My favourite number is 13. Not because I was born on the 13th, or that the number 13 has significance in my life, but because I figure that a number that is unlucky for some has to be lucky for someone.
Much in the same way, the year that was essentially a real-life season of Game of Thrones for the world actually turned out to be a pretty awesome year for me personally. And not because I’m a “Leave” supporter or a Donald Trump fan. My year just kind of happened that way.
So sorry (not sorry) to gloat and rub it in your face, 2016, but you did not break me. 2016 had to be lucky for someone, right? Read more
It’s not you, it’s me. We’ve had five beautiful years together, filled with ecstatic highs and bitter lows, but I think it’s now best for both of us that we should part ways. Read more
Luang Prabang might be one of the most gorgeous places I have ever laid eyes on. From the sloping roofs of gold Buddhist temples to artfully plated French-influenced cuisine to the swirling coffee colours of the Mekong, I was utterly entranced. Partly by circumstance and partly my terrible planning on my part, I only had 24 hours to enjoy this city.
My flight had landed late so it was already dark when my pickup driver arrived (he was late, drunk and had tried to take someone else to my hostel by mistake so had had to turn around and come back to the airport). I was tired, sticky in my travel clothes and grumpy about my pickup-gone-wrong when the car started weaving through the streets. Read more
This summer I worked with an eighteen-year-old Etonian. He spoke of ‘bumping into’ David Cameron at chapel, meeting Elton John, as well as hobnobbing with Damian Lewis and Tom Hiddleston at alumna events. He wore the uniform of penguin tailcoats to school every day. Dubbed as one of the best young musicians in the country, he was a cellist. A bloody good cellist.
Needless to say, we had absolutely nothing in common. He was an alien to me. I was pretty sure I was going to hate him. Read more
He was a professor at the University of Padua. He had lived all over the world. He brewed his own prosecco, and it tasted delicious. He was Italian. He had the words ‘Will you marry me?’ tattooed onto his chest. That was how he proposed to his now-fiancé.
What I love about Italians is that they say exactly what they mean, they are passionate about what they believe in, and they never skirt around a topic. You can’t get more ‘take it or leave it’ than that.
And of course, as soon as he learned I was from the UK, the conversation inevitably turned to the recent Brexit result. We drank his homemade prosecco and discussed it over the dinner table together; Italian, British, European.
Brexit has been a constant companion on my trip to Italy this summer; like my terrible tan lines, except more annoying and more difficult to get rid of. As soon as I mention that I’m from the UK people immediately say, ‘I’m so sorry about the Brexit situation. What is going on with the UK at the moment?’
That’s the reaction that Brexit is having in Europe and the rest of the world. Pity and bewilderment.
My first week in Italy was tainted by the news that the UK had voted to leave the EU. Tainted because it wasn’t the result I wanted or needed. The confirmation came through one morning of my training week at work.
There was a big group of 60 of us from different corners of the globe, excited to work in Europe for the summer. You could tell who the Brits in the room were because we couldn’t bring ourselves to even muster up a smile. We were distraught. The Scottish talked about independence. The Londoners pondered whether London was really so different from the rest of England and Wales. The Irish and Northern Irish were freaking out about border controls. David Cameron resigned. The pound dropped so low that we were afraid to withdraw money in euros.
The Americans, Canadians, Aussies, South Africans, Dutch and Trinidadians listened with sympathy:
‘Explain it to me,’ they said. ‘What does this mean for you now?’
We didn’t know. And we still don’t.
The next week and the weeks that followed, my Italian host families listened with sympathy:
‘Explain it to me,’ they said. ‘Why did people vote to leave?’
I can only answer that some people voted to leave because they thought it was best. They did their research. Some strongly believe that the EU doesn’t work for the UK. Some believe that the EU is undemocratic. Some believe that the money we put in to the EU could be better used elsewhere. They have their reasons, and although sometimes I don’t agree with them (and also sometimes they make very valid points that I do agree with), I can appreciate and respect their opinions.
However, many of those who voted to leave did not do their research. They didn’t consider the implications and consequences of their votes; the subtle changes as well as the huge changes it would bring; the domino effect of what this meant for the UK as a whole, for Scotland, for Northern Ireland, for those who rely on international business, or who live abroad or… the list is endless because it’s everyone.
The stories that followed the result made me so ashamed to be British. Stories of people yelling in the streets at each other, ‘Leave the country. We don’t want you here!’ Working immigrants being told to, ‘Pack your bags. You’re going home!’
Many interpreted the referendum as a vote about immigration. Those votes weren’t grounded in reason, or research, or thoughts for what was best of the people of the UK. Those votes were grounded in ignorance and hate. And therefore I can’t bring myself to respect those votes, or to respect the Brexit result itself because of them.
The issue of immigration really hits home for me because I am an immigrant. Sometimes people forget that. We like to think of an immigrant in terms of a stereotype that in reality doesn’t exist. In Hong Kong, we like to dress it up and say ‘expat’ because it sounds cooler, but at the end of the day I am an immigrant.
I left the UK in 2011 because I couldn’t get a job – any job, including unpaid internships and part-time work at McDonalds. That’s what migration is. The search for a better opportunity elsewhere. And many people congratulate me for living and working abroad, calling me brave or free-spirited or cultured, all while condemning those who come over to the UK for the same reasons.
Did you know that the UK has the highest number of citizens working abroad of any country in Europe? Therefore, Britain is the biggest producer of immigrants in Europe.
Today, I am an immigrant working in Hong Kong and I’m an immigrant working and travelling in Italy, a country in the EU. Will I still have the same freedom to work visa-free in an EU country in a couple of years’ time? Possibly. But it won’t be as easy. And this limbo period of uncertainty isn’t making it any easier.
I’ve been putting off writing a blog about Brexit partly because I still find it upsetting, partly because there are still no clear answers as to what this means for the UK, and partly because I’m sick of talking about it. But here I am writing about the dreaded B-word because the shadow it has cast on my summer here in Italy has been so vast and so dark that I can’t ignore it. It’s become a big part of my experience here.
And then an Italian man in my first host family this summer managed to sum up all of my feelings in one short sentence:
‘Europe should be a dream.’
Those words were so perfect.
Forget the politics, the backstabbing politicians, the migration issues, the refugee crisis, the threat of terrorism, the EU and the bloody money of it all, and consider that statement.
Britain likes to believe it is separate from Europe, like a big castle with a wide moat surrounding it. Britain refers to itself as the UK, Great Britain, England, Scotland, Northern Ireland, Wales… and Europe as somewhere else. A completely ‘other’ place. A place different in terms of economy, geography and values, among many other things. The UK is an island unto itself.
Except it isn’t. It’s in Europe.
Whether it’s a part of the EU or not, the UK is still in Europe. We can’t just raise anchor and move out. The British Isles aren’t going anywhere. Europe is not going anywhere.
Europe should be a dream.
It really should. Rather than thinking of Brexit as the problem, I now believe that Brexit may just be one symptom of a much larger problem. For a continent that is in reality so small, and made up of so many tiny jigsaw-piece countries, we focus more on what divides us rather than unites us.
And for a world so small, and made up of so many borders and limitations both visible and invisible, why can’t we at least attempt, hope and dream to come together, EU or no EU, to admit that we are all part of the same? That we have a responsibility to each other. We can’t let our fears of what is ‘different’ or ‘foreign’ get in the way of that.
So despite all the negativity, the uncertainty and the constant questions from others as well as myself as to what the future holds post-Brexit, this is what I’m choosing to focus on. This is what I am going to promote.
It was a question that had fluttered into my mind on the bus on the way to the airport, then on the plane to Doha, then on the second plane to Milan, upon landing at 6AM Italian time, and finally when I was ripped off at a currency conversion bureau at Milan Malpensa that left me more than a little out of pocket. Grazie mille.
As I walked through the airport to get the train into the city centre, I stepped on a message written in both Italian and English:
tutti i passi che ho fatto nella mia vita mi hanno portato qui, ora
every step I have taken in my life has led me here, now
When I rounded the corner of the street and walked up to the entrance of my hostel, trailing my case behind me, I saw a familiar yellow tram pull up outside. I remembered the quirky mismatched chairs before I saw them. The bookcases bursting with secondhand paperbacks in every language you could think of. Had there been a piano on the far wall before? Maybe. They still did the best scrambled eggs at the free breakfast bar.
What had led me here, now?
After checking in, I grabbed a plate of those eggs and chose the table nearest the window, looking around the same hostel I had stayed in four years ago. We had sat on that table, the long middle one, and drank mojitos with people we had never met before and would never see again. We had laughed. We had walked down to the canals for Nutella crepes at midnight. Well, who am I to say ‘we’? We were all strangers. I don’t remember any of their faces, let alone their names.
So the Duomo’s definitely still there…
I was inflicting a twisted déjà vu upon myself. I had returned to the same summer job, the same airport, the same city, even the same hostel that I had stayed in four years ago! So, why was I retracing my steps? None of this had happened by accident – I myself had written my resignation letter, booked my flights and packed my suitcases – but suddenly faced with the reality of being back I couldn’t understand why I had brought myself here. Why here, why now?
I surveyed the empty room. Just one guy, nibbling on some toast. It was too early for backpackers to be up yet, though I was full of energy and still on Asian time. I had done a bad job of my coffee at the self-service machine – all milk and sugar.
I opened my laptop. I started to write. And as I typed the words ‘What am I doing here?’ over and over again, allowing a stream of consciousness to fill the page, I started to realise the answer: so I could ask myself that very same question.
Sometimes people have ups and downs. Even people who look like they’re living the high life in Hong Kong. A few rough patches and bumps in the road. No more than anybody else, perhaps – that’s life – but I’d had a bumpy year… or two.
Maybe something in me remembered the summer of 2012 – dancing all night in Rome, playing drinking games in Bajardo, consuming obscene amounts of pizza, gelato and spritz aperol. And this same part of me thought, ‘Amy, you need a little more of that.’
Rome 2012 – Throw a coin into the Trevi Fountain, and you will return to Roma…Castelbelforte 2012 – So glad I don’t keep in touch with this guy. What an asshole.Venice 2012 – Gondola rideVerona 2012 – Groping Juliet’s breast
So my feet led me back here, now. Not to chase the past, relive old memories, or repeat the same experience I had already had, but to spend a summer being… happy. A summer of ‘freedom’. A summer of drinking espresso and prosecco, of eating ripe Mediterranean tomatoes like apples, of speaking Italian badly, of seeing a side of Italy that you can’t find in guide books, of laughing, of tanning, of making lifelong friends out of strangers, of singing ridiculous songs about bananas and llamas and magenta flamingoes.
And I didn’t even know I wanted and needed all of those things until I was already in Milan, questioning the motives that had led me there. Sometimes, your instincts kick in and you make choices without knowing why. Some people follow their head, others their heart, and I am led by my feet. My head might have been confused, but my feet knew exactly what they were doing. They always do. They had brought me back to my happy place.
And so I decided to have the best summer.
I left Milan for San Remo and I met the best bunch of people. I dug my feet into the sand on Taggia’s beach and watched the Mediterranean Sea lap at my ankles. I donned my red t-shirt and ACLE heart and got back into the routine of working with kids (how had I forgotten how hilarious children are?). I started serious work on my gelato gut. I stayed in an actual castle in Castelfranco. I cycled through fields of sunflowers. I danced Zumba at White Night in Montebelluna. I went to a Japanese art exhibition in Treviso. I repeatedly lost games of Uno to opponents under ten years old. I did the most tourist thing and took a photo of myself leaning against the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Camp Treville 2016 – Red Happy Lions #selfieCastelfranco 2016 – Fields of sunflowersThe biggest gelato I have ever eaten.Volpago 2016 – Favourite student. Not even in my class.Montebelluna 2016 – Impromptu Zumba session
I feel like I have laughed more in these past few weeks than I have in the last couple of years put together. And the best part is that I’m barely halfway through my time here yet. It’s still a work in progress but summer 2016 in Italy is definitely one of the best decisions I have made in a long time. Thank you, feet. You know me better than I know myself.
Going on five years, it’s been my trusty and reliable companion (and often my only ally) in my battle against the technology takeover. A nostalgic #throwback to my first ever week in Hong Kong, my museum-worthy Anycall holds a special place in my heart. And aside from it’s personal significance, it texts, it calls, it has a battery life of over a week (what stamina!), it has a calculator and a torch (which has come in very handy on camping trips when everyone else’s phone dies before sundown) and that’s all I have ever needed it to do.
I prided myself on the fact that should the Terminator-style digital apocalypse happen, I would be the sole survivor whose voice would not be identified by the ‘Big Brother’ surveillance conspiracy that is Siri. And I was far less likely to be kidnapped by terrorists or cyborgs because they would not be able to track me by hacking into Google maps or figure out my every move via my social media accounts. #blessedlife
Hello? This is 18th century calling, they want their telephone back.
It was a cost-effective anti-theft device. Nobody wanted it, so I didn’t need to be careful. I once left it in a H&M changing room over a weekend and it was still there when I came back for it. I felt assured by the fact that if the phone broke, or if I lost it, it would cost me less that HK$100 to get a replacement.
Technology didn’t own me. And I felt a prideful surge of hipster-esque rebellion whenever I took out my phone in front of new people and heard them audibly gasp in horror.
I watched, smugly, as couples sat opposite each other in restaurants, scrolling through their Facebook feeds instead of speaking to the person next to them. I sucked my teeth as I watched those taking Insta-photos of their meals, crafting hashtags and monitoring ‘Likes’ rather than eating. On the MTR, I would look up and judge the hundreds of commuters playing Candy Crush before sticking my nose back into the pages of my book.
When people turned up late with the excuse of ‘But I sent you a message on Facebook?’, I snapped that they could have, and should have, called me, or y’know actually turned up on time instead of relying on technology to let everyone know of their lateness. When friends and family complained that it would be so much easier and cheaper for me (but mainlyfor them) if I was available via Whatsapp rather that texting, I reminded them that it wasn’t cheaper because one has to buy a smartphone, a contract and pay for data, which far exceeds the cost of a few texts. When my boyfriend didn’t reply to a question because he was too busy swiping through Sky Sports News on his phone, I literally whacked it out of his hand.
Be honest, how long did it take you to arrange all that stuff?
I would never be like that. I would not be a zombie. I would not give Apple any of my money. I would not cave to peer pressure. I would not prioritise my online presence over my actual presence. I would not become a smartphone wanker.
And then the unthinkable happened.
My boss came to me one day, sick of being unable to communicate with me via the work Whatsapp group, and gave me her old iPhone 4. I’m told that this is an old model that is already considered old fashioned by smartphone snobs the world over, but to me it was a Flux Capacitor. I had no choice. It was finally time to give in and join the virtual world.
And, reader, I admit that I kinda liked it.
My arrival into the world of Whatsapp put me back in contact with old friends who sent messages just to say hi, or mostly ‘Welcome to the real world!’. I could take photos, listen to music, call, message, do the social media thing, Skype, Facetime, calculate, calorie count, shine a torch, and anything else (because, apparently, there’s always an app for that) all in one place. Not that I need to explain that to you, reader, as you’re probably scrolling through this blog post on your smartphone now, right?
And Instagram! Good lord, Instagram! What I had been missing out on there! As a travel junkie, I found a new source of pleasure in flicking through endlessly gorgeous and wanderlust-y pictures by National Geographic, Lonely Planet and all my travel-savvy friends that I have met these past five years. And I shared my own snaps, serotonin rushing to my brain every time someone tapped on the ‘heart icon’ below my pics.
Wait. Lemme take a #selfie
When I went to Japan, I was able to share photos that I’d taken with people back home instantly, rather than waiting several weeks before I could be bothered to take them off my camera and put them on Facebook.
My family created a Whatsapp group so that we could keep on top of everyone’s news and organise ourselves better (and make fun of each other, obviously, that’s important too).
I downloaded language apps, and started practising my Italian again.
When inspiration hit – whether it was writing, travel or otherwise – I typed up my thoughts using the notes function without having the problems of ‘Shit, I don’t have a pen,’ or ‘Argh, no paper, I’ll just have to scrawl this on my arm,’ or the dreaded, ‘Where did I put that scrap of paper with the thing on that was going to change my life?’.
But, sadly, it wasn’t all eggplant emojis and Ludwig Instagram filters.
I got in trouble for ‘seeing’ messages and not replying, because Whatsapp and Facebook Messenger like to tell people when you’ve seen something, and when you were last online. I also had one conversation with three different people via three different apps playing a twisted game of ‘he says she says’ because they didn’t want to talk to each other, but didn’t want the others to know that they didn’t want to talk to them. I despaired that the battery never lasted a full day, and that sometimes it would just die with 50% battery, no warning, and then my morning alarm wouldn’t go off.
Why watch the game when I can video it and share it online to let people know that I’m watching the game?
And, even though I had promised myself that I wouldn’t be that person, I admit that I got distracted looking at perfect pictures of skinny Pinterest and Instagram girls effortlessly posing in flawless make-up and intricately braided hair. Why didn’t my hair look like that when I braided it? Why did my belly go outwards when theirs went inwards? Why didn’t I look cute with a lace bra, dark purple lipstick and a cute geometric tattoo?
I stalked people that I hadn’t thought about in years, swiping through their photos, wondering what they were doing now and then feeling bad about myself when I saw they were happier than I thought they would be, or happier than I am.
Yes, I know that people’s online personas are fake. Yes, I know that I was looking at the highlight reel, not the full picture. Yes, I know I was being ridiculous, but somehow I still let myself get sucked in. Obviously, I had social media accounts before I got a smartphone, but this was a digital overload for an analog girl like me.
Then, it got worse.
After three weeks, I accidentally knocked the phone off the bathroom sink and the bottom part of the screen smashed on the floor. It cracked into a spiderweb pattern. It wasn’t enough to break the device or render it unusable, but I started getting tiny pieces of glass crumble on my fingertips whenever I tried to scroll or type.
After four weeks, I went to the Philippines with friends and the phone was stolen. I was as careful as I could be, keeping it in a tightly zipped bag, with my hand on the bag at all times, but it was a futile effort. Two of us were robbed at the same time one night, the thief quickly snatching the phones out of our pockets and bags without us even noticing until it was too late.
When I realised my bag was unzipped and the phone was gone, I was disappointed in myself. Why hadn’t I been more careful? What would my boss would say? Did I need to change my passwords to everything? How would I contact people while I was travelling? What if something went wrong?
And yet there was a small part of me that felt vindicated. I had been right all along about smartphones – they were trouble. It was foolish to put all your eggs in one basket, and carry around something so personally as well as financially valuable.
But you could be eating right now?
Although the thief had bolted, I looked on the ground on the off-chance that either myself or the robber had dropped the phone. Then, I saw a Polaroid photograph on the ground. It had been taken earlier that day by a Korean couple we had met on the beach, who were excited to take photos with (using their words, not ours!) ‘handsome’ and ‘beautiful’ foreigners. They were lovely people, it had been a great day and it was a hilarious memory that I’ll always cherish. The Polaroid was a classic. It didn’t require a filter.
Back in Hong Kong, I came crawling back to my Anycall, like a sheepish ex-girlfriend begging for forgiveness. ‘Will you give me another chance? I promise I’ll never cheat on you again.’ I told my boss what had happened, and I calculated that the excess on my travel insurance would potentially cost me more than the money I would receive in compensation, and there was a risk that my claim wouldn’t be accepted anyway because I had no proof of purchase for the phone. (Thanks a lot insurance, what exactly is the point of you?)
Not without a sense of irony, my trusty Anycall started playing up too. I couldn’t hear people when I called them, and the buttons (buttons!) were stiff and didn’t always work. To add insult to injury, a tiny beach pebble from Boracay got stuck in the headphone jack of my old-school iPod. Meanwhile, my old-school digital camera was also giving up the ghost and, besides, the photos that it took weren’t as good quality as the iPhone’s.
I was faced with a dilemma. A true #firstworldproblem. I was no longer a smartphone virgin, and I now needed a replacement phone, iPod and camera. It made sense to cave and buy myself a smartphone. Plus, I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss the ease of use of the device; the ability to communicate with loved ones around the world at the touch of (well, not buttons) a touchscreen, especially considering that I live abroad and travel often.
So, yesterday, I bought a secondhand iPhone with my own actual money.
It’s not one of these fancy 6+CS things, it’s not new, I still don’t plan on taking selfies unless it’s ironic, and I still haven’t lost my pride enough to step into an Apple store, but it’s an iPhone nonetheless. And this time, I’ll do it properly. This time, I’ll be a grown-up. This time, I’ll learn from my mistakes.
I will not get sucked into a social media spiral looking at unattainable beauty that I know is orchestrated, photoshopped and sponsored by big brands.
I will not stare at my phone for hours on end, and I will not unnecessarily spend time on my phone when I am with actual flesh-people.
I will not value my online presence over my actual presence.
I have learnt my lesson:
There are no smartphone wankers, only wankers with smartphones.
Last December, I broke the cardinal rule of travelling. I went to a place and saw nothing. I didn’t visit the museums. I didn’t sample the local food. I didn’t pose outside the famous landmarks (except the Amsterdam sign, we at least managed to do that so that’s something!)
Yet, despite having committed the ultimate travel sin, I had the best time! How is this possible, I hear you ask? Because sometimes travel isn’t about ticking off a Top 10 list – it’s about exploring some place new with people you love.
I was lucky enough to be in Amsterdam and the Hague with two of my oldest and best friends (over two decades and still counting), so even though we got too distracted by each other’s news, nostalgic memories and gossip to actually see or do anything remotely cultural, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
So, in true blogger fashion, here is lovely “listicle” about all the things we didn’t see, together, in Amsterdam:
We didn’t see Anne Frank’s House. You have to book in advance. Like, way in advance. We tried to book tickets online weeks ahead of time, but there were none left. We turned up first thing in the morning just in case and the queue was halfway to France. We came back near closing time and the queue was just as long.
So, we took a selfie with the sign, wondered if it was appropriate to pull a duck-face pout in a photo in front of Anne Frank’s house, pondered history and one of literature’s bravest heroes, and had the best time.
A “Coffee Shop”
We did go in one of those euphemistic “coffee shops”, but only because we actually thought it was a coffee shop! Woops! The naive innocents that we were, we were nattering away half-looking for somewhere to sit and have a proper chat, when we spied a place that had a neon “coffee shop” sign outside the window.
We went in, awkwardly looked at the menu, awkwardly realised where we were, then awkwardly walked back out again. Then we went and got an actual coffee in a Starbucks, because we figured they definitely sold coffee rather than “coffee” there. It was awesome.
The Van Gogh Museum
We didn’t see the Van Gogh Museum. Both a rip-off at 17 euros and a pain to get into, as we had to wait in a queue that wasn’t moving, in the rain.
Needless to say, we gave up, went to cafe that had a special Justin-Bieber-themed happy hour (had another coffee – there’s definitely a pattern emerging here…) and had the best time.
Canal boat tour
After a day of not seeing anything in Amsterdam, we were pretty run off our feet, so decided we would see it all via a canal boat tour. We bought the tickets and got on the boat, which was lovely and cosy and warm (the Netherlands is bloody cold in December).
In fact, it was so cosy and warm that we fell asleep on the tour and didn’t see anything. An excellent napping spot though.
The Red Light District
We didn’t see the Red Light District. After an exhausting day of not seeing anything in Amsterdam we decided to skip the famous Red Light District and make our way back to the Hague, where we were staying.
We ate pizza while watching Mystic Pizza – an appropriate film about three friends who grow up together, and also do a really bad job of pretending to be Portuguese-American (come on, Julia Roberts, you’re fooling no-one and your ‘Portuguese-American accent’ is a cultural sin worse than not seeing anything in Amsterdam).
Oh, and we had the best time.
Travel companions
Travelling is great and places are beautiful, but if there was ever an example of how the people you’re with really make a difference, this is it. Friends for over 20 years, and now spread across three countries, we only get the chance to see each other in the flesh around once a year.
So, I had the best time not seeing anything in Amsterdam, because I was busy catching up with these two lovely buckets! Miss you guys!
It danced around my brain as I literally googled, “How to start a blog,” elected a domain name and navigated my way around WordPress. It repeated itself like a catchy jingle as I opened a new Word document to draft the first post and – for once – didn’t just stare at the blank white screen.
I actually started typing…
Why Now?
I’ve been living in Hong Kong for four years, and I know I’ve always said that I’d write a travel / lifestyle / book / other blog and never quite got round to it… so… why have I finally got round to it?
Maybe it’s a classic New Year’s resolution that I’m going to make with all the festive good intentions, only to slowly forget about and not be bothered with come February and March.
Maybe it’s because 2015 was filled with fantastic travel and writing adventures, and I don’t want to forget a single moment. I finally feel ready to start documenting all the past years’ memories as well as the adventures to come.
Maybe it’s my quarter-life crisis kicking in.
Maybe it’s because I’m just a little bit older, wiser and better organised (ish) with my time than I used to be. I’ve started carving out some ‘me time’ somewhere in the intense work-obsessed culture of Hong Kong and found, more often than not, that I am using that “me time” to write.
Maybe it’s because the grace period of my early twenties is over. I’ve survived the “figuring out what I want to do” years. Now, I’ve moved into the scary “figuring out how to make what I want to do a reality” years.
Why Not?
So “Why now?” Well, it’s because the clock has struck Do Something o’clock, and it’s already the second Thursday of Get Your Act Together in the year of What Are You Waiting For?
In other words, I stopped asking “Why now?” and started asking “Why not?” I pushed aside feelings of self-doubt. My fingertips claimed their rightful place on the keyboard.
What if I write a blog and no one reads it? At least you’re writing. What if I run out of things to say? Then you’ll just have to blog about that too. What will people think? They think you’re an idiot anyway. What if I say something stupid and then years later when I’m rich and famous it comes back to haunt me and ends up in the Daily Mail’s sidebar of shame? Well, then you know you’ve made it.
So, although it may surprise some people (most notably myself), here I am hitting the 400-word mark as well as the Save button on my brand new blog, Page Traveller. 2016, I’m coming for you.
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