Recently, I did one of the items on my to-do list--clearing my storage space. That means boxes of old diaries, schedules, notebooks, stories, and even, as I discovered, a little pile of travel journals.
I haven't done much travelling, though I have had opportunities to go further than many people I know have had--something I am profoundly grateful for. However, such opportunities aren't necessarily up to the hype that many people give them, unless you consciously treat them as opportunities to think and reflect over what you see and experience. At least, that has been my experience, and that is what I believe.
And even then, we all forget.
So that's why, reading back on that shabby stack of little booklets, I realize how thankful I am that I brought them and persevered writing about each trip, every day if possible. Especially the slim navy moleskine which was my travel journal for my trip to London and Germany two years ago--the longest and furthest trip I've ever made.
I enjoyed reading through it. There was so much I had learnt--which I had forgotten--and which I was so grateful I had this to remember by.
So I'd like to share what I wrote here--some of it, that is--in hopes that I can share a bit of what I learnt and enjoyed during those brief few weeks...
When you open that slim navy moleskine, with a vintage red KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON postcard glued to the cover, the first few pages are all random addresses, names, and memorandum--and quite a few lists! (Lists are my lifeline, my go-to coping mechanism when feeling overwhelmed as well as a form of all-round therapy. This may trick you into thinking I'm a very meticulous person, whereas the sad reality is that I am hopelessly forgetful and scatterbrained. I sometimes think my list-making tic is a form of extreme insecurity in reaction to that. But I digress.)
A gift list. A list of expenses (on said gifts.) A list of to-do's, on which the number of ticks makes me indescribably happy.
How many travellers are so blessed, after all?
The only things I didn't do on that list were Jane Austen's house (it was out of London,) and Buckingham Palace, which was closed.
And seeing live hedgehogs.
Day 1:
So much apprehension and worry and fear when setting off from the airport with Mom and Dad; I honestly felt as if we were going to our deaths. (sorry for the undue pessimism, but you must understand that it was the first time I'd travelled so far--I'd heard horror stories of London crime--and overthinking/nervous anxiety runs in my genes!)
...The humungus airplane. I got a huge shock when I walked in and realized I could turn left--or--right. (It was freakily like the plane in World War Z eeeeeeeeeee) I realized it's the first time I've flown on a Boeing!
...Then. After an endless and bio-clock-confusing 'night', LONDON.
In keeping with my paranoia, I crept out hiding behind my enormous suitcase and eyeing all the huge ang mohs fearfully. (that's dialect for Caucasian. Directly translated it means 'red-haired devil' which just proves embarrassingly how xenophobic the Chinese are, but by now has become so much a part of Singlish that it's not considered offensive anymore; and is used and taken in self-deprecatory good humour on both sides.)
Behold Heathrow. Hey--people were actually normal, going about their own lives. Normal with qualifications, that is. I wasn't used to unusually civil and chatty with rich throaty British accents. The guy at the convenience shop absolutely terrified me by asking me 'So, how was your day?' as he took the change for my bottle of mineral water.
No self-respecting Singapore shop keeper said that. If they felt like it they might ask you if you'd eaten. Maybe if you were an old customer they would ask you casually if you had a busy day. But never look you in the eye as if they knew your first name and had seen you in diapers and ask you, 'So, how was your day?' with the sort of polite intimacy newly weds might speak to each other with.
I immediately learnt a few lessons. One--I had never been with so many whites or blacks before, even in considerably cosmopolitan Singapore. Two--I was not used to Indians or blacks with British accents. Three--according to Mom, I stare. I can't help it--my writer's eyes and soul were overwhelmed with fascination and new material! The anti-bomb dustbins--a hoop with a transparent plastic bag hanging from it. The winterwear. The different faces and features and voices and gestures and languages. It was overwhelming but amazing and I tried, breathlessly, to soak it all in.
Four--I have to be more aware of personal space. Brits aren't used, apparently, to crowded Singapore's considered comfort zone. Mom pointed this out to me after an elderly lady scuttled away abruptly when I looked over her shoulder at the plaque she was reading. Sorry, granny.
This was later proven again when we visited Tesco, and I unconsciously fell into my customary power-shopping mode, zipping agilely between shoppers, nipping down aisles, and finally terrorizing a poor old gentleman on a motorized wheelchair by scooting past him. He didn't appreciate my high level of skill (in fact apparently no one else did) and instead looked at me with a piteous expression, hands raised eloquently.
We decided to have tea and a muffin at a cafe while we waited for Tarpe (our nickname for my sister, who was there at the time.) I sank into the comfy sofa, sipped my tea (with lots of milk) in awe (tea!! in London!! surely the most significant place to drink tea ever!) and gazed wordlessly around me as if I'd just been given fly's eyes. The muffin was a moist, fluffy poppyseed one with tangy lemon curd inside, and my cup of tea came in a teapot with a jug of milk so I could 'lace it with ribbons of milk.' I can't remember where I read that phrase but it fascinated me and still haunts me deliciously to this day. I'm afraid I'm very superficial but I think that pot of tea was the beginning of my London experience to me, the moment where I started to really grasp the stupendous fact that I was actually in this paradoxically, storybookishly familiar-yet-unreal place.
The realization what it meant to be in London, and that I was in London (the two are pretty different if you know what I mean) started growing on me as I heard two young men next door switch from British English to Cantonese; saw my first Hasidic Jews with earlocks and black skullcaps--oh, Chaim Potok's The Chosen! (my only exposure to this culture, I'm afraid)
It was a strange, breathless feeling. Not exactly wild ecstasy, more like a subdued type of awe and wonder.
THEN. As we travelled on the Tube, which was--surprisingly to me--not at all as advanced as our Singaporean transport system, I had the feeling all over again as I stared at the storybook English houses and greenery flashing by; nonchalant acres of it, chimneys and red bricks and everything that to me as a child was so essentially Enid Blyton and the stuff of books.
I think travelling at its best is a mixture of both emotions. Firstly, when you realize you're seeing the reality of what you've learnt about or read about. That's an amazing feeling. So much meaning in a single sculpture or even a signpost, when it was a name you grew up with or tried to imagine in the past. That was the feeling I got when I saw Westminster Abbey and stood at the graves of famous people. A crazily unreal and breathtaking feeling. It makes you feel like you've entered into a book or movie. (I can't even express how that excites me.) Secondly, when you see and experience things you had never imagined before, places and sights and cultures that are completely new. That is also an amazing feeling. It makes you feel like you've entered a portal. (too many YA thriller novels, I suppose you're thinking here.) Either way, you experience a poignant comparison of new with familiar--either as the memory that preceded the real thing, in the first case, or as the familiar world, the alternative to this new one you've stepped into.
Then came my mini adventure, just when I was starting to relax and feel like a real tourist enjoying all the new sights and sounds without worrying about making it back home alive. I know, I'm paranoid, okay?
We didn't realize how hard it was to lug a huge suitcase over the high platform, across the gap of the metro doorway. Mom barely made it through with the help of a nice man who yanked the door open long enough for the suitcase to shimmy through. I was left looking pathetic over the top of mine as the doors slammed shut in my face. Panic! Wild panic from the paranoid traveller, you would expect! But strangely enough, I felt supernaturally calm. After all I had been mentally rehearsing all sort of drastic crisis situations, from terrorism to being mugged, and was probably pumped full of adrenaline as consequence. All I had to do was get out at the next station and take the next train on the opposite side to get back. Which is exactly what you would do in Singapore if this happened. I got off at Baron's Court, (giving a moment to appreciate the romance of the station name) alone in the chilliness except for a suitcase almost as big as myself and plenty of endorphins. Thankfully, Tarpe managed to call through to give me directions. She stopped me from taking the train on the other side, which, contrary to expectations (and logic, I thought very huffily--I was still out of breath) didn't go back, but actually transferred to another line which would apparently have taken me halfway through London in the wrong direction, or something like that. I had narrowly escaped becoming the next missing person.
That ought to have been scary, but realizing that I had to accomplish the impossible (lugging that mammoth suitcase up a steep overhead bridge with steps so high it felt like racial discrimination) in order to take the right train back, was worse.
I honestly felt it was impossible. Don't laugh. I had problems even lifting it, and barely got it out of the train without being crushed, and now I have to go up and down stairs?? Note to self: weight training before travel. Always.
I prayed for gamma radiation, a friendly Brit, or an elevator to appear magically as I struggled up the stairs. None of those prayers were answered but I made it somehow. At least the fact that no one was around meant that no one witnessed my ungraceful floundering. My epic journey consisted mainly of throwing myself at the suitcase to heave it up one massively high step, climbing up the step myself, taking a breather, and repeating the whole process for the entire flight. Perhaps one day in the future I'll look back fondly on that incident as the first time my latent super powers revealed themselves.
to be continued