It’s been more than six months since I wrote about my trip to Asia. This time last year, I was in planning mode. I had just received my Lonely Planet guidebook for Christmas and was busy getting vaccinated, buying the right gear, packing, and saying my goodbyes to Scott. Now, I’m sitting at the dining room table with Scott as he grades papers, thinking that I should really be making a greater effort to put my trip into story format, complete with pictures. I think back on my trip so often—the landscapes, the people, the food, the weather, how much I missed Scott, my fears and anxieties, my excitement, what a completely different cultural experience it was. I don’t regret anything. I’d do it again. Sometimes, I want to go back, though when I left, I didn’t think I would miss it—the squat toilets; the impossibility of finding vegetarian food; the homesickness; hauling my 40+ pound pack around, day after day; always being on guard in case somebody was trying to rip us off (some of them succeeded); the long and uncomfortable bus rides… But every time I listen to my soundtrack of those months—the two mix CDs Scott had made me and Kiss Each Other Clean by Iron and Wine—I want to be back on one of those buses, staring out at the dry-season’s forests, the bamboo road-side stands filled with cheap snacks and spicy chicken soup, the stray dogs, and the motorbikes racing down curving highways. Maybe I’ll go back… one day.
