at the shore behind. I didn't dare go into the water.

Later, back on the west coast, searching for the right fish restaurant for my (for now) last dinner with Nath, I realized at sunset that this experience – a long, uninterrupted trip through Thailand – had allowed me to see the country like never before after 12 years.

Would a longer stay with Prus – and thus the separation – destroy this relationship? And would that be a worthwhile exchange?

As the almost full moon rose behind the palm grove directly opposite the sea, I wasn't sad about missing the celebration. But I was sad, deep down, even though a hint of joy kept peeking through the stars as they appeared individually in the sky.

On my way back to Samui early Monday morning, I remembered seeing the ferry from Bo Phut beach in March 2020, just a few days before the ferry service started. I imagined myself there again today – on Bo Phut beach, mind you – embarking on someone else's journey almost two years later.

On the songthaew ride to Samui airport and the surprisingly long walk to the open-air arrivals area, there was a similar sense of uncertainty in the air as on my last visit, when the palm trees swayed in the breeze above me. But this time it was hopeful rather than worrisome – and not just because it finally looked as if Covid itself might be receding. I couldn't help but smile as I passed the shop selling paper made from elephant dung – I was glad it had survived.

Could a chance encounter on Koh Tao, a place I wouldn't be in now if it weren't for the absurd travel restrictions that dictate my life, ultimately make up for everything I've been through in the last two years? And would that value lie in recognizing that this encounter is better left untouched, or in having the courage to pursue it to its conclusion?

More FAQ about Koh Tao vs Koh Pha Ngan

Is a trip to Koh Tao worthwhile?

Koh Tao is absolutely worth a visit, even if you're not as head over heels in love with it as I was. The island's rugged landscape reminds me of what I would call "the most Andamean of the Gulf": dramatic cliffs and water in a deep, fluorescent hue. Honestly, it's one of the most beautiful islands I've ever visited in Thailand.

Is Koh Pha Ngan or Koh Tao better?

Personally, I prefer Koh Tao with its scenery, manageable size, and unpretentious atmosphere to Koh Pha Ngan. It's strange, because I'm sure all those motorbike-riding yoga teachers on Koh Pha Ngan consider themselves totally unpretentious. To each their own!

Is it possible to walk around Koh Tao?

While you can theoretically explore Koh Tao on foot, it's much easier with a motorbike (or someone driving one). Koh Tao is relatively small, but extremely hilly. I wouldn't want to walk anywhere other than along the coast, and I'm really quite fit.