So despite the amount that I’ve travelled in the past year, I’ve failed to write a single proper blog post about it. I know: ridiculous, isn’t it? But I’ve been thinking about traveling a lot lately—so much that my friend and I have started a game I call “Where Are We Going?”, in which I ask her where we’re going, she tells me a city, and I type it into Kayak to see how expensive the flight would be. Pathetic, really, but it give us hope. Anyway, I decided to write up a little post reflecting on the travels of the past year.
Today is September 8. It marks the day that, one year ago, I arrived in St. Andrews, Scotland, for four fabulous months of study abroad. I played polo; I studied Chaucer and other English greats; I consumed copious amounts of scotch whisky; I saw snow for the first time. I’m not even going to try to sum up how I feel about Scotland; all I can say is that I miss it (and the people I met there) every day. The point, though, is that I’ve been thinking about travelling a lot. Almost constantly. Rather problematic, actually. So now I’m thinking about what travelling means to me, and I’ll share my (murky and wistful) conclusions with you.
views of a tiny town on the island of Zhujiajian
I returned to Texas from travelling in Asia less than a month and a half ago. Funny how time passes—it seems like years since I touched down in Austin, but the two-and-a-half months spent in Asia are a blur. That absolutely has something to do with the lifestyle; in Shanghai, at least, where I lived and worked for six weeks, the city is nonstop. It’s chaotic, it’s hectic, it’s full of life and sounds and sights and people. To be honest, I didn’t like the person that Shanghai made me. I had to buy into the intensely materialistic, disconnected culture that permeates the Shanghai lifestyle; it made me reckless and perhaps a bit callous. Regardless, it’s an incredible city—it may be chaotic, but it’s an amazingly organized chaos. I mean, the metro might be brimming with endless people, but at least the trains run on time. Plus, I was able to take advantage of my weekends to travel into different parts of China, from an island beach to the Yellow Mountains. I may not love Shanghai, but I love what it gave me.
the Temple of Heaven in Beijing
After Shanghai, I don’t even know where the time went. After a few beautiful days spent in richly historical Beijing, we changed gears a bit and took an eight-hour bullet train from Shanghai to Shenzhen and, subsequently, crossed the border to Hong Kong. There’s a story here; it involves running out of money buying food on the train, having no money to purchase metro tickets to reach the border checkpoint, experiencing a detainment at the crossing into Hong Kong, and some harrowing heckling on the street in front of our hostel’s high rise. You can imagine it. But Hong Kong was beautiful, a city of greenery and skyscrapers and ocean views and twisting streets. I fell in love. But it was short-lived—we were there for just three days, and then I was en route to Singapore.
views of Hong Kong from Hong Kong Park
I don’t really know what to say about Singapore. I was in the city for two and a half beautiful weeks that seemed in some ways far too short, and in others far too long. It’s incredibly clean and orderly—look no further than its metro stations for that—and the food is without a doubt some of the best cuisine in the world. Think of anything; Singapore will have it. I relished rambling those scorched streets on my own, wandering through Chinatown and Little India and Haji Lane in the Singapore heat (which, in all honesty, is nowhere near as bad as San Antonio heat). And, somewhat surprisingly, the city has some beautiful parks; the Botanic Gardens even contain a rainforest preserve. Somehow, though, the Lion City felt a bit artificial and soulless; perhaps it was the skyline comprised almost exclusively of the financial district, or the weirdly pristine view of Marina Bay Sands. I didn’t really connect with Singapore, not with the city itself—but I’ll always remember it with love.
near Arab Street in Singapore
Coming home is hard. It’s hard to come back and realize you can’t hop on the metro and be anywhere within fifteen minutes. It’s hard to come back and encounter only the familiar. It’s even hard to come back and hear English spoken everywhere–I keep almost responding with “xiexie” to thank people. I miss the thrill of finding new places; I feel a profound lack of excitement and energy in my life. I want to walk along city streets I don’t know, breathe unfamiliar (and sometimes startling) smells, see alien plants, hear the sounds of a different city. I thrive on encountering new things. Don’t get me wrong—I do love my home. But nothing compares to the thrilling sense of exploration I have when I travel. After spending half of the past year abroad, I feel like I can’t stop now. I want my world shaken. What’s next?
Rising Above the Clouds 