Bangkok, 2017

A recount of the morning when I realized I was alone for the first time in a foreign country. I was scared and alone, without any semblance of where I was going to be, and two months ahead of me before my flight back home. I was in Bangkok and my last friend from exchange had left for Vietnam that morning. I ended up finding an unusual friend and lesson in a stranger I met in Myanmar.

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A person is a place. I was a place at that time.

I didn’t know what I was doing there. The morning that he left, I walked down the hall in my towel to the cramped shared washroom stall. It was small; it had been recently cleaned and thoroughly too - but you could tell that it was an impossibility to wash the years and grime off the limestone. I felt dirty, I was tired.

I angrily scrubbed my body with the green bar soap; it had already been used but dried again. Can soap be dirty? The water was temperamental, a little too hot, then too cold; but at least, it was consistent in its fluctuation. I felt small in this big, busy place. There was no one else here in this hotel.

I went back to the suite, and in a daze, lay on the bed, huddled in the white duvet. Not knowing where to go, not knowing where to stay. I was scared to be alone.

Slowly and steadily, everyone seemed to be packing up their bags and heading back home. Exchange was over. Tasted bittersweet. We were reluctant to admit that this dream we were living in had to come to an end; but also eager to get back home to the family and friends many of us had lost sight of during the rush. When the time came, most of us expressed keenness in returning to a steady, stable reality. The death of a lively human with this devil-may-care attitude, but a return to an older, homelier version of self.

With the privileges bestowed to me from my $5 prepaid data plan, I would see my friends welcomed back into their former lives: a sprawling manor in the German countryside, or perhaps a yacht in gorgeous blue Scandinavian waters. Relishing the comfort of their foods, their furry friends, their cars, the shop on the corner, the cinema… With this, I saw a whole different side of their identities that I was never privy to when we slurped the same oily noodles outside a hawker stall on Lau Pau Sat. Quickly, people changed, and it seemed like their old lives were forgotten. Our last goodbyes were most of what was left to hold on to, tender embraces - sometimes accompanied with real tears - indulged in nothing less than the backdrops of cramped airports or sweaty backpacker hostels.

And then there was one. Just me. Myself. I. I’d never done this before.

It was coincidental that Josh was here too. I didn’t know him; we had spoken for two minutes in a crowded hostel dorm in Myanmar and I was attracted to his tan skin and slightly unkempt but still unmistakably Abercrombie all-American look. But we exchanged details in hopes of reconvening. Why? He had been travelling for a year, and planned to do so for another 12 months. His passport had run out of pages to stamp so he had to get a new one processed before he continued travelling, or boarded any plane. The closest one to Myanmar was in Bangkok. I felt fortunate that these passport woes netted me a friend in this unknown place - and then felt immediately bad for thinking this.

“Do you want to meet up?” A tepid yes was all I needed to latch onto, and cement his words in manuscript. Why did we message each other? Because we both had no one else. I wasn’t really lonely, I thought. I only felt it now, after all the meaningful friendships I had felt deeply entrenched in vaporized in a matter of footsteps, trailing away from my company. Josh was actually lonely, but I think he had come to terms of it. He wouldn’t admit it to me as transparently as I could see though.

The owner had knocked on my door, telling me it was already past time to check out. He apologized for walking in, but his direct reminder communicated what was on his mind fairly plainly.

There were sugar gliders in a cage in the lobby of the hotel. They had a sour stench. Three large huskies with visible patches of matted fur. I played with them for a little too long as I was leaving, if not only to show the owner that I was a happy-go-lucky girl with all the wonder of the world and a tendency to take things slow, to bend down and smell the roses wherever I went. That’s why I took so long. That’s why I didn’t check out on time. Sorry.

Truly the reason was because I had nowhere to go. I overstayed my welcome with the dogs and finally bid my goodbye. I sat outside the hotel on a nearby bench, thinking about what my next step was. I had a month and half to kill time. Murder it.

I was in Sumkhuvhit, the busy core of the city. I smiled, walked, hopped, ran to the other hostel. It was luckily fairly close, perhaps not even thirty minutes. I took in the sights and sounds. Cafes with implausibly mistranslated English brandishings - ones I chuckled about to myself. Traffic was miserable. The heat permeates your skin with the aromas of tropical fruits and rotting garbage. I feel like I need a shower every half hour. But I was happy. Happy and scared.

When I stumbled into Josh in the hostel lobby, he was in a phone call with his kid. His kid’s name was Asher. I asked him what it was like to be alone for a year, to travel by himself. He said he was used to it and he didn’t mind too much. I know he yearned for human connection, why else would he hang out with me? I wondered what would compel someone to leave his home, his kid, and his cushy corporate job at Boeing for a two-year sabbatical.

He said he was pursuing a Master’s degree, his own curriculum that he designed for himself: two years, reading material, a regimented schedule, an array of fairly diverse courses in eclectic and esoteric subjects, self-disciplined learning. He was learning with ‘purpose’, he told me. One of his courses was Religion & Spirituality, and this month, he told me he was planning to read the texts of Christianity, with the intention of studying Islam and Buddhism next. I was fascinated. Inspired. Intrigued.

I spent nearly two weeks with Josh before I bought a one-way ticket to Japan and left Bangkok (and there, I truly had the time of my life; alone but not lonely, independent, and fearless). I felt stagnant with Josh in Bangkok - sometimes doing occasional errands, doing yoga on rooftops, picking up cheap meals, and spending all too much time doing nothing. I only have my own fear and trepidation to blame for that.

Some romantic travel truths that I held, spurned by those golden memories I had during exchange, crumbled right in front of me, after spending those twelve days with Josh.

At the end of it, I was mostly frustrated with him - his hardened and stubborn opinions on what was right and wrong, his self-aggrandizement of his Master’s program and all that he had accomplished for himself. He had this curious cynical attitude towards home, his life in Seattle, and those who lived there; but he didn’t seem happy here in his quest for purpose either. In those two weeks, he read for maybe three hours. He was not following his Master’s program or doing so-called purpose-driven work other than meditating for the occasional ten minutes. We listened to some business podcasts together. I feel like he had sold an image of himself to me on Day One that was not at all congruent with his reality. Josh was well-intentioned in this quest he had laid out for himself, but he lacked the self-awareness and honesty to see that it was not working. I have no qualms with just chilling out while you’re on vacation - after all, that’s what I like to do sometimes - but I did find it hard to swallow the misrepresentation and delusions of grandeur. This journey of learning, discovery, and purpose felt to me as a sheath for escapism from his life in Seattle. You wouldn’t see this from the vlogs on his YouTube channel or his social media.

Like Josh, there’s a lot that I want to accomplish, try, do, learn, experience in my life. I used to have a lifelong bucket list. But I’m finding myself referencing it far less these days. There’s something about the idea of a ‘Bucket List’ that feels a little bit contrived and uninspired; perhaps I’m conjuring up images of that mediocre movie with Dustin Hoffman and Morgan Freeman. Or maybe the sort of things of ‘A Walk to Remember’ fame. I have a ‘Bucket List’ of this sort - the first few list items are (in order): “swim with sharks”, “swim with dolphins”, “swim with sea turtles”… a lot of adventures of the aquatic variety, seemingly. And I am excited to do all these things one day. Will they fulfill me? No, probably not.

So let’s talk about a more ‘purposeful’ list, not just of paid-for experiences, but ones that are formidable and impressive (to me, at least). Impressive is not buying a plane ticket to see a natural wonder. What is a truly impressive feat are things that you have to work hard to achieve. Grit, discipline, tenacity. Those are the experiences I hold more dear to my heart.

Consider this passage from ‘Sapiens’ by Yuval Noah Harari (p. 114 - 115, The Prison Walls), that really struck a cord with me:

… the very recommendation to ‘Follow your heart’ was implanted in our minds by a combination of nineteenth-century Semantic myths and twentieth-century consumerism myths. The Coca-Cola Company, for example, has marketed Diet Coke around the world under the slogan, ‘Diet Coke. Do what feels good’. Even what people take to be their most personal desires are usually programmed by the imagined order. Let’s consider, for example, the popular desire to take a holiday abroad. There is nothing natural obvious about this. A chimpanzee alpha male would never think of using his power in order to go on holiday into the territory of a neighbouring chimpanzee band. The elite of ancient Egypt spent their fortunes building pyramids and having their corpses mummified, but none of them thought of going shopping in Babylon or taking a skiing holiday in Phoenicia. People today spend a great deal of money on holidays abroad because they are true believers in the myths of romantic consumerism.

Romanticism tells us that in order to make the most of our human potential we must have as many different experiences as we can. We must open ourselves to a wide spectrum of emotions; we must sample various kinds of relationships; we must try different cuisines; we must learn to appreciate different styles of music. One of the best ways to do all that is to break free from your daily routine, leave behind our familiar setting, and go travelling in distant lands, where we can experience the culture, the smells, the tastes and the norms of other people. We hear again and again the romantic myths about ‘how a new experience opened my eyes and changed my life’.

Consumerism tells us that in order to be happy we must consume as many products and services as possible. If we fee>l that something missing or not quite right, then we probably need to buy a brand new car, new clothes, organic food or a service (housekeeping, relationship therapy, yoga classes). Every television commercial is another little legend about how consuming some product or service will make life better.

Romanticism, which encourages variety, meshes perfectly with consumerism. Their marriage has given birth to the infinite ‘market of experiences’, on which the modern tourism industry is founded. The tourism industry does not sell flight tickets and hotel bedrooms. It sells experiences.

I have yearly goals - specific, measurable, the whole shebang. I have some 5-year goals that aren’t urgent or sensible for me right now. I do believe that if you truly want to do something, get good at something, that you can - to a reasonable and fairly high degree of competency and success. One day, I want to learn how to read, play, and compose music. It isn’t taking precedence in my life right now - there are certainly more pressing matters that I need to work on first… the more sensible, reasoned things that have a greater impact on my immediate wellbeing. But all work and no play makes Jess a dull girl. So I want to promise to myself that I will pick up that guitar. I will learn how to do that kickflip.

The most lost and lonely are the ones who are searching desperately. In man’s search for meaning, sometimes you lose yourself. Meeting people like Josh in my travels was an eye-opening experience. Travel is one of the best avenues to broaden your world and expose yourself to those kinds of situations. People travel differently, but I think even the most shiniest of tourist packages (many of which I have done) can give you incredible insight into a different culture, different perspectives, and thought (keeping an open mind, of course). Travel is fantastic and I believe everyone should try it if they have the means to.

However, travel is not a prerequisite for a fulfilling and full life. And travel in and of itself is not a panacea for finding yourself.

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When I finally went back, it was like two alternate universes colliding, meeting a former version of yourself and quickly assimilating into this forged identity with so much ease because you have all the knowledge and the former experience of this human. I was quick to distinguish this Jess from ‘Normal Jess’, opting to call her ‘Travel Jess’ or ‘Exchange Jess’. I wasn’t pretending, I was just a different place at the time. Now, I’m home.