There’s a traditional banquet-style Cantonese restaurant (Tao Heung) in Tsing Yi mall, right at the ground floor next to the escalator that I’d pass by every day as I go out and come home. Since I moved to Tsing Yi three years go, every time I passed by that place, I looked at the big groups of people dining inside, and knew it’s a place I’d barely have any chance to eat at. Yet, just as some girls always get attracted by unavailable men (or vice versa), the thought of that, made me wanna eat there more than any other restaurant in the mall.
I did eat there, twice before today, in the past three years. The first time was with my ex-boyfriend. After I told him that this is sort of my “dream restaurant”, we went one day early in our relationship to help me realize this “dream”. The second time was 2 months ago, when a friend visited HK and crashed at my place, I took him there for the dim sum that was on his to-eat list.
And then it’s today. On my way back home in the morning after a night spent away, around 8:30am, I passed by it as I did a million times before, a sudden crave for dim sum struck me. I walked over to the counter and asked if it’s possible to get takeaway dim sum. The counter lady told me, sure, but if you eat in the restaurant, it’s half price. There I went. Out of the economic saving’s sake and a faint mindset to challenge myself, I followed her in and sat down at this shared table with two other local ladies, a pair of senior mother and middle-aged daughter.
As someone who’s very used to doing things alone, not many situations could easily make me feel uneasy anymore. But as I looked around, I still couldn’t help feeling amusingly out-of-place while almost everyone else in the huge restaurant are grey-haired, the dominating clientele in a dim sum restaurant before 9am. And I, a woman in early 30s and looks younger than her age (as she is constantly told), wearing her AirPods and reading her New Yorker while she was waiting, was evidently someone who doesn’t belong.
A few minutes after sitting down, I realized the “daughter” at my shared table is mentally ill. She couldn’t stop mumbling stuff in Cantonese that made little sense and was marginally rude, while her mother, seemingly in her 60s, could only smile apologetically at me. Through their conversation, I learned that the daughter lives in a mental hospital, and this dim sum breakfast was apparently a special weekend treat for her as she was taken out by her mother.
They left while I was half the way with my food, the mentally-challenged daughter said “Goodbye beautiful girl” to me in Cantonese on her way out. Shortly, the next group of guest was brought to my table, an old lady and an old man in his wheelchair. At a quick glimpse, I saw on the wheelchair a sign that claims it a property of some elderly home. I couldn’t help but feeling that I’m sitting at a table that specifically hosts people who needs special care – an equivalent to the priority seats on the subway. The old lady read the dim sum menu slow and loud to the old man. She’d give him two choices a time, and he’d choose one, in his feeble voice. They ended up ordering only three dim sum. We can’t eat that much, she said. He didn’t respond.
I finished my three dim sums (which is obviously too much) before their food arrived. On my walk home, I thought of three years ago when I was about to move here, this little island that’s half residential and half industrial, a friend pointed out “You just don’t seem like someone that’d live in Tsing Yi.” I knew I didn’t. I guess I still don’t. If one is to hashtag Tsing Yi, it’d be #family #kids #dogs, maybe #airportexpress. Three years living here doesn’t make me one of them, just like 14 years in Hong Kong doesn’t make me one of them. I never feel I belong here. But then I never feel I belong anywhere. The feeling of not belonging is, oddly, something I’m most used to, and inevitably, something I’ve come to terms with after all these years. After all, this is home now. Or at least the closest thing to home in the world to me.
And I do find a connection between me and my community – we are all the kind of people who’d do anything to just satisfy our sudden crave for dim sum on an early Saturday morning, be it from a mental hospital, from an elderly home, or from the void after a long journey of walk of shame.
PS: There was a lot of things I thought I could write about this week. The night I went to a friend’s opening and ended up bonding with two young girls and unexpectedly enjoying it (with the help of alcohol). The day I went to run in gym but forgot to bring my phone so I could’t listen to anything as a distraction while being a hamster on the tread mill and spent the most tedious 20 mins in my life. But I just proved these are things that can be said in one sentence so, I guess that’s that.
How long does it take to turn something you hate doing into a “habit”? I can’t help wondering when I was running on the thread mill in the air-conditioned gym. It’s the (N+1)th time I tried to pick up running. I’m not particularly more optimistic or confident than previously, (I think I have lasted for roughly one month for my most successful attempt, which was 5 years ago) but I do think I’m a different person now. More self-disciplined is one.
On Saturday morning, as I walked down from Peel Street and was standing on Queen’s Road Central, right opposite to my gym building, I struggled for about 5 minutes in the middle of the street. (A situation I hate, an adult woman should always know where she’s going!) Going home seemed like a MUCH easier option after a night out. I chose the less easier one, going to the gym and run for 20 minutes.
Tonight after I was back from Shenzhen, I had this sudden idea of going for a swim. As I was lounging in my place and feeling cozy, time passed by. 6:45pm, 7:30pm. Staying home and having a chill Sunday night would be a much easier option. I chose the less easier one, going to the swimming pool and swim for 10 rounds.
In the water, gasping, I started to think, what’d happen if every time I’m faced with a pair of options I just always go with the less easier one? A friend of mine used to comment on me that “you’re always too easy with yourself.” A statement with some sort of truth in it indeed. And in general I’m sure I’m still always gonna be “easy” with myself, but just for curiosity’s sake, what if I just stick with the “less easier” rule for now?
Back to running. I didn’t start running this time for any particular reason except that one night over drinks, I randomly asked a runner friend why he run and after giving me a whole bunch of preach (like runners usually do) he said, “just try running 20 mins everyday for a month, then your body will start to want more.” Knowing my body for 32 years, I’m pretty sure my body isn’t gonna want more, but somehow I’m intrigued by this idea and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I wonder if I’m going through some kind of crisis (maybe one-third-life crisis?) since people tend to do things unlike themselves when they are in a crisis. In my case, I absolutely hate running, but I started to run. The bright side is, if this is a crisis, it’s a pretty costless one. (except for the three new Nike dry-fit tops I bought in the name of “running”.)
P.S. As my coughing doesn’t show any sign of leaving me alone, I start to contemplate on a much bigger question: Why is air-conditioning always so strong everywhere in HK? Is there a department in the Government that sets forcible guidelines for air-conditioning temperature in public area? If that’s the case, I think a protest against that wouldn’t be too absurd an idea. In fact, it could be highly effective.
When I felt it in my throat on Friday night after going out with Lynn and Jae, I was devastated — I knew what it means, it means another unproductive and lifeless weekend. I can’t help hearing the irony, it’s like the higher power talking to me: hey, didn’t you just write an essay and brag about how independent you are? well, how about when you’re sick?
Somehow, since last year, I start to get sick pretty often. It always starts from an itchiness or a sharp pain in the throat, it’s like the body sending you a notice: get ready for the sick mode. But the worst thing is, when you get the notice, it’s already too late. Nothing you do will stop the process. You just have to go through the full cycle: sore throat, running nose, muscle pain, cloudy head, bad cough. If you’re lucky, it can be cleared in one week. Sometimes it can stretch to two weeks, or even a month.
When I was a kid, I was pretty healthy most of the time, seldom troubled by regular illness like a cold or fever. But in school, there’d always be a few kids who got sick very easily and often. I remember vaguely envying them, coz they seem to be able to take a lot of leaves and have a lot more going on in their young lives, while us, the healthy kids, could only sit still in the classroom, trapped by our boring homework. Years later, when a single sore throat could already annoy me so much and darken my whole weekend, I kinda wish I could apologize to those feeble kids: Sorry, I didn’t do you justice. Being sick sucks.
Overall, it’s a very unsatisfactory weekend. I didn’t swim, I didn’t meet anyone, I didn’t play guitar (and I can’t sing), I didn’t go back to Shenzhen, and I apparently missed another historic protest in Hong Kong. Yes, I blame everything on the sore throat.
P.S. One light in the bathroom started to blink today. When you’re sick, everything becomes a bully.
me reading the essay in my compromised sick voice.
If my memory serves me right, it’s probably the first time I ever spend my birthday alone. I’m never an outgoing kind with a wide circle of acquaintances, but I do have a few close friends and a pair of parents who care about me so much that it hurts. But this year, no one is around. My best friends are not in town; I’m not intimately involved with anyone at an “I wanna spend my birthday together” level; and my parents are, my parents.
At the risk of sounding self-serving, I don’t think it’s such a bad thing. When I started to register the fact in my mind a while back, I quickly made acceptance and was even kinda looking forward to it. Taking a birthday as a normal day, to me, is something worth trying as much as not having one posing photo taken during a whole trip, it brings you closer to the intrinsic value of things, something dramatically forgotten in our time. When I look back in the past 31 years that I more or less have made some effort to make my birthday a special day, there surely is a lot of loving and sweet memories, but I also remember the faint anxiety that lies underneath and the sense of relief afterward. It felt like putting on a Disney princess costume for 24 hours, and you’re all sweaty inside but you keep smiling to everyone and act like you’re born into that dress. I can’t help wondering, does anyone spend their birthday alone these days?
But don’t get me wrong, I do wanna spend my birthday with people I love. I just know that, if the best option is not available, I don’t have to search for a second-best option to make it happen, not to mention there’s no such thing as second-best for me.
Let’s be real, a birthday is not about cakes, presents, or feeling like a princess. Essentially, a birthday is nothing but a reminder of the trace of one’s very existence. If it serves any purpose, it’s the one best day in a year to reflect on oneself, to rewind, regroup and reset from where you’re at. When I turned 30 two years ago, I wrote a very confessional essay to go over my past, my shame, my darkness, and my hopes. So truthful that when I read it again, it still hurts and I feel embarrassed. I feel embarrassed coz I have evolved further from that version of me. And luckily, I deem, to a slightly better way.
For a start, to my own surprise, I have become a much tougher person. In the past year, I did go through some major phase transitions. But during the seemingly volatile times and events, I realized I managed to go through them in a relatively composed manner. My (very serious) relationship ended abruptly. I cut contact with a long-term dark and complicating influence in my life. I spent new year’s eve alone in a hotel in the middle of nowhere in Bali. I was faced with a vicious crime committed against me. Just to name a few. But none of them freaked me out, at least not as much as they used to. When things like these happen, I’ve learned the first thing to do is to take a deep breath, I’ve learned to pour myself a glass of wine when I cry, I’ve learned to sweep my broken pieces of heart aside and worked out a logical thread in my head first, I’ve learned to leverage all the tools I have to ride with the waves without a complete emotional collapse. And then I did. The wave passed and I’m ashore. And that’s when I realized the trick of being tough. It simply takes time and enough practice. Through all those years that I was weak but had pretended to be tough, it eventually happened. It happened thanks to all those pretending, and it happened without any formal notification. You only realize that when a crisis happens, that’s the moment the secret talent called “toughness” reveals itself and comes quite handy. For the first time in my life, I no longer see myself as the girl struggling in the middle of the sea hoping to be rescued by someone, anyone; for the first time, I recognize myself as a fully fledged woman who is capable of handling her own life, even if it’s a mess. It is the kind of sense of security that no one else can give me but myself.
And the mental strength (as an unexpectedly acquired skill) also helps me become a better loner. It might be a surprise, but even for me, someone who is almost obsessed with being alone, spending time alone is never an easy thing. Actually, I don’t think it ever will be. (After all, what a monster I’d have to be if one day I find being alone is easy?) In the past year, especially in the time when I’m single, I involuntarily and voluntarily spent a lot of time being alone. I stopped going out and meeting random people that I knew would eventually leave little trace in my life. I took three solo trips, one specifically to spend time in sheer solitude and silence. I started to treat solitude like a bad-tempered old friend, instead of an eternal enemy. I stopped feeling anxious and insecure when I needed to spend Friday night alone. I started to look forward to every Saturday morning when I’d wake up in sunlight and make myself primitive but satisfying breakfast and dance to some outdated music while the sausages are burning on the pan. I learned to find pleasure in doing the most tedious housework. Most importantly, I started to write again. Even with traveling alone, something I’ve been doing since I was 20, it’s only until this year that I don’t really feel overwhelmingly lonely anymore on the road and could truly be at ease and enjoy myself.
It is, however, for sure that I still have my moments of fragility. And I will never dare to claim that I’ve mastered the skills of being alone. I still have the sadness attacks and cry often. Some times harder than others. But I don’t try to fight against the urge to cry anymore, nor am I ashamed of it. I believe it’s a kind of self-protective mechanism, it is my body trying its best to console my soul. All I need to do is simply to witness it happen and wait for it to pass.
On top of making peace with the old sores, in the recent half year, the thing I think about most is how to be a better person. This might make those who are close to me laugh, but I’m genuinely keen on becoming a warmer, milder, kinder person, a more tolerant, multi-faceted and open-minded person. It is difficult as hell sometimes (how to be tolerant with stupidity? I’m clueless), but every day is a repetitive practice. It can be as simple as smiling to the lady who sells me breakfast every day. It can be spending a few minutes to chitchat with the cleaning lady in the office. It can be asking some normal questions like a normal person to my colleagues to show that I care. (yes, it doesn’t come naturally with me). It can be taking a deep breathe before replying an infuriatingemail and repeating “always assume positive intention” in my mind. It can be trying to be less impatient with my parents and be more communicative and open with them about my life and my real thoughts. It can be being nicer to people closest to me, becoz somehow we always mistakenly assume that we can make little or less effort with people we’re most familiar with. It might be a bit slow to only realize this now, but I’m finally ready to be a more compatible and less cynical human to the world. In my life I’ve been a lot of things — I’ve been “cool”, I’ve been “intelligent”, I’ve been “courageous” and I’ve also been informed of my charm to some, and none of these are hard-earned traits. But currently, nothing intrigues me more than simply being a good person. It takes real work to be a good person.
Then it is love. Love is always and still my biggest weakness. When specifically staying away from it in the past half year, I don’t spend a day not thinking about it. I wonder what could I have done to right my wrongs. I wonder why I keep disappoint and hurt. I wonder why I seem to be so deeply flawed. I wonder if I am capable of giving love. And I wonder if I deserve the kind of love that I long for. I wonder a lot of things that I have no answers for yet. But I do believe that, if through all the daily practices, I manage to become a better person, the answers may follow. And I can’t wait to be ready for it again.
Overall, I’m pretty happy with where I am. As a pessimist, I’ve finally seen some significant progress in life. In some way, I am fully aware that I’m in my prime year. And I know I have a few more to come. I remember telling this to a tinder date one time when we were having brunch. He was a guy in his 40s, extremely wealthy and very enthusiastic in me. When I told him this, he laughed and said, my dear, your prime has passed. 28 was your prime, you’re only going down now. I thought about it for a while and told him: No, I am very sure I’m at my prime now. When I was 28 it didn’t feel prime at all, not even close. You have no clue about a woman’s prime. After that date, also for many other obvious reasons, I didn’t see him again. Mostly, I don’t see the necessity to see anyone who, despite the claimed fondness, tries to tell me what my value is based on my age. No girl ought to take that shit. Every woman is in charge of their own prime. And I, at 32, am looking forward to another prime year to come.
I was in Paris, eventually, after a crave of years. When people asked me about it, they seemed eager to get an opinion out of me. Do you like it? How is Paris? While in fact, I think Paris has way passed the line that it needs anyone’s opinion of it, certainly not mine.
I remember wanting to go to Paris for most of my life. Why it didn’t happen earlier, I don’t know. I guess I was waiting for “the ideal person” who I wanna go to Paris with. Silly, but true. I have even dated two French boyfriends, but neither of them made Paris happen. I remember telling myself, there is no rush for it, Paris would always be there. But earlier this year, one day in February when I was feeling an unexplained edginess and desperately needed to please myself, I thought, I’m not gonna wait anymore, I’m going to Paris. I booked the trip in the next twenty minutes. When you’re over 30, you would have learned that for many things, you simply have to make it happen yourself. Even Paris. Especially Paris.
Three months later, on the night I arrived, I took a walk around Le Marais, the neighborhood I temporarily lived at, and feeling “wow”, silently marveling at the fact that I was walking in Paris. It’s indeed quite amazing to still be able to feel that way like you’re a little simple girl when you’re in your 30s. On that evening, I felt like a little girl finally getting what she wants. I don’t even care how corny it may seem. I walked around and saw people gathering in casual groups at bars and restaurants, all looking so lighthearted as if life is nothing but a joyous party. It was exactly what I imagined Paris would be.
I settled at a quite busy wine bar with a great google-maps rating. They didn’t have tables anymore, but I didn’t need any table. The single seat at the far end of the bar was calling for me. I had three drinks that night, two ordered by myself, one ordered by a guy who stood by the bar for a while. He is about my age, manages a gallery in Marais. Do you like your job? I asked. I like it, but I don’t always like the arts I’m selling, he said. He left for parties elsewhere and I told him I was too tired to join. That was when I knew my “little girl” moment was gone; I was back to a 31-year-old woman, fatigued and self-reserved.
Paris is truly an inspiring city, like all other great cities. You don’t just feel that from art museums, you feel that everywhere, boutique stores, corner cafes, avant-dressing transgenders, street singers, metro posters. But art, god, art, it has to be what makes Paris great. Here we have to separate art from art business. I always feel more drawn to the traditional art scene than the modern. In traditional art, you see art. In modern art, you see money and vanity. Maybe I’m being unfair. After all, art, like everything else, is always influenced by money. I’m sure Monet had to worry about money at some point, not to mention Van Gogh. But I wasn’t there in their time. I am here in my time, I’ve seen how art business works in the capitalist world, I’ve seen how people become phony and repulsively snobbish and I really can’t appreciate that. Anyways, I was thoroughly in awe when I was in Musée de l’Orangerie watching Monet’s curvy and large-scale Water Lilies. In the museum of Orange Rice (my French ex told me the pronunciation could mean this way), I felt I was one centimeter closer to what art truly is. Art is, in the most simplified way, simply a repetitive practice one conducts towards something one truly loves and appreciates, like Monet’s commitment to his water lilies, like Van Gogh’s commitment to himself. Their works are only so absorbing because of the commitment invested in them.
After several days in Paris, I felt like I could already move about like a local. I’d become quite acquainted with the metro lines, I visited unknown museums after seeing random posters in the Metro, and I had a go-to bar for a nightcap before I went “home”, the wine bar that I went to on the first night. The bartender recognized me when I showed up the second time. He tilted his head towards “my seat”, and I sat there as he hinted. He barely speaks English, and he seemed genuinely apologetic for that. When I tried to make a casual conversation, he frequently came across words from me that he couldn’t make of. He’d then turn to his colleagues and inquired them. One time, I said “I was too old to go to clubs”, he couldn’t understand and turned to his colleague. After getting what it means, he turned back to me and said, “How old are you?” His colleague hinted him that he shouldn’t ask so bluntly, I laughed and said it’s fine, I’m 31.
Most of the time, he was too busy to converse with me anyway. It was really a popular wine bar, always crowded, evidently appreciated by Parisians. The bartender, also the manager of the bar, told me he had been working there for 10 years. I wanted to ask isn’t 10 years a very long lifespan for a bartender? But then I decided it was too complicated a sentence, and only quietly admired his commitment to this job. I think it’s amazing….some people go on holiday, by themselves, he said, I can’t. I’m always with family or friends. I looked at him, this guy that could barely speak English, and felt bitterly amused. In all these years that I travel alone, I’ve heard a lot of people’s comments about it — they’re usually surprised, sometimes they’d say “that’s very brave”. It was indeed the first time I heard people use “amazing” as a comment, and there’s a chance it was simply a misuse of English words. When I left that night, I told him it was my second last night in Paris. “Maybe see you tomorrow?” he said. “Yes, maybe.” I didn’t go back in the end.
After the first few days of coldness and rain (even the yellow vest protesters didn’t come out on that weekend), there was finally some sunshine on a Monday. I started early, went to the plaza of the Louvre and took some photos and selfies around the Pyramid with all other tourists that didn’t seem interested or brave enough to join the endless queue. I walked from the Louvre to Pont du Carrousel, and from there, watched the remains of the recently burned down Notre Dame from the zoomed-in lens of my iPhone. I crossed the bridge, walked along the other side of the Seine, and was greatly impressed and entertained by the variety of books displayed at those green foldable old bookstalls by the Seine. When I grew bored of that, I went down from one staircase to the riverside and sat on the bank for a while facing the Seine.
I thought of all the romance movies that have featured the Seine in them, from early Woody Allen’s Everyone Says I Love You to Richard Linklater’s Before Sunset to the deadly romantic La Fille Sur Le Pont. I thought of all those evening movie scenes and the ambiguous and flirtatious atmosphere emitted through the glistening river surface in the shade of the moonlight. And as I was sitting there, facing the river in the daylight, the yellowish green water which was hopelessly unphotogenic, I saw with sheer clarity the discrepancy between this world and a romanticized world and my position in between. I didn’t feel disappointed, in fact. I appreciate the wateriness in the truth, as much as I appreciate how much effort our predecessors have made in creating a rose-colored filter for all of us so we could have a better vision of this world.
I continued to walk, crossed back to the other side of the river and wandered into Jardin des Tuileries. Everyone in this 17th-century garden seemed eagerly breathing on this bright sunny day. I walked to the fountain and took a seat by it, the kind that let you lean back in a sunbath position. Two seats beside me sat a French old man, feeding biscuits to pigeons. He took some biscuits crumbs from the chest of his jacket and stuck out his palm, waited, in a few seconds some pigeons would come and take it. From time to time even ducks from the fountain pond and crows from the upper sky would come and join the biscuit fete. Not only did he attract birds, but he also attracted tourists. People came close, happily intrigued by how he interacted with his friends with wings and took photos of them. He shared some biscuits with little kids and encouraged them to try.
The old man noticed me as I was filming it and couldn’t help chuckling. I like your shoes, he said. Is there a better opening line than complimenting a girl’s shoes? Life has certainly taught him something, I thought. We started to talk and he told me he had been to China three times. I have a love in China, he said. Is she still your love? He laughed and said, Time passed. But we are still in a good connection. Every year she’d say happy birthday to me. I guess he told me this becoz the fact that I’m Chinese reminded him of his past love. But as we were there, sitting by the pond on a Monday morning, he seemed completely at ease, as if nothing is more important in life than feeding pigeons anymore. I asked him if he came here a lot to feed pigeons. He shook his head. “I came once last month when the weather was good. Yesterday I sat in front of TV the whole day. I don’t worry anymore. I just relax.”
Later that day, after paying a tribute visit to the Effeil Tower (yet not seeing the point) and more art-cramming and time-traveling at Musée de Montmartre, I ended up at Parc de Belleville in the 20th arrondissement to wait for sunset. The 20th is evidently more local a quarter with a heavy hipster and street art vibe. As I arrived at the top of the park with my takeaway wine, I found myself immersed in an agreeable smell of marijuana. I picked a spot on the lawn to settle myself, surrounded by but not too close to other groups of people.
I was perfectly enjoying myself, the 7pm setting sun and the smell of youth, while a homeless-looking Dominican guy came with a broken guitar and sat down two meters from me. He was very likely high on something, eagerly making reckless conversations with people around, especially me. I wasn’t really in the mood of conversing with someone high. Unfortunately, his English is much better than most educated Parisians. More unfortunately, I seemed to be the object he decided to focus on. I wasn’t really responding but he kept speaking to me about stuff, that he is a philosopher, a musician, he writes songs and sings to make a living, he practices a special kind of yoga, he is looking for someone to translate his lyrics into Chinese, he thinks I’m beautiful. My guts told me he wasn’t dangerous, but he still made me a bit nervous. Two young guys sat not too far in front of me. They tried to speak to the Dominican guy in French to divert his attention from me but had limited luck. Another Italian couple on the other side of him then managed to occupy some of his attention, which I felt deeply grateful for. As the sun was slowly setting, the temperature slowly dropping, people were also slowly taking off. When I was getting ready to leave, he said “I’m gonna sing some songs to make some money tonight, probably 70 euro, 80 maybe. I will see.” I didn’t know if he was speaking to himself or me. But out of a rush of curiosity, I asked, where can I hear your music? He seemed to be more awake by then, told me he had only uploaded one song online and taught me how to search for it on Youtube. It’s about a heartbreaking marriage in the past, he said. Most good music is about heartbreaks, I said. I listened to his track that evening and it actually wasn’t bad. At least he was serious about his music, I thought.
On my last full day in Paris, I joined a Write and Wander in Paris experience booked on Airbnb. The experience was led by Sarah, a young French girl with a bookish but pretty face who doesn’t seem to care much about her appearance. She walked with me and another young Argentinian girl around the little-known neighborhood where the Romantic Movement artists gathered in the 19th century, and introduced to us in strong French accent some historical anecdotes of the Romantic Era. From her, I learned how George Sand had an affair with Frédéric Chopin; how Felix Nadar, an iconic pioneer at the very beginning of Photography, took a group of selfies of every angle of himself while one photo would take 30 minutes to make at that time. But what I enjoyed most was still the experimental writing, the creative perspectives she provided for a number of short writing exercises we did throughout the tour. On that morning, with Sarah’s tips and timer, I wrote paragraphs about an imagined internal monologue of Nadar on a postcard, about the ideal Salon scenario in my heart (and thanks to that I decided to throw a small party when I’m back in Hong Kong), about a speech I’d give to my friends at a party I host every Tuesday like people in the Romantic Era, and about nothing but simply automatically write for five minutes without lifting the pen from the paper. I’ve always been very private and protective of my writing process. But on that morning, I felt open and inspired enough to read and share my immature writings with the two young girls with completely different backgrounds and found myself secretly loving it. In some way, it’s the kind of intimate and connected feeling I’ve been missing, the kind that one can only get from spending time with people of similar passions.
In late afternoon that day, I went back to Marais and visited the gallery of the guy who bought me a drink on my first night. He seemed genuinely surprised to see me and showed me around the gallery a bit. It’s a small boutique gallery, but with some interesting works. We had a drink after he closed the gallery and before he had to leave for a theatre show that evening. It was nice in its own awkward way. After that one drink, we walked to République together and said goodbye in front of the metro. As I walked back to my apartment, in hindsight, I realized that was probably the most “French” thing I did in Paris, to randomly connect with someone in a new city and say goodbye in a casual manner without any unnecessary reluctance.
If my personal opinion matters to the slightest degree, Paris is great, it’s all I ever imagined, and perhaps even better in reality. When I was walking in Paris, I found myself couldn’t help wondering, would I really wanna live here? As much as I enjoy almost every moment in Paris (and even the cold rainy days, the compromised communications, the rude metro coordinator and the airport taxi driver that tried to con me didn’t impair my fondness of this city), it’s after all a reality I can’t truly relate to. I dare not to forget I was a visitor to the city. All my perspectives, my experience, my emotions and my attachments, only exist from the identity of a visitor. No matter how happy Paris has made me, it’s the kind of happiness that lacks a bit of weight.
Paris might not be my reality. Maybe it never will be, maybe it never is supposed to be. Though I think I do have taken a piece of Paris back with me. Like Hemingway said, “if you’re lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you.” I guess in my discounted version, I could always look back at my Instagram stories and tell myself, “We’ll always have Paris.”
The nights in Kyoto always feel longer than they are, and the daytime shorter. I don’t know why, maybe it’s the season; I’m always here in late autumn, this time too. I usually start to feel a bit anxious around 5 pm, when the blueness in the sky starts to darken, worrying about how to spend the night, and where. There aren’t many options for a woman travelling alone. There is only one, really: drinking at a bar. Bars are one thing this town will never be short of. But just like anywhere else, finding one that is friendly and safe enough is still not the easiest thing. It isn’t quite true what I said back there — I’m not travelling here, at least, sightseeing is not why I came. I’m just staying for a little while, wanting to be alone.
It’s never easy to be alone, and it gets particularly awkward on vacation. But, somehow, it’s still easier than being with people, at least for someone like me. I don’t remember exactly how it happened, whether it’s that I chose to be a loner, or that I didn’t really have any choice. But there I was, sitting at this bar alone, a cozy little place close to my guesthouse. It was 8 pm. I had picked the bar from Google Maps, praying that it wouldn’t be too bad. And it wasn’t bad. It certainly wasn’t fancy, with a dart board, a TV screen showing irrelevant sports that no one was paying attention to, and some musical instruments scattered carelessly in one corner. Everything was wooden — the bar table, the cabinets, the stools — which made it feel old-fashioned, and I liked it. I’ve had enough modernness at the bars in my own city; the oldness here reminded me that I was in a completely different space. An outsider, alone and free.
The bar was in the northern part of the city, quite far away from the touristy blocks, and was evidently a neighbourhood bar, where customers were mostly locals and regulars. I sensed that the first second I walked in, and felt grateful that the bartender simply gave me a casual glance, without showing any extra attention to make me feel more out of place than I already was. So there I was, sitting at the very end of the long bar table, in a corner spot that gave me a clear view of the whole place but would also help me shy away from excessive attentions. It’d be a lie to say that I didn’t want any attention; I don’t think there’s a woman in the world who doesn’t want any attention at all. But I’ve certainly passed the age when any kind of attention is welcome.
The bartender was a middle-aged Japanese guy, dressed relatively formally for a bartender, with a suit vest, a bow tie, and a casquette. It seems to be a custom in Japan, that people in the service industry always dressed formally, as if making a statement that they are doing a respectable job, even if you’re paying.
What would you like to drink? The bartender asked. I, as usual, couldn’t make up my mind and nothing from the menu looked convincing enough. Sensing my hesitation, the bartender said he could make me something off-menu, if I told him what my preferences were. What are my preferences, that was an even trickier question. I never know what are my preferences, with my drink, with a lot of other things in life. But I do have an answer prepared for this kind of question, as someone who goes to bars quite often. Whiskey based, citrusy, not too sweet, not in a martini glass, I said.
There were not many people in the bar, three or four groups of guests, including me. There was a young couple who looked like they could be university students, sitting in the middle of the room, at the bar, I tried not to look at them too obviously. But it was hard to completely ignore them either. In one way, their existence helped ease my self-consciousness about being a solo woman in the bar, while in another, they made it worse.
I lit up a cigarette while waiting for my drink, a habitual attempt to appear slightly more occupied. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the young couple enjoying each other’s company, talking and laughing from time to time, rubbing against each other when they moved their bodies as they laughed. They looked happy, at least at the moment. They probably didn’t know yet that happiness could be fleeting. I had been happy too, from time to time in the past two years, when I was with Leon. But that had ended. The relationship, the happiness. The happiness earlier than the relationship. I refocused on my cigarette, as if smoking it needed my full attention. I dragged my mind back from thinking of the breakup. Not yet, I told myself.
The bartender attempted to make casual conversation. I didn’t mind it that much. He seemed like someone who knew how to keep the right distance. He probably just felt obligated to make me feel less alone. Through the talk, I learned that he had owned and managed the bar by himself for 20 years. He had a wife and two daughters, but running the bar made his schedule quite the opposite of the typical family man’s. The official close time on Google Maps was 1 am, but he’d only close the bar when the last customer had left, which meant usually 2–3 am, sometimes later. I went home at 7 am this morning, he said. I could tell he was enjoying his life this way; maybe he was enjoying it too much. I almost felt sorry for his wife. She must either love him a lot or have a lover, I thought. As a woman, no matter how differently you identify, you just can’t help putting yourself in the same shoes as another woman.
I was two thirds down on my first drink. I looked at my phone: 8:40 pm. The conversation with the bartender was happening on and off. Most of the time he was talking in Japanese with other customers, but sometimes he’d walk over to my end of the bar and use his limited English to ask me something, the standard questions you’d ask a traveller — I started to feel grateful that he kept talking to me, which made me feel less of an awkward being and, more importantly, less lonely. I was slowly getting tipsy, feeling looser, but not yet loose enough to completely shake off the sense of being an intruder in this space, to this crowd.
I thought of how I used to feel like an intruder in a lot of other situations, when I had to meet and hang out with Leon’s friends, on occasions full of his social crowd, the creative, artsy, funky, party crowd. I thought of the constant uneasiness and slight embarrassment that I had to endure all those times, being new to everyone and, more importantly, being a perpetual outsider to that circle. That was something that didn’t ever change, no matter how many times I showed up at those occasions — showing up enough times didn’t make me an insider, just a familiar-looking outsider; and showing up enough times didn’t make me anyone’s friend, I’d always be “that girl”, Leon’s girlfriend. When I thought of the suffocating sense of subordination throughout the relationship, the feeling of always playing a part that I didn’t even audition for, a mixture of anger and aversion filled up my chest, followed by thick relief. I was so grateful to be alone now, at a random Kyoto bar. It felt more real than all those parties I went to with Leon. It was more real.
I finished my first drink and ordered another one. The bar was getting busier. Apparently there would be a band playing a live gig from 9:30 pm; they were setting up at the little corner stage at the other end of the bar from me. The university puppy-love couple was joined by more university puppy-love couples. A middle-aged man in a suit came in. Just back from a business trip from Osaka, I gathered from what he told the bartender. He was apparently a regular. It was a pretty young clientele overall. The music was getting up. I lit another cigarette. I was switched on to the “party of one” mode now, and I decided to stay longer.
The bartender seemed happy that I was staying. He talked more to me, but always with the polite distance that he seemed to be constantly reminding himself to keep from his customers. It made me feel comfortable, and feel more open to conversation, even though it wasn’t easy with his limited choice of English words.
I sipped slowly at my second drink, looking at my phone from time to time, alternating between my screen and my cigarettes. A man came in and sat on the only vacant seat left beside me. The bar was now full of young happy loud innocent Japanese souls as the university band had started their jazz gig. The new guy looked stuck out in this crowd — his overly hipster style was slightly unmatched with his age, which was hard to guess, as if he was trying to conceal his ageing process behind his clothes. He had wild curly hair, casually tied back, and was wearing some unnecessary and garish accessories. His face was marginally handsome, with facial features suggesting he wasn’t completely Japanese. When you’re alone, you have the capacity to analyze everything around you. He rolled up his sleeves the moment he sat down, immediately ordered a beer in Japanese, and eagerly started to make conversation with the bartender, indicating that he was an acquaintance. He seemed determined to not even glance at me, which contradicted the frivolous vibe he was emitting, and intrigued me slightly. Men usually look at me at bars. I expect to be looked at, at least once or twice, sometimes more shamelessly than others, like the way Leon did on the night we met.
I still vaguely enjoy revisiting the anecdote of how we met. I was completely wasted at the end of a disastrous night, having had a huge fight with someone, and went back to a party where there was no one I knew left. I was drifting around the dance floor, using my last flicker of consciousness to gauge if there was any reason that I should stay. Just then, I felt this gaze fixated on me, almost burning. At first, just like this man sitting beside me at the bar now, I was determined not to look back. I was half enjoying the gaze, half annoyed by the audacity of it. This didn’t last long before I felt it was too much, and casually looked back — there he was, this fairly tall guy with a natural elegance wearing a white turtleneck. I met his gaze, which, surprisingly, didn’t feel offensive or intruding or filled with lust, but more like an honest appreciation mixed with a mild concern. I certainly must have looked very lost and drunk. I walked over to him and said, This is not the way to look at a girl. He said, I don’t care. He came home with me that morning. And that was the very beginning of things.
The bartender became too busy to stay in the conversion with his acquaintance customer or to entertain me, and left us, two individual clients on their own, squeezed at the very end of the bar, both seeming slightly out of place relative to the rest of the crowd. When I was not contemplating my own thoughts, I could feel the faint awkwardness between the two of us. I could also feel that he could feel it too. It was hard to say who started to talk first, probably me rather than him, but then again maybe both of us at the same time, thanks to the effectiveness of alcohol. Either way, we started to make snatchy conversation, like two people in a movie might do, when they happened to sit side by side at a bar .
He was indeed, of mixed heritage with blood from Japan, Italy, America and France. He spoke fluent English with an unidentifiable accent, which made the conversation surreally smooth for a Japanese setting. He ran a pizzeria with a guesthouse upstairs. He was 29, married two years ago to a Japanese woman five years older than him. They met in Tokyo when he was a party boy and moved to Kyoto together to start this family business with his Italian father. Wasn’t that quite early to get married for a guy like you? I lightly joked. I’ve had my fair share of fun let’s say, he answered, and since my wife is older she felt the urgency of marriage for her age, and it just happened. I didn’t poke more into it, even though his commitment level didn’t sound convincing. He bought a round of shots for me and the bartender to drink together. A night out by himself in a bar like this was not that usual for him now, but he had just had a bad day and needed a drink, he said. As we talked, his phone rang several times; he picked up the first two times, answered in Japanese and ignored the rest. I told my wife I will go home in 40 minutes, he said, as though making an announcement, while ordering another drink for himself. Both the bartender and I laughed. I grew more willing to talk as I kept consuming more alcohol. I laughed at every funny and not-that-funny comment he made. It felt good to be entertained, or at least to appear so. It felt easier to laugh there by myself, with a random guy I’d never see again in this life, than it has been to laugh at those parties I went to with Leon and his friends. I felt free, free to laugh, free to drink, free to just be myself, not affiliated, not attached.
So how does it happen that a woman like you is drinking here by yourself? The pizzeria guy asked, just like any other guy would. I didn’t intend to be therapized tonight, while I also had no reason to not be truth-telling to a complete random stranger. I enjoyed having the power to tell or not tell. I decided to tell as much as I felt like. But where did I even start?
It’s just my thing, I travel alone.
No boyfriend?
No. Not at this moment.
How come? A beautiful woman like you should have plenty of options.
I felt slightly offended and, more to the point, disappointed, at this typical patriarchal mentality, as if a woman’s value can only be validated by the companionship of someone with a penis. I was not there to preach political correctness to someone who tried to solve his own issues with marriage and was not even aware of it; I was there to enjoy myself. I shrugged it off.
Do I really have plenty of options? Maybe I do. In a world like this, anyone can have plenty of options, enabled by technology and demoralizing apps. But the thing is, having too many options feels just the same as having no options. We are the generation so deeply confused by options. What good are options if you fail to follow through with any of them anyway? I started to feel the guilt burning in my chest and my brain again, together with a wave of sadness and anger. What have I done with my options? Other than hurting, getting hurt, and hurting? I hate people telling me I have options, it’s almost like a silent accusation implying that I should have done better with all my options, like they are the one to judge. I’d rather someone just rip the bandaid off it and tell me outright: “You fucked up.”
When I had just met Leon, I thought he might be The One. It isn’t easy to feel that way again when you’re in your 30s. It was intense. Everything just felt so “right” that it made me want to cry. That kind of feeling. One time in the early days, when we were both lying in bed, I asked Leon if he thought we’d always be this happy. He said of course, and that if one day we became not-happy, we’d find a way to be this happy again. It was one of those moments when I thought to myself, That’s probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, and managed, for just one second, to let go of my fundamental skepticism of all good things. Until one day it seemed we were spending more time fighting than snuggling. I grew needier and more demanding, as I usually did, while feeling more suffocated and burdened in the relationship. A room with no window, a tug of war. I slept with someone else. Leon found out. He stormed out of my apartment and out of us. That was it. How easily things got ruined. How cliché a story it is to tell. I finished my third or fourth drink. The pizzeria guy ordered another round for us; I was not counting anymore. It’s funny when you think how the initial thought at the beginning of a relationship plays a part in the whole thing after it’s over. In this case, the thought that I’ve met The One is like a joke I play on myself, a magnifier of an inevitable disappointment.
The band was ending their gig with the song Can’t Take My Eyes off You, invoking an innocent, upbeat vibe that was too contagious to ignore.
You’re just too good be true
I can’t take my eyes off you
You’d be like heaven to touch
I wanna hold you so much
……
I love you baby
And if it’s quite all right
I need you baby
To warm the lonely nights
I love you baby
Trust in me when I say
……
People love to hear songs about love, no matter how banal they are. Everyone in the bar was laughing senselessly, facilitated by alcohol and popular jazz tunes. I could be happy too, I thought. I am. How bizarre it is it to be feeling happy now, when just a moment ago I was recalling my broken relationship. How shortly people dwell on each other these days. The harder I tried to remember the feeling with Leon, the blurrier everything became. All those happy memories, like that summer road trip in southern France, they all seemed less real than drinking alone in a random Kyoto bar.
You know what, you can have any men you want, if you really want them, but it’s too easy, it’s not enough for you. You’re too smart for your own good. After a night of drunken chatting, the pizzeria guy threw his diagnosis at me. I looked at him in the eyes. What he wanted from me was so obvious. He was right, it was too easy. He had even turned off his phone in the past hour, so there were no more angry-wife calls to bother him. And I was too drunk to even care.
The bar was quieting down, the crowd gradually leaving, and only the most determined guests stayed. The pizzeria guy was smashed — he’d probably had 10 drinks at least, a mix of beer, cocktails and shots. He was not making much sense with whatever he was saying, to me or to the bartender. He was getting more audacious in his attempts to bring sex into the conversation. But he simply looked too drunk to be seriously offensive or flirtatious. He made me feel sad, and a bit unsafe to be sitting next to him now. The bartender seemed to have sensed my discomfort and mouth-apologized, I’m sorry, he whispered behind the bar, and took away the pizzeria guy’s empty glass. The two of them conversed in Japanese for a bit, the pizzeria guy nodding vigorously yet senselessly. He didn’t seem to be in full control of his movement anymore. Out of the blue he gave me a kiss on the side of my forehead and told me he was leaving.
It is my pleasure tonight. You’re really too smart for your own good. I hope you’d be a happier person. He said.
I hope you won’t be in trouble when you get home. I said.
It’s usually easier to be concerned about other people’s problems. It helps you forget about your own. I felt tranquilized on my seat for a while after the pizzeria guy left. An emptiness came upon me. It was 1:50 am. I asked for the bill. It’s all settled, the bartender said, by the pizzeria guy. I was confused about what to feel at that particular moment other than genuinely surprised. Should I be glad, or should I feel bad? It must have been a big bill. I thought of how he told me business was not good at the guesthouse, with platforms like airbnb disrupting the market. I felt bad, puzzled even. What was he trying to convey?
I changed my mind about leaving and decided to stay on, out of an unexplainable urge to spend some of my own money to pay for my own drinks. Maybe out of a need to restore the balance, or I was just too wasted to make smarter decisions. My head was spinning. Another new cocktail was served. The bartender was still apologetic for the drunk pizzeria guy’s behavior, as though he’d been harassing me or something. I kept telling him that it was ok, that I was ok. I’ve been through worse, of course. Comparatively speaking, this was nothing: he had merely been urging me to drink more than I would by myself and tried to discuss my sexual behavior. There were way worse things a man could do to a woman when he was drunk.
The bar was really empty now, just me, the bartender, another middle-aged Japanese guy who seemed to be a regular, and a young couple, of which the boy worked part-time at the bar. They were talking casually, and even when they were speaking Japanese I could tell that all they were talking about were subjects of no real importance. From time to time they tried to include me by switching to English and, in my compromised sobriety, I just let it flow. Apparently they’d end their nights like this quite often. For a moment, I felt like one of them, like I belonged there, like this was also how I often ended my nights: drinking alone, feeling both addicted and irrelevant. I became so fond of this imagined closeness that I started to dread how it would end. The bartender was talking about how he sometimes liked to get some udon after he closed the bar on his way home, and then how there was a high risk of reproducing mini-udon when they were all puked out because he’d be super drunk. Everyone laughed at the mini-udon joke. I could tell this was a joke he told often to entertain his guests, especially those who lasted till the end. I laughed and laughed, sometimes without even knowing what I was laughing about, as if once I’d decide to be entertained, everything becomes amusing. At some point, I thought I briefly lost consciousness. What was keeping me awake was really just a need to uphold a minimal level of dignity as a single female tourist. A woman should never be too drunk to walk herself home, not ever, not to mention in a foreign city.
I wouldn’t mind having some udon now, I said, half-jokingly, feeling a sudden craving. Are you sure? We can order some now, the bartender said. The idea seemed to be welcomed by the Japanese group. The bartender picked up his phone to make an order. In twenty minutes or so, a delivery guy arrived with five bowls of udon. Everyone was already focusing on their own bowl of udon before I realized what was going on. I thought some food was supposed to drag me back to the conscious side, at least a little bit, while indeed, I hadn’t felt more dislocated the whole evening than at this moment. I could feel my last surviving sobriety floating off my body, emitting a message that read “eating udon in a bar with four Japanese strangers at 5 am — better remember this moment.” Just at that second, as I was sending more udon into my mouth with a pair of chopsticks, an unstoppable rush of nausea seized me and I badly needed to vomit. I tried my best to keep calm, stood up from my stool and walked slowly to the restroom, trying to avoid any sudden movements that might make me vomit on the way. I locked the door and, almost at the same second, before I had time to aim properly, I vomited all over the bathroom. There they were, the mini-udons, everywhere.
I felt suddenly fully awake, my consciousness automatically resumed in the face of a mini-udon crisis. I can’t walk out leaving a mess like this, I thought. It’d be too indecent. I grabbed the roll toilet paper and started to wipe off the mini-udons, the floor, the wall, the toilet seat, the rim of the toilet. When the toilet paper in my hand was full of mini-udons, I flushed it down the toilet, and started over again with more toilet paper. I did that for I don’t know how long, maybe half hour, maybe longer; I’d lost all sense of time. I don’t believe I’ve ever cleaned a toilet so hard in my whole life. I have always hated housework, and yet there I was, cleaning my own vomit in a random bar in Kyoto at 5 am. I didn’t know what to feel. I wanted to cry but didn’t have time. There was an urgency more pressing than all others, the urgency to clean all these fucking mini-udons. I was almost amused by the situation, but I didn’t feel like laughing. I would be curious to see my facial expression at that particular moment, if it had been caught on camera. But there was nothing, there was no one, there was only me. Me and my mini-udon mess. No one ought to know about this.
I walked out of the bathroom trying to look innocent. Everyone looked at me in a concerned way. Are you ok? The bartender asked earnestly. I must have been in there too long. I told him that I was ok, but I didn’t think I could finish the udon. Everyone looked so tired. The sky was lightening, from dark blue to a paler shade. A new day had arrived. Now that I had vomited up everything and regained some sobriety, I could no longer ignore the absurdity of this evening. I felt a wave of self-loathing. Why didn’t I leave at a more sensible time? Why couldn’t I leave at a more sensible time? I’ve always had problems leaving a party, and Leon was the same. Our whole encounter might not have happened if not for our shared anxiety of leaving the party. You don’t really enjoy staying, you’re mad at yourself for not being able to have fun, you force yourself into fun by over-boozing, you think you are having fun because you’re drunk enough, you let it all go and slide into an altered reality. That reality lasts a while but then the booze effect starts to diminish and you find yourself stuck in a middle land, you know it’s about to end but you’re dreading the end so you keep forcing it and forcing it and forcing it, until some greater external force makes the decision for you that you should have made a long time ago. The break of dawn, the encounter with someone, the mini-udons.
I guessed that was it. I paid my bill, thanked the bartender and said my goodbyes. I dislike saying goodbyes. I wish I could do them less awkwardly.
It was a five-minute walk back to my guesthouse. When I came out onto the street, the autumn chill brushed over my face. In the morning twilight, everything appeared gentle, indifferent to my existence. The world seemed to have lost its gravity. I felt exhausted, and relieved. Now, I just couldn’t wait to go back to my room, gargle, lie in the bed curled into a ball and finally, with daylight, go to sleep. It’s only loneliness, after all. Many must have it.
After writing down the title, the classic short story of Raymond Carver inevitable came upon me — What do we talk about when we talk about love.
In the past year or so, my opinion and feeling of the love subject have gone through some substantial changes. It doesn’t mean there’s a 180 degree sharp turn kind of shift of view, nor does it mean the denial of the past self, however, I could indeed feel that, a flow of change on the fundamental level has happened inside me. If it has to be put into text in a however inaccurate form, I guess it can be said that, love is no longer the center of my life. This is not an acknowledgement that comes like an epiphany moment, and it certainly is not some kind of stress reaction after a traumatizing event. It comes more like a renewed self appraisal, supplemented by experience over the years.
Since I was little, I’ve been more interested in love than in any other subject. The idea of romance fascinated me. It is fair to say, in the first 30 years of my life, I was always someone who lives to love and thinks of love as the most profound quest. If “being in love” is an option in the specialty category just like “piano” or “badminton”, I would have ticked that box without any hesitation. I might not be the most talented one, but from the depth of experience, I should at least be recognized for my assiduity.
Given that, with one after another relationship started, ended, passed, having gone through the highs and the lows and eventually the neutral land, looking back, I realize I still cant say I’ve got love figured out. At most I can say, I think I have experienced love; and if I have to describe it at my best attempt, love is perhaps this strong silent traction that leads you to go through an unknown passage, it flickers, you don’t have a clear vision, but you can’t help but go forward.
I don’t think I’ve got love quite figured out becoz, if one day I met this kind of traction again, I would probably still just follow it into another passage, clueless yet without a second thought; after the traction is faded, I would very likely end up back at the same original spot like the previous times, left with myself and a silent sigh. But in the process of repeatedly screwing up and losing someone, I did gain something. Over the years that I tried to figure love out and failed, I unexpectedly figured out some other things. For example — the thing worse than losing a relationship is losing oneself; the thing more important than finding “the one” is accepting yourself; and the thing that probably means more than acquiring love, is being able to give love.
It’s only until my most recent relationship has ended, I realized in hindsight that in all these years, I was mostly busy chasing the feeling of love, of falling in love, but rarely truly practised love. The feeling of love, is falling, is surreal, is out of balance; it’s driven by desire, the instinct of grabbing tight. While what love truly is, in my limited understanding and livelong meditation, is perhaps growing together, nurturing one another; it doesn’t necessarily concern ownership, it’s a stream of warm current you’re willing to protect even at the price of sustaining solitude; it’s a lingering strength, a promise of freedom.
When we talk about love, a frequently asked question is “do you believe in love.” This is indeed thoroughly misleading. Fundamentally, love is an unidentifiable feeling. A thousand people would have a thousand feelings of love. In the absence of a universal definition, to question repetitively if one believes in love serves very little purpose. The full version of “do you believe in love?” is actually “do you believe that love will happen on you?” We cannot control love, but we can control ourselves to some extent. Hence, about love, there’s only one question worth asking — do you deserve love?
Whatever one’s ideal version of love is, one should make sure one is being it and well-worth it in the first place. If you want tremendous love, develop an interesting soul; if you want mellow love, be healthy and positive; if you want understanding love, learn to listen and respect; if you want freedom in love, start to give freedom; if you don’t want to lose yourself in love, grow a stronger root of your “self”. If love, after all, is just damn luck, then the least one can do is to earn the ticket to be in that damn lucky draw.
I reckon this is also why I’m taking love more lightly — it’s not that I stop caring or stop wanting it, it’s that besides learning the limitation and randomness of love, I’ve also learned that, the quest of love doesn’t happen in the sea of people. The quest of love, is essentially, the quest of oneself.
Translated/Rewritten from the below original piece in Chinese I wrote on Feb 14 2019:
When I told this to people, almost everyone immediately tried to rephrase for me: “you quit?”
The fact is, quitting smoking has never even crossed my mind once in my longer than 10 year’s smoking history. What happened is I’ve lost the urge to smoke. I don’t know since when, but when I realized that, I’ve already stopped smoking for a while. Even tho I’d still sneak one or two if it’s one of of those social situations, but I know it’s already an absolutely unnecessary act for me — either I have that cigarette or not at that moment makes no difference to me.
To be clear, smoking has never been a physical addiction to me, at least not to the extent that I can feel. I started smoking when my first serious relationship ended. It was the first time in my life I felt the need of self-decadence in the hope of numbing or simply matching up with my pain. For unexplainable reasons, it became clear that smoking was what I wished to do. I learned how to smoke so earnestly that it’s almost like a new useful skill to acquire, instead of a bad habit to pick up. When you’re young, you don’t care about bad habits.
Over all the years that I kept smoking, I’ve smoked for a lot other reasons — it looks cool, or at least it makes you think you look cool; it’s effectively cathartic since it stimulates the movement of intestine, for a long time I relied on smoking to poop; it comes in natural with alcohol and after a big meal; it eases up my social anxiety, or makes you look less alone; and sometimes, it’s simply easier to smoke than not to.
But underneath all these reasons, I know the original urge of smoking was always there, the need of self-decadence, and the assurance of caring little enough to afford self-decadence. I was almost secretly proud of the outward identity of “a girl that smokes”, which gradually turned into part of my self-perception: I am someone that smokes.
My relationship with smoking has gone through difference phases.
There was the time when smoking was new and faintly exciting. It was more like an act of formalism instead of a true interest at the beginning. I was so eager to break the self-reflection of a behaving and believing girl. I was trying to re-identify myself through the act of smoking. It went on smoothly until my parents found out. It was one day in the winter break of my final year in college, I was back home from hanging out with friends, casually left my bag half open on the sofa. My first instinct was to deny when my parents confronted me with the pack of cigarette that slipped out, my mother crying and my father furious, both of them deeply concerned. I had no choice but to deny it so their feelings could be protected. “It belongs to my friend,” I insisted. I didn’t stop smoking because of this parental intervention of course, but the fact that I had to hide my behaviour and that I continued to do it without even truly enjoying it make the formalism nature of smoking stand out more. It wasn’t before long that my father had another calmer conversation with me. He told me, he understood it had become more socially acceptable that women also smoke these days, even tho it would break my mother’s heart, he did’t think it’s the biggest problem here. What he concerned most was why I smoked, if I was in trouble or if I was in misery. It was at hearing that I burst into tears as an adult for the first and only time in front of my father. It was in front of him I realised I wasn’t the same girl anymore. I’ve had my first taste of pain. I was 21.
There were the intimate times when smoking felt like an inseparable element in life. When I was on my first job as a newspaper reporter after graduating from master of journalism, I’d compulsively take a cigarette at every specific moment in a day — right after getting up, right before leaving home, right after coming back home, right before going to bed. And when I was out in the day doing the reporter job, I would take one after every press conference/event, as long as time permit. Smoking was like a ruler of time, a secret daily ritual, strictly marking the passing of my days and quietly burning my anxiety as I stood on the brink of a full-scale entrance to the real cruel world. I was 24.
There were also the times during all the disastrous events in my personal life, where I’d rediscover smoking as my one last resort, the loyal friend who always helped me get through heartbreaks, depression attacks, and moments of sheer solitude and misery. In moments like these, overconsumption of cigarette was almost a guarantee. I’m not sure how they helped, but I’m also not sure how I would get through without them.
There were finally the easier times, when smoking had little to do with any emotional struggles or major phase changes, but merely remained a natural habit, a companionship that doesn’t require any extra thought. This was the time when I’d always make sure there was a pack of cigarette in my bag wherever I go, no matter if I do consume it or not. I’d smoke whenever I want, wherever I want as long as law permits. I’d still do the ritual smoking thing but less, like every time I was at the airport to embark on a solo trip, I’d take one after checking in and before going through security. I’d smoke solely to reflect my free will. When I watch a movie or tv show, say Mad Men, when I see them smoking in it, I’d light a cigarette myself too in front the screen as if I’m part of the scene. I was almost enjoying it. I did enjoy it. In those years I’ve gone through several more rounds of emotional turbulence, several major life changes, mid-twenties crisis, late-twenties crisis, but my relationship with smoking had always been stable. Years passed by and it never crossed my mind it would stop being the case one day.
I can’t pinpoint from when I started losing the urge of smoking. I can only remember situations started to happen as such that I would easily say “no” when people invited me for a smoke, or that I actually needed to persuade myself into taking one when I didn’t really feel like it, or that I’d suddenly realise it’d been several days since the last time I smoked. I’ve also tried e-cigarette with innovative flavours in the hope of renewing my bond with smoking, but I quickly realised it’s a vain attempt. I cashed out by re-selling my iQOS and gave away all the cartridges I bought in Japan.
I came across a research paper the other day, which says someone giving up smoking at the age of 25–34 can eventually have a mortality close to the level of a “never smoker”. I giggled at this finding, it feels like winning by a fluke.
Today I’m still constantly struggling with my existential crisis, I still feel emotionally fragile from time to time and I guess I’m still largely not a high-spirited person, but I have lost the urge of smoking through all these moments. She left, without even saying a proper goodbye. In hindsight, I realized, like many other things, she was just a visitor to my life, a visitor that stayed for 10 years.
I think of the saying “we don’t really make big decisions, big decisions make us” and wonder if this is one of those case. I wonder if this is part of growing old. I wonder if she left because she knew I’m not that person anymore, a girl who needed to do unnecessary things to harm herself. At any rate, I’m standing on the other side now, the side where people don’t feel the need to smoke. It’s almost like gaining a new identity, except that nothing is worth being excited about. I can already feel a remote mourning with a mixed affection for the smoking version of me, together with a mild anxiety with the new-found identity. I don’t know what would be the alternative ritual before I embark on a solo trip. I don’t know what can I use to cover my social anxiety if I happen to be at a party full of people I sort of know but don’t feel like talking to. I can’t even take photos holding a cigarette and doing the whole looking-cool thingy anymore, and even if I do, it will only make me look more of a poser than I already am. But honestly, I think it will be fine.
If I may disclose a public secret — being 30 feels exactly like being 29, just like being 29 felt exactly like being 28…I don’t need to go on. But I can’t deny that the imaginary threshold is working on me, like an itchiness at the back of my brain, a phone ringing in the midnight that you’d eventually have to pick up — I can’t help thinking what does 30 years’ life mean, if it means anything at all, and what kind of existence should a 30-year-old person stand for.
I’ve always been a pessimist. And I had all these peculiar beliefs that I held on to firmly when I was little. For example, since I started to form the minimal level of independent thoughts (ie. mid-primary school), I had been telling everyone around me that “I’m going to die before 30.” I was so certain of it for 2 reasons: 1, I couldn’t bear to even imagine I would be a 30-year-old woman one day — it simply sounded dreadful. I didn’t consider how exactly I would die (apparently I thought I would have loads of time to work out a plan) if it doesn’t happen naturally, I just knew I had to; 2, I thought 30 years was more than enough to live — in my young immature mind, everything I ever wanted to experience (eg, being able to go to bed as late as I want; being able to watch TV as much as I want; having a job I like and getting paid, having a boyfriend and sweet love, etc) would definitely happen before 30 and everything afterwards would just be repetitive boredom.
The other this kind of bold and “laughable” statements I’ve made also include: I will never get married. (coz i don’t believe in it — the concept is too perfect for imperfect human beings); I will never have kids. (coz I can’t bring myself to pass the underlying pain of life to another person while I couldn’t even convince myself my life is worth living. The whole deal of giving birth — creating life for the enjoyment of oneself or whatever other selfish reasons — makes little sense to me.)
As I am 30 now, I guess this is the first time “things go against wish” for the younger self of me and her assertive pledges — I have disappointed her, by turning 30. I almost feel sorry, while at the same time, I, as the 30-year-old present self, take it quite well. It even feels like a pleasant surprise — having lived for 30 years in this world trapped in this body is, in my own standard, quite an achievement, no matter if it felt like one or not.
So what kind of 30-year-old person am I? (deep breathe.) I guess it’s time to do a reality check. (/damage assessment)
I have no savings (at all).
I am a property owner in paper thanks to Chinese parenting and I’m very much in debt (only 29.3 years left).
I am single, with baggages, inevitably.
I have a job, one that numbs my soul and pays the bills.
I have been living in a city I dislike for 12 years.
I have identity crisis. Being culturally marginalized for almost half my time, I barely have any sense of attribution to any cities I’ve lived. I’m rather detached political-wise and the priority level of my mother language is fading in my brain.
I have an estranged relationship with my parents, who still treat me like I’m 15 and incapable of living my life. It unsettles me when I try to imagine the discrepancy between the daughter in their mind and who I really am.
I am self-diagnosed as sociopath and misanthropist. My sense of socialness is decreasing and it’s almost impossible for me to make new friends. Obsessed with deep, intimate and intellectually equal connections, I find it unbearable to carry most casual conversations with general acquaintances.
I started to see a therapist a while ago when I sensed symptoms of depression.
I am evidently not a happy person. (But even for me it takes some courage to admit that.)
Obviously I can’t say I’m at my prime state at this point of my life, but if I’m being fair to myself, I would say I’m not a terrible person, even faintly likable, with a certain quaintness; I’m definitely not dull, somewhat intelligent, and I don’t believe my life is on the boring side on a scale of interestingness. I’ve always known myself as an experience-driven person, and I did experience things, even tho I never went out of my way to seek for them. Thinking back, my experience portfolio is probably the only thing I unquestionably possess.
But don’t get it wrong — when one is at my age (now I’m starting to sound like I’m 30), one should have realized that experiences are not always valuable, not even for someone who lives on experiences like me.
Of course I have had many nice experiences, ones that at some point did convince me my life is worth living just to have that. The moments of falling in love, even with the most impossible persons; the girl history, without which I wouldn’t know first-hand the existence of spectrum and the possibilities in sexuality; the places travelled, roads walked, people encountered, the ultimate excitement of doing something adventurous as a solo traveller; the day I got my first and only tattoo; the sweet moments in relationships like when he knelt down to help me redo my shoelace; the evening of my best friend’s wedding and the MOH speech I had to get myself half-drunk to deliver; the years working in the newsroom and the primitive satisfaction despite of the realistic limitations and being poorly paid; the sparkling and witty conversations on a breezy night with someone like-minded that made me feel like I was in Woody Allen’s movie; the shivering in heart when greatly moved by cinematography, literature, architecture and art; the perfect state of mind briefly found in Kyoto; the late night picnic by an abandoned reservoir overseen by a sky of stars, the rainy getaway weekend on a local touristy island, the psychedelic camping on a remote beach, the rooftop sex, and all the crazy and romantic situationist love-making.
Then there were those experiences that only served the purpose of opening your eyes, those you don’t mind but probably wouldn’t wanna have again. The drugs, the bad trip, the ridiculous parties and clubs, the threesome, the junk boat, the motorbike accident in the middle of nowhere in Thailand, the moment of lying in my own blood and not sure how alive I was, the ultimate fear and loneliness.
Then there were those that you secretly wish they never happened. The cheating that ended my first relationship and damaged my trust system. The cheating that ended my last relationship and the continuous suffering from the guilt and remorse even two years after the breakup. The alcoholism of an ex-boyfriend. The afternoon of being sexually assaulted in primary school, which I subconsciously chose to forget for the whole childhood and only remembered it years into adulthood. The phase of being sexually confused and lost. The dark passage of self-decadency. The illness. The dreadful moment of getting a call of “bad news” and the horrible 24 hours before I found it out. The demoralizing days that I had to force myself to face treatments, surgeries, medical reports and expensive hospital bills. The embarrassment of dragging myself to SLAA meeting, sitting with a bunch of random strangers and realizing knowing there’re people like me or even more fucked up does not help.
I can’t bother to even try to be comprehensive and logical when I disorderly list out my experiences, and there must be a lot others hidden in the shadow along the memory lane. But I do wonder if these will all flash up at the moment before I die like what people always said — your whole life playing like a fast-forwarding movie in 30 seconds, a condensed capsule to give you a conclusive push.
The thing is, even though I’m dealing with my complexities and polarities, trying to neutralize the self-loathing that evades frequently, when I think about it hypothetically yet seriously, I still wouldn’t say I’d rather swap my life with another kind given the chance — not because I am narcissistic in nature (though it may be factual), but that I wouldn’t be able to imagine who on earth I am if I had never experienced all the pains and struggles, love and hurt. I am tamed by my personal history, my 30-year-long life. I’ve come far enough that I wouldn’t even intend to live differently from scratch, not to mention that I can’t.
For a long time I thought finding happiness is the goal of life, and wanting normal happiness is a humble wish. If there’s anything I could say based on my 30 years’ life, I’d say that is perhaps a bit too aggressive for my kind. I still hope for happiness, unmistakably, but I have also come to the realization that attaining happiness could be beyond my reach,while making peace with pain is less far-reaching.
30 years in life, you’d have realized it’s time to let go of the “wished self” and deal with the “status-quo self”; it’s time to let go of the “wished life” and deal with the “status-quo” life. 30 years in life, you’d have realized life has never been so cruelly real the way it is now, and even more, it had actually been so cruelly real all the time without you noticing; you’d feel like you have a lot to catch up in terms of the realness and you might feel tired already just by thinking of what’s waiting ahead, but it’d also give you a sense of relief, that life, is unavoidably happening. 30 years in life, you’d see it’s not about trying to decide what kind of life you want anymore, it’s only about remembering to breathe, living it, being it, it’s about putting yourself on the spot, giving it out, taking care of every trivial detail wholeheartedly, and praying that it would not be as terrifying as it seems. 30 years in life, I’m still not quite sure what this is about, if there is any meaning, why am I here, but one thing is affirmative, life itself has creepingly convinced me to stay longer than I ever planned, with everything it has put me through.
I do still have a vision of myself, however vague it is. I will still be cool, even tho being cool is not important to me anymore. I will be able to love unreservedly again and it will be worth it despite of everything. I will do a few things I’m proud of, out of the daily banality. I will experience more and hopefully I will know how to contain it better. I will deal with more pain and I will be a stronger person by then. My boldest guess of life — I might even be a mother one day, and if it happens I will be able to tell him/her: “You’re a wanted child, you are here for a reason.”And of course, I will let them know what a miracle it is for a girl who used to only want to live for no more than 30 years.
A clean, well-lighted place. 