The sun was shining, the sea was glistening, and the woman in front of me looked every bit the boss of this little slice of paradise in Thailand.

Dressed in breezy beachwear — a matching set with bold prints in yellow, pink, and orange — she stepped out of the hotel's front office and greeted me with a bright smile.

"Sunglasses are a must," she told me with a laugh, as she led me down the long entryway lined with lush greenery, the tropical sun blazing overhead.

Pauline Cabessa runs Cielo Samui, a boutique hotel on Koh Samui's Bo Phut beach.

For more than a decade, Cabessa and her husband escaped their home base in Saint Tropez every winter to holiday in Samui.

They were frequent guests of the hotel — then named Eden Beach Bungalows — where they struck up a friendship with the French owner. One day, during a casual conversation, he let slip that he was looking to sell the property.

Almost immediately, Cabessa and her husband, Francois Vargas, found themselves imagining what it would be like to take over the place.

The idea stuck, even after their vacation ended. "As we were on the plane, going back to work, we kept thinking, 'Oh, we need to find a way to make it,'" she said.

In 2017, they packed up their lives in France, said goodbye to their loved ones, and moved across the world to run the hotel — never mind the fact that neither of them had ever managed one before.

"I felt like it was time in life for a challenge," Cabessa, now 43, said. "Being an employee, doing the same thing all your life — if you don't do things that are a little bit crazy, then afterward it might be a little bit too late."

Renovating the hotel

As much as she loved Asia, Cabessa never thought she'd put down roots in Samui.

But her job managing a restaurant in Saint Tropez had started to feel hollow. It was as if the essence of hospitality was being replaced by a culture of showing off, she said.

"I was really losing the authentic connection I shared with people, and time with my family as well, because I was working a lot," she said. "Well, it was thanks to that that I am here now. With the money I earned there, I was able to take on this project."

She preferred to keep financial details private but said she and her husband co-own the hotel with another couple — longtime friends who came onboard as business partners. While their business partners are primarily investors and live in the US, she and her husband run the day-to-day operations of the hotel in Samui.

The opportunity to take over the hotel came at the right time, since she and Vargas were also thinking about expanding their family. Saint Tropez no longer felt like a place where they wanted to raise their kids.

"I wanted my daughter to learn more English and be in contact with people from different places. I wanted a second child as well," she said, adding that her son was born on Samui.

Her husband needed little convincing — he had been vacationing in Samui since 1997, long before the couple had even gotten together.

Although the idea of leaving his previous life behind to start anew in a foreign country felt daunting, Vargas told me he wasn't too worried.

"Moving to Samui was an opportunity to create our own dream," Vargas, 48, said. "I love what we do, the island, the security we can offer our kids, and the people."

For the first two years, Cabessa ran the hotel as it was, while Vargas, a chef, oversaw the in-house restaurant.

But when business ground to a halt due to the pandemic, she decided it was time to renovate.

"That was not part of our original plan at all," she said.

Cabessa redesigned the hotel herself. Like many modern women, she drew inspiration from her Pinterest board.

With textured limewashed walls, stone floors, and an earthy-neutral palette, it's hard not to notice the strong Mediterranean design influences that Cabessa infused into the space.

She also added a yoga studio and a spa to the compound.

The renovation took nine months to complete and was "quite stressful," she said.

To stay afloat during the pandemic and retain their original staff, they opened a restaurant in the nearby tourist district of Fisherman's Village.

"Everybody moved back here when we reopened," she said.

These days, nightly rates for a regular suite begin at 8,500 Thai baht, or $260, with the largest option — a three-bedroom villa that accommodates up to eight guests — going for 26,000 baht.

Running the biz

Running a hotel is no walk in the park.

"People tell me, 'Your life is cool.' OK, there are coconut trees, there is the sun, I get it. But that doesn't mean that there are no challenges," Cabessa said.

With 45 staff members under her wing, she also finds herself smoothing things over with the occasional picky guest.

"I've got reviews from some people complaining about the noise of the waves when they live in the rooms near the beach," she said. "Sometimes people even tell me that the sand on the beach is too hard to walk on."

While Cabessa is always on-site and ready to fix any problems, some things are simply out of her hands. At the end of the day, Samui is an island. "I cannot control nature," she said.

Thankfully, her background working in Saint Tropez prepared her for high-pressure situations.

"We were doing around 600 people per lunch per day back then," she said. No matter how challenging things get in Samui, she says it's hard to find guests with higher expectations than those in France.

It's easy to see Cabessa's dedication in action: She pauses to greet each staff member by name — and in Thai — and never misses a chance to speak with passing guests, even as she's showing me around.

Most of her guests come from Europe, Australia, or around Asia, including Singapore and Hong Kong. In recent months, she's also seen more American tourists.

An Australian couple in their 40s told me it was their first time in Samui, and they chose to stay here because the place seemed tranquil and the beach was, in their words, "right there."

All room types at the hotel include breakfast. Guests can also enjoy complimentary activities daily, like Pilates, yoga, and Muay Thai classes. Padel and kayaking are also available.

The idea is to create a place where guests can happily spend their entire stay without needing to step outside, Cabessa said.

Adapting to life on Samui

Cabessa says adapting to life on the island was a breeze.

Her kids, now 11 and 5, go to an international school. Her mother, who is retired, even moved to Samui from Lyon three years ago. She now lives just down the street from Cabessa.

"This is a safe country. You can let your kids play in a mall or on the beach, and you are not worried about that," Cabessa said. "I also love the culture of showing respect for your elders."

Working in hospitality, she also appreciates the friendliness of the Thai people.

"People are always smiling, and this is such a relief. Because if you live in Paris and you take the subway, nobody's smiling," she said.

The island has changed significantly since the first time she visited.

It's much easier to find international products or fresh produce now. And if something isn't available locally, she can order it from Bangkok, and it'll arrive within 24 hours.

Cabessa says she'll "never, ever" move back to France. And even if she doesn't live in Samui, Thailand will always be home.

"I'll never quit this country," she said.

Do you have a story to share about moving to a new country to run a hotel or resort business? Contact this reporter at [email protected].

• Lester V. Ledesma is a photographer and has been traveling across Southeast Asia for almost 30 years.
• He says places like Bali have struggled with overtourism, while Myanmar has faced political turmoil.
• But there are three cities — Siem Reap, Ipoh, and Hanoi — that he feels have improved over the years.

I've spent nearly 30 years traveling around Southeast Asia, long enough to witness just how much the region has transformed.

Over the years, I've watched destinations rise and fall. Some began as exotic tourism gems, but now struggle with overtourism — Bali is a good example of this.

Other cities, like Bangkok, remain perennial tourist magnets, managing to thrive thanks to careful resource management. Then there are the places that showed great promise when they opened to the world — I'm looking at you, Myanmar — only to become no-go zones due to political turmoil.

Nonetheless, there are a few special spots in Southeast Asia that I often revisit. Like well-made coconut wine, these three seem to get better as the years go by.

1. Siem Reap, Cambodia

When I first visited Siem Reap in 2003, it was something of a cowboy town, with more bicycles than cars. "Lara Croft: Tomb Raider," starring Angelina Jolie, had been released a few years earlier, with scenes filmed at Angkor Wat, but the city still wasn't a common feature on the average bucket list.

Back then, its main landmark was Psar Chas — the old market — and the soon-to-be-renamed Pub Street was still just a jumble of guesthouses and restaurants that serviced mostly budget travelers.

Marijuana-laced "happy pizza" was a common item on menus, and there were even places that delivered straight to your room.

Two decades later, the hippie backpacker vibe has been greatly diminished, replaced by a more cosmopolitan collection of chic boutique hotels standing beside wine bars, hipster cafés, and restaurants boasting cuisine from all over the world.

These days, Siem Reap is basking in the glow of a post-COVID era facelift that widened the main roads and beautified the city's parks. To the east, the recently built Siem Reap-Angkor International Airport — which opened in October 2023 — has replaced the smaller landing strip that stood close to the city.

Despite more tourists, Angkor's UNESCO World Heritage sites are also managed better with an online booking app that lets you buy entrance passes without having to join the long lines. There's also more effective crowd control, especially in popular spots like Angkor Wat and the Bayon.

Clearly marked walkways and "no entry" signs help keep visitors from getting lost. Angkor may no longer offer the "lost jungle ruin" experience of decades past, but stricter regulations help ensure the preservation.

2. Ipoh, Malaysia

I remember when Lonely Planet's "Southeast Asia on a Shoestring" edition described Ipoh — a city in Malaysia about 120 miles north of Kuala Lumpur — as "so seedy you're unlikely to linger." Decades ago, I walked through the old quarter of this city and found little more than crumbling shophouses set alongside grand-but-aging colonial-era buildings.

Still reeling from the collapse of its industry in the '80s, this once-affluent tin mining community didn't seem to be doing too well. In fact, it had a hint of seediness that kept me from lingering too long.

Thankfully, much has improved since then. Renewed interest in local heritage sparked an urban revival that restored the city's venerable old structures. Colorful street murals added a quirky charm, making Ipoh an essential stopover for travelers in Malaysia on the Malacca-Kuala Lumpur-Penang route.

Nowadays, the city's rediscovered nostalgia is everywhere on display, from stylish B&Bs like the Sekeping Kong Heng — built on top of a still-operating vintage coffeeshop — to the ever-busy Concubine Lane where antique shophouses play host to numerous craft and souvenir stores.

And one of Malaysia's oldest bars — the 94-year-old Sinhalese Bar — still keeps its after-work crowd despite being surrounded by newfangled, IG-friendly espresso bars and watering holes. Ipoh's growing tourism industry has so far remained manageable, and I'm thankful that this picturesque heritage city has kept its soul.

3. Hanoi, Vietnam

When I first visited in 2007, I struggled to like Hanoi. At that point, it had not yet become a mainstream tourist destination.

Sure, it had interesting neighborhoods and a vibrant street scene, but I found locals in Vietnam's capital to be cold and indifferent toward outsiders. At times, it felt like everyone — taxi drivers, market vendors, even public toilet attendants — was just waiting to make a quick buck off me.

Maybe my not-so-great first impression had something to do with Vietnam's tough postwar years, when the country had to fend for itself.

But fast-forward 18 years, and the city feels completely different.

Hanoi has not lost any of its timeless character, and its ancient corner temples and ornate French colonial-era mansions still proudly display their patina.

Motorbikes continue to zoom recklessly, and conical hat-wearing vendors still roam the streets with their merchandise on their shoulders. But today's Hanoi seems to have put on a friendlier face.

Since my first visit, the city has upgraded its infrastructure and services to a more international standard. A new metro now provides a direct connection to the countryside, while price-regulated taxis and regular buses now transport travelers from the airport.

Young Hanoians come across to me as more welcoming, offering more smiles and fewer scowls. In fact, during recent trips, I've had random folks help me navigate fish-out-of-water situations. Like when a local customer scolded a noodle vendor who was trying to rip me off. There was also a friendly couple at a dessert stall who proudly taught me how to order ca phe in Vietnamese.

Friendly interactions like these — a quick translation, a helpful tip, or even a friendly chat — now color my view of the storied and beautiful city.

• Lester V. Ledesma, 50, started backpacking across Southeast Asia in the '90s and never stopped.
• He says that back then, travelers were able to let curiosity, not the internet, lead the way.
• These days, he says smartphones and social media make it harder to connect with locals and discover places on your own.

I began traveling across Southeast Asia in the late '90s. After college, with just a backpack, a camera, and a sense of adventure, I set out to explore the Philippines — my country of birth.

That early journey sparked my career as a travel writer and photographer and led me to move to Singapore a few years later, where the rest of the region was just a flight away from Changi Airport.

Since then, I've collected travel stories that range from simple to sublime and downright strange.

In my 20s, during my first trip to Cambodia, I spent a hilarious evening of "cultural exchange" with a group of tuk-tuk drivers — we taught each other the harshest cuss words that our native languages had to offer.

A decade later, during the Thingyan Festival — Myanmar's New Year celebration — I found myself on a trishaw as it rode through a gauntlet of cheering, cross-dressing revelers who drenched me with water hoses and planted playful, hairy kisses on my cheeks.

The following year in Bali, I stood in the middle of a perang api — a ritual fire war between groups of villagers who hurled glowing hunks of coal at each other.

None of those adventures had been inspired by a TikTok, and I hadn't been led there using GPS on my phone.

Back then, backpacking involved hands-on research — often lugging around a thick copy of "Lonely Planet." I had to make landline phone calls or write emails at internet cafés to reserve rooms. Flights were more expensive, so I often got around by commuting overland (or sea, as the case may be).

I was on the road so much that I would often arrive at a destination without any plans or bookings.

These days, backpacking's a breeze with everything online — Google Maps shows us where to go, and sites like Expedia and Booking.com let us plan every detail beforehand. It's all super convenient — maybe too convenient.

As a salty old road warrior, I'd say we've lost something in this hyper-connected, instant-gratification era. Backpacking in Southeast Asia just isn't what it used to be. Here's what we're missing.

The gains of serendipity

Getting lost to find oneself was part of why backpacking was so much fun. But with navigation apps now available on everyone's phone, does anyone still ever really get lost?

Transformative travel is no longer the norm these days, replaced by must-see, must-eat, and must-do lists that bombard our social media feeds. Indeed, looking at long lines of people waiting to take the exact same photo at so-called selfie spots, you'd think the whole point of traveling is to feed the all-important 'Gram.

For all their game-changing functionality, Google Maps and Street View have diminished the joys of discovery on even the simplest neighborhood walks.

My journeys back then felt raw and unfiltered. Since the world was still largely offline, we old-school backpackers let our curiosity (and our printed maps) show us the way.

Connecting with the locals

There are plenty of crowd-sourced and influencer-approved travel tips on your phone, and they often guarantee the same experience as everyone else.

Of course, some would say that's a modern blessing — especially if you have FOMO — but there's nothing like a touch of kindness from a friendly local to make an experience unique.

Over the years, I've shared impromptu meals, received generous rides, witnessed proud displays of skill, and even been welcomed into intimate occasions. It was all because I dared to reach out and engage with the locals.

The cold efficiency of online booking, navigation, and even ride-hailing apps has lessened the opportunities to make meaningful connections. I remember when all it took me was a smile and a curious question to break the ice.

Getting away from it all

In this day and age, we can still travel solo, but constant connectivity means that we are never alone. Not too long ago, backpacking was all about immersion in a place, and oftentimes, it was easy to just fall off the grid.

Nowadays, travelers are more likely to update their Facebook, Instagram, or TikTok accounts in real time than keep a handwritten journal.

There are also those amusing vloggers who walk around while talking to their streaming, selfie stick-mounted phones. Despite some travelers being physically far from everyone and everything we know, our cellphones are always pinging with text messages, emails, and social media updates.

Being part of a community

Once upon a time, independent travel was a shared experience among a loose community of fellow backpackers. We'd cross paths on the road, and then later meet up in traveler hubs like Bangkok's Khao San Road or Saigon's Pham Ngu Lao Street. Here we would swap travel stories over cheap beer, and trade dog-eared guidebooks at secondhand bookshops.

Occasionally, we'd leave messages for newfound friends at guesthouse bulletin boards, before pushing onward to the next destination. Formerly a source of so much camaraderie, this IRL culture has largely dissolved into the realm of social media.

These days, we might find our travel friends online, but the things that drove our journeys back then — a sense of adventure, a willingness to connect, and curiosity about different cultures — are values today's generation of net-savvy, card-carrying travelers seem to be missing out on.