Bangkok

Bangkok is a city of gold leaf and traffic, where the sacred and the delicious share every corner: temple spires like flames over the river, spirit houses getting fresh offerings outside 7-Elevens, and food — everywhere, always, at every price — cooked in woks that have not cooled since the eighties. The Chao Phraya bends through it carrying rice barges and commuter boats, and the khlongs behind it remember when this city was Venice with better weather.

The sensible traveller does the royal island at opening — the Grand Palace's gold, the Reclining Buddha's mother-of-pearl feet —, crosses to Wat Arun for the porcelain tower in afternoon light, rides the orange-flag river boat like a local errand, gives one evening to Yaowarat's neon and midnight woks and one to a rooftop; and learns the city's true transport hierarchy: river boat, BTS skytrain, and only then, with the meter agreed, the pink taxi.

The Guide's honesty: if a friendly stranger says the temple is closed and a tuk-tuk will take you to a better one, the temple is open and the destination is a suit shop — walk on warmly —; dress for the palaces: shoulders, knees, and shoes that slip off; the heat votes at noon and wins: plan water, shade and a temple's cool floor; and street food is the city's pride — choose the stall where the office workers queue and eat what they eat.