Today, in the fog and fumes of last night's drink, I experienced a certain sort of enlightenment -- unusual, as hangovers usually put my mind in a vegetative state. As I was moving through the Sunday crowds in the Hutong near our hotel, I realized that some time during my travels, I had become desensitized to the fact that I am actually traveling... very, very far from home. Arriving in a new place lost its zing. It's become commonplace. Things have felt familiar, whether they actually are or aren't. 

I'd walked down the streets of the Hutong every other day this past week, feeling quite comfortable and familiar with the surroundings. But today, everything was louder. Sharper. Crisp.

I noticed the stares. The music blaring from the clothing shops sounded alien. The ankle-height, nude pantyhose all the women wear looked funny. The bare bottoms of toddlers with split-seamed pants took me by surprise (apparently there are no diapers in China). The men and women strolling through the streets in their jammies caused me to look twice at my watch -- yes, it was noon. The featherless, beakless duck heads in plastic display cases looked like clay sculptures. The organ meet for sale on sticks made my nose crinkle. The delicate woman who noisily shot a giant loogie onto the ground startled me.

All these things had always been there, on these streets, but somehow I didn't notice them. Or maybe I noticed them, but paid no heed. They didn't seem out of the ordinary until I walked around today with a hangover, with my fragile mind. 

We were headed to a KFC, as every hangover needs to be fed greasy fast food as ritual. I asked for meal #2, using my finger sign language to make up for my deficiencies in speaking Mandarin. I was still given the picture menu so I pointed to #2 instead. As Benjamin and I were eating our lunch, I looked around at all the Chinese people (no Westerners but us) and was surprised to be surprised that I was in a very foreign place. It makes no sense, but perhaps I've just grown accustomed to the feeling of being in a strange land... so used to it that I've forgotten what it feels like to feel out of place, unable to communicate, to be a tiny island in a vast ocean.

I'm glad to have had the hangover, and you'll never hear me say that again. It woke me up from my traveler's daze. I feel foreign again. It's a little uncomfortable and while scary might not be the right word, it feels a little scary and a lot exciting. It's why I'm traveling, to feel these things. Tonight we head out of Beijing, out into the unknown -- where I'm told no-one will speak English and things might be difficult... I wonder how we'll fare.

MONDAY, MAY 23 - Train Meditation
Sometimes there are moments, stolen from time, found in the in-between places of travel -- a rooftop in India, a bathroom in Bangkok, a train in China... They happen when I'm alone, with a quiet mind, with nothing but the company of my own thoughts. These are the moments I yearn for. With them comes a peaceful state of reflection, introspection -- a sort of soul searching that I've experienced in the past, back at home, so I know that these moments are rare and should be savored when they happen. Like gauzy remnants of a happy dream, they fade as quickly as they come on, life is too busy to stay there forever... but the heady feeling they leave in their absence is too strong to be forgotten.

In between cars, on a train from Xian to Chengdu, the rhythmic sound of wheels against track and the sight of the verdant countryside passing by the window lulled me into one of these meditative states. Perhaps it was the beauty of the landscape, the ancient age of the mountains, and artifacts of man, marking his existence in nature, that led me to this state of mind on this particular train...

From the window, I saw China at my own pace, despite the speed of the train. The skies, full of cloud and hanging mist are dreamy, mystical; the landscape is green, so full of the color that it feels as if it might burst; the hills are thick with vegetation, the mountains studded with trees; shallow rivers wind and gurgle over rocks; terraced hillsides curl in gentle arcs; village homesteads dot the land with structures of wood, brick, and rammed earth; farmers work the fields in straw hats; tidy rows of crops pop out of the ground: tall, squat, leafy, stalky, bushy, delicate; narrow footpaths lead to simple piles of gray stone that serve as grave markers; clouds peak out from behind tall, dark mountains.

I'd come here, to the tiny space where the train cars connect, to escape the din of my neighbors, one cabin over. They were drinking whiskey and playing cards, with enough loud cheering, fist pounding, and laughing to almost make me forget I was on a train in the first place. One of the partiers was actually our roommate (4 bunks to a cabin); he returned to our little room and immediately began to ply Benjamin with Chinese whiskey and peanuts.

In my place of solitude, taking in the beauty outside the train, I was struck by the need to absorb every detail, to make my mind a porous sponge. I realized that I have a fear of missing something, losing out on the 'now' in thoughts of the future and the next place... or thoughts of the past, memories of places I've been. There is a fear of seeing too much to remember. There is a fear that I'll return from my travels to the place I left, mentally, emotionally, and in the day to day. I reflected on my purpose, the reason I am here, the journey I have been on and the one that is to come. There is something melancholy in sentiment and something joyful in an unknown future. As fast as the scenery streaks past the window, thoughts of goals, desires, hopes, and dreams -- met and unmet -- flood the mind.

The beauty of these stolen moments is that the contemplation of life and purpose comes without stress. It's like exercising in water... the results are the same as doing it the hard way, but the work to get there is pain free? These moments always lead me to the same place... in the end, I learn to just 'be'... just existing is enough.

SUNDAY, MAY 29
When will my body feel good again? - Songpan, China -- Northern Sechuan
- posted by Benjamin

In the past week, we've ridden on a crappy bus for 12 hours; spent the night 'illegally' in a national park, secretly sleeping in the home/defunct guesthouse of a Tibetan family; hiked many miles over the course of 2 days in Jiuzhaigou National Park with nothing to eat but peanuts and Oreo cookies. We've ridden on horses for three days in the mountains, camping in canvas tents at night under thunderstorms and hail; worn the same clothes and underwear for too many days to mention; spent time with Israelis, Australians, Chinese, and a German. In short, it's been a busy, painful, tiring, and amazing week.

The scenery up here is incredible -- velveteen hillsides of emerald green, sable mountains, Tibetan villages, taunting gray clouds that fight with blue sky, snow capped peaks of cloud-kissing mountains, rivers and streams, clear turquoise lakes, waterfalls...

There's much too much to write now... we've just returned from our horse trek and we're burnt! A hot shower, a real bed with a pillow, and a few hours of rest is what we need to recharge. Tomorrow we head south, back to Chengdu for a few days of R&R before we head off to climb more mountains and sleep in strange places.

More to come...

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 22 - Panty Raid
My underwear look like they've been beaten over a rock -- oh wait, they were... back in India. That's how the laundry gets done... or beaten. They are starting to resemble something seen worn in an old-western-tough-mother-f'er-leather bar, the kind of place where fringes are fashionable.

I had a choice to make: either trim off the fringe (aka strings, loose threads) or sew sequins on them and buy a cowboy hat. I decided to trim them -- I don't look good in hats. Benjamin caught me doing this once when he got out of the shower. He laughed. I told him it made me feel better, putting my underwear on without getting my toes wound up in all the loose strings. It also made me feel like maybe my underwear will last a little bit longer than they actually will.