I unscrewed the large metallic screws that held my cabin’s porthole tight and looked out. The real threat of Somalian pirates has passed-we’re free to enjoy the transient but majestic ocean vistas once again. Looking out from Deck 3, the ocean appears close; occasionally a whiplash of water would graze the surface of the porthole. The night was jet-black, the horizons indistinguishable except for the lash, swash and slosh of the waves against the vessel, illuminated by the neon on the promenade deck. I pressed my face against the porthole, unable to take my eyes off the constant motion of the ocean and thought, “I never want to stop wandering.”

I remembered that particular day when I told my dad nonchalantly that I’m going to Myanmar to volunteer in a local village school. My mind was already made up and I was leaving in two days time. “When are you coming back?” he asked. To his horror, I said I don’t know.

It all started when I met Jeff, the Australian ex-Buddhist monk, now a freelance meditation teacher, who regaled to me how his world tours turned him into a Buddhist monk under the Theravadan tradition for 8 years. I wasn’t sure whether it was the unusual awe commanding presence that screams wisdom or the fact he could speak Thai and Burmese, chant in Pali and surf like a typical Aussie bloke, that made me want to be him. If such an unlikely character could command so much respect from the Buddhist community all over the world, then perhaps this unsuspecting awkward girl-next-door could be a world traveler, a writer on the road, a barista in Sicily, an aid worker in Sudan or a pianist in Harlem. I could switch from skin to skin, savouring every experience that different jobs, romance, lands and circumstances can offer. I was smitten by possibilities.

I broke up with my boyfriend of 5 years right after. I was only 23 years old and I couldn’t see him fitting in anywhere in this new life of mine.

In Yangon, Myanmar, I stood next to the 200 cm tall Dutch backpacker, in a local Pizzeria and allowed the fellow volunteers to hoot with laugher at the amusing contrast. As he turned to look, I flashed my brightest smile at the towering figure. It was then we fell in love with each other. As we spent our remaining time travelling together through Myanmar and then eventually my home country, Malaysia, and Thailand, I had adsorbed everything I needed to know to become a proper ‘Amsterdammer’. I could recite one to ten in Dutch, roll out the strangest and archaic Dutch sayings, memorize names of canals and streets, imagined myself sitting on the ledge of the window, staring out into the canal as the Heineken horse clops by and nursing a glass of white wine as the sun shines. I even had a hankering for raw herring even though I’ve not tasted it at that time. The best cure for hangovers apparently. My heart started to beat for Amsterdam but then my bank account dried up. After Teun left for Amsterdam, we kept in touch briefly. Despite the lack of correspondence, he mentioned that ‘his flat is always open to me’. I was heartbroken, but not completely. A faint hope glimmered in my heart as I returned home for a job. I needed something to get by until I have enough to leave again.

Then, I met Gio, the Italian motorcyclist who was remaking his own version of Motorcycle Diaries. Instead of traversing a good chunk of South America, he wanted the world. By the time he arrived in Kuala Lumpur, he had already crossed 22 countries. Two years later, he crossed 6 more. I completely bought his Italian charm and pizzazz-his bright eyes, alluring voice, devil-may-care spirit were irresistible. After exploring some fringes of the tropical jungles together on his bike, I was ready to transport myself to Italia. I was giddy consuming the Italian energy and wanted more, more, more. I wanted to speak Italian, eat Italian, wear Italian, be Italian. But then he left.

Then, there were other loves, other friends. I was an American, a Kiwi and a Gypsy (Zingaro!). It was a full immersion course on various cultures through the different relationships forged. I was a child of the world without leaving the confines of home.

A few months later, I dumped my cheap RM 50 backpack that I bought from one of the bargain stalls along Petaling Street for a snazzy new dark blue one, with plenty of grey straps to buckle and clasp. Deuter-its German brand, offered a promise of durability and strength. Whatever clothes and books I could fit into the bag, I did. I owned no other possessions. In the morning, I went to the Immigration Department to collect my new passport and by night, I was already on a night bus to Hat Yai, Thailand.

I wandered across the exotic and historical lands of South East Asia for another 6 months before I promptly bought myself a one-way ticket to Amsterdam. I wasn’t hoping to revive the old flame but I was curious to see the land that only exists in my imagination for so long. The prospect of stepping onto another foreign soil, that is so culturally different from the one that I’m brought up on, exhilarated and ignited my lust for the world again.

If there is an exam on how to become a proper Dutch, I would pass it with flying colours. I was the epitome of tourist turned native. The herring seller on Albert Cuyp markets remembered my name, friends of Teun invited me over for dinners, his family doubled with laughter and amusement whenever I surprised them with a Dutch phrase, I knew the difference between koor ballens and the regular guys, I remembered names of local bands and festivals, I followed the Dutch cyclists for Tour de France on TV, and the cute looking bartender never failed to wave to me whenever I pass by Kingfisher Bar. If we had a hangover, we’d treat it with a herring and a beer after. If the weather is good, we’d start drinking at the terraces or on Museumplein from 3pm onwards. If I don’t turn up for a dinner party or a night out in The Kingfisher, people would ask Teun why.

I was in a gig alone in Melkweg when a guy tapped on my shoulders and told me that he recognized me from the Kingfisher Bar. How? “You’re always drinking with the giants,” he said.
However, 3 months later, I was no longer able to support myself. My initial plan to look for an under-the-table job was thwarted as the Dutch authorities are strict with employment policies. I was skint like a church mouse and Teun was beginning to feel cramped in his own studio flat.
It was then when Italy offered to take my hand and kissed it. “Are you still interested in the crew lecturer job that you applied 8 months ago? Can you come to Genova for an interview?” came that fateful e-mail from Costa Cruise Lines.

You’ve gotta be kidding me, I thought.

It was the beginning of autumn. The sky was a dreadful grey as the rain beat down hard on us. Teun had volunteered to send me to the Amstel Bus Station on his bicycle-with me sitting on the rusty backseat and my 15 kg backpack slung across the bar that rests between the handlebars and the saddle. I left Amsterdam, clutching the 50 Euros and a mobile phone that Steff, another close Dutch friend, gave me. Everyone had wished me luck in a farewell drinking party that was held the night before. I had voiced my doubts in securing myself the job but Teun said, “Nonsense. A year ago, you said you wanted to come to Amsterdam, and here you are now. 24 years old and you do whatever you damn please. You’ve got spunk for such a tiny woman, you know that? That’s why you fit in well into my group even though we’re bunch of forty-year olds. You have our respect, Ukkie Pukkie,” he said, using that nickname he gave me since our days in Myanmar. It was an affectionate term for someone so small in size.

After 9 months on the ship, I was a full-fledged English Teacher and a seafarer. I spent the summer after in Genova, riding the back of my ex-boyfriend’s motorcycle. My hair spun in the wind as we snaked through the different coasts of Liguria. My daily routine consisted of baking in the sun, swimming, rowing, riding and eating. I was part of the family; I was turning Italian.
The relationship didn’t last however and I was back to being a Malaysian, living out of a backpack, without a home. After a grueling process, I got a shinny UK Working Holiday visa sticker on my passport. London became my next home and suddenly my reality changed again. This time, I was the bohemian Londoner who harbored aspirations to be a novelist. I was a smiling barista working along Carnaby Street, having weekend coffee rituals in Monmouth and Amano Café, chatting to random strangers in Borders on Oxford St, going for walks in the different parks, going for Writing and Italian language classes, taking CSers around town and working on my novel. Whenever I could, I did weekend trips to Glasgow, Amsterdam, Cork and Paris.

I was perfectly content in London: I had beautiful friends, had little rituals and spots to attach myself to, little weekend treats to look forward to. I had things that I call my own: a Macbook, a digital SLR camera, an Ipod Nano. I thought I never want to leave, I couldn’t foresee another upheaval in life. I thought at 25 years old, I’m finally ready to settle down and yank up the domesticity scale. But I couldn’t live near a few blocks away from London Bridge, in a flat that hovered between Zone 1 and 2 on my meager café earnings. I was burning out fast and I didn’t even have time to write anymore-the whole point of me being a vagabond in the first place. I wanted to experience the romance of life so that I could write about it.

There was a vacancy on the ship again-this time with an Indian Ocean itinerary. North Africa, and the tiny ex-French Islands scattered like jewels just off coast East Africa sounded mighty exotic. Despite my dislike for working for Costa again, I knew I had to do it. Just one more time, I told myself. Just one more contract and I’ll have enough to do whatever I want to do next.

Tears rolled down as I hugged Musty goodbye at the airport. Musty was my partner-in-crime in London ever since we met in a CouchSurfing Rise Festival music event. After I got through immigration checks in Heathrow Airport, I got calls from both Camilla and Olga. I sobbed like a baby, talons of grief tore my heart, thinking of the people that I had to leave behind. If passer bys didn’t know any better, they would think that I had spent 5 years in London. I was only there for 5 months.

Here I am again, approaching to another fork in the road. What happens after this, I don’t know. I know I will despair at the farewell embraces that will inevitably follow when I disembark in two week’s time. Friends wanted me to live with them in many different places but that must wait as I still have another two months to go on another ship. Pesaro, Napoli and Pescara await me. Eastern Europe calls. Istanbul bellows. United States patiently seethes on the other side.
“When you come Ying, I’ll introduce you to my friends and family,” said Roby seriously while sipping a glass of white wine. We were having dinner in the Staff Mess. “You promise to come and stay? You can stay in and write your book whenever I’m out playing in different bars.”

“Sounds good to me.” I replied. “ Maybe I can go also go for Italian lessons in a nearby university.”

“But before that, you must come and live with me. We can work in a bar together. I have a friend who can give you a job. 3 months-va bene?” Francesca offered.

Moreno, Francesca’s boyfriend, narrowed his eyes and said, “Someday you will take over the world, Ying, with that face of yours. All you do is say, I’m Ying, I’m really small and I’m from Malaysia. And then, the world opens up to you.”

What he meant to say is that I’m putting my petite size and Chinese doll, tapering eyes to good use. Yes, but in the first place, I have also opened up my heart and seized the opportunity to throw my soul upon the wind, when the cage door opened.

As Elizabeth said in her article, if you open up yourself to the world, anything can happen.

He put a dot on the whiteboard and circled it. “You’re all here,” he said in his book that I’m currently reading, The Key. In his book, he wrote about sharing one of his teachings to his staff that runs his Miracles Coaching program.

“Where do you want to go from here?”

Some mentioned up, some said off the whiteboard itself. He then continued to put another dot on the whiteboard, way above the first dot, and asked his staff again, how do they go from where they are to where they want to be. Many suggested take a straight line, do one thing at a time, etc. While he agreed that all of the answers were good, he said the best way to get from one dot to another, is to be grateful for that moment they were in.

“When you are grateful for this moment, then whatever is next for you will bubble out of this moment.” The key to success, apparently is gratitude. It’s about wanting more without needing more. The message simply tells you to be happy now and out will come the miracles you seek.

Meet Joe Vitale, the author of many best-selling books like The Key, Zero Limits, Life’s Missing Instruction Manual and also one of the personalities who had been interviewed for the hit movie that now has a cult following all over the world (including yours truly).

Those who had been familiar with The Secret will also know of The Law of Attraction, something that I’ve been unconsciously practicing over the past few years without knowing what exactly it is. However, I didn’t learn of this gratitude part until I read The Key. It made me think back of my current situation and how many blessings that I should be thankful for.

It made me run down the memory lane and make my eyes grow misty with nostalgia and a strong gratitude. It was safe to say that wherever I am now, was where I wanted to be back then.

In many ways, while I may still complain occasionally about trivial day to day things, I can safely say that I am living a semi-charmed kind of life. My job barely takes up one or two hours a day. As a Crew Lecturer on a renowned Italian cruise ship, my schedule depends largely on my students, who are the crew members that make up the human resource on the ship. Hailing from multiple nationalities, and mainly from China, Philippines, Italy and South America (on specifically this ship), my job is to slot in an hour or two between their work hours so that they can improve their English, and for some, learn English from the very beginning. My wages are high in comparison to my Malaysian mates and I get to trip for one country to another without spending a cent. I get paid to undergo teacher’s training in Italy and am put up in the finest hotel in wherever country they’re sending me. Sure, the job is not without its challenges and the ship life is not for everyone (I’ve seen many had come, have their dreams crushed, packed and never to be heard again)….but hey, 10 countries in a year, without emptying your bank account, champagne for 2 Euros, who’s complaining?

Then, came the question of where did I get such a sweet gig. Now, not too long ago (about close two years now), I started harbour this dream to travel. I was bitten by the wanderbug lust after I returned from Australia and the urge to backpack was strong. It didn’t matter where and it didn’t include the amount of countries, all I wanted to do was wander. But it didn’t sound possible then when I have an empty bank account laughing back at me. So I donned on the suit and bought myself a briefcase, explored the world of PR, but then withdrew from the social circles 3 months later as I thought about the superficiality of it all. However, I had a little more in my bank account than when I started so I did the only crazy thing I can think of.

After bombarding Thorn Tree Forums and backpackers from all over the world with my questions, I found a way to volunteer in Myanmar for free. I was to help out in an English school set up by this visionary Swedish bloke and its organizing team included an Argentinean yogi monk, two Californian travelers, an gutsy Australian girl, a shy New Zealander and an interesting American girl. Mainly, the two Californian dudes, read my email, told me to come over and welcomed me with open arms. They put me up in their very simple apartment where I slept on the moth -eaten mattress and under the mosquito net, for free. We had no fans and sometimes no clean running water. We stayed next to the train station and due to the constant noise, I slept through a bomb explosion once. I learned that true traveling means living simply and learning to live with the locals. I had only 300 USD but I made it stretch for two months. And as Kika and Hibickina wrote in Off The Map, pay a lot and you get an expensive life, take what’s free and you have freedom. I was penniless but I was happy. People offered me food, accommodation, money and support.

Then, money ran out and I had to go back to work. This time, I got a job as a writer in a youth magazine. It was fun when you were the only writer in the team, but it was bad for growth and improvement. I didn’t have an editor to bark at me, crumple my drafts and ask me for rewrites. It was a breezy job but I didn’t enjoy it as much as I wanted to. I still kept in touch with the Argentinean yogi monk. He said to me, “Now that you’ve seen the light, you wanted to go back to the black hole?”

He had a point. My need for constant change, be around different cultures and learn about what the rest of the world is doing was great so I decided to be a member of Couchsurfing, a virtual network for travelers to meet other like-minded people, who believe in a world of hospitality and help doesn’t come with strings attached. Because I didn’t get to roam the world, why not bring the world to my doorstep instead. The Law of Attraction did state that you have to align yourself to your dreams in order for it to manifest physically. In other words, take inspired action and you’ll get results. So after hosting an American child actor, an Italian motorcyclist who biked from Italy to Asia and a couple of others, I met Steve, the wandering American English Teacher. We got along just fine and he insisted that I can do whatever that he’s doing. He didn’t take my laments about my nationality and my sad-looking bank account seriously. He believed in me and gave me lots and lots of information about where and how I should go about it. He thought I spoke better English than some Americans and couldn’t see why I cannot be teaching English. He even lent me some money (a huge sum-to friend that he knew like what-2 months?) and convinced me to quit my job and go. But what truly made the deal for me, was the meeting of another crazy Malaysian who had embarked on the same journey and was trying to do it one more time again. This time, for good. Ed, a fellow Malaysian Couchsurfer(now my best friend), that was introduced to me by KC, in a party, enthralled me with his traversing Europe with only 30 pounds adventure. He ignited the spark of possibilities in my heart. If he can do it, surely I can too.

From Kuala Lumpur to Cambodia: The best CS team ever (L-R-Ying, Ed, Matt, Steff, Nithin)

However, once on the road, life is no bed of roses. I thought, after winning the daddy and friends battle, everything will fall neatly into place but boy was I wrong! I truly wandered. Because I didn’t know where to go and where to start from, I drifted from a place to another, with dreams changing day by day. It was too difficult. My passport, my skin, my gender-everything was a hindrance. An American or European girl like me, could easily find an English teaching job or have people showering them with hospitality while no one’s interested in a solo Malaysian backpackeress. I couldn’t hop on planes with one-way tickets, I was questioned by authorities by my reasons for travelling, bla, bla bla.

When Steve got a job as a Crew Lecturer on the ship, he thought it’s a perfect opportunity for me to jump into the bandwagon. I applied but was rejected. Again, because I’m not an American or a Canadian, and other usual plethora of reasons (usually nothing to do with my experience or qualifications).

So, I CSed all around South East Asia, hoping to find a base where I can get a job as an English Teacher and start on something. Also, while travelling, I was trying to find my ultimate purpose but I found none. Then, I find my heart strings pulling me to Europe namely Holland, where two good friends of mine, that I met while travelling (and over CS) resides. After a lot of rumination and doubts, I bought myself a one way ticket to Amsterdam, only to be rejected by airline authorities on the night of boarding.

“Sorry madam, while you don’t need a visa to go to The Netherlands, you need a return-ticket to your home country.”

Rejected, lost and utterly frustrated, I bummed in Bangkok for about 2 months until the travel agent told me that he can help me purchase a separate return ticket but will cancel it after I arrive in The Netherlands, and all I have to pay is the cancellation fee. It was risky but I had no choice. I couldn’t face the fact that I had to go home so soon.Only 6 months had past and I wasn’t ready to give in. That night, I was allowed to board but I was hassled by customs in Bangkok because they didn’t understand why I was flying to Amsterdam from Bangkok instead of KL. While it seemed perfectly natural for an American, British, Australian, etc to do it, it was strange for them as a solo female backpacker. In their heads, I probably may be a potential illegal immigrant or something. However, I survived that night and what followed after was a perfect Dutch summer where the sun shone and I was drunk on beer and joy. I only had approximately 300 Euros but was taken care by my Dutch friends. Teun let me stay in his apartment for two months, cooked for me, introduced me to The Dutch Life while Stef gave me a mobile phone and a sim card, picked me up from the airport (his own initiative!!!!) and took me out whenever he can. And again, did I grow up with these people? Hell no! I travelled with Teun in Myanmar while I hosted Stef in Kuala Lumpur, yet just after months of traveling together, the two of them were like brothers to me.

Steffie and Teun who took care of me while I was in Amsterdam

However, I couldn’t roam forever. 300 Euros became 100 Euros….I had to do something. Just when that happened, I got an email from the cruise ship company asking me whether I was still interested in the Crew Lecturer position in one of their ships. And as I was already in Amsterdam, I had no problems getting down to Genova (Italy) for the interview.

Alessandro and his girlfriend, Hana, took care of me while I was in Genoa, Italy (before I got my job on the ship)

Now, if I’ve never been to Myanmar, I wouldn’t have met Teun who let me stay in his apartment in Amsterdam. If I wasn’t a member of CS, I wouldn’t have met Steve and I wouldn’t have been convinced to teach English or get the job on the cruise ship. And if I didn’t go to Amsterdam, I would had to pay more to get to Italy.

So if you asked me, I did wish for this, but I also worked and put myself in the position to receive it.

And I’m definitely grateful for being at this dot at this point of time.

Dear Matt,

I must apologize for taking so long to pen you a mail. How are you doing? You seem really busy with work. I’m sure you’re also in the midst of packing and getting sorted on your move to Brazil for a couple of months. Is your girlfriend going with you? How does she feel about it? Why the sudden urge to go to Brazil ? I don’t think you elaborated on the nature of your trip.

As for me, it’s been close to two weeks since I came home. The first thing that was jarringly obvious is the humidity and pollution. My nose started running the minute I arrive at the luggage collection lounge. I had 45 kg worth of stuff, things which I accumulated over the past 6 months while I was on the ship. Other than a handful of clothings, I didn’t own anything else but a lot of books. I’ve given away half of my books, yet there’s probably 20(or more!) of them which I couldn’t bear part with. A good girlfriend of mine, Jowynne (you’ve probably met her the last time!) came and picked me up from the airport. Her company was much needed because during my time on the road, I wasn’t able to connect to many girls. There are one or two that I met in Vietnam but that was all. On the ship, many girls had rather conventional mentality, thus erecting a wall that kept me separate. We caught up on stuff and then she took me home.

When I stepped into my room, a kaleidoscope of memories hit me hard. It was overwhelming as I saw pieces of my old self in my wardrobe-things I use to wear-on the pictures that grace the sides of my mirror, my cartoon illustrated bedsheet, a picture of my ex-boyfriend on a picture frame, stuff toys, handbags, shoes and piles of books. I had to take some time to reflect on who I was before and who I am now. And that theme of reflection haunted me for the next two weeks…and until now, I wasn’t quite sure who I’ve become. There’s a struggle for identity and for unity between the two. Previously, I was merely an aspiring traveller and now, I’m a full-fledged vagabond…or have I? Why do I suddenly crave for stability and a consistent base? Am I not a full-time traveler now? I also realized how isolated I’ve been from my good friends. My loneliness stemmed from the fact that I live so far away and everyone have their own lives to go on with…and whenever I come back, my path doesn’t seem to cross theirs. There were momentary moments of sadness and anguish-knowing how much I’ve given up for traveling.

Then, the next few days crawled by. As I met up with friends and started relaying to them my tales of adventure, I then understood how much I’ve been through and how enviable my life must have sounded-even though I don’t feel it should be so. But I rambled and rambled, with my friends as a captive audience. My desperation and loneliness on the ship has made me want to keep talking because only through talking, I could release all the pent-up frustrations. Only through speaking and reliving those times that I could see the bigger picture and understood my experiences more. I found out that I did like working on the ship but have despised the loneliness there. Living on the ship has been nothing but luxurious if I could have coped up with the claustrophobia.

And then, missing Giorgio was painful. I was terribly insecure, with all those stories that happen on the ship, that ship romances never last. Even though I know Giorgio isn’t like that, but when someone isn’t by your side, you create the worst possible scenarios in your head. Other than that, I also missed his presence, his ability to make me laugh, his incredibly handsome features and his affections. When I was with him, nothing else matters. I didn’t cared if the relationship was going to go somewhere, I didn’t cared if we may never see each other again. We were together for two months and it was intense. We had a lot of language barrier but it was more fun than challenging. However, when I’m back here, I keep thinking about the relationship, idealizing it, and wondering how to make it feasible for the both of us. I almost went crazy missing him. We smsed each other daily but it wasn’t enough. I took a 5 hour bus to Singapore the week after just to be with him for 4 hours. It was merely 4 hours, and it wasn’t enough but it was worth it.

I left him with the notion that I won’t see him for a month but co-incidentally, the person who replaced me on the ship got into an accident. It was really unfortunate and I feel really bad about it because he’s really a nice guy. But my boss emailed me and wondered if I can replace William for a month. The timing was perfect as a few days ago, I was just whining to my fellow colleague that I only need one more month onboard and it’ll be perfect. Extra money and I’ll be with Giorgio till he disembarks. And then the accident happened….which is really crazy, considering the circumstances. My boss hasn’t confirmed with me about the job but meantime, I’ve to stay put for the next few days until my UK visa is approved and have my passport handed back to me.

And now, I’m in a waiting period which I seriously detest. You’re hanging on a limbo and you can’t do a thing. I’m now busy with a data-entry job which I’m working from home. It helps me focus but every now and then, my mind drifts off to the ship, to another adventure and to Giorgio.

Traveling is intense, every new day is a day of possibility and things happen. But somehow these ‘possibilities’ become dim and they flicker away when you’re at home. At home, days feels like weeks and weeks feel like years.

Once my passport is returned to me, I’ll be able to reconfirm with my boss whether I can embark on the ship again for another month. If not, then I’ll go straight to UK and then go to Italy when Giorgio returns. And then back again to UK after that….my immediate plans are to get a CELTA certification, to learn Italian, to visit Giorgio and to visit Teun & Stef in Amsterdam. You know, funnily, I find people like you, Ed, Stef, Teun, Nithin and some other travelers I’ve met on the road closer than my friends at home. Despite the distance, there’s always this closeness in connection. I’m really sorry that I haven’t been writing but there’s not much muse recently.

I am still open and positive but now equanimity and mindfulness elude me. I’ve succumbed to a lesser consciousness: feelings of wanting, craving and desiring consume me easily. I’m more impatient, more critical and more judgmental. I think it’s the ship’s effect. I am also a little more cynical about things. I don’t like this new self and I find myself unhappy most of the time. Giorgio is a quick soothing balm to inner conflict and good relationships help calm me down but without them, there’s the urge to lash out. I can become depressed easily these days as well. I don’t rebound like rubber ball anymore. Matt, if you have any tips, do share because I think I need help!!

So that’s all about me-what about you??!?!?!?! It’s really too long since we last talked and I really want to know everything’s that has been going on.

Take good care of yourself and lots of metta from the little Ying of Malaysia.

And even though I don’t write much, it doesn’t mean I don’t think of you.

I hope to see you soon too.

Much love

Ying

Someday, I will look back at this email and remember this very moment, that my life is about to change. Thank you, Squidman.

Hey Ying, It’s a little unusual to criticise a poem that you wrote just for me — it feels like I’m getting a birthday present and then telling the giver that it’s not what I wanted. I’ll keep this note very abstract and general then, and, again, wherever it veers into direct criticism, it is only because I want to make the point crystal clear. Not at all because I think it is a bad poem. It isn’t. But we can learn things by picking it apart, piece by piece.

My best friend on on old Company ship was a dancer, and she had an attitude I liked. When you’re a serious dancer, she said, you can never be satisfied. You look at a tape of one of your own performances and, no matter how good it was, your only reaction is: I should have done that better, I should have done this instead.

It’s only in this spirit that I’m answering your question about the poem. I liked it and I’m happy with it. But if you wanted to nit-pick, then where would you start? Here are a few points that you might look at again: I personally have no interest in show-offy language, anywhere, unless it’s really superbly done. Very often these kinds of pretentious words have only one purpose: To disguise the fact that the writer is either saying something awfully sappy that he couldn’t otherwise get away with, or he doesn’t have any idea what he wants to say. You may be sure that any experienced reader is on guard against this tactic. Your poem skirted the edge of that abyss but pulled itself back just in time.

A friend of mine wrote his CV and cover letters like this, with language that he would never use in real life — and it showed, because he was actually using these fancy words incorrectly. I had to tell him over and over again that it was so easy to picture him sitting at his desk, agonizing about whether he ought to use simple words or complicated words … without it ever once occurring to him to just try to use the best words. Language is meant to be communication anyway, and so (of course) is art. If the focus ever strays away from communication, then it is probably straying towards masturbation. I would normally say something like this to a writer: Get the nuts and bolts right before you start painting the house. In your poem, the ‘house’ is centered around a metaphor. But it’s a house that’s only half-built. We’ve got a staircase and a lone figure drawn in silhouette, but why not develop it further? Is this staircase a straight path to the top, or are there other tempting ‘distractions’ along the way — distractions which we can give names to? Is it possible to lose your balance? While climbing, are you using muscles that you’ve never used before? How is the feeling? And is there an audience watching you climb the stairs? What is their role in all this — support, or distraction, or something else? We use metaphors like staircases because they help us give insight into situations. So what other insight can the staircase metaphor give? I think you could integrate the a more lifelike staircase into the body of text very easily without sacrificing the flow of the poem, or without making it overly long. Imagine a stanza like this: With each dizzy step my muscles cry out for relief / While just a few yards away my friends lounge / Sipping beers, agonizingly at ease / And an empty spot on the couch set aside for me. The word ‘couch’ here is a nice wink to the reader who knows you, and ‘agonizingly at ease’ is a pun that also adds some illumination to the civil war going on inside your head. What, in fact, will our narratress do when a moment like this comes? Do we have any right to assume that she’ll walk the straight & narrow path? To me, it seems like cheating to start playing the triumphant violins so soon in the story. It may just be my personal taste, but I tend to growl at happy endings, gift-wrapped morals and simple lessons. They tend to taste a little bit like a lollipop. Yes, sugar is good once in a while, but you can’t make a meal of it. Of course, you wanted to write a thank-you to me and it must have seemed the right thing to do to end on a high note. So it depends how we look at the poem. If it’s meant for the inside of a Hallmark card, then it does the job well. But as a stand-alone poem, it doesn’t quite ring true. In fact, you admit this yourself very clearly. You just wrote to me something like, “I don’t even know why you have faith in me anymore. Whenever I review my life, I feel like a fake.” If this is the truth, then why doesn’t it show up in the poem? Your poem’s ending would lead me to believe almost the opposite — that you are, at long last, at peace with yourself, that you have killed your inner demons and are finally and irreversibly on the path towards the light. I shouldn’t need to say that I’d rather read a clumsy email containing the truth than a polished poem containing a lie. So how did this happen? How can we account for the difference? Where did this poem actually come from?

I think it came from the same place my friend’s CV came from. He spent his time trying to decide what his audience wanted to hear, rather than spending his time trying to get at the truth. The latter is what an artist does; the former is what a hack does. Hollywood, lamentably, is filled with formula screenwriters and directors who see what’s trendy and safe, and try to mimic that. The technical word for this is ‘fluff’; in cases where the fluff isn’t even carried out competently, the word is ‘cheese’. For an example of the difference between cheese and art, I can think of nothing better than to take a long look at the lyrics of Eminem’s brilliant “Lose Yourself”, which is much too smart to fall into the Disney trap. It takes a subject that most people imagine to be glorious — being a superstar — and describes it as 95% misery. That, to me, does ring true, and that is why it is art. The extremely elaborate construction of the rhyme scheme is why it is great art … but that’s for another conversation. Going back to form and specifics, and what can be done with a poem about a staircase, look how the black author Langston Hughes puts some texture in his poem, “Mother to Son”, which is very similar in concept to yours:

* Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor — Bare. But all the time I’se been a-climbin’ on, And reachin’ landin’s, And turnin’ corners, And sometimes goin’ in the dark Where there ain’t been no light. So boy, don’t you turn back. Don’t you set down on the steps ‘Cause you finds it’s kinda hard. Don’t you fall now — For I’se still goin’, honey, I’se still climbin’, And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. *

I copy this one for you now because your poem reminded me of it. Other things – I didn’t notice any grammar mistakes in your note, not that it would really matter if I had. As long as there is no violence done to the meaning of the words, who cares? There are a couple of typos in your poem (you write ‘feet’ where you should write ‘foot’; I corrected this already when I re-sent it to you the other day) but I make this kind of mistake all the time anyway. It’s nice to get the details right, but it’s better by far to address the elephant in the room.

The elephant that I can see most clearly is that I believe you bring to each conversation a lot of intellectual baggage and preconceptions which actively prevent you from listening to other points of view. I believe that you are wrong about a great many things, but that is no sin; we are all wrong from time to time, especially when we are young and just starting out. The sin is in reaching conclusions without hearing all the evidence, without even allowing yourself to acknowledge that you haven’t heard all the evidence. It struck me a long time ago that wherever logic is in conflict with wishful thinking, wishful thinking will tend to win the battle in your mind. And moreover, once the wishful thinking does win, it will quickly solidify into an unshakeable certainty, and all notions to the contrary will become literally unthinkable. This is a shame. When I hear someone make a claim that I believe is incorrect, the first thing I do is to ask what led them to that conclusion. If they’ve made some insight that I never thought of, I’ll see if this new insight is strong enough to change my opinion. If they cite information that I don’t know to be true, then I’ll ask where they got the information, and check it out for myself the first chance I get. If they turn out to be correct, I am always quick to thank them. It’s not every day, after all, that I am lucky enough to have my mind changed about something. If on the other hand their argument doesn’t seem to hold water, I’ll challenge it with my own argument, citing my own evidence. (I already have evidence to cite, of course, because otherwise, by definition, I wouldn’t have had the right to suspect something mistaken about the other person’s claim.) Again, if they are able to answer my argument, then I am in their debt because they have removed one mistake that had embedded itself in my view of the world. Only if my argument trumps theirs does it live to see another day. The previous two paragraphs are nothing original. They are the exact definition of science. They are the one and only way that knowledge can grow. They are the sole reason why airplanes built with respect to the principles of science tend to work, while airplanes built on principles of faith or wishful thinking always fail. One path leads to progress; the other path goes only to delusion and self-indulgence. One of the things I love most about you is that you are fresh and spontaneous and exciting and enthusiastic. (Okay, so that’s four things.) I wouldn’t want you to lose all that. I wouldn’t want you to become so careful about every word you say that you become too pensive like I am, or that you get too bogged down in what is proper and correct that you forget to let loose and be crazy and have fun. It’s a balance, and the balance is much too difficult for me to keep. I often wish I were much more easygoing and carefree than I am. I wouldn’t want you to think that I am disappointed when I see you make a mistake, or that I wish you were more like me.

Certainly not! But on the other hand I do see a lot of trouble on the horizon if you keep going the way that you are going. A writer who is scared of criticism is no writer at all. A woman who wants to be independent in the world cannot afford to fool herself about what the world is. Someone who voices her views often had better be able to defend them when other people hold them up to the light. She cannot run away forever, because she is only running herself into a corner. She creates a situation for herself where the people she most needs to run away from are the very people she is closest to, because they are the ones who know best that she is indeed an intellectual fake. As this situation develops, her stress levels will go through the roof because, as an independent woman who has forsaken the protection of home, she has no one else to lean on, and nowhere else to go.
cr
Except back to the staircase, which is where we are now anyway. Climb if you’re ready, but know what you are climbing. The first step is will. This is where you’re standing, but just barely. Hopefully by the end of this note, you’ll be able to decide whether you deserve to be on that step. The next is humility. Understand that you know nothing, and that you have to learn everything again if you are going to get anywhere. This then becomes the third step: Learning. I’m talking about serious nonfiction books. You haven’t read them, and you need to. Learn your crafts also. Practice your teaching by sitting in on other people’s classes, xeroxing more and more materials, asking questions about how to deal with these situations. Practice reading and then, much later, practice real writing. Make some money in the meantime at these jobs so you can support yourself, but whenever you have free time, you ought to be taking apart the houses that other writers have built, and seeing how the nuts and bolts fit into place. Somewhere in the future, you have a fourth step to look forward to, which is hard work. No getting around it. By now you know what good writing is, but knowing is not the same as doing. This is, I think, the step that has thus far defeated me. I have gone out very much on my own path, started everything fresh, revised every single one of my old views, and since then I have learned very much indeed. But I still haven’t produced anything at all that I would be proud to publish. That ought to bring about a moment’s pause for you, if you are still dreaming of a swift climb to the mountaintop. I have several years’ more experience out in the world than you do, and in terms of high-quality books, I’ve certainly read at least 250 more than you have. And still I have produced nothing. It’s not because I’ve been following the wrong path; it’s because I let myself become intimidated by the ‘hard work’ step, to the point where I dragged out the ‘learning’ step longer than was necessary. Your personality might put you in danger of making the opposite mistake, and trying to skip a step. Try it though, and you will certainly fall to the ground. But you have at least one advantage over me. You have a guy who will most definitely continue to kick you in the butt to keep you moving forward. I never had that, and I desperately need it. That is precisely why I suggested we write each other stories 6 months ago. The plan fizzled out, and I wish it hadn’t, because I really need something like this.

You asked why I still had faith in you. Maybe it’s because you need me to have faith in you. Or maybe because I need some company on this staircase, and for reasons of my own, I like your company more than anyone else’s. Maybe because I know that what you’ve got inside of your messed-up head is so interesting that I am willing to spend however long it takes to help you bring it out. So: Care to climb this staircase with me? Have you got the will at least?

Are you shit-scared? If so, then that fact had better be in your next poem. =)

Stephane Grenier

Stephane is my favourite moto driver. The night before we went to Bach Ninh for the ‘Jellyfish Festival’, he said, “Cheap-cheap moto. Tomorrow, I drive, you sit behind.” The arrangement continued when we went on a 3 days motobiking adventure to Mai Chau.

On our way to Bach Ninh for the “Jellyfish Festival”

He’s also the one who lifted me from the toilet and put me safely back to bed, when I got too drunk again. He became my partner in crime for food. Every morning, unknowingly, we’d wait for each other in the reception and when we see each other, either one of us will say, “Breakfast?” (Even after he moved to another hotel with his mum).

We’d sneak out for a pizza simply because people would laugh at us for doing it in Vietnam. He agrees to go for a pasta buffet with me simply because I craved for it. He’d finish up my food all the time because he knows I got a small stomach. We’d tease each other relentlessly. He’d push me into the pool,trip me, make me touch ice-cream to my nose, and then sticks out his tongue at me. When I avenged for my humiliation (I tugged the rubberband that held hislong, blond hair) he said nothing. When I gave him back the band, he said, keep it-it has some strands of my hair on it. It’s true. The black band is still on mywrist till this day, and of course, with some strands of his hair tangled on it.

Sharing sticky rice with coconut by the lake

We played bubble bubble at Bach Ninh

I must admit that I did have a crush on Stephane. Who wouldn’t-he’s too beautiful to behold! His features, a combination of his French and German genes, is exquisite. A heart-shaped face, a strong jaw, and perfect well-shaped lips. He usually keeps a slight hint of beard, macho without being scruffy looking. And you have to see his eyes! You’d get lost in his huge Dom Perignon coloured irises and those very long eyelashes that gently flutter whenever he blinks. Long blond hair tied in black bands, he tried to grow them into dreadlocks but unsuccessful-his hair’s too silky.

Apart from that, Stephane is a quiet man, an enigma. It could be the language barrier but we both got along great all the same. He shared with me his dreams to become a photojournalist while showing me some black and white images that he took in New York, his travelling adventures in Australia, his life in Paris when he was a driver for a VIP and some childhood tales. He’s the only son and the baby of the family, but behaves like a man who takes care of his two elder sisters and his mother well. He’s a man of strong will as he started to stop smoking in Vietnam (not an easy place to do so) and a man of moderation-when he’s tipsy and stoned, he’d stop.

By the spring at Mai Chau-Stephane and Guillaume

So we traded lessons of life and in philosophy, we both watched the river flow just like how Siddharta in Herman Hesse’s best-selling book did, and man, did we share an amazing friendship that grew through the little day-to-day events that we always take for granted.

The philosophical Stephane

“If you’re in Paris, call on me. If you’re in Germany, stay with me and I’d show you Blackforest-the smell of the forest-ahhhh, so good!”

Pip’s apartment

In a very cool cafe called Shades of Retro, Thong Lor

And as we suckle and chew the bits and pieces of seafood, she’d say suddenly, “Do you know wintermelon in Thai is called Fuck? And oh, when I was in London’s boarding school, I make sure I have a tub of seafood sauce with me. Screw cheese and farang food-all I need is spicy and sour seafood sauce!”

Mike had the opportunity to couchsurf with Pip too. I asked Pip if Mike could stay over when he gets back from Koh Samui and Pip responded with a: “If your friend doesn’t mind the floor, I’m alright with it.” Well, even I don’t mind the floor, so I doubt Mike will. Besides, Pip gave him a very comfortable pillow and had him sleep on a thick duvet. He even got a stuff dog for company-how’s that for trying to make you feel at home?

Mike and his puffy pillow

Anyway, I think I’ve got enough of ice-creams and watching DVDs. Heather (also I met her in Hanoi!) lent me 200 pounds so that I can get by in Europe. I got my tickets reconfirmed. This time, there should be no mistake.

Amsterdam, 4 July 2007, 1.30 am.
Flying on Egypt Air.

Wish me luck. And yes, I’d probably just have only 200-300 pounds with me for the journey.

US on a biking adventure to Mai Chau village (Week 3 in Hanoi)

POST-HANOI THOUGHTS 2: SOUL MATES, GREAT MATES AND LOVERS

Like every other tourist, I had a love-hate relationship with Hanoi. But what I disliked about Hanoi, I made it up by liking the people that I met there. Sadly, it wasn’t the locals that I’ve come to love. It was my dorm mates and the people whom I bonded with in Hanoi Spirit House.

HANOI SPIRIT HOUSE

“Ying, I can’t believe you’re finally leaving this Friday. You’ve been here for close to a month and you never show signs of detaching yourself from this place, ” Mike said, shaking his head in disbelief. ” I really think you won’t be able to leave. We’d make you miss your bus anyway.” I gave the 34 year old Austrian architect a playful jab in his ribs, clinked our cold beer glasses together and then grinned. I felt secretly touched by his words. I knew my presence had made a difference just like how theirs had.

I knew Hanoi had been good to me, and at that time, I knew I would leave with a heavy heart.
I did. As the mini-van slowly drove away from Hang Be street, the image of my friends waving faded into the setting sun. Kathrin kissed me on my cheeks and held me for the longest time. Pete, Van and Niccola took turns to hug me before. Pierrick kissed my cheeks and muttered some words about how happy he was to see me go but didn’t mean it. Mike hugged me hard and reminded me that we’d be meeting up again in Bangkok. Some of these people were with me for the entire time, while some just got to know me over the last two weeks, but I didn’t want to say goodbye to either. I wasn’t good at saying goodbyes. When Rob, Sam, Ezequiel and Heather left 2 weeks ago, I almost cried. Then, Stephane. Then, Guillaume. Then, Ed.

The ones who were left… It was my last goodbye to them
L-R: Niccola, Van, Ying, Pete, Pierrick, Kathrin and Mike

WHO, WHAT, WHERE
It all started with Ed, who persuaded me to stay in the dorms with him at Hanoi Spirit House. At that time, there were 2 dorm rooms. Each room had 3 beds: a double-decker and a single. It was rudimentary but for USD 3, we couldn’t complain. Through the legendary dorm room 203, the one I stayed in for at least 2 weeks, I met the greatest people ever: Hakan from Sweden and Sam from England.

ROOM 203

The greatest dorm mates ever: Hakan and Sam

The first few parties we had on the top bunk

After that, we were moved to a bigger and newer dorm. It has 12 bunk beds; each bed as an individual wall fan. 6 on one side, 6 on the other: girls and guys were seperated into two sides. There were two bathrooms but no windows. At that time, we were very excited to be sharing one huge room together. Some came and went, while some lingered on. Some of these people made it to the deepest chambers of my memories while some didn’t. Those who did are: Stephane from France, Kirk from US, Heather from England, Kathrin from Germany, Michael from Austria, Pierrick from Quebec, and Freddie from England. Through Ed and Guillaume, we also got to know Van from Canada and Niccolas from France.

The new big dorm

The crazy ass boozing parties we had in the big dorm

However, during my final week in Hanoi, Freddie had a huge row with the staff in Hanoi Spirit House. The staff was undeniably rude and when he couldn’t us to do what he wanted, he turned violent. He smacked Freddie, punched her lightly and eventually pushed her down the stairs. What a scandal! The entire denizen of Hang Be street gathered around to watch us screaming and threatening him. There were a lot of screams and shouts. Everyone just gaped. No one took us seriously however. The police came, questioned the staff in Vietnamese and then left. We checked out immediately, shook the staff off when he demanded us to pay (what the hell-you smacked us and asked us to check out and now you want us to pay?) and moved over next door. Turned out that the dorm next door was better. We had a 4 room dorm that fits all of us perfectly. Pete and Kathrin shared a room instead. In the end, it all worked out. We paid USD 2.5 per bed, enjoyed one of the most amazing views from the top and even the room even had free wi-fi!

ZAED AZNAM: Always smiling and cheerful

Do you still remember Ed? I wrote about him in one of my very first few entries. He was to be my travelling partner, but in the end, we parted ways because we both wanted to see other things. Nonetheless, parting ways doesn’t mean putting an end to our friendship. Instead, it further inspires us to stay in touch so that we consistently know what each other is doing. And so when I arrive in Hanoi, Ed gave me the biggest hug ever! It felt so good to see a familiar face! Someone who understands you in depth, without having to communicate through words. While Hanoi may be one of the best times in my life, it’s also one of the hardest. Again, I was faced with crossroads and am forced to choose one fork. I remember the both of us taking long walks by the river and to the one and only second-hand English bookshop in Hanoi. He relentlessly try to drill into my head some sense-what travelling is all about. I remember him telling me that I shouldn’t allow money to govern my plans. Again and again, he instilled confidence in me and made me believe in myself. There are times when I floundered in the dark, but Ed’s always there to shine the torch. Even though there are days when we hung out with different people, it was just soothing, knowing that he’s around. I remember one day, when he was so very down, and he doesn’t know where to go-home? China? Thailand? He didn’t have much money and he had to work at the Malaysian restaurant every night just so that he can buy a ticket to move on. Eventually, we both decided that he should push on to China and he did. Now he’s having a dandy time in China, despite having only RM50! Thanks to Ed, I changed my perception on cheap travel. You can truly travel-travel in ways to lose and find yourself, through hardships and the lessons you learn on the way-and your only true wealth then, is time and an open mind. Nothing else matters. You still can be happy on the road, without money or many assets. Money can be earned, but perspectives can’t be bought.

We Love Our Vodka!! (Ying, Ed and Guillaume)

I was plain sober while Ed’s bordering on the tipsy meter, near Hoan Kiem Lake.

KATHRIN KLEIN

Kathrin Klein, is definitely not klein (small in German). Yet, she’s very attracted to small people, namely: me. Every morning, when we meet up for breakfast or for a cuppa, she’d tug at me and clasp me tightly to her bosom, murmuring, “Ach Ying-so klein!” Sometimes, she’d plant kisses on my cheeks, sometimes a pinch or two on my cheeks.

A very attractive German lass, she’s one who feeds on life. She’s always on the high regardless how good or bad the situation may turn out. She laughs at the world and at herself, living the good life just the way she wants it to be.

“Remember, if you want to have sex, go ahead. As long as you enjoy yourself and know of the consequences, then go for it. But if your gut feel says no, then don’t do it. But don’t NOT do it, just because you think that the man will find you disposable at whim. Think of it the other way round. Besides, who needs men anyway?”

It’s difficult to resist Kathrin’s charms. She’s so bubbly and lovable, that both men and women love her. Her spirit is beautiful and it shows.

We first met in Hanoi Spirit House’s bar. We were half-way through Ring Of Fire, a drinking card game when Sam, saw Kathrin at the computer. Sam invited her over to the bar counter-the more the merrier, he said. I remember feeling a tinsy winsy bit of jealousy, simply because I didn’t want to have another person in the group. We were good as it is already-Rob, Sam and Prince. Besides, she’s really pretty. Surely, she’d be the centre of attention, I thought.

But she turned out to be really fun. And then when I puked all over the bar (I pulled out the King and was forced to slam down a Tequila + Red Bull + Vodka + Beer) she helped me to the room. Rob came after, looking worried. “Take care of her,” Kathrin said.

The next few days, we became fast friends and then best of friends.

Together, we twirled, swished our skirts, sang, hugged, kissed, laughed, sneered, shouted, ate, drank, swore, whispered, sang again, skipped, jumped and squealed.

I saw her riding on her highs but also remember having to reach out. I remember sitting with her, sponging her hot forehead when she was down with a 40 degree fever. Michael and I hunted for banana porridge for her. I held her hand when she rambles softly in German, in her sleep. I watched her tears fall, when she found out that her lover may be cheating on her.

Ach, Kathrin! I will miss you so much. India will love you as much as we do. See you in Frankfurt next year!

Kathrin and Ying-the best of pals in Hanoi

Kathrin having fun in the rain while we were on our way to Mai Chau village

THE BALCONY FROM ‘THE SECRET CAFE’

POST-HANOI THOUGHTS 1: Introduction
A while ago, after an aimless wander around the cities of Indo-China, trekking on without a purpose to breathtaking landscapes where the Mekong River meanders, I succumbed to physical and mental exhaustion. What took the heaviest toll on me was, spiritually, I wasn’t fulfilled-something that I didn’t expect. Travelling was meant to inspire and illuminate. It was supposed to reveal to you the meaning of life. Growing tired of talking to people, enduring indifference to people and places,and having your senses numbed with fatigue as you sit in a rickety old bus that rumbles down the dirt road ain’t part of the plan. For quite some time, I really didn’t know what to do with myself. While I was munching down croissants in an overtly touristic pattisserie in Vang Vieng, one that plays Friends reruns everyday on its 27-inch screen, I thought about Ed. I received an email from him recently and he told me that he has managed to find a job in a Malaysian restaurant in Hanoi. He was being paid USD10 a day, but that’s more than enough for him to survive, he wrote. Dorm beds only cost USD 3 and as he lived off cheap Pho Bo (the infamous Vietnamese beef noodles) and Maggi Instant Noodles, he could actually save up a little before moving on. It then suddenly dawned me that I was tired of warming up to strangers. What I really want to see is a familiar face, and have conversations without having to start with all the backpacker interrogation bullshit. Also, I thought about the chances of securing myself an English Teaching job over there might be a tad easier with the contacts that Mr. Callerame passed to me.

So, without another minute of hesitation, I bought myself a 24-hour bus ticket from Vang Vieng to Hanoi.

The journey was unpleasant and terrifying, made worse by a whining Australian who was also in the same bus as I was. Sure, I wasn’t enjoying myself either, but complaining about it doesn’t help either.

Anyway, after a day, I found myself in the Old Quarters of Hanoi, the 36 streets where tourists hang out. Secret cafes, hidden behind luggage sho facades were waiting to be discovered. Shops spilled souveneir wares and colourful kitsch. Every corner is punctuated with either a coffee shop or a noodle stall. The narrow streets held haphazard buildings together. You’d see a French window open, and underneath that hanging Bougainvillea branches is an old Vietnamese man in a white singlet, cooing animatedly into a birdcage. The architecture is a mixture of French and Vietnamese. The walls are always vibrantly painted with hues of pastel yellow, blue or pink. Nothing speaks of mundane. Fresh bagguettes are sold on the streets. Old ladies sit on very small wooden stools outside the shops, fanning themselves while motorcycles honk and beep as they glide by. Backpackers and friendly locals bond over cheap watered down beers at Bia Hoi Corner, the notorious hangout place for foreigners. Shaded boulevards, accessible public parks and the shimmering Hoan Kiem Lake-every nook and cranny of Hanoi screams a postcard cliche.

It used to be a French colony and maybe that’s why this city still speaks the language of love-or for me at least.

YING AND ED IN HANOI-IN FRONT OF A PROPOGANDA POSTER

For me, life took a very interesting turn in Hanoi. Hanoi changed me in ways that I couldn’t fathom.

30 days later, I’m not the same person again. I felt completely recharged when I left Hanoi. My heart burst wide open and my head filled to brim with ideas. I was no longer tied down by ideas of money and the lack of it. I was no longer tied down with conventions and traditions. I was inspired, and most of all, I was free.

Novice monks in Vang Vieng, Laos

During my hiatus, my travels took me from Vientiane into Vang Vieng, Laos, and then onwards to Hanoi, Vietnam. While working on some post-Hanoi entries, let this little excerpt from my journal amuse you:

“I lie dejectedly at the little shoe box room of mine in Vang Vieng, Laos, while scratching my arms at a rhythmic pace ; it must be the flea-infested blanket or the stained bedsheets. But gratitude I must feel, to have at least a roof over my head as the sovereign sun shines haughtily over the limestone hills and the Nam Song river; it’s after all it’s merely USD 4 for a room with a double bed and an en-suite bathroom with hot shower. It is not that I’m running out of cash but I still can’t put a finger to my crummy mood. The curtains flutter into my face and I hear snatches of conversation, each word spoken with a British accent. I hear laughter, and another voice-a French perhaps? I wish I am an active participant of the conversation but at the same time, I wish I’m not-I’ve ran out of clever things to say. I no longer excel at small talk, at those little initiatives that solo backpackers have to attempt so that we won’t end up sitting in a bar alone, watching Arsenal play Chelsea while the rest of the travellers have an audience to chatter away animatedly to. I try to put faces to the ones currently talking: one’s probably a big-boned surfer dude in a Ripcurl cap, a stripped tank top and a light blue board shorts while the other’s probably a scruffy dread locked hippie who chooses to adorn oneself with tribal ornaments and light, linen attire. I try to conjure an image of myself in the group; I imagine my backpack, my army green flip-flops and my woven anklet around my right heel. That’s me- a solo-female Malaysian backpacker, roughing out in one of the poorest countries in the world. It seemed like an image of my dreams a few months ago yet this time, I recoil at it. I think about my friends spending their time now in a freezing office, hunching their backs in front of computer screens or slapping a 20 Ringgit bill on a Starbucks counter for an undeserving Green Tea frappucino – that is my world, and I miss that. I survey my surroundings now and feel like a fake. My self-induced poverty is laughable, my dreams all of a sudden crumble into worthless pieces. Suddenly everything is so futile and so silly.

Despite all my unbridled enthusiasm about being an intrepid explorer, I’m now exhausted. Almost three months have passed and I’m still on the road, feeling as worthless as a bum, and as aimless as a wanderer. What is it that I hope to find? Will witnessing poverty in Bung Kan, Thailand or Poipet, Cambodia fill me up with insights of life? Will living out of the suitcase truly fulfill me? “

Here’s also a prelude to one of my Hanoi entries. I wrote this email to Matt, in moments of distress. I was already in Hanoi then; it was probably Week 2 in Hanoi when it was written.

On our way to Mai Chau village, Vietnam

Dearest Matt,
I’m so happy that you’re now settled. Moving into a new apartment must be exciting. Taking time to decide what should go on your walls and or your shelves are one of the activities that I wish doing, NOW. I know I looked really happy in the pictures that I sent you and I was, but those sort of fun and laughter doesn’t last very long. My dorm mates were really cool, and I’ve met the nicest people along the way, but after three days of drinking, talking shit and being sociable-I’m now exhausted.
I can’t go on like that everyday. There is no intellectual, spiritual or emotional fulfilment. I was struggling for quite a while, to come to terms with my wanderings and not knowing which path to take. Even Guillome, the French guy, shares similar feelings. We both felt so unproductive; waking up everyday and wait for the day to end.
For the longest period of time, I felt very lost. Again, I am at crossroads. I was deluded to think that I could make something happen in Hanoi. I went for one interview and sent in some resumes here and there, but eventually I realised that my lack of motivation wasn’t because of the jobs available but rather, I couldn’t accept the fact that Hanoi would be the place that I’d like to settle for a couple of months. I don’t know what Ed told you, but Ed doesn’t like this place either. Hanoi can be charming with its culture and architecture but the people are aggressive and rude, and the blare of honks just never stop. There is so much noise and activity and pollution. And you understanding me well, knows that the last kind of place that I’d like to settle in!!!!!!! I can’t even bring myself to say thank you in Vietnamese. In so many ways, I feel like a estranged from the culture. I can never feel like a local here-maybe becauseI I dislike them. Remember how it was in Penang, where everyone’s smiling and friendly? Well, it doesn’t happen here.
So Ed and I sat down one day, across the lake, with cheap baguettes in our hands, tried to sort things out together. Even though we’re both different in so many ways, he understood my needs and my dreams. And most importantly, he knew the perimeters within me, that was set up by the culture that we were brought up in. First of all, we discussed what route I should take because I told him, even though I’d get a job in Hanoi, I don’t really fancy seeing myself here. Yet I’m running out of money and I need to do something! But at the same time, I’m so unproductive. I’ve been so unproductive really…it was quite aimless, traversing South East Asia without really having the intention to travel. I want to settle somewhere, but where? Ed said that the reason why I still feel so lost is because my heart was set in Europe all along. My whole SEA travels is pure bullshit, a distraction. I’ve wanted to go to Italy all these while, but because I let the risks deter me. I wanted to go to Europe, safe and secured, knowing that I have wads of fat cash in my pocket. Now I know that if I really want to go for my dreams, I really have to work for it. No one’s just going to hand to me the things I want-be it job, money or accomodation. There’s really no short cut or safe way to go about getting what we want. If I really want to be in Italy that badly, then I just have to roll the dice and take the plunge. And by just being there, it will just open another gate of possibilities. I guess there isn’t any way easy way out of this entire thing.
Also, I lack of faith in myself and my dreams, Ed said. In his wisest voice, he said that the reason why I don’t have a focus is that I’ve always tried to please everyone. He said I should stop thinking and stop asking people for their opinions. I just have to have faith in myself or rather in the things that I want to achieve. Who cares if it’s silly or unrealistic or close to impossible? Who’s to say what’s impossible and what’s not. And I just have to swallow my pride if others are going to laugh or belittle me, because at the end of the day, these are the people that I don’t need.
So after the talk, I sat and listened to the voices that I’ve repressed. It says that I want to be in Italy. I want to live in Italy. I want to be speaking Italian. Then something changes in me. Slowly but surely, I started to believe that that’s what I wanted to do. I wrote to Steve, the guy that initially set me out on this path, but got a reply that wasn’t a positive yes yet not very encouraging either. But funnily, for someone who has always listened to the voices of the others, I started to listen to myself. And that email didn’t bother me that much. I didn’t require that sort of affirmation from him anymore. Also in that email, I was asking whether I could borrow some money just in case I truly run out of it. After all, he offered before. But his reply was not a resounding yes but rather yes, I’d be willing to help, but. It doesn’t sound too promising but somehow, this time round, I didn’t feel that worried either. If Ed can survive in Europe for less than 30 Euros in hand, then maybe I can too.
So I guess my mind is pretty made up now. I don’t know what to expect or what will happen, but I do know that I will run out of money within the first week that I’d get to Europe. I’ve only bout 200 dollars left. That’s all. I’ve to rely on my faith and my desperation to get myself a job. I know that I’ll have a bloody tough time but I know I’d be able to rough it out. I sound crazy don’t I?
Yes, if only I can turn back time and go back to those times when you were in Malaysia. You know what, the explore the school thing was also the highlight for me!!!! It was one of the moments where we connected at such a level that even saving frogs and exploring ruins could amuse us.
And oh, Matt-recently I wrote to the editor of Bangkok Trader and proposed some stories of my recent travels to him. He responded with such enthusiasm that I feel almost faint reading his email. He said “don’t tease us with such leads, just give us the stories!” Anyway, I’d be hearing from him a few days time (he’s probably still on his way back to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.) Anyway, if I could write up at least one or two of those stories, I’d be able to earn a couple more dollars. Isn’t that just amazing! Things are falling into place, I think.

Matt, if only I don’t have the one-way ticket to Europe, I’d have flew to US. Really. I’m bent on seeing you again, so yes, I can promise you that eventually I’d be there. I have been thinking bout doing graduate school in US. We’ll see how things work out in Europe. If I do manage to settle down in Europe for a while, please visit me will you? And meanwhile, your name has always escape my lips when I regale my tales of travels to the people I meet along the way. It’s always Matt this and that….hehehe!! Same goes for Ed too I think!
Matt, we’ve really missed you. We really want to see you again. I promise, we’d meet soon.
I really hope to hear from you soon. I want you to tell me what you think of my crazy Europe plan this time. Any advice or tips will be appreciated-but even if you ask me not to, I’d still go.

Much much love,
Ying