Reflections on the Road: A Journey Begins (Part 3)

(Part 3 of 4.  To begin at Part 1, click HERE)

The next morning, my first full day in Asia, I had a simple goal:  to find Starbucks.  I would have more than a year to immerse myself into the issues, people, and food of China and other Asian nations.  But for now I simply wished for a place to sit a while.  This was because, much as a runner stretches before a marathon, I was still limbering up for what lay ahead.  But even more, this was because I knew I couldn't properly start this journey until I possessed more of my mind.  My mind was like a piece of nice luggage, missing somewhere between Atlanta and Beijing, and I needed a safe place to hang out until it arrived.  That is, I needed to decelerate the quick pace of the last two days.  Visits to Beihai Park, the Forbidden City, the Great Wall -- these things could wait.  Sitting still at Starbucks couldn't.

I caught a bus to Tiananmen Square.  Unlike the empty expanse I had wandered through twelve hours earlier, now the square was lit by a bright sun and filled with thousands of Chinese.  They were flying kites, lining up to enter the Mao Mausoleum, snapping pictures of family and friends.  The liveliness of the square slowed my pace, but eventually I descended a stairwell and caught the subway to the World Trade Center.  Here I found Starbucks.  Immediately, the familiarity of the coffee-scented room nurtured my senses.  The cream and sugar were where I expected them to be, the mugs were perfectly recognizable, and the seating area was, just like at home, a mixture of soft seats and wooden chairs.

I bought a coffee and settled into a soft seat.  With the first sip, my tongue savored the taste that it knew so well.  Then I lowered the cup to my lap.

Through a large window I saw a construction crane swiveling this way and that, raising yet another tall building in this ever-expanding city.  At the tables around me, the emphatic echoes of Chinese swirled around the room along with the aroma of coffee.  Most of the patrons were in their twenties.  Some wore stylish glasses and turtle necks, others suits and ties.  Across the room one young couple looked quite in love, and to my left a woman carefully studied a magazine about babies.  She leaned back to read, but her pregnant belly, possessing a will of its own, didn't move with her.  I turned back to my coffee, took another sip, and pulled out my notebook.  The time had come to remind myself why I was here.

And so I thought of the past, not the future.  My thoughts fell all the way back to my teenage years in Papua New Guinea.  In my memory I heard rain splattering upon a tin roof; an axe echoing through the jungle as it hit against a tree; the clerk's warm greeting at the post office, "Moning nau!"  I heard thousands of flying foxes-bats with five-foot wingspans-streaming over our house at dusk, on their way to eat bananas and papayas and whatever else fruity they could sink their teeth and tongues into.  I heard hands pounding on drums made of lizard skin and wood, accompanied by high-pitched singing late at night under palms and a half moon.

But the sound that mattered most was simply the thud of small waves, hitting against the side of a fiberglass kayak.  It was the sound of an entire ocean knocking gently at my craft, of enormity greeting a forty-pound boat and a 140-pound teenager.  I remembered how sometimes the thud was not so gentle, but I liked that too.  Rougher seas sometimes lifted my kayak into the air, and upon landing every muscle was pressed into keeping balance and direction.  The salt spray burned my eyes, and tears mingled with the ocean.  I loved that I was too light to sink into the sea, yet too heavy to float into the air.  I loved that sharks swam beneath me, that tuna jumped around me, and that at dusk the wayward squid might even hurl itself into my lap.

In my kayak I ventured into a realm where something much larger than myself allowed me to travel on it.  I felt the world's curvature, noticed its distant horizons, and was aware that much lay beyond view.  I saw, too, that the act of traveling in such a realm sculpted me.  My stomach, shoulders, and back-they all changed while I was upon the sea.  But so did the way I saw the world.

In a sense, sixty-one weeks in Asia would be similar to a few hours upon the sea.  In Beijing I already felt the cultures, people, and issues of this enormous continent lapping against my "craft."  Even more, I could feel heavy thuds coming not from without, but from within.  The journey would shape more than my stomach and shoulders; it would also shape my spirit, a realm as wild and uncharted as any sea.

My coffee finished, I desired a second cup.  But now was not the time.  The journey was still so young and I would save the cup for another day, another city.  Plus, it was dark outside now and I knew that the lights of Tiananmen Square were drawing me out of this cozy seat and into the streets of Asia.  People outside were on the move, and so I put the notebook back into my bag, sat the mug down, and walked out the door to join them.

To go to Part 4, click HERE

The Forbidden City, Beijing


To go to Part 4, click HERE

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		Joel Carillet, Gather Travel Correspondent
	Joel's column, "Reflections on the Road," is published every other Thursday to Gather Essentials: Travel. His articles, based on extensive travels in Asia and the Middle East, seek to shed light on humanity, both our own and that of others.   They aim not merely to entertain and inform but also to develop a sense of connection between the reader and the world. Joel's writing and photography have appeared in several magazines and newspapers, including the Kansas City Star and Christian Science Monitor.  Currently he is seeking an agent for a book manuscript entitled Sixty-One Weeks: A Journey across Asia. When not on the road, he happily calls Tennessee home. Keep up with Joel's article series by joining his network, or subscribing to his content.