Written in the Gaps of Busyness

Recently work has been overwhelming, and I haven’t had the time to continue updating my past journeys. Whenever the pressure becomes too much, I return to this blog to tinker and mend things here and there. Sometimes I think back to the moment when this blog was first set up and I wrote my very first travel note—the feeling was almost the same as when I was in primary school more than a decade ago.

When I was young, travel was closely tied to family reunion. My dad often worked away from home, so school holidays became our way of coming back together. Before every trip, my mom would buy thick guidebooks. I still remember how expensive the “little blue book,” Lonely Planet, was, while the domestic publisher’s “Travel” series was more affordable.

“You do the itinerary,” they would say.

I loved being given that task, because once the itinerary was done, reunion would follow.

Back then, I would highlight and scribble all over the guidebooks with markers, then use Excel to string together attractions, food, and local experiences. The era of the “little blue book” has now passed, but looking back, it was almost magical how simply reading those less time-sensitive books thoroughly could smooth out an entire journey. Those books weren’t just practical guides—they were wild encyclopedias. Lonely Planet especially would often discuss how to complete an environmentally friendly trip, how to travel responsibly.

While on the road, I couldn’t quite verbalize my feelings about reunion or my love for my family. So I wrote about what my senses gathered during the journey. Writing became my way of expression. Sometimes I included travel notes in weekly journals or assigned essays, and occasionally teachers would even submit them for publication. I grew more confident, more in love with writing. Travel nurtured my passion for it, though at the time I never imagined it would influence my choice of university major or my future career.

After primary school, as my world expanded, I wanted to explore travel in ways that were “more than travel.” I began embedding history, religion, national politics, and lifestyles into my plans. I enjoyed designing “special” routes—like a Spring Festival origins journey during Lunar New Year; a self-driving trip along the Yunnan–Myanmar border after learning about the Chinese Expeditionary Force, searching for traces of the Flying Tigers; a botanical tracing journey through the Gaoligong Mountains. Throughout all this, my parents supported my sudden whims. As long as I wanted to go and they had the time, the trip would usually happen.

As I grew older, I gained the courage to dream of becoming a solo traveler. Backpacking was a popular concept at the time, and I became a devoted follower of certain travelers. Gu Yue’s Hitchhiking to Berlin, Sun Dongchun’s Gap Year Travel, and the Beijing elderly couple’s Backpacking in Our Sixties—if a book was related to travel, I would save up to buy it. On weekends at home, serialized travelogues on Qyer, Mafengwo, Backpacker Inn, and Douban groups were my TV dramas. During school days, the writings of Nilo and He Wangruo in Lonely Planet felt like “spiritual marijuana.” I often thought then: there could be no more tempting job than being a Lonely Planet writer.

University marked a watershed. By then, I had traveled to most parts of China, always seeing the world from my parents’ shoulders. During internships and the transition into work, I grew physically distant from them and gradually began seeing the world on my own.

Then the pandemic arrived.

During my internship in 2020 and job search in 2021, I barely saw Lonely Planet hiring. And facing reality, I couldn’t choose the travel industry anyway. The two years after I started working were also the height of the pandemic. On one hand, there were almost no opportunities to travel; on the other, my job required constant writing. I began to resent words outside of work. It felt as though everything had been paused.

Until this year.

After resigning, I planned a backpacking trip across Southeast Asia. Like the travelers I once admired, I completed a kind of youthful revolution. Along the way, I kept following Nilo’s and Gu Yue’s travel updates on Weibo. It felt as though I was finally standing on the same line as them. I found myself constantly jotting down memos in my phone—and the articles on this website are collections of those memos.

Looking back on that journey now, I feel calm. I didn’t continue wandering indefinitely; instead, I chose to return to the cubicle—for now. That trip felt like a baptism. It made me believe that when handling things alone in the future, I can be as composed as when planning a solo trip. More importantly, it helped me regain the habit of writing travel notes.

To be honest, I no longer carry the grand ambitions I once had—such as publishing a travel book or joining a famous OTA platform. I simply want to keep walking, keep writing, and preserve these precious words.

In doing so, I may end up owning far more than I ever imagined.