Just like that, my foreign exchange experience is nothing but a string of memories. While returning to the United States was slightly strange, I found it quite easy to reacclimatize to this country, perhaps because cosmopolitan Hong Kong was less of a radical culture shock then anticipated. After a nice but brief break at home in Sonoma County for Christmas and New Years, I am once again back at UC San Diego. The last two years have been chaotic in the sense that I have constantly been moving from place to place, putting down roots, and then leaving just as the roots begin to take to the ground. This has put me in a strange state, and I am more then ready to finally settle down for a while and find some solid, stable ground. Regardless, the upcoming term is going to be a hard slap in the face compared to my time abroad. No need to fear intensity and hard work though. 

As expected, since returning I have faced the same question over and over again: “So how was it? What was Hong Kong like?” These questions are essentially impossible to answer, because I cannot summarize the past four months in a short string of words. My best response is “It was awesome, but you have to try it yourself to know the real answer to that question.” The best representation of my experience remains in the pictures and stories of this blog, and in my memory. However, I can say this: 

During my time abroad I learned and matured extremely rapidly and in unique ways. I received a unique “global education” from my international peers and travels, learning about the world by being wholeheartedly immersed in it. Looking back, it is amazing to think how many little pieces of worldly wisdom I have accumulated and how many memories I have created. I was privileged to meet and bond closely with many amazing people from all over the world, and I hope to visit each and every one of them someday. I ventured out of my comfort zone, traveling throughout Asia alone and meeting new people every day. I feel like I have seen so much, and I feel much “older” then before. I am certainly more mature, more wise, more patient. At the same time, it is almost frustrating to return and find that everything is the same. I know I am not the same, but this is apparently an internal feeling which is only occasionally revealed. All things considered, I know that I will eternally carry the memories, wisdom, lessons, and friendships that Asia has given me.

Just as my time in Hong Kong has come to an end, so too will the Hong Kongin’ blog. I am considering starting a different blog, time permitting, but in the meantime I would like to thank everyone who has kept up with the entries. I hope you have learned something, or been inspired, or simply enjoyed it as much as I have, even if you’ve only read a paragraph or looked at a picture. 

Life is a trip. In the wise words of Confucius: “No matter where you go - there you are.” 

As my time as a foreign exchange student rapidly evaporates, and I feel the ending of one era and the beginning of another, and the calling of home, my last days here have become increasingly chaotic and memorable. I am not one to finish carelessly and inadequately, and the resulting whirlwind has been simultaneously incredible, unforgettable, and exhausting. I’ve been juggling between travelling, studying for four final exams, and attempting to exploit the best that Hong Kong has to offer just one more time. 

It is true that I have been exploring Hong Kong almost nonstop since I arrived, but the last few weeks have been a frantic race to check off an endless list of remaining sights and activities.

I see the Temple of Ten Thousand Buddhas in Sha Tin with my roommate, climbing up a pathway lined with endless golden Buddha statues until we reach the main temple, where we are rewarded by over 12,800 Buddha images. I watch an important Chiao Cosmic Renewal Festival in Yuen Long, feeling the scorching heat of the ghost master as she violently burns and marveling at the powerful grip of Chinese folk religion on the Chinese even in this modern time. I hike the famous Dragon’s Back trail, skipping along the spine of a mountain that overlooks Shek O and Big Wave Bay on one side and Tai Tam Bay on the other. I take a Monday to see Lantau Island, climbing up the 268 stairs to the massive 34 meter tall Tian Tan Buddha statue and walking through the fishing village of  Tai O on a quiet afternoon. I walk from Mong Kok to Tsim Sha Tsui at night, through open air restaurants, a wet market, neon lights, endless, classic crowds, and the Peninsula Hotel and arrive just in time to see and photograph “A Symphony of Lights” from the TST Promenade. I stroll through beautiful Hong Kong Park in Admiralty for a much needed breather. I hike through Sai Kung Country Park and Hong Kong Geopark, watching the sun shimmer on the crystal blue High Island Reservoir, climbing over geologic rock columns, and finding a quiet cove with a beautiful white sand beach. I ride the MTR one morning to Central for the world’s greatest Dim Sum, indulging in classic Hong Kong cuisine in a frenetic atmosphere among Chinese regulars, who have been filling the Lin Heung Tea House since 1926. I take a ferry to Macau, walking through Portuguese ruins and then dirty slums and then massive casinos. Here I try the Portuguese Egg Tart, the famous and original version of the delicious Asian egg tart. I also wander around a number of casinos, including the worlds largest, The Venetian Macau, and waste HK$20 on a slot machine. The daring and addicted Chinese gamblers make this city the most lucrative gambling center in the world, with earnings three times greater than Las Vegas. Upon returning to Central from Macau by ferry around midnight, I head straight to Lan Kwai Fong to join some friends for yet another night of 7-Eleven Tsingdaos and over capacity clubs. And finally, before I even have a chance to breathe, I use the “study break” to fly from Shenzhen to Guilin in search of what is supposedly one of the world’s most beautiful and picturesque regions. 

China - Take Two - Guilin, Yangshuo, and Longsheng:

Immediately after crossing the Hong Kong-Shenzhen border into China, I am ripped off. One minute I am asking how to get to the airport. The next minute, a baggage porter is carrying my bag to an airport shuttle bus, the same one that was “not running at this time,” according to two different Chinese officers. The porter, who from my understanding was going to take me to Shenzhen Airport for 60 Yuan, throws my bag into the bus, requests 50 Mao-faced bank notes, shakes my hand, and promptly disappears. When I am asked to pay another 20 Yuan for the bus, I realize I paid the man far too much money to only carry my bag. He was never planning to take me to the airport. And so begins the interminable misunderstands of China. 

After successfully flying to Guilin, finding a hostel, and sleeping, I wake up early and indulge in a street food breakfast: tea eggs, fried dough twists, Chinese crepes, and steamed cake. Then its off to the Guilin Bus Station to catch a ride up north to Longsheng, land of the “dragon backed mountains.” I get a ticket for an 8:40am departure, and for the next two hours, as the bus ascends through the mountains of Southern China, I am wondering what is taking so long. We finally arrive around 11:15am in Longsheng. I am then informed, in extremely broken English, that I have to catch another bus to Jinkeng to see the famous rice terraces. While I wait, I get a bowl of rice noodles. They are extremely fresh and garnished with an amazing array of flavors; one of the best bowls of noodles I have ever had. At 11:50am, I get on another bus. We drive for about a minute, and then wait for another 15 minutes for more passengers only a short way from the bus stop. By the time we leave Longsheng, 40 minutes of stopping and picking up passenger after passenger have gone by. I learn that this is how the public bus system works in China. The bus leaves from the bus station, and then stops every 10 meters to pick up a passenger, until the bus is twice as full as it should be. I finally arrive in Jinkeng around 1:30pm, where I am forced to pay a large fee for visiting the area. I am greeted by traditionally dressed women of the Yao ethnic group, who are dressed in handmade purple dresses and have their extremely long black hair wrapped in a neat bun.

As I walk to the village, I am met by a panorama of steep, ridged-backed hills and wooden houses with red lanterns. China may be experiencing radical modernization and economic growth, but here these people continue to live just as they did a hundred years ago. For the next three hours, I hike up and down the stunning rice terraced mountains. I walk through tiny villages and observe how these people simply live. Towards the end of my hike, I slip on a step and try to catch my footing on some brush beside the path. Unfortunately, beneath the brush is a five foot drop, and I am launched into a dramatic backflip. I land on my knees, full of adrenaline and covered in brush and without a lens cap on my camera lens. Its just me and the mountain, and the mountain is playing games. With that, I head back to the bus stop, wait half an hour, then hop on. On the slow ride back to Longsheng, the bus suddenly stops and someone ushers me out the door, pointing to the other side of the road and yelling “Guilin.” I hurriedly jump off, cross the street, and get on another little dilapidated bus, which is apparently heading back to Guilin. I start to realize how in over my head I really am. China knows I am all alone, and she is going to manipulate me like a little marionette until I realize that this is a big, different world and if I am not more than ready to stare it in the eye, it will ruthlessly wear me down. After an agonizing three hours back to Guilin, I franticly run to pick up my bags from the hostel and get a bus ticket to Yangshuo in time. By 9:30pm, I have finally reached Yangshuo. I pay too much to have a scooter taxi shuttle me through the cold black night to an out of town hostel. The experience of riding out of town through the night is both invigorating and slightly terrifying. Finally, in the comfort of a small bed, I reflect on the day, realizing that I spent almost eight hours on horrid public buses for only three hours at the rice terraces. It is what it is. 

The next morning, as I exit my room, I am forced to a complete standstill. Limestone karst completely surround me, protruding out of the ground like giant stalagmites. I have a quick breakfast, rent a bicycle, and begin “pedaling slow” through the unreal Yangshuo countryside. I cycle north to Baisha Town, stopping in a number of small Chinese villages along the way. An tiny old woman slowly carries bunches of straw on her radically bent spine. A group of women wash clothes in the river. Men work the soil in the rice fields. Grain is sorted by families in front of the home. Dried meat hangs in the windows. I could be on Mars in 1763 for all I know. From Baisha Town, I cycle to the Yulong River. Once I find the the river, I am met by a beautiful old arched stone bridge, Jinlong Bridge. A fisherman by the bridge stands on a bamboo raft and uses two cormorants to catch fish. The birds’ throats are tied, keeping them from swallowing the larger fish that they catch. I watch this ancient fishing technique with serious curiosity. I then cross the bridge and cycle all the way down the Yulong River, through more villages and dramatic karst. At the end of the riverside pathway, I leave the bike and hike up to the top of Moon Hill. This giant limestone arch is not only an amazing place to catch a view of the surrounding countryside, but also one of Yangshuo’s prime rock climbing locations. Unfortunately I didn’t have time to test my climbing abilities. After the sweat-inducing climb up Moon Hill, I cycle to the famous Big Banyan Tree and also see a butterfly-like formation in Butterfly Caves.

By this time is is around 2pm, and I have been cycling and hiking all day with only a small breakfast and a cob of corn from a street stall to keep me going. I head into downtown Yangshuo and park my bike near the bus station. I get on another local bus headed to Yangdi Town. After more then an hour, I arrive and barter intensely for a bamboo raft trip. After more then three months in Asia, my bartering skills have significantly improved. We agree on a price and soon enough I am floating down the Li River, almost all by myself in a moment of complete solitude. Rafting down the Li River is the quintessential experience of Guilin. The riverside karst are huge here, and magnificent enough to be displayed on the back of the 20 Yuan bank note. As we float by this classic scene, even the raft driver seems moved, pointing at the unreal scene in front of our raft. As I float down this majestic river, I remember seeing the classic Chinese paintings of these mountains years ago. Like many, I thought this place was only in the opium filled minds of the painters, but I was clearly mistaken. After two hours, the raft is docked on the shore of Xingping Town, and my Li River trip ends but will always live on in my memory. 

I am now met with the task of finding my way back to Yangshuo. I walk around the town saying Yangshuo over and over again, and finally a man says hello to me a few times (like most Chinese, hello is the only word he knows in English), pulls out a little chair, and beckons me to sit. I sit and wait. I am used to waiting. If there is one quality I have learned from traveling, it is patience. Patience is everything. If you travel without it, you will either fail or learn to possess it. Eventually, a well dressed group of Chinese board a private bus. I am ushered to the bus, and after a few words in Chinese, I find myself in the back of the bus and at the center of attention. They are all looking at me and talking about me and I have absolutely no idea what is going on. It seems they were having an event at the river, and they graciously agreed to give me a ride back to Yangshuo. The bus stops to drop me off, and when I offer to pay, they refuse to accept. Somehow, I am back in Yangshuo and I did not pay a thing to get here? People can be so nice. 

At this point, I am absolutely famished. I walk to West Street, a tourist street lined with restaurants, bars, and souvenir shops. For dinner I devour a beer fish, a traditional Yangshuo dish that goes perfectly with a large bottle of light Chinese beer and a bowl of fresh, locally farmed rice. After checking out West Street a bit more, I get on my bike and ride back to the hostel. It is cold, pitch black, and almost 10pm, and it takes a while to find the hidden guest cottages. 

The next morning I go on a short hike through more karst, farmland, and villages to the Yulong River and then back to the hostel. I check out and get a taxi to the bus station, and get on a bus back to Guilin. The bus picks up so many people on the way there that the entire aisle was full of people sitting on plastic bigs. When we arrive in Guilin it is raining, I am out of money, and I am worn down from the trials of traveling and China. After failing to find any money exchange booths, and then trying to exchange money at four banks to no avail, I find out that only one bank in all of Guilin will exchange money. En route to Bank of China, I realize that my camera bag seems rather light. When I open it, the camera is gone. The bottom of my bag is open, cut by a sharp knife. The bag was in between my legs the entire bus ride from Yangshuo, but the man behing me must of crawled under the seat, cut through the bottom of the bag without me knowing, and carefully extracted my Nikon. I cannot believe it. Not only did I lose my camera, but I lost all of the stunning photographs I had taken in the last two and a half days. I have included just a few representations of what I saw using Internet pictures, but it is not the same. People can be so terrible. 

I spent the rest of the day walking around Guilin in the rain, exhausted, lamenting the loss of my camera and passing a number of tourist sights along the way. I paid to walk the stairs up Fubo Hill, and catch a foggy but nice view of the city from the top. At 5:30pm I made my way back to the bus station. Even finding the bus turns out to be an adventure, but eventually I am led there by two young Chinese women. When I get on the bus, I feel a mixture of disbelief, amazement, and disgust. It smells like old socks and wet dog. There are 3 rows of double bunk beds, 42 in all, packed into this normal sized sleeper bus. It is 12 hours overnight to Shenzhen, and all I have to eat are Chinese cookies and a small bag of peanuts. For some reason, I have difficulty properly feeding myself in China. I essentially detach from my body, allowing myself to simply not care anymore. It is an adventure, an experience.

At 6am, after an delirious overnight ride, I am dropped off somewhere in the middle of Shenzhen. I try and wait for a bus back to Lo Fu Station, but with no success. Finally I take a taxi andcross the border back to Hong Kong, literally breathing a massive sigh of relief as I am let back. Hong Kong is much more westernized then China, and it is a good thing because it would have been difficult to survive for four months in mainland China while remaining sane.

Although I was gone for only three days, it felt like much longer. It is difficult to describe how it felt, to be in complete isolation in China without language, running around telling myself I know what I am doing when I really don’t, losing my camera, and learning about the ways of the world. It was intense and exhausting, but I loved it. 

Think forever. Travel always. Live on. 

กรุงเทพฯ. Bangkok. Krung Thep. The Big Mango. Spend five minutes here and this place immediately hits you on the head with a large, metal wok. Bangkok is sensory overload: Interminable traffic congestion spewing heavy, noxious exhaust. 32°C (that’s 90°F) hot, thick and humid air even in late November. Tuk-tuk drivers and salesmen nagging relentlessly for your money and attention. Chefs at street food carts stir-frying pad thai and grilling skewers of meat all through the night. Long tail boats speeding through the Chao Phraya River past numerous temples like there is no tomorrow.

Amidst all the commotion, my five day experience here was not defined by what we saw and did, but by small, frustrating, or hilarious events that led us into a strange and intoxicating delirium that could only happen here. At first, our response to these events was something along the lines of “Are you kidding me?” or “Holy Shit!” but by the end of our stay, a simple “Huh…that’s Bangkok for ya” became the norm. I cannot help but feel like Thailand changed me, and rightfully so. 

My roommate and I begin our adventure in Bangkok at the Rambuttri Village Inn Hotel, near Khao San Road, which is most definitely the largest backpacker’s hub in Asia. Before we even check in to our room, we order some pad thai for 30 Baht (1USD) from a nearby street stall, curing our hunger with Thailand’s most famous dish. We then check in, drop off our bags, and walk around the Banglamphu area, indulging in good street eats, looking at souvenirs, and getting a feel for the unique character of this area. “This place is like the Jamaica of the East,” I told Michael. Khao San Road is a people-watcher’s dream, full of dreadlocked, grungy vagabonds and hippies, lost inexperienced, backpackers, and Thais who live off of the tourism industry. Walking around Khao San Road becomes a common activity, and we gradually uncover its rhythm and its quirks. As the night arrives, makeshift bars emerge onto street sides selling drinks out of VW buses while playing Bob Marley. Endless massage parlors offer a huge variety of massages for the starting price of 100 Baht for half an hour. Street food carts and souvenir vendors line every available inch of the frenetic streets. Everyone is intoxicated, from beer, the energy of Bangkok, or both. 

The next morning, we rise early to catch a tour. We pay 600 Baht, or around USD 20, for an all day tour from 7am to 7pm. By this time, we are very aware that almost everything in Thailand is incredibly inexpensive. This is a big deal for two independent student travelers. We sleep in the back of a van for the next too hours as our daring driver weaves through traffic at 140 kilometers per hour. Finally, we arrive at a WWII memorial in Kanchanaburi. After twenty uneventful minutes, we proceed to the Bridge on the River Kwai. It was built as part of the infamous “death railway” by prisoners of war captured by the Japanese army during WWII, and made famous by French writer Pierre Boulle. We think it looks like an ordinary bridge. 

Next, we find ourselves on a river, floating on a bamboo raft. We are at peace, gently gliding along the river, in the hot Thai sun. 

Once on the shore, we hop on an elephant for a relaxing ride beside the river. I rhythmically move side to side on my seat as the powerful animal carries three of us effortlessly. Afterwords, we feed the animal a basket of bananas. He grabs them with his impressive trunk and then shoves them into his mouth. A monkey becomes obsessed with Michael’s shoes, or perhaps he just wants a friend. 

After a brief lunch and visit to a waterfall, its off to the Tiger Temple for the culmination of the day. We pay only 100 Baht less than our day long tour to enter the Tiger Temple. While it is supposed to be a tiger sanctuary and Buddhist monastery, it is essentially a major tourist attraction where tigers are breed and domesticated. There is overwhelming evidence that tigers are mistreated. Although we both are able to get a number of good pictures with large tigers, the experience felt akin to standing with a goat at a petting zoo. An employee holds your hand for most of the time as she takes you around and takes pictures of you squatting behind a chained, domesticated, sleepy (and perhaps drugged) tiger. All things considered, it was still a cool experience. 

After this we speed back to Bangkok. We spend the remaining part of the day walking around Khao San Road, eating, drinking, and enjoying the scene. We also take a brief detour to Patpong Road, slightly curious about the “ping pong show” that every other Thai salesman bothers us about. While I do not want to go into the nitty gritty of Patpong, its safe to say that this place has no rules. Prostitutes, topless bars, relentless immoral salesmen, and dangerous alleyways. We leave pretty quickly. 

On Saturday, we head to Chatuchak Weekend Market, one of Southeast Asia’s largest markets. It covers over 35 acres and receives roughly 200,000 visitors per weekend. It is massive and chaotic. We are immediately engulfed in a maze of stalls, which are selling everything from food to clothing to Thai souvenirs to modern decor. Everything is incredibly, even overwhelmingly, cheap. After navigating the market until the mid-afternoon, we emerge soaked in sweat and with a number of unique, inexpensive souvenirs. Thailand has by far the best souvenir selection I have seen in any country I have been to. As a result, by the end of the trip my roommate and I have trouble packing our bags as the number of purchased souvenirs and gifts exceeds the amount of available space. Our temporary shopping craze and ability to spend hundreds of Baht in minutes became a major joking matter during our travels. 

After the market, we head back and then go to Wat Pho, one of Bangkok’s major Buddhist temples. The main attraction at Wat Pho is the gigantic golden Reclining Buddha, which measures 46 meters long and 15 meters high. The sky is gray and the ground shows signs of rain, but this does not detract from this massive image. 

On Sunday morning, we visit the remaining must-see temples of Bangkok, which are all in close proximity to each other, forming a “temple triangle.” The first stop is the Grand Palace and Wat Phra Kaew, or Temple of the Emerald Buddha. The Grand Palace was the official residence for the Kings of Thailand up until the most recent King. Thailand is indeed a Kingdom, and citizens of this Kingdom hold their King in highest regard, plastering elegant posters of his face everywhere. In contrast to most monarchs, the current King of Thailand has been involved in important political decisions throughout his long 64 year reign.

The Grand Palace is large and displays many intricately constructed buildings and structures, all demonstrating the unique aspects of Thai architecture. Despite the high price for entry, it is still a worthwhile visit.

The elephant is an important part of Thai culture, a national symbol. The animals were once important during battle, and are now revered for their intelligence. From statues in temples to beer logos, elephants are everywhere. As we walk from the Grand Palace to a public bus stop, which turns out to be much farther then anticipated, we see this monument. 

Once we finally reach the bus stop, we take a bus to the nearby Damnoen Saduak Floating Market. We avoid the steep fee of a long tail boat tour to the market by taking the spacious, air conditioned public bus. This market only operates on weekends, and while it is small and obviously not practical, it is quite interesting and exciting. Floating markets used to be an essential part of Thai culture because life was centered around the river. Stilt houses were built on rivers. River boats were used to travel from place to place. It was only a matter of time before floating markets offered food from the river. Nowadays, floating markets seem more like tourist attractions. However, to my surprise, this market is almost entirely trafficked by native Thais.

We walk around and then sit down to have a delicious, floating, lunch. We watch masses of large freshwater fish fight for pieces of bread that are thrown into the water. The fish literally rise out of the surface of the water in a chaotic cluster of desperate, hungry, voilence.

From here, its off to Wat Arun, which turns out to be my favorite temple of the trip. The “Temple of Dawn” at sunset is arguable one of Bangkok’s most recognizable images. The temple has an aged appearance, made from colorful inlaid tiles that have been weathered over many years. We were able to climb the steep steps of the pyramidal structure, granting us a breathtaking 360 degree view of surrounding Bangkok. 

Upon leaving Wat Arun, we begin to notice something special lining the tables of a nearby market. They are the very reason the my roommate and I decided to visit Thailand during this specific weekend. They are krathongs, small boats usually made of banana leaves and flowers, and used in the main ritual of the Loy Krathong Festival. The night was approaching, and Loy Krathong was coming with it.

After a brief recharge at the hotel, we see the sun beginning to set and know it is time. Soon it is dark, and we quickly head to the river. The energy, the excitement of the festival, a celebration of light, is already electrifying the air. We had heard little about the event during the previous days, and did not know if it would be a “big deal.” It is a big deal. 

We make it to the river and are instantly in complete, consuming awe. We walk along the river for some time, but cannot stand the intense crowds any longer. We head towards the magnificent Rama 8 Bridge, where much of the action seems to be taking place. As we get closer, it is obvious that there is not even room for two more people amongst the extremely crowded bridge. We wander through back alleys near the river, and finally find a hidden pier, which is only sparsely populated. This is what we see. 

People are lowering beautiful krathongs, which have flaming candles and burning incense sticks, into the swirling river, letting all their troubles and sins float away. Massive, majestically lit floats gently glide by on the river in an amazing procession. Fireworks explode in the sky. Children play with sparklers, moving them up and down and watching the trail of light quickly disappear before their eyes. People light large balloon lanterns, letting them gracefully leave their hands and float into the sky, where they will join hundreds of others. A large, luminous full moon watches from above. It is at once one of the most beautiful, awe inspiring sites I have ever witnessed. Bangkok is always energy, always chaos. It is a madhouse. Adding a national festival to the mix is like combining ecstasy and heroin. The result is unreal. 

We purchase a krathong near the pier and then ask a Thai to give us a hand. He lights our candle, and I set the intricate boat into a metal basket. It is then lowered into the river. We both watch it slowly float away, and I exhale, feeling my troubles evaporate. After releasing our krathong, we leave the pier and walk around for a while, attempting to take in the festivities. Later, we return to the pier. We find two plastic chairs and set them up on the pier, witnessing, relaxing, with bottles of Chang beer in hand. I ask a Thai man for some food, and fifteen minutes later he brings me a porcelain plate with a delicious vegetable and chicken stir fry. This is a moment I will always remember. Everything feels perfect, just sitting their, watching this unreal festival unfold before me. It is a powerful reminder that life can be so good, that life can be so unbelievable, and that life is so precious. 

After almost an hour of almost meditative sitting, we get up and decide to walk back to Wat Arun to see what it looks like at night. We know it is far, but again we underestimate the distance. After 45 minutes of walking through crowds of rambunctious Thais, endless tables selling krathongs, and an occasional food stall, we reach our destination. The temple looks quite striking at night, especially on this light-filled one. 

After this, we are ready to head back to Khao San Road. Unable to walk any longer, we search for a taxi or tuk-tuk. We are wary of tuk-tuk drivers, who always seem to either try and rip you off or to have something else strange up their sleeves. After a few minutes of searching in vain, a saint magically appears. 

He is a Thai man on a scooter, a convenient, popular form of transportation among Bangkokers. He asks us where we want to go. “Khao San Road.” “Okay, 50 Baht,” is the reply, which is accompanied by an unmatchable Thai smile. “Both of us?” I ask. Michael hops on behind the driver, and then I sit behind him. We whiz off into the night.

I hold on for dear life as we weave through traffic, feeling surges of adrenaline and wind in my face. I look up and see hundreds of lit balloons floating in the sky. Again, I am thinking “There is no way this is real.” My thoughts are soon confirmed. Our cheerful driver begins to sing. “Looooyyy looooy krathong, loy loy krathong…” In a moment of bliss and perfect cultural harmony, we sing the Loy Krathong song along with him, speeding through the Bangkok night. 

In the morning, it takes some time to recount all that occurred in the previous night. We happily discuss and laugh about it over breakfast, then catch a cab to Jim Thompson’s House, a famous American expatriate who helped spearhead the Thai silk industry in the 1950’s. We take a brief tour through his red, Thai inspired house. He was an architect, and I cannot help but admire the way the house is set up, with small cottages built on columns and open, outdoor living areas assembled under these raised cottages. 

We then return to the hotel, somehow spend the large amount of deposit money we forgot about, and then head off to the airport. 

After five amazing days in Thailand, my only wish is for more time in this unbelievable Kingdom. 

長城. It snakes along mountaintops for over five thousand miles. It can be seen by astronauts, who gaze down on Earth from their orbiting spaceships. It is a testament to the unwavering human spirit and the unimaginable achievements that can be accomplished. Finally, it is the stuff of dreams and childhood fantasies.

My first realization that something existed beyond my own home, parents, and pre-schoolmates may well have been catalyzed by an image of the Great Wall. It was in some far out, fantasyland called “China.” Yes, there is a whole wide world out there, waiting for you to discover it. However, to my young mind this immensely long wall in a distant land called China was as real as Thomas the Tank Engine and Big Bird. It was conceptualized in this same mythical, illusory manner for quite some time. 

All of a sudden, I am twenty years old, moving my freezing hand across the weathered stone of an ancient wall that stretches before me, watching the sun burn the sky as it slowly ascends the horizon line. I am absolutely stunned. 

It all starts at the Dongzhimen Public Transport Hub. After hours and hours of intense research on the internet, I have decided how I want to experience the Great Wall of China. I want to see it in all its rugged, majestic glory. I hop on a cheap public bus, headed for Huairou, an outer suburb of sprawling Beijing. After a little more then an hour, I am in the city, but unsure exactly where to get off the bus to continue the next leg of my journey. The problem is solved for me when a taxi driver spots me glancing out the window at one of the bus stops. Before I know it, two separate taxi drivers board the bus and quickly usher me off it. It is low season, and they are ravenous. I take out my map and point to where I want to go, a small mountain village called Xizhazi. Both drivers take a quick glance, then the frantic bidding for my business rapidly ensues. After around a minute of effortless negotiation amid unintelligible shouting in Mandarin, the fare is down from ¥100 to ¥40. This is fine by me, so I let the male taxi driver literally drag me by my arm, which he has been intensely grasping throughout this process, into his cab. To make sure we are on the same page, I show him the map again and point to Xizhazi Village. After a minute of silence, he hands me his cell phone, which displays this short message: “60km.” I nod my head. “Yeah, I know its far.” Of course, he cannot understand me in the least bit. He then says “60. Far. You pay 100.” Now wait one damn second. Did we not just agree on 40? After a few minutes of complaining, each of us in our own respective languages, I concede. What am I supposed to do in this situation? I cannot negotiate because I only know two words in Mandarin, hello and thank you, and we are already 10 minutes down the road. Always make sure you are on the same page with the taxi driver before you enter the taxi, no matter how chaotic the situation is. Lesson learned. 

When I finally arrive in Xizhazi, the sun is going down. I must quickly find a guesthouse for the night before it gets dark. The cab driver drops me off at the first guesthouse in sight. Being the trustworthy man that he is, and seeing that he knows the woman who owns the place as we walk in, I have my doubts. I am not expecting to be impressed by a guesthouse in a tiny rural Chinese village, but for ¥140, this place seems awfully uninviting, and I know that it is not the place that I have read about. After setting my belongings on the bed for about a minute, I quickly grab all my stuff and head out to see what else the village has to offer, under the guise that I am simply taking pictures. I find Zhao’s Guesthouse on the opposite side of the village, a minutes walk. Not only is it the place I have read about, but it looks much more inviting and is ¥60 cheaper. I quickly pay. 

The village is reminiscent of Agallacampa, a mountain village I visited in the Peruvian Andes last March. The people primarily live off of the land, growing corn and collecting it into large metal containers, where it is easily accessible as a winter staple. There is a donkey. Houses are made of bricks. Life is quiet. Life is slow. 

When the sun is down, I wander into the kitchen and ask about dinner, through gestures of course. I am met by a middle-aged Chinese couple, who quickly usher me to sit down and waste no time offering to share their many dishes of tradition rural Northern Chinese food. The man gives me a small glass of baijiu, China’s cheap, potent, rice-based liquor of choice. He takes great delight in watching me sip away at this immensely strong potion. I try some traditional corn porridge. I order some noodles. We laugh and smile and I observe, understanding only gestures and body language as they talk in Mandarin. He offers me more baijiu, and with a “gan bei” (a toast, literally translating to “empty glass”) it is gone. We take some pictures. This continues for quite some time. The simplicity of our interaction is beautiful and free from the complications of language. The kindness and generosity of these people demonstrates the sometimes limitless compassion of human beings. The unreal nature of this dinner forces me directly into the moment. I am now. This is life.  

Just before I go to bed, a familiar woman appears at my doorway. It is owner of the first guesthouse. She wants something from me, I can tell. She is explaining in Chinese. Finally, she pulls out her cell phone (to think that ten years ago cell phones were a luxury among the wealthy) and calls someone, then hands me the phone. “Ni hao?” I say, expecting the person to speak Mandarin. To my surprise, a man with perfect English responds. He sounds like an American expat. He explains that the woman assumed I was staying at her guesthouse, despite the fact that I had been gone for the last three hours, and that she already made preparations for my stay. She wanted compensation. He is clearly on her side. You have got to be kidding me? Out of pity, I pull out a 20 and offer it to her. She shakes her head, indicating no. She wants more, something like 60, but I politely refuse and attempt to continue my business. But she just will not leave. Finally, my new Chinese friend comes to the rescue. With some brief words in Chinese, he gives her the 20, and leads her out the door and off the premises. Friends, it seems, can be found anywhere, and are always of great value.

The next morning, there is a knocking at my door at 5 am. No, not the angry guesthouse owner, but my Chinese friend. With his flashlight, he beckons me up and out the door. From what I understand, we are hiking to the wall to see and photograph the sunrise. We take off on a nearby trail in the dark and brave the below-freezing air. The silhouette of the towering mountains where the wall rests can barely be seen. On the way, we encounter a number of forks in the trail. Thank God I have knowledgable company. After more then an hour, we finally reach the top, and I have my first encounter with the wall, conceptualizing what was once a childhood fantasy into reality. I am twenty years old, moving my freezing hand across the weathered stone of an ancient wall that stretches before me, watching the sun burn the sky as it slowly ascends the horizon line. I am absolutely stunned. 

We watch the sunrise, take pictures and hike along the wall. We approach Tianti, literally the Stairway to Heaven, and then descend back down into the village. 

Back at Zhao’s, I say goodbye to my new friends, leaving my contact information in English on a piece of paper. The man gives me his phone number, which won’t be all that helpful. Regardless, maybe one day I will receive an email from my long lost companions. I continue with my original plan, which is to hike the treacherous Jiankou Wall all the way to Mutianyu, a restored tourist section of the wall. I take a trail up the steep mountains, and join the wall for the second time today. This rugged and collapsing part of the wall clings to the precipices of cliffs, steeply ascending and descending the spine of the mountain range. I can see my first destination, a the distant watchtower which can be seen on the right in the picture below. 

Hiking along this section of the wall all alone is humbling, exhilarating, and scary. 

After climbing up a number of extremely steep and sketchy sections of the wall, I finally make it to Zhengbeilou Tower and take a much needed break. 

From here, I have a 360 degree view of the surroundings. Beijing lies in the distance to the left. The section of the Jinakou Wall I just hiked along, and then some, lies in front. Look closely and the wall can be seen wrapping around a distant mountain range. Slightly to the right, the small Xizhazi Village can be seen in the valley below. 

I am now, once again, meditating in the entrance of the Zhengbeilou Tower.  I take the picture of myself using a tripod. 

I continue along, conquering a section called Arrow Nock, and finally find myself at the Mutianyu Wall. There are other people here (gasp!). The wall is restored, but it is still breathtaking. It is nice to see both the restored and unrestored sections of the wall. 

It is 1:30 pm. I have hiked almost nonstop since 5:15 am. I am exhausted and dazed, but also high on adrenaline and exhilaration. I hesitantly leave Mutianyu behind with a parting glance, then pay a small fee to descend down to the entrance below via toboggan. A company has created a metal luge track to ride down on. It goes quite fast and has me thinking about trying my luck at the sport of luge. 

A public bus directly back to Dongzhimen arrives at 2 pm. Within two and a half hours, I find myself in the middle of China’s second largest city once again, surrounded by throngs of people. 

Just like that, what was once fantasy became real and then fantasy again.You see, it just can’t be real. 

China. A nation of 1.3 billion people, an endless history, a rapidly growing economy, a rising international powerhouse, and a culture so very different from my own. In the last five days, I found myself swimming in this very reality, as I traveled to China for the first time to none other than the capital city of 北京 - Běijīng. 

Upon arrival, I immediately sensed what would be the predominate feeling throughout my brief experience in China. This country makes you feel small, extremely insignificant, tiny. From being shoved through the subway doors into a dense sea of people struggling in an already overflowing train car, to walking the vast and expansive avenues of central Beijing, to hiking on the seemingly endless Great Wall of China, everything here is massive, dramatic, and flooded with people. I spent quite a lot of time preparing for this trip and I felt reasonably confident that I was ready. I was wrong. This adventure was fascinating, but it was also learning experience. More than anything, it was humbling. 

In the beginning, I wake up a little before 6am on Friday morning, and scramble to the airport to catch an 8:30am flight. The journey to Hong Kong International takes longer than expected. I arrive at the Air China check-in desk at precisely 7:48am. “We are sorry, but you are too late. All passengers must check in at least 45 minutes before take off.” And so it begins. Three damn minutes. I wait until 9am, call the Air China office immediately after it opens, and with an extremely accommodating click of the mouse, the amazing assistant transfers my reservations to a 12:30pm departure. Problem solved, free of charge. 

After successfully finding the Peking Yard Hostel, I drop off my baggage and immediately set out to make the most of the night. Unfortunately, I don’t really know where I am going, but I somehow end up on a famous avenue called Wangfujing Dajie. On a side street, an traditional alleyway famously called a hutong, I stumble upon a large night market. It is filled with people, mostly tourists. There are food and souvenir stalls and lining the sides of the crowded hutong. I am famished.

The food at these street stalls is nothing like I have seen before. You have probably heard the stories about exotic Chinese delicacies: turtles, snakes, insects, frogs, baby pigeons. I want to reaffirm that these stories are in fact completely valid. It seems that almost nothing is off limits for eating. After having a few relatively “normal” foods, including a crepe-like snack, grilled lamb on a skewer, and a yogurt drink, I decide to venture into the exotic realm. Scorpion is the delicacy of choice tonight. Four small and very alive scorpions are assembled onto a wooden skewer, where they wriggle in attempt to escape their tragic fate. I point to the array of skewers, and the chef takes one, nearly getting a venomous sting, and throws it into a vat of hot oil. After a minute, he removes the skewer of insects and hands them over. With slight hesitation, I crunch on one. To my surprise, it is not half bad. In fact, I would eat these things as a substitute for potato chips any day. 

Frog on a stick!

Later that night, while walking on the avenue, I am approached three separate times by “students” who wish to “practice their English.” Having read up on Beijing, I know that these are scammers. It is a bit disheartening that the first people that “welcome” me to Beijing are trying to use me. 

In the morning, I rise to have what is the most popular breakfast in Beijing: youtiao (fried twisted dough sticks) with a bowl of hot, fresh soy milk. It is amazing how much better soy milk is in Asia. I then take the inevitably chaotic and crowded subway to Tian’anmen Square and the Forbidden City. 

Chairman Mao is looking good as always in his massive portrait above the entrance to the Forbidden City. It is fair to say that I vastly underestimated the size of this place, as I did with the entirety of Beijing. The city blocks here are easily 20 times the size of an average city block in the United States. I don’t know how many times I looked on a map and told myself “Oh, its only two blocks” only to find myself halfway to my destination twenty minutes and 3 kilometers later. I have never walked so much in my life. In an average day on the trip, I walked for the majority of the fourteen to fifteen hour days spent sight seeing. I would honestly quote my mileage upwards of 15 to 20 miles per day.

I have seen MTV Cribs. I have been impressed by 50 Cent’s castle and Tony Hawk’s mansion, but in a competition for the most extravagant crib the Chinese emperors would surely win. The Forbidden City, the imperial palace of Ming and Qing Dynasty royalty for almost 500 years, is extravagant and gigantic. Intricate craftsmanship is apparent on every ceiling and walkway. Riches are scattered in every possible place. Hallways are long. Doors are large and red. Gardens are expansive and beautiful. There is no limit to the amount of times that you utter “incredible” or “unreal” to yourself as you stroll through this palace.  

When I am finally satisfied with my tour of the Forbidden City, I make my way across the street to Jingshan Park and hike to the top of a hill that houses five spatially arranged temples. Once to the central temple on the top of the hill, I am met with a panoramic view of central Beijing. The majestic Forbidden City sits in front of me, with its endless structures disappearing into the smoggy haze. 

From here, I move west towards Beihai Park. En route, I find myself in a unique hutong, a traditional marketplace to be exact. This is wonderful cultural immersion, as I witness the day to day activities of Chinese locals. I feel like I could time travel backwards for a number of decades, and the scene would be virtually identical. 

The photo above speaks volumes about Chinese culture. First, it is impossible to miss old King Sparky there on his push cart. These push carts are everywhere. Also notice the plastic KFC bag. KFC is the most successful American chain in Asia, surpassing McDonalds and sparking the envy of Starbucks, which is struggling with integration into Asian markets. Next of course is the bucket of boiled sweet corn, which is sold by individuals all over the city and seems to be the favorite snack among the locals. In the background, the golden autumn foliage and another popular street snack: tanhulus, fruit, usually tart crabapples, on a skewer coated with caramelized sugar. 

In Beihai Park, I walk around and see the sites, including the White Dagoba, and enjoy the people and the bounty of fall. The young boy above is genuinely enjoying a tanhulu in Beihai Park. Upon exiting the park, far from the subway station, I stupidly avoid a cheap taxi and walk all the way back to Tian’anmen Square. This endless walk is not entirely uneventful, as I pass quite a few guarded and gated government buildings and the National Center for the Arts, an egg shaped architectural marvel.

It is strange to think that inside these government buildings, the leaders of this massive, powerful nation, are planning their next move. Outside every important building, a guard or two stands on a red platform, all day long. Seeing these men in full uniform and rigid posture reminded me that this country is most definitely still Communist. At Tian’anmen, as I imagine thousands of rebellious citizens protesting in the huge square in 1989, it dawned on me that this place is China’s Washington D.C. I have never been to the Washington Memorial or the White House, yet I am standing in front of the Monument of the People’s Heroes. 

As the night approaches, I walk down the central axis of Beijing to Qiamen Dajie, explore a few hutongs, and spend far too long trying to find a restaurant for dinner. While eating, I am invited by an elderly expat to come by next door when I am finished. I hesitantly sit down with her and three young Chinese locals, who are grilling meat on a small makeshift grill in the middle of a picknick table. I try to ask for some local advice, but most of the expat’s answer focused on why I should move to Beijing and study here. In the end, these new “friends” steer me towards my next destination. 

Lao She Tea House. I try to find a traditional Beijing Opera house, but due to lack of preparation, I have no idea where to go. Under the guidance of my post-dinner friends, I find this place. It is more touristy than I would have liked, and quite expensive, but I buy a ticket anyways, not knowing what else to do in my exhausted and uninformed state. The show is decent, featuring an array of different Chinese acts, from an acrobat to a short opera scene to tea ninjas. I do like the concept of the tea house, which seems like a more social and cultural version of the modern coffee shop. After the show, its back to the hostel for some much needed rest. 

The next morning, I jump on the subway and head to Tiantan Park. It is a large, beautiful park south of Tian’anmen. In this park, I feel an overwhelming sense of peace. For some reason, I never thought that I would find the classic Confucianist ideals of peace and harmony in Beijing, underneath all the chaos, Communism, and consumerism. However, as my trip progressed, it was not hard to see that this place and these people really are quite happy and peaceful. I am sure the late autumn foliage and the cold, which made it seem like the holiday season I have been missing in Hong Kong, add to this sensation. Honestly though, it is impossible watch the locals in these parks—playing xianqi, dancing in large groups, practicing their Chinese yo-yo technique—and not see what I mean. 

The defining feature of this park is of course Tiantan, otherwise known as the Temple of Heaven. It was used by emperors for annual ceremonies of prayer to Heaven for good harvest. The building itself is a stunning example of Chinese architecture and craftsmenship.

After a long walk back to the subway station, I go to Yonghegong Lama Temple, a Tibetan style Buddhist temple and monastery. It is one of the largest Buddhist temples I have been to. I spin the prayer wheels, observe the waving of incense and the collecting of ginkgo fruit, and am tempted to bow before the 26 meter tall Maitreya Buddha statue in the last hall. After a bit of “searching through reflection,” it is time. It is Great Wall of China time. 

My adventure at the Great Wall of China will be examined in the next blog entry. 

I return from the Great Wall in the evening, the next day, absolutely beat. Despite this, I have to see the Olympic Sports Center. I arrive as the sun is descending under the skyline, with the iconic Bird’s Nest National Stadium before me. It is much smaller than I expected, but still awesome. I can’t help but imagine this place during the Games, with the electric energy of the opening ceremonies, the triumphs of Phelps and Bolt, and the thousands of excited spectators. 

The Beijing National Aquatics Center, or Water Cube, is very cool as well. The outer wall is based on physics and mathematics, specificaly Weaire-Phelan bubble geometry. I pay a small fee too explore the inside, and see the pool where Michael Phelps made magic happen. The truth is, I have had an addictive fascination with the Olympics for as long as I can remember. 

The next morning, I head to the last major stop of the trip. It is a long subway ride, but eventually I arrive at the Summer Palace. It is another gorgeous, gigantic park, and it has everything: temples, pagodas, bridges, stone boats, long corridors, a lake, an island. It was a summer resort for various emperors, and had to be repaired significantly after an Anglo-French invasion in 1860. Below is a view of Longevity Hill, Kunming Lake, and a stone dragon that guards the entrance to the Seventeen Arch Bridge.  

After a long morning in the park, I head Shishahai Bar Street for lunch. I once again spend way to much time selecting a place to eat. One thing leads to another and by the time I arrive at my hostel to pick up my bag it is 3:45pm. After a stressful scramble to the airport subway line, I reluctantly realize that am too late for my 5:30pm flight. Needless to say, I immensely screwed up and have to deal with some pretty severe anxiety and self deprecation. China Air turns out to be a godsend, with its frequent BJ to HK flights and two magically free-of-charge, painless flight changes. Even though I played with dragons and avoided multiple crises, I think, I hope, that I have learned my lesson. 

All in all, these five days were…insane. Nonstop sightseeing. Mistakes. Endless walking. Culture shock to culture appreciation. Massive language barrier. Temples. Guards. Scorpions. As the trip came to a close, I could feel my body and mind failing. I have not been that exhausted and drained in a very, very long time, but that is the reality all-out independent traveling. I will miss Beijing, and for a whirlwind five days, I offer a simple xiexie. Thank you, 北京. 

It is that time again. The leaves are slowly turning from green to red, the pumpkin patches are spotted with large orange orbs, and turkeys are beginning to fear for their lives. But wait…the leaves aren’t changing colors here, there are no pumpkin patches in Hong Kong, and duck and chicken take precedence over turkey any day of the week. The temperature is definitely changing though, from a hot and humid battle to a comfortable and breezy atmoshpere. As the end of October came and went, I tried to experience deep autumn as best as I could. 

This meant nothing other than more exploring. 

 Incense rings at Man Mo Temple. 

A quiet afternoon in Sheung Wan. 

Crab shopping. 

One week before the end of the month, my roommate and I went on a popular Hong Kong hike to Lion Rock via Monkey Hill. We essentially walked from sea level striaght upwards for 500 meters and number of hours and finally reached the dramatic pinnacle. It was quite hazy and smoggy, but this didn’t take away from the breathtaking, expansive, massive city before us.

Of course, no hike is complete without monkeys. Now, these guys were no Curious Georges; they meant business. Hyper-aggressive, threatening, fearless monkeys. This one nonchalantly walked passed us and leaped onto a man in attempt to steal his bottle of soy milk. Another one tried to intimidate us with its hissing and a chest pump, in the same way that a gangster would try and fake out his opponent before a fight. It was hilarious. 

The next weekend, I journeyed to the Yuen Long District, in the New Territories only a couple of stops from Shenzen. Here I wandered along the Ping Shan Heritage Trail, a series of historic and traditional buildings of the Tang Clan, including the oldest pagoda in Hong Kong and a series of ancestral halls. It turned out to be an awesome area, a world away from the streets of Central and a photographer’s dream. 

The following two pictures were taken in Ping Shan, and are some of my favorites thus far among my large collection of Hong Kong images. The more I photograph, the more I am intrigued by the photography of people.

The first image portrays a young girl playing badminton in the largest and most important ancestral hall of the clan, as a ray from the setting sun sneaks through the entryway. The second is of an old Chinese man, and I’ll leave the rest up for interpretation. 

After this adventure, it was back to school to prepare for Halloween. My roommate was nice enough to hand-select a costume for me earlier that day. When the sun went down, I unleashed my amazing matador costume, and a group of us headed to Lan Kwai Fong for what would be a chaotic and immensely fun Halloween night. As we exited the taxi in LKF, we were greeted by thousands of people in full costume, a large police force that would not stop yelling into to loud speakers, congested streets, drunken Pikachos and bloody nurses. Insanity confirmed. 

Here’s to another month of magic. 

One of the most amazing and intoxicating parts of travel is the simple fact that what lies in front of you is new and unfamiliar, waiting to be explored and understood. There is an enchanting potential in each new place, and any new experience for that matter. An invisible force is at work, which leads us to heightened perception of both our surroundings and our thoughts, to a state called “Deep Travel” by author Tony Hiss. This is the fundamental reason why change is essential. Change opens unfounded doors and fosters unique creativity. What happens, though, when this novelty recedes, and familiarity and routine once again take a stubborn hold of our perceptions?

Living in a foreign country for the first time has given me the privilege to experience this inevitable shift of reality, which is not possible when traveling. When I first arrived in Hong Kong almost two months ago, I viewed the city from a magical “travel view.” What I mean is that the novelty of this unfamiliar place ushered me into a state of increased awareness and observation, where every new object, food, sound, person, or place projected a feeling of pure excitement to my consciousness.

Now, when I hop on a minibus to go to the city, it feels…routine. When I walk through the chaotic streets of Mong Kok, I daresay the throngs of people annoy me rather than fascinate me. Part of me feels like this happened overnight, but when dig past a stubborn selective memory, I begin to understand how familiarity gradually took hold. 

Perhaps this is an obvious trend: the longer you live in a place, the more become accustomed to it. Routine is important. It structures our lives and helps us function optimally in a given environment. But why is it so vapid and mundane? It frustrates the hell out of me. I don’t want the magic of a new place to vanish within two months and make way for familiarity and routine. I want the excitement of novelty and the structure of routine. I want to see a familiar place differently every single time, which should not be so difficult since both myself and the place are in constant flux.

To regress, this is not to say that I am not still utterly fascinated and excited by many things here in Hong Kong. My fascination is simply a different one than when I first arrived, and it requires more conscious effort rather than spontaneous emotion. I feel that my mindfulness and fascination with all life experiences, from having a short conversation to feeling a cold autumn breeze, is slowly increasing with deliberate effort and thought. I do alright. Still, I cannot help but wonder if it is possible to live a (“normal”) day to day life while simultaneously maintaining the levels of excitement and perception associated with new experiences. This could be an unreachable ideal, supplemented by unconsciously glorified memories of past experiences. I like to think otherwise. Perhaps someday I’ll unlock this great mystery, breaking the barrier to pure, seductive experience.