I nodded. ‘Goodbye’ had been on the tip of my tongue, but now I swallowed it, afraid to let myself speak at all.
He got in his car, and I waved to him from the porch. I continued to wave even after he drove out of sight.That would be his last memory of me, I thought, before letting myself back in the house.

I awoke to a loud knock. My mother had charged into my room and was waking me up. Apparently, my alarm had not gone off. I looked at the time, it was 6:13 AM.

I had been dreaming, it turned out, but my dream was surprisingly similar to what took place on my porch just under 3 hours ago. MFL and I had not kissed, and I had not delivered my ‘I love you’ monologue, but everything else had really happened.

I did not let myself dwell on my dream, instead, I jumped into the shower to wake myself up. It seemed I still wasn’t over MFL, would I ever be? I felt like a haunted woman, but what kind of exorcist could free me from my particular ghost, the ghost of my first love?

By the time I stepped out of the shower, all of these thoughts were washed from me. It was as if the dream never happened. Instead, I busied myself with some final packing.

On the way to the airport, I was feeling particularly emotional. Even though I knew I would be coming back to visit my parents and friends, I wasn’t sure I would ever move back here. I hid my face everytime my eyes watered though, I didn’t want my father to see me cry. My parents, after all, were probably already feeling sad to see to me go, if they saw how hard it was for me to say goodbye, they would tell me to call the whole thing off and stay. But I couldn’t.

My flight to Nanjing was complicated. I would first be flying to New York, then getting on a 13.5-hour flight to Beijing, and then getting on another 2-hour flight to Nanjing. It was a full 24 hours of travel time in total; add in the 12-hour time difference between China and Canada and I was fully disoriented by the time I got off the plane.

On the whole, my trip was extremely successful. The 13.5-hour flight across the Pacific was very comfortable by economy-class standards. The flight was only half-full, so there were empty seats next to each passenger. I had checked-in early, since I had a 5-hour wait in JFK (there is no pre-check-in for Air China, so they weren’t able to print boarding passes for me in Toronto), so I was sitting relatively forward in the plane¹, and there were no screaming children around me. Anticipating jet-lag, I only allowed myself to sleep five hours on the plane, even though I was quite drowsy. When I got off the plane, I knew it would be night-time, so I’d be expected to sleep again. I passed the time by reading ‘Harry Potter: The Deathly Hallows’. I’d read the whole thing in six hours the night it was released, but as I re-read it, I realized I had very little recollection of it. It took me closer to nine hours to read it this time around.

Heat and humidity hit me like a wall when I stepped off the plane in China. I was thankful for my short hair, which I’d cut only two days before leaving. I had been apprehensive all week about the haircut, because I haven’t had short-hair since I was in elementary school, when my parents cut my hair. It had essentially taken me a life-time to cultivate my long hair, not to mention the hundreds of dollars I’d dropped on it months before. But I bit the bullet and had it all cut off. Now my hair was an angled bob; it was so short I barely recognized myself in the mirror.

My aunt and uncle met me at the Nanjing airport and soon I was home, or at least home for the next week. It occurred to me in the airport that between now and September, I have no home, so I’ve decided to call all my temporary lodgings as ‘home’.

1. I hate sitting behind the wings, it’s too loud.

Ah, Paris, the city of lights.

For me, Paris was the city of world-famous art museums, night-time strolls, and impeccably trimmed gardens. I wore scarves. I walked along the Seine. I ate Pierre Hermé macarons. I went to the Louvre – three times. I had wine on the Pont Neuf bridge. I made a four-course gourmet meal in our apartment. I went shopping in the Saint-Germin-des-Pres district. I dined until midnight on a street patio of a corner cafe on the Pont de L’Ile Saint Louis. I found myself in a block party. I drank wine on our balcony as I watched the sun set behind the Eiffel Tower. I bought art from street painters in the Latin Quarter. I got scouted by a French film director outside the Notre Dame. I napped in the Versailles gardens.

I fell in love, with Paris.

And I met a boy.

I met SHB on a pub crawl through Montmartre, which started at Moulin Rouge and ended at a club on the Champs-Élysées. He was into me the moment he saw me. I, on the other hand, was looking for more of a challenge. But my wing-man for the night, Vin Diesel, said this guy checked out. SHB was a) from Singapore, and b) from business school. That was all I really needed to know.

In between kamikaze shots, I learned that he had been on exchange at the business school in Norway. Incidentally, two of my friends from Business School had also been on exchange there. So we knew people in common. I warmed up to this stranger instantaneously.
I like that he laughed at my jokes and dressed well. He liked that I was funny and dressed well. It was like a match made in heaven.

Almost.

There’s always a caveat, isn’t there?

He was getting perfect 10s on everything. But he lost a point when he told me to flirt with the bartender in order to “upgrade” to stiffer drinks. I mean, why, oh why, would you encourage the girl you’re interested in to flirt with someone else, bar-god-in-charge-of-drinks or not? And he lost another point for not offering to pay 2 euros for me to use the bathroom. Yes, it’s ridiculous that there is a cover charge to use the bathroom inside the club, and yes, it’s ridiculous that it was anything more than 0.50 EUR like all other bathroom-cover-charges. But I didn’t ask him to buy me a single drink all evening (nor did he offer – don’t think I didn’t notice) because I know, I know, we’re all students, traveling, poor, etc. etc. But seriously, when it comes to 2 euros, regardless of what it’s for¹, it’s not about the money anymore, it’s about the chivalry. Be a gentleman and at least offer.

Otherwise, we had a fantastic night. He was a great dancer, made even more impressive by the fact that 99% of the Asian guys I have met in my life are terrible dancers and usually skulk on the edge of the dance floor. Although his -2 points made me wonder whether he was The One for me, he was definitely The One for the night. We danced and danced, and when we tired of dancing, we made out on the couches.

You might say, “But SG, you don’t make out with guys when you actually like them!” And you would be right, but we were in Paris, who knew if I was going to see him again?

He was leaving for Barcelona the next day, but he immediately added me on Facebook (+1 for enthusiasm, +1 for not pestering me with demanding messages) and asked for my Skype contact. I didn’t give it to him, because Skype is kind of an escalation of commitment (isn’t it?) and I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. Instead, we have been chatting somewhat regularly on Facebook² and he seems to be looking forward to my arrival in Singapore.

So, at least I have one date when I get to Singapore.

1. I know it’s hard for many North Americans to stomach the injustice of having to pay for restrooms, much less restrooms inside of clubs that already charge a 20 euro cover.
2. We’ve been playing a game of Facebook tag because of the time difference. He is still traveling whereas Paris was my last stop.

I know, I know, I just came back from Europe and I’m traveling again? Well, yes. On what money? Haven’t figured that out yet.

I’m going to Nanjing first, to see my grandma and close relatives. Then I’m going to Shanghai for a week with WAF. If you’ve been following me on Twitter, you’ll know how excited I was to book our hotel in Shanghai, because it’s in a super good location and it was also super cheap – only $180 CAD for four nights! Ridiculous, I know. This is why I love traveling in China, it makes me feel rich even when I have never felt poorer¹.
WAF is excited to go clubbing in Shanghai, and frankly I am too, because I’ve never been to Shanghai without my parents/relatives. I’m sure it’ll be a very different experience to go with a friend, as adults, than my childhood visits. I’m a little anxious though, given WAF‘s track-record on going out. I tried to talk to her about some ground rules for our own protection, but I don’t think I’ll be able to control her. She told me flat out that she is looking to get laid, but what am I going to do if she leaves me alone in the club and goes home with some guy? And how am I going to make sure the guy returns her to me the next morning, alive and relatively unscathed? I am never as trusting around strangers when I’m traveling, especially when I don’t have male companions, but WAF is like a (drunken) train wreck with Daddy Issues stamped on her forehead, just asking for trouble. Luckily we’re only in Shanghai for four days so that limits the number of guys she can sleep with amount of mischief she can get up to.

From Shanghai, we’ll be flying to Hong Kong together, and I’ll be staying with FBB. FBB is the guy I am supposed to marry. My parents and his parents arranged our marriage when I was born (I know, what century are we living in, right?). I have never met him, although I’ve met his parents a few times and I like them. So maybe I will like him too, who knows?

FBB and I have exchanged emails from time to time since he’s an investment banker and I was going through recruiting and I had a lot of questions for him and his kind (before I settled on consulting). We have not talked about our parents’ ridiculous marriage arrangement though; I don’t think either of us take it seriously. And if we don’t talk about it, maybe it won’t be real. Right?

Originally, I was only going to Hong Kong because NB was getting an apartment there (he starts work there next month) and said I’d be welcome to crash at his place any time. But when I actually confirmed the dates with him to book my ticket, NB withdrew his invitation because his girlfriend would also be staying with him at that time. I was pretty bummed until… I remembered FBB had also offered, a year ago, accommodation should I ever go to Hong Kong. But it has been so long and I didn’t know if he was serious or just being polite. Well, he was surprisingly eager to host me when I mentioned I wanted to go to Hong Kong in August, and long story short, I will be spending a week in Hong Kong in the apartment of my potential future husband.

Arranged marriages can be useful after all.

1. This is the first time in four years that I don’t have an income, and my bank account has been so depleted after Europe.

From my travel journal:

The weather is rather gloomy today, with a light drizzle of rain. I’m still getting used to the colder weather, after having spent nearly a month under the baking sun of Italy, Hungary, and Czech Republic.

The bad weather did provide me with an excuse to push off my day of bicycling. I had come to Amsterdam intent on renting a bike for a day, but after seeing how quickly and aggressively the locals bike here, I am feeling a little nervous about getting on the road (especially after our incident in Rome, even though that was in a park¹).

So instead, I decided to go to the Van Gogh museum.

It took me two hours to go through all of Van Gogh’s exhibitions, and to be honest, the museum’s collection did not contain his most famous works (“Starry Night” and “Café Terrace At Night”, for example), but it did provide a chronological and insightful look into how Van Gogh developed as an artist and as a person. The audio guide was really superb at painting him as a person, because it included monologues from letters he had written to his brother, Theo (his greatest supporter) throughout his lifetime.

Van Gogh’s earlier works focused on the life of the lower class, the peasants and farmers, and used dark colours much in the style of Dutch works from that period (he was, after all, a Dutch first and foremost). These paintings are very different from the style that he became known for, which I think can be attributed mostly to French influences of the Impressionist and (later) Neo-Impressionist variety. However, there was one work from his early years that impressed itself in my memory, and that was his first attempt at a group portrait, called “The Potato Eaters”.

I found it memorable not because of the painting itself, but because of the criticism he received for it. Van Gogh himself considered the painting to be a success, because it successfully portrayed the humble and hardworking peasants eating a simple meal that they had earned at the end of a long day. However, other artists criticized Van Gogh’s lack of skill as an artist. What impresses me is Van Gogh’s response to this criticism: “Whatever” (my modern interpretation of his reaction, which was to send back the letter of criticism to its writer). I was surprised at how unaffected he was by the criticism, both as a professional and as a person. He did not alter his belief that his painting was a success, nor did he allow himself to doubt his abilities as an artist. To me, “The potato eaters” is an early example of Van Gogh’s passion for art.

Van Gogh’s happiest times were undoubtedly in Arles (one of the towns in southern France that we ended up skipping, to my chagrin), although in my mind, his artwork from this period was not his best. This period was more of a time of practice for him, experimenting with light colours and pointillism². From this period, “Seascape near Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer” (June 1888) stood out to me, as did “The Harvest” (June 1888).

I saw “The Harvest” at the very end of the Arles exhibition, and knowing what was to come later in his life, it made me cry. I literally stood in front of the painting, in an exhibit filled with people, and started to cry. It was so completely heartbreaking to me, to hear of his enthusiasm and optimism, his love for nature’s beauty and his passion for life, and to know that he would be gravely disappointed by life. I felt the same way when I saw the “Yellow House” but it did not move me to tears as “The Harvest” did. I was rooted to the spot in front of the painting, unable to bring myself to the next exhibit, which displayed his paintings from his days in a mental hospital in Saint-Rémy.

“The garden of St. Paul’s Hospital” (October 1889) was a moving picture from his time in the mental hospital. It is one of my favourites, although not a painting I care to own because it is all about anguish. At first glance, it doesn’t seem nearly as dark as it could be, with a bright vivid sunset in the background. But the sunset is outside the walls, outside his confines, out of reach. What is within reach is a tree with one large stump cut off. The gnarly trees of the garden in the courtyard might have meant to be tranquil, but, from Van Gogh’s eyes, they are not soothing at all. The dark outlines show influence from Japanese prints, as it was well-known that Van Gogh greatly admired, and collected, Japanese prints. Surprisingly, the picture does not evoke a sense of depression or loneliness, but only of anguish, as if the setting sun is indicative of the setting of his life, and while the sun may be renewed by a new day, he will only be getting closer to death within the confines of the walls.

Luckily, Van Gogh continued to paint, relatively optimistically I would say, during these days, and produced my favourite painting of the entire museum, “Wheatfield with a reaper” (Sept. 1889).

You really have to see the original painting to appreciate it, because I’ve seen print and even oil reproductions of this painting and it is nowhere near as striking as the original. In the original, the wheatfield is dynamic and moving, a brilliant golden sea like nothing I’ve ever seen. The sky is a rich turquoise. And I know Van Gogh must have liked this painting a lot too, for it contained his favourite colour: yellow – and my favourite combination of his: yellow and blue. There is a reaper in the field, working diligently to harvest the wheat. What struck me as bizarre was the fact that he is alone. He is working alone with a scythe in a vast sea of gold, and he almost looks like a demon, or the reaper that takes away human souls. Maybe this is what Van Gogh was thinking, but this was not a sad painting. If anything, it shows Van Gogh’s acceptance of death, of what was to come, inevitably, for everyone.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to buy either of these paintings at the gift shop because they were either poor print reproductions, expensive (and poor) canvas reproductions, or non-existent. I did end up buying a print reproduction of “Wheatfield under thunderclouds” because I thought it was the best display of Van Gogh’s own style, even though the painting had not moved me the way “The Harvest” did.

On the street, I also bought a small canvas reproduction of “Café Terrace At Night” because it was my first favourite painting (before I ever started going to art museums and learning about artists and styles) and the entire reason for my being interested in Van Gogh in the first place.

In the future, I hope to own original paintings. That is why I buy print reproductions of my favourite pieces every time I go to an art museum. First, it’s so I won’t forget my favourite paintings from their exhibit. Second, it’s to support the museum, because I’d rather get the print from their gift shop (for a higher price) than to buy it off a street vendor.
I’m not a serious art lover, and I don’t plan to be a professional art collector by any means. But I know what I like and why I like it, and of the prints that I have bought, I continue to be enthralled by them each time I look at them, and that is enough for me to justify an investment.

Being on the road for as long as we have been, it’s a bit tricky to carry around giant art prints or canvases. That’s why I’ve refrained from buying large prints so far on the trip; instead, I’ve been resorting to buying small prints or postcards. However, since we’re close to our last stop, Paris, and I know I’m going to be buying art prints there, I think I’ll be able to bring these art prints home without much damage.

In total I ended up bringing home 2 large art prints, 3 small prints, 2 real paintings, and countless postcards. If/When I return to Europe and I have settled down (more permanently), I’m definitely planning to buy real canvases with which to decorate my home.

1. I have yet to blog about this, but in Rome, Charmander, Violinist and I got into an accident in a riscio.
2. A la Georges Seurat, whose famous painting “Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte” is still in my mind after I saw it in Chicago.

I had been warned that Rome would be full of tourists, like Venice, and that I might not enjoy it very much. Not so. I had hated Venice because I felt like I couldn’t grasp its character, it was filled with diverse tourists but very few locals (except the ones trying to sell you stuff) that I felt like I could have been anywhere in the world. But Rome was very much an Italian city, the quintessential Italian city, in fact.

We saw the famous sights such as the Colosseum, the Arch of Constantine, the Roman Forum, and the Trevi Fountain in a day, but it was Rome by night that I fell in love with. The Colosseum looked much more imposing at night, and in the shadows, I could almost imagine that the modern streets were replaced with stone paths of old.

Piazzas (squares) were scattered every few blocks in downtown Rome, and filled with people: having a late meal on street patios, watching a street performer play with fire, having a drink with friends, or even buying art from the amateur painters and portraitists. Each piazza was more lively than the last, and the entire city was buzzing with energy well into the night. We sat on the Spanish steps with our own little alcohol-sponsored picnic, among countless other youngsters, and chatted for hours – this was the Roman thing to do.

Other Roman things to do were to eat pizza and gelato, and SwissGuard found the “best pizza” and “best gelato” in Rome according to the Internet.

When my high school friends went on their Vatican tour, I found myself in a park north of city center. There were many families and couples and groups of friends there, picnicking, renting bikes and riscios². I found a bench in the shade, and fully passed out. I had never thought of sleeping on a park bench as appealing at all – in fact, I thought it sounded rather sketchy – but that afternoon, I was so exhausted that finding a place to lie down was of the utmost importance³. I slept for over two hours, entirely uninterrupted, which is rather impressive if you’ve ever tried sleeping on a public bench. When I woke up, I was utterly disoriented because, well, I don’t think I quite expected to find myself sleeping on a park bench.

The Vatican was too stunning for words. Obviously it housed too many pieces of art for us to examine one-by-one, but seeing the architecture, the ceilings and floors, the marble and gold, was enough for me.

The frescoes in the Vatican are unparalleled. But since I wasn’t allowed to take pictures inside the Sistine Chapel, I will instead show you a picture of two cute Swiss guards! Our tour guide surmised that there is some sort of “hotness requirement” for the Swiss guards that stand outside in the Vatican because they are always really good-looking.

I was in Rome for five days, but halfway through my stay, I stopped taking pictures. When asked why, I responded, “There is too much beauty in Rome. I can’t do justice with my camera. I’m just going to have to soak it in.” And that’s exactly what I did.

1. Jasmine, Vin Diesel, Jack Sparrow, TuxedoMask
2. Like this.
3. I couldn’t go back to the hostel because we only had one key and my high school friends had it; I forgot to ask for it before they left for their tour.

• The fact that they speak German. I’m sorry, but German is not a pretty language. I think the only reason I’d want to learn German would be to flirt with German guys, and even then, all I would need to learn is “I don’t speak German, do you speak English?”
• The fact that everything is closed on Sunday – but by this point, we were pretty used to this in Europe.
• The low number of good-looking guys and the high number of creepy-looking guys. We saw a drug deal go down across the street from our hostel, and this is on one of the main roads!

Now, onto the positives. Vienna is a beautiful city, with the most stunning architecture of all the cities we’d been to. Our classmate, RussianGirl, was on exchange in Vienna, so she showed us around on the first day. She took us to the most famous sights, and we took plenty of breaks in-between in their many cafes and parks¹.

We stopped for coffee at a café in the MuseumsQuartier, which had a post-modern installation of hot pink blocks that many young Viennese hipsters were sunbathing in.

We also had the Original Sacher Torte at the Sacher hotel restaurant. It looks just like a chocolate cake, but the difference is that there’s a layer of apricot jam in the middle that gives it a tang.

We took our time walking through Naschmarkt, which is an open-air market that also has a lot of cafes and restaurants lining its streets, and I found myself in gastronomic heaven.

That night, RussianGirl took us clubbing with her at a university clubbing event. We pre-drank in their residence, where I learned that “Up the River” was a deadly drinking game. The club itself was just a dance floor, and it was packed with students and locals. It became unbearably hot in the club as soon as people started dancing. There were surprisingly few good-looking guys in the crowd, and a surprisingly high number of creepers, so I tried to stay as close to my group as possible.

The next morning, I went to Kunsthistorich Museum (KHM) by myself because I knew it wasn’t something that everyone would want to go to. The building looked grand from the outside, but ten times more impressive on the inside. The inside was all marble and gold, with a high dome ceiling, grand staircases, and white statue lions at the foot of each staircase. It was absolutely breath-taking.

The art pieces were not as impressive as the architecture, but after listening to the audio guide, I still concluded that it was one of the best curated museums I’d seen on the trip so far (although not as good as the museums I’d been to in San Francisco). My favourite piece from the KHM was Bohnenkönigs by Jacob Jordaens ².

We went to Schonbrunn Palace in the afternoon. In addition to seeing the ornately decorated rooms of the palace, it was fascinating to listen to the audio guide explain the stories of the people who used to occupy these rooms: the powerful yet compassionate Empress Maria Theresa, the beautiful Empress Sisi who disliked courtly rituals and disliked her aunt and mother-in-law, and the workaholic Emperor Franz I.

We returned to Naschmarkt for dinner. I wanted to try a wiener schnitzel, a traditional Austrian and Viennese dish. It turned out to be exactly what I’d think breaded and fried pork taste like³ – just like the da pai we made in our family except we use a pork chop cut, or like the Japanese katsu (breaded pork cutlet).

Then we had dinner at Deli, a very popular café in Naschmarkt. There were tons of locals there, hanging out with a drink and cigarette. Apparently this is where everyone went in the afternoon/evening.

After dinner, we met our friends at Schonbrunn Palace again for the free classical music concert by the Vienna Philharmonic. It was held outdoors in the Schonbrunn Palace gardens, and the place was filled with people as far as the eye could see. I would estimate there were over 10,000 people there, of all ages.

Vienna is the classiest city I have ever been to. I love the culture of reading newspapers in cafes, picnicking in parks, and listening to outdoor classical music concerts with a bottle of wine. I love the ornate architecture and the marble statues and the everflowing fountains. I love Vienna, and I hope to live there one day.

1. See the article on Viennese cafes.
2. The painting depicts the Flemish folk custom on Epiphany Day: the person able to find a bean hidden in a cake becomes king of the Feast, and then chooses the most beautiful woman as queen. Those others present assume “honorary offices”. The Latin inscription (in English: “None is closer to the fool than the drunkard”) lends the degenerate carryings-on a moralistic undertone. Artistically Jordaens absorbed himself in the art of Caravaggio, Rubens and other Dutch painters, yet developed a characteristic style of his own.
3. It’s supposed to be veal but I’m almost certain the one we had was pork, a common replacement these days.

Anyhow, the story goes that this Parisian, FPB, was staying at our hostel in Budapest with his best friend, SFB. On our second night in Budapest, our hostel organized a pub crawl. My friends and I pre-drank in the common room, playing drinking games and chatting with our fellow hostelers. The two French boys came to the common room but stood on the peripheral of the merriment, speaking only to each other in French. Eventually, my friends used their poor French to drag them into our game.
We were playing Kings, and for some reason, my friends were trying to get me drunk, so whenever they could dole out “penalty shots”, they always ordered me to take them. And like a good sport, I did. But my pride is a lot bigger than my alcohol tolerance and by the time we headed to Szimpla, a garden-bar that also offered shisha, I was drunk.

The two French boys chatted with me on the walk over. SFB had been rather quiet all night, but in a shy way, and I found him easy to talk to when he didn’t feel the pressure to entertain a crowd. FPB, on the other hand, was quiet in a moody, intense way. He tried to keep pace with me, but wasn’t as talkative.

When we got to the bar, FPB offered to buy shisha for my friends and I. To show me that he was doing it for me, he asked me to go with him to the bar (which was a walk away from the seats we’d taken up in the garden) to pick a flavour. For the rest of the night, his attention never left me. Perhaps he had his attention on me even earlier, at the hostel, but I’m not one to notice these things until they become very obvious – and he was very obvious. He seemed to loosen up after we started smoking, and soon, he was telling me his life story. He wasn’t drunk at all, but I was, and I was enraptured by his accent and how serious he looked when he talked. He complimented me on my French, but for the most part, we spoke English. I learned that he grew up in Paris and went into the military for a few years after university. He trained in tae kwon do for eight years, so he told me I could feel safe with him. I did. He was now on a two-year round-the-world trip, alone, but his friend had joined him for this week in Budapest because he was feeling a little lonely traveling by himself. He didn’t seem to need to work, he was vague about where his money came from, but he had enough money to travel for two years before worrying about getting a job.

Although he was very serious, I did manage to make him smile a few times. He was a complete gentleman, and only reached for my hand after we established that the attraction was mutual. My trip-mates were worried about leaving me alone with him, so we went back to the hostel with everybody else, but after my friends went upstairs to bed, we hung out in the common room and eventually went for a walk outside. He was much more talkative when we were alone, and as I walked with him hand-in-hand, I had to continually remind myself where I was. I was walking around in Budapest with a Parisian boy. How did this happen?

We walked until we found a bench and chatted until 4 am. We talked about our families and our childhood, and realized that despite how different we seemed at first, we had a lot in common. We were both extremely independent, despite the fact that he had two siblings and I had none. He was constantly trying to make his father proud of him because his father was the chief of police and was absent for most of his childhood, whereas I was trying to make my parents proud because they had invested their entire lives in me.

We kissed on the bench under the moonlight, but only for a minute, and then he pulled me into his chest and held me. “I never expected to meet someone like this, especially not someone with whom I have such a deep connection. This is very special.”

After a while, I told him I should head back to the hostel. Although we never ran out of things to say, it was getting very late. He kissed me lightly before we said goodnight. “See you tomorrow,” he whispered as he let go of me.

Tomorrow?

—

The next morning, as my friends and I were making breakfast, FPB and his friend came down to the common room. It was a little awkward, I had never really considered what the next day would be like, it simply hadn’t factored into my mind.
In the morning, his expressionless and serious demeanor seemed a lot less charming than the previous night. What had I been thinking? We chatted a bit, attempting to ignore the awkwardness. My friends, however, ignored the two French boys completely, even though the previous night we’d all been drinking together. I didn’t really know what that was about, and it put me in a really uncomfortable situation.

We were planning to go to the public baths that day. The French boys started walking with us as we were leaving the hostel. Are they coming with us?, I mouthed to Vin Diesel, and he shrugged to say he didn’t know. I felt like I had missed something – I wasn’t sure who invited them, or if they were invited at all. Jasmine seemed really unhappy that they were coming with us, so I asked FPB whether they were coming with us. In a roundabout way, he asked me whether I wanted them to come, and judging by the looks from my friends, I said no², and he and his friend left us.

—

On our last day in Budapest, we wanted to take Coco and PrinceW out for brunch, but were also dealing with a little transportation crisis of our own, since we didn’t seem to be able to buy tickets to Vienna.

At 1pm, when I went outside the hostel to check if Coco had arrived, I ran into FPB at the doors. As I was walking past him, he stopped me and asked what was going on. “I just want to know, what happened? We were all hanging out last night, having a good time, and this morning, you and your friends just ignore us. Did something happen? Did we do something? What happened?”

I felt a horrible knot in my stomach, I didn’t know how to deal with this. I mean, for the most part, my friends were the ones who started the silent treatment, but I didn’t want to point the finger at them when clearly I went along with it. Although I had enjoyed our one night together, I wasn’t ready to turn it into anything else. I should have known he would take it seriously; he thought he had met someone special. I now realized that he had thought he would be able to spend time with me until I left. But the thing was, I didn’t want to be somebody special, I was content being nobody, a random girl he met at a hostel one night out of the many nights of his trip. But, even without the language and cultural barriers, how could I even begin to explain that to him in under five minutes?

“I don’t know,” I finally said. In the split second that he gave me to answer, all I could say was, “I really don’t know what happened.”
“Ok.” He quickly turned around and walked away without giving me any chance to explain. All the better, I thought, because an explanation would take a lot more time than I had liberty to give at the moment.

I felt like I was being cruel to him, but at the same time, it was so easy. Meeting a stranger was completely commitment-free. Even if I felt guilty about it, we were going to Vienna in a few hours, and I could forget it completely. In hindsight, even if I had tried to explain it to him, it wouldn’t have changed anything, and I wouldn’t be able to make it up to him. I suppose this is the sort of thing boys do all the time, one night they’re all over you and the next morning they act like they don’t know you. I never thought I would be doing it to someone (and so by-the-book), much less a cute Parisian. At that moment, I decided that in the future, I really needed to think twice before hooking up with hostelers, especially if they/we were staying more than one night.

—

When we arrived in Vienna, I saw that FPB had sent me a message on Facebook³. Man, this guy was not giving up. He asked me once again what had happened in Budapest, and told me that he took my actions for rejection. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings more that I already had, but seriously, what did this guy want from me? Why couldn’t he just write me off?

Over the next few weeks, he sent me several long messages, often without waiting for my reply. Nothing gets on my nerves more than a clingy boy. I knew Europeans were more forthcoming than Americans, but this was ridiculous – I had known this guy for one night, and we weren’t even in the same country anymore. Why was he bothering with me?

I said as much to him, and he told me he was disappointed. “I secretly thought maybe I could visit you in Singapore,” he wrote. Bugger. Did I tell him that I would be in Singapore or was it one of my stupid friends? I made a mental note not to mention it to strangers for the rest of my trip, for fear they would turn into international stalkers.

In the end, I blocked him. Our one-night connection for me was just that, one night. I had written him off on our last day in Budapest when I realized that I couldn’t give him the answer he wanted. I never expected him to take it so seriously, to fall for me, and to be so persistent. In my head, this scenario might have been romantic, even charming; a guy was finally fighting for me the way countless others have failed to, he wasn’t going to let me walk away so easily (certainly that was MFL‘s greatest shortcoming). Perhaps I’ve even had this fantasy before. But in reality, I found it frustrating. Once I write someone off, there’s no going back. I replied to his initial Facebook message out of guilt, to try to give him some closure. But that wasn’t what he wanted. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t have a choice.

1. Americans, don’t be offended when I say this, but #2 and #3 are in fact distinct.
2. I didn’t exactly say no, he seemed to get the message. Actually I’m really not sure what was being exchanged in that conversation.
3. It’s not easy to find me on Facebook, I’m not listed on the Search. Apparently he had asked to befriend Vin Diesel first in order to find me. He told me this much. I didn’t know if he wanted me to congratulate him for his dedication or block him for being creepy.

As we walked out of the airport into the gray, damp Hungarian afternoon, two black cars pulled up like clockwork. One Mercedes and one BMW. As promised, Coco, our friend from The Business School, was picking us up. She’s the one that’s marrying the Hungarian millionaire. Coco appeared from the second car in a leather-print Prada dress with gray, suede LV booties, and an LV purse¹. You’d think she had just come from a photo shoot, but this was apparently the way she dressed in her natural habitat. We were just going to have to get used to the fact that, around her, we would be perpetually under-dressed.

Coco’s fiance, PrinceW was driving one car, and his cousin was driving the other. They helped us load our luggage, but as we were ready to leave, a policeman walked up to us. He spoke to the cousin in Hungarian, and the cousin said something back. We asked if there was a problem, his cousin told me (in Mandarin²) that everything was fine and to get in the car. Later, his cousin told me that the policeman had told them they weren’t allowed to stop in the middle of the road (which they did, I noticed, instead of pulling over to the side of the road), but all he wanted was a bribe. Since I never saw money exchange hands, I didn’t ask whether a bribe was actually given.

On the drive to our hostel, I got to know them a little better. It turns out both PrinceW and his cousin had not gone to university, but instead were “entrepreneurs” in Budapest. “All Chinese in Budapest are rich,” PrinceW explained to me in Mandarin, “everyone is here to do business. Mostly importing Chinese goods to sell to Hungarians.” Clearly, it was paying off, because at every street corner, Coco or PrinceW would point out a business owned by one of their friends or relatives. They also shared their favourite sights with us, including Castle Hill and, more importantly, Louis Vuitton. “Remember this Louis Vuitton, there’s also another one near the Opera house. There’s a Dolce&Gabbana there too. PrinceW loves D&G,” Coco said, as if she was pointing out a grocery store to us. “Although, you might want to wait until Paris to buy LV, because their tax is lower.” More like, I might want to wait until I start earning income before I even consider buying LV, I thought to myself.
It was so strange the way they talked about luxury goods. It wasn’t as if they were showing off, to them, pointing out the location of an LV store was the same as pointing out the location of an H&M. I looked at Coco, with her LV bag, LV heels, Chanel necklace and earrings, and Prada dress. When everything you own comes from a luxury store, LV does seem kind of like an H&M right? Right?

Other than the LV comments, Coco and PrinceW are as down to earth as anyone. They were the most generous hosts I have ever met, the kind of hosting I only witness in older generations, when we’re visiting (or receiving) relatives. For people of my generation, their generosity was unheard of, especially considering we weren’t even friends with Coco in school. For example, after they dropped us off at hostel, they drove us to our first destination, Castle Hill. As we were getting out of the car, they pressed money into our hands because all we had were Euros, no one had any Hungarian Forints. I felt overwhelmed by their generosity, and I told my trip-mates we needed to go to a bank ASAP so we could pay them back. In hindsight, the money they lent us probably wasn’t a big deal, like lending someone $10 to buy lunch. Nonetheless, it was considerate and unexpected.

That night, Coco and PrinceW took us to a restaurant called Sir Lancelot, which had a medieval theme from head to toe. The dining hall was set up with long wooden tables and benches. The waitresses were barmaids wearing midriffs, exposing some serious cleavage, and the waiters wore traditional cloth costumes, like the brown cloth that knights wore underneath their armor.
We left the ordering to PrinceW, and soon, a platter of meat the size of our table arrived. It required two men to carry. On it, there was a huge assortment of roasted meats, including pheasant, duck, turkey, pork, beef, lamb, roasted potatoes and vegetables soaking under the meat, and an assortment of marinated vegetables on the side. So this was what a medieval feast looked like.

Of course we had a lot of leftover, despite the boys’ claims that they could “take care of it.” Halfway through dinner, there was also entertainment in the form of bellydancing and a quick joust. It was a great first meal in Budapest, and there were more great meals to come.

On our last night in Budapest, PrinceW and Coco took us to Spoon, a fancy restaurant on a boat on the Danube. It was the restaurant where they had wanted to hold their engagement party, so I was very excited to see it (and taste the food, of course).

The ambiance of the restaurant was unbelievable. The Danube had flooded so the restaurant built their own bridge to the boat³.

From where we were sitting, we could see across the Danube to the lit bridge and Castle Hill.

The food took a while to come, I think they forgot about us because there was a wedding downstairs. The food had potential but it had clearly been sitting out for too long because our meat was all dried.

PrinceW ordered two of every dessert on the menu so we had a giant sweet feast at the end of the meal.

After dinner, they drove us to a clubbing district on an island. The club we went to was a garden club, decorated with white sofas, white beams and railings, and blue ponds in between walk-ways. PrinceW got us a VIP corner and drinks appeared continually throughout the night as if by magic.

Coco had said that this was the playground of the rich, and indeed we did see a wealthy crowd, although there was also an assortment of young hooligans and lots and lots of Eurotrash and fake tits. The house music took a little getting used to, but we still had a good time. They didn’t do a lot of dancing though, mostly sitting around, bobbing to the music, drinking and chain smoking. After a while, a group of their Chinese friends showed up. I was suddenly reminded of my nights out with the Chinese crowd at University Town. This was the same thing – as soon as they arrived, the boys were pressuring each other to drink and constantly trying to one-up each other. In a span of half an hour, they went through at least forty beers (and only a few boys were drinking). PrinceW drank some too, but not too much since he had to drive. Vin Diesel redirected the attention on PrinceW to himself, and ended up chugging five beers in a row and getting quite drunk.

Suddenly, the music stopped. We noticed there were policemen on the stage and around the entrance of the club. What was going on? People were starting to rush out of the club. After a few minutes, we found out that there had been a bomb threat and they were evacuating the place to look for a bomb. We looked at each other incredulously, then grabbed our stuff and followed the crowd out. The boys had just ordered another 40 beers, which were now just sitting on our table.

Although the night was cut short, we still had an amazing time. This was just one more thing to add to the list of things that surprised me in Budapest.

1. I didn’t recall seeing her like this in Business School, but then again, I’m usually not one to notice what someone’s wearing unless I make a point to.
2. PrinceW and his cousin spoke very little English, so most of the time, they spoke to me in Mandarin and I’d translate for my trip-mates. Coco spoke English but she still preferred Mandarin, so it ended up being that I was the only one communicating with them for the most part.
3. There were many restaurant-boats along the Danube, but most of them couldn’t afford to build a temporary bridge during the flooding.

When I reached Riomaggiore, I took my time to explore the town since we hadn’t really gone in the day before. Like all Cinque Terre towns, I had to walk up a steep hill to get to the central town, but the views were worth it.

As I was jogging back, I was stopped by a woman at the information desk, who said I needed a park pass to go onto Via Dell’Amor, since it was part of the National Park of Cinque Terre. This I knew as soon as she reminded me, but I didn’t have anything on me except my music player. How was I to get back? She wouldn’t let me through, not even out of pity, but she told me to take the train.
I didn’t have money so I couldn’t buy a train ticket either, but perhaps I could go on without being checked by inspection officers. After all, it was only one stop, and in the trains we’ve taken on our trip so far, we’ve only been checked 50% of the time.

Unfortunately, as the train pulled into the station, I could see there were a lot of inspection officers on board. Nonetheless, I sucked in a breath and got on the train. With each chug chug of the train moving forward, I could hear my heart beating loudly. I suddenly had the terrifying thought that I was going to be caught. What would they do to me? I couldn’t even pay the fine because I had no money on me, nor any identification. What if they threw me in a holding cell while I waited for someone to vouch for me? Oh God, I thought, imagining myself on the inside of an Italian jail cell, I don’t want to be the dumb tourist who got thrown into jail for going jogging at 7am! This is what I get for trying to be healthy, I thought to myself, I knew I’d be better off not exercising.

Luckily, I got off the train at my stop without being checked, walking boldly and quickly straight past an inspection officer.

We spent our last day in Cinque Terre trying to cover all the towns. We trained to Monterosso, walked around, then took the train to Vernazza. We had lunch in Vernazza; I searched for farinata (foccacia with chickpea flour) hopelessly: the only two stores that sold it were both out. The hike from Vernazza to Manarola was quite strenuous, but it felt good to be hiking and sweating. When we returned to Manarola, it was time for us to catch a train to La Spezia, a city not far from Cinque Terre.

We were staying in a B&B in La Spezia. The B&B was in a nice house in the suburbs. It was a wonderful change from our hostel stays. For one thing, we had a bathroom that was bigger than the size of a closet. We had a shower that we could actually turn in. And our shower time was not limited to 5 minutes like the Manarola hostel (honestly, it was like a god-damn military camp. No guests, strict curfew, limited shower time, and we couldn’t even enter the hostel from 10am-4pm). Even better, there was wi-fi! So we all took turns Skyping/emailing our parents (the Manarola hostel didn’t have internet so our parents hadn’t heard from us in a few days).

On our way to the B&B, we passed by a small pizza place that advertised farinata (focaccia made from chickpea flour). Since I hadn’t been able to try it in Vernazza, I decided to try it here. The farinata tasted awful. Truly awful. I don’t know if they were doing it right because it was nothing like focaccia, it was like a weird soggy crepe. But the locals were buying heaps of it so maybe that is farinata.

On our first morning in Cinque Terre, I went for a walk around our town, Manarola, at dawn. It immediately charmed me, with its colourful houses on the cliff-side, facing a vast green and turquoise sea.

I walked into a restaurant/bakery and bought a focaccia with tomato for breakfast, then I went to the small grocery next door and bought some fruit, cookies, and water in anticipation of our hike. I noticed that everything was more expensive here than in France. I don’t know if that was because these were small towns or because they were tourist hot spots or because Italy is just more expensive – maybe all three. All I knew was that I missed France; service in Italy was not as friendly or helpful. I was starting to form a theory that Italians were just more lazy, which was later confirmed by the state of their trains – poor¹, the hours of operation for our hostel and all the shops in town – few², and the extent to which they will go out of their way to help you – non-existent.

By 9:30 am, Vin Diesel and I were setting out on our hike to the next town, Corniglia. The distance was only 1.0 km, but it involved a lot of steep climbs, so it took over an hour. We spent a good 45 minutes in the town of Corniglia, which seemed more touristy than our own, before heading back. By the time we reached our town again, our friends had arrived from Monaco. We went out for lunch together in a great little trattoria in Manarola. Everything we ordered was more delicious than the last, and I devoured my own plate of trofie with sea bass with gusto.

After lunch, we went to the beach in Monterosso, the biggest of the Cinque Terre towns and the only one with a sandy beach. In fact, the beach was still quite rocky, but it didn’t affect me. I dived right in to the waves of the Mediterranean while my friends sunbathed. I swam for a good half hour before returning to the beach. Although the water felt cold at first, it was much warmer compared to my previous experiences swimming in the ocean (Atlantic and Pacific). Moreover, the water was so clean! There were some natural debris floating around (sticks, tree bark, sea gull feather), but for the most part, the water was crystal clear and did not smell at all.

We went back to the hostel (finally open) to shower, then walked to Riomaggiore and met Jenny and Roxy for drinks. For two hours, we sat on the patio built literally on a cliff, with open sea below us, sipping Italian wine and watching the sunset. Does it get any better than this? I asked myself.

We walked back to Manarola for dinner, as we had spotted a restaurant with a lobster special before we left. This restaurant was marginally cheaper than the restaurant we’d gone to for lunch, but the food was noticeably worse.

I was quite disappointed with the calamari and squid, both of which were not as fresh as I’d hoped.

The pappardelle was good, but it’s hard to go wrong with pasta when in Italy. The lobster was decent, but we only got half a lobster, and after splitting the dish, there was practically no meat left.

Instead of feeling disappointed, I looked forward to what I would eat my next day in Italy. Bacio gelato in Manarola, focaccia made with chickpeas in Vernazza, and perhaps mussels in Monterosso.

1. As compared to French trains, Italian trains were dumps. Clearly the Italians either do not care to maintain the quality of their assets or do not believe in investment in infrastructure to the same extent that the French do.
2. Our hostel was only open from 7am-10am and 4pm-12pm, the rest of the time, we cannot even go in. What kind of hostel doesn’t let you enter for most of the day?