My eyes opened at 2:30 AM, half an hour before the alarm. My body knew it was time to move. Time to leave Portugal. Time to say goodbye to my sister and start the Cambodia chapter.
I showered in the dark, trying not to wake her more than necessary, then threw everything into my backpack with the efficiency that comes from living out of bags for years. One last check – passport, wallet, phone. The essentials you absolutely cannot leave behind.
She stirred as I was heading out. “Goodbye,” she mumbled, half-asleep.
“Bye. Love you.”
And I was out the door into Lisbon’s pre-dawn streets. Five-minute walk to the airport. Plenty of time for a 6 AM flight if you believe the official recommendations about arriving three hours early for international travel.
The 3 AM Airport Experience
If you’ve never been to an airport at 3 AM, picture this: bodies sprawled across floors, people wandering with thousand-yard stares, the unmistakable look of travelers who made questionable decisions the night before. Lisbon’s airport had all of that plus the added chaos of new security procedures for international travelers that had been causing massive delays.
Hence the paranoid early arrival.
I spotted an Easyjet employee setting up stanchions, getting ready for the day shift. In my rush-induced tunnel vision, I walked straight up. “Is my ticket okay or do I need to wait in line?”
She didn’t respond immediately. Just looked at me. Then: “Hello. Good morning.”
That pause hit me like cold water. I was being rude. In my own anxiety about making the flight, about starting this 21-hour journey on the right foot, I’d forgotten basic human courtesy. Treat people like people, not obstacles between you and your gate.
“Right. Sorry. Good morning.” I reset. “Do I need to check in, or am I good to go through security?”
“No check-in needed. You’re fine.”
Small lesson learned at 3 AM: being in a hurry doesn’t excuse being an asshole.
The Two-Hour Gate Mystery
Security was surprisingly smooth. Whatever delays had been plaguing the airport weren’t happening at this hour. I walked through, collected my bags, and headed into the international terminal.
Then I hit the board to check my gate number.
Nothing. No flights listed. No gate assignments. Just blank spaces where information should be.
I sat down to wait. And wait. And wait some more.
Two hours. That’s how long I sat in that terminal before my gate finally appeared on the board. In that time, I talked with various fellow travelers in that unique way airports enable – strangers thrown together by circumstance, trading stories to pass time.
One guy was a theater performer headed to some interpretive dance production involving squishy costumes and interesting masks. The kind of conversation that only makes sense in airports at ungodly hours when your brain isn’t quite functioning normally but you’re committed to staying awake.
About thirty minutes before boarding, the gate number finally appeared. I grabbed my bags and headed over.
Easyjet: You Get What You Pay For
I’d never flown Easyjet before. Budget airline, cheap tickets, should be fine for a two-hour hop to Barcelona. What could go wrong?
Well, nothing went catastrophically wrong. But the vibe was definitely “we’re doing you a favor by letting you on this plane.”
I had my backpack and a small sling bag. No problem, right? I watched them stop someone else with an identical setup and charge them extra for the additional item. I kept my mouth shut and kept walking. Sometimes the best strategy is becoming invisible.
Long queue. Tight-lipped staff. Maybe it was the early hour. Maybe this is just how budget airlines operate. Either way, the two-hour flight to Barcelona felt very much like the discount experience I’d paid for.
Barcelona: When One Hour Isn’t Enough
Landing in Barcelona Terminal 2, I felt good about my one-hour layover. Plenty of time to make the next flight. I’d done tighter connections before.
Disembarked. Followed signs for international connections. Started looking for my gate on the board.
Looked. Kept looking. Couldn’t find it.
Eventually asked someone. “Oh, you need Terminal 1. That’s an international flight leaving the EU.”
Terminal 1. Not Terminal 2. A different terminal entirely.
My confident one-hour buffer evaporated instantly.
From the gate to the terminal exit: long run. From the terminal exit to the transfer bus stop: longer run. On the bus to Terminal 1: ten-minute ride spent mentally calculating how much time I’d already burned.
Got to Terminal 1. Asked where to check in. Got directed to the wrong side. Wasted more minutes. Finally saw a board saying my flight was boarding NOW at Gate D13.
The sprint began in earnest.
The Airport Sprint: Where Hiking Legs Matter
Baggage screening area first. “Can I cut in line? My flight’s boarding.”
People let me through. Scanned my bags. Kept running.
Passport control. Long snake of people. Asked if I could skip ahead. Got told no. Fair enough. Waited in that slow shuffle, watching minutes tick away, knowing my gate was closing.
Finally cleared passport control with maybe twenty minutes before they’d close the doors. But Gate D13 wasn’t close. Nothing in Barcelona’s Terminal 1 is close. I was on the wrong side of a massive terminal.
I ran. Weaving through crowds of normal travelers who weren’t on the edge of missing international flights. Past gates D20, D19, D18…
Then past D13. I was running so hard I overshot my own gate, made it all the way to D5 before my brain processed the numbers going the wrong direction.
Turned around. Ran back. Hit D13 with maybe five minutes before they closed the boarding door.
I was a sweaty, exhausted mess. Felt bad for whoever would be sitting next to me on that flight because I definitely smelled like someone who’d just sprinted across an airport terminal after sleeping three hours and hiking Portugal for a week.
But I made it. Those legs that had carried me 75 kilometers along the Fisherman’s Trail came through when I needed them. If even one thing had gone wrong – if I’d gotten held up in security longer, if passport control had taken another ten minutes, if I’d stopped to check the board instead of just running – I’d have missed that flight entirely.
Etihad Airways: The Quality Difference
My first flight had been budget Easyjet. This one was Etihad Airways, and the difference was immediately obvious. Comfortable seats. Actual legroom. Staff who seemed like they wanted you to have a decent experience.
Seven hours from Barcelona to Abu Dhabi. They served an actual meal – not just a sad sandwich but real food that I desperately needed at that point. Large glass of water. The basics done right.
I talked with one of the flight attendants, a woman named Mary from Egypt who’d only been with the company about six weeks. She brought me wine. We chatted about travel, about working on airlines, about life. She kept the wine coming, which seemed like a good idea at the time.
Watched movies. Drank more wine. Had some Baileys because why not. By the end of that seven-hour flight, I had a solid headache brewing. Alcohol plus airplane pressure plus dehydration equals questionable life choices.
But we were landing in Abu Dhabi, and there was no time for regrets.
Abu Dhabi to Singapore: The Middle Stretch
Quick connection in Abu Dhabi. Another run through another massive airport to another gate. Abu Dhabi to Singapore, another seven hours on Etihad.
This time I was smarter about the wine. Still impressed by the seat quality though – plush, comfortable, with these clever little L-brackets on the pillow that let you lean your head without it sliding everywhere. Small design touches that make long flights bearable.
Good in-flight entertainment. Decent meal. I took half a sleeping pill and nodded out. The time difference between Portugal and Cambodia was going to mess with me regardless, so I figured getting my body clock adjusted mid-flight was the smart play.
Sleep came easy after 21 hours of being awake and navigating airports and running and stress.
Singapore: The Five-Hour Buffer
Landing in Singapore after seven hours of semi-sleep, I finally had breathing room. Five hours until my next flight. No sprinting required. No gate panic. Just time.
I found a bathroom, brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, tried to look like someone who hadn’t been traveling for 18 hours straight. Took the tram to the proper terminal – Singapore’s airport is massive, but well-organized and clearly marked.
Got my ticket for the final leg. Found a falafel sandwich somewhere in the terminal because airplane food only goes so far. Then headed to the gate area where I could actually relax.
Stretched out on the floor. Did some yoga poses to work out the back stiffness that comes from too many hours in airplane seats. Napped a bit. The luxury of time between flights cannot be overstated.
Emirates and Unexpected Connections
Final flight: Singapore to Phnom Penh on Emirates. Three hours. The home stretch.
They had security screening at the actual boarding area – Singapore takes this seriously. Went through that, found a seat, and was sitting there when a woman named Haley said hi.
Turns out she and her friends were all from Cambodia, heading home after travels. We fell into conversation the way travelers do – organic, easy, no forced small talk. They told stories about Cambodia, I told stories about Portugal. We joked around. Made actual connections instead of just being bodies occupying adjacent airport space.
They invited me to join them in December for a triathlon at Angkor Wat. I might actually do that if work schedule allows. These chance airport meetings sometimes turn into real friendships.
Boarded the flight and got lucky – seat in the back with nobody next to me. Critical luck given that I was probably radiating hiking-plus-airport-sprinting body odor despite my best efforts with rubbing alcohol in the airport bathroom.
Good in-flight entertainment. Decent pasta dish. I watched that K-pop Demon Hunters movie everyone had been talking about. Honestly touching. Good soundtrack, solid message. Would recommend for long flights.
Three hours passed quickly. Then we were descending into Cambodia.
Arrival in Phnom Penh: A New Chapter Begins
Landing at Phnom Penh airport felt surreal. Twenty-one hours of transit complete. Four flights. Three sprints through massive terminals. Multiple time zones crossed. Portugal to Cambodia in one long, exhausting day.
I talked with some taxi drivers about getting a ride into the city. They quoted $40. I negotiated down to $28. Still probably overpaid, but after 21 hours I didn’t have the energy to argue further. Sometimes you just pay the tourist tax and move on.
The ride into Phnom Penh showed me a different world from anything I’d seen in Portugal. Different architecture, different energy, different everything. My driver was friendly, told me about life in Cambodia, gave me his contact information. Good guy.
He dropped me at my hotel. I checked in, threw my bags down, took the longest shower of my life. Just stood there under hot water, washing off Portugal, washing off airports, washing off 21 hours of accumulated travel grime.
Then I went for a walk around Phnom Penh. Had to see it. Had to start getting my bearings in this new city that would be home for the next seven months. Got a small bite to eat – nothing elaborate, just fuel – and headed back to the hotel.
The Work Never Stops
Even exhausted, even half-dead from travel, I had work to do. One client assignment that couldn’t wait. I knocked it out on pure momentum, then finally let myself collapse.
Drank water. Laid in bed. Thought about tomorrow: vaccine shots I needed to get, exploring the city more thoroughly, catching up on work, getting a local SIM card. The practical logistics of settling into a new country.
Reflections on 21-Hour Journeys
The whole transit from leaving the Lisbon hotel to checking into Phnom Penh hotel: roughly 21 hours of actual travel time, plus three or four hours on the front end and about an hour getting from airport to hotel. Longer than a full day. More than a day, really, when you account for time zones and the way airports exist outside normal time.
These kinds of travel experiences push you. Test your ability to navigate chaos, to run when necessary, to stay calm when connections get tight, to remain human when your body is screaming for rest.
I’m genuinely grateful for those weeks hiking the Fisherman’s Trail. My legs were strong enough to sprint across Barcelona’s terminal without completely dying. If I’d rolled into that airport situation straight from sitting at a desk for months, I’d have missed that flight guaranteed.
Everything lined up. That’s the miracle of travel sometimes – everything that could have gone wrong didn’t. I made every connection. No lost bags. No missed flights. No catastrophic failures. Just a long, exhausting day that ended exactly where it needed to end: in Cambodia, ready for the next chapter.
Tomorrow brings vaccine shots and city exploration. Tonight brings sleep and the satisfaction of having successfully navigated one of travel’s greatest challenges: the multi-continent, multiple-connection journey where timing is everything and one mistake cascades into missing everything.
But tonight I’m here. In Cambodia. Portugal feels like a different lifetime already, even though it was just this morning. My sister’s back in her life. I’m starting mine here.
The adventure continues, just in a completely different landscape with completely different challenges ahead.
You can watch the YouTube adventure of this here: https://youtu.be/vuPNJvw6llc
Have you ever done one of those brutal multi-connection journeys where everything hinges on making tight connections? What’s your strategy for staying sane during 20+ hour travel days? Drop a comment below – I’d love to hear how other travelers handle the long-haul transit grind.
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