Going Solo: A Travel Memoir in Search of Meaning, Belonging and Identity

By Eva Rottenanger

Going Solo is an evocative armchair journey around the world aimed at inspiring confidence and courage, not only in travel but in self-exploration, that will have readers itching to hit the road. The author combines an up-close-and-personal experience of the joys and realities of day-to-day travel with insightful observations on expatriate living and the immigrant experience. By inviting a deeper contemplation of the social, historical and spiritual similarities and contrasts discovered along the way, the memoir shows how every outward journey can be a platform towards a truer, more intentional version of ourselves as our old beliefs and priorities are challenged. Contact with unfamiliar environments adds meaning to life by helping us define our values and our place in the world. The memoir concludes with meditations on questions raised and offers travel tips for newbies to help them on their way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Sep 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669830719

Eva Rottenanger

As a German-born Australian, Eva is passionate about exploring how the stories of our cultures, history, politics, and people’s self-knowledge contribute to their sense of belonging and influence their engagement with their communities. In forty years of traveling, she’s hung her hat in two hundred places on five continents and experienced living as an expatriate in China, France, Thailand, Vietnam, and the USA. With a master’s degree in linguistics and a diploma in art and design, she’s worked as a teacher at both tertiary and secondary level, copy editor, publicist, writer and artist. Since 2007, she’s gone solo, traveling light – a small laptop, camera, and water filter take priority over multiple outfits. She describes herself as “a globe-trotting boomer whose curiosity about the world rests only mid-afternoon – for good coffee and a chocolate brownie.” Please visit her at www.evarottenanger.com.

Book preview

Copyright © 2022 by Eva Rottenanger.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 01/19/2023

Xlibris

AU TFN: 1 800 844 927 (Toll Free inside Australia)

AU Local: [phone] ([phone] from outside Australia)

www.Xlibris.com.au

820300

For my children and family,

and for those needing confidence to travel.

May you be forever curious, courageous, and fortunate enough

to explore our world, and yourselves.

The names of people mentioned have been changed to protect their privacy.

Thoughts on Taking Journeys

On the Reasons

‘The world is a book, and those who do not travel,

read only one page.’ (Saint Augustine)

‘See the world. It’s more fantastic than any dream made

or paid for in factories.’ (Ray Bradbury)

‘To travel is to take a journey into yourself.’ (Danny Kaye)

On Going Solo

‘The inner journey of travel is intensified by solitude.’ (Paul Theroux)

‘You’re the captain of your ship; don’t let anyone

take the wheel.’ (Michael Josephson)

Separate yourself from the mob. Decide to be extraordinary

and do what you need to do – now. (Epictetus)

On Starting Now

‘Set free the bowlines, sail away from safe harbors.

Dream. Explore. Discover.’ (Mark Twain)

‘Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life.’ (Steve Jobs)

‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.’ (Lao Tzu)

On Finding ‘The Place’ Inside You Where Your True Self Resides

‘Very little is needed to make a happy life; it is all within

yourself, in your way of thinking.’ (Marcus. Aurelius)

‘The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started

and know the place for the first time. Those who arrive at the

end of a journey are not those who began.’ (T. S. Eliot)

On Living as a Traveller and Global Citizen

‘I am a citizen, not of Athens, or of Greece, but of the world.’ (Socrates)

‘Travel as much as you can - and involve yourself as an

internationalist.’ (Christopher Hitchens)

‘We may have different religions, different languages,

different skin, but we all belong to one human race.’

(Kofi Annan)

Viewing the colour images and video clips of my journeys adds

another dimension to reading this travel memoir.

These can be found on my website. https://www.evarottenanger.com

Contents

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION

Belonging: If Not Here, Then Where?

THAILAND

The Journey and People We Meet Are as Important as The Destination

Hot and Humid Bangkok

The Inspiring Ancient City

Memories of Chiang Mai and Traditional Building Styles

A Glance Behind the Social Scene

Exploring Hill Tribe Communities

On Free Speech and Politics

Reflections: The Land of Smiles Can Mask Growing Discontent

PORTUGAL

Fabulous Faro

A Familiar Anchor Adds Balance to the Art of Going Solo

Slowing Down in Sleepy Tavira

Lounging In Lagos: Beaches and Blue Sky

At Tables for One, To Be or Not to Be Alone Is a Matter of Perspective

Prestigious Porto: Birthplace of Port Wine

Cuisine: Portugal Will Win You at First Bite

Going Solo Versus Compromising with A Travel Companion

An ‘I Told You So’ Gets Bottled and Corked

Mountainous Covilhã

Medieval Belmonte

Windswept Serra Da Estrela

Adorable Coimbra

Conimbriga: Roman Ruins

Vibrant Lisbon

The Land of Azulejo Tiles

Surviving Salazar’s Dictatorship: Thirty-

Six Years of Suffering

Passionate Fado

Reflections: The Yearning to Return Begins as You Depart

MOROCCO

Marrakesh: A Little Culture Shock at First

Lost In the Medina: More Courage Than Sense

Where’s The Cobra?

The Atlas Mountains

The Berbers of Morocco

Pit Stop at A Small Mountain Village

Ait Benhaddou: An Ancient Fortress

Into The Den of a Carpet Merchant

Ouarzazate: Home of Movie Studios

The Art of Haggling

Planning And Maps Are Essential

Reflections: Marrakesh – A World with Its Own Beauty, Vitality, And Legitimacy

SPAIN

Exploring Seville by Horse-Drawn Carriage

Mindset, Expectations, And Dealing with Disappointment

Seville’s Cathedral

Royal Alcázar Palace

Winding down: reflections on an all-too-busy day

Cultural Perspectives and Entrenched Biases

Gracious Granada

A Stroll Around El Albaicín

Fabulous Flamenco: Roma Style

The Roma

Alluring Alhambra

The Transience of Power Set Against the Endurance of Beauty

Málaga

Exploring The Old Town Centre

History Was Unkind to Málaga

Spain Under Franco: 1939 to 1975

Like A Phoenix from Ashes, One Civilization Rises from The Fall of Another

Málaga: An Arrival and Departure Hub with Much to See and Do

Reflections: Spain’s History Shaped Stunning Architecture and A Proud, Pragmatic Nation

FRANCE

Lyon: Arrivals Anywhere Can Be Arduous

Cité De Pérouges

France Seems Perpetually on Alert

Lyon’s Long History Is Embodied in Its Built Environment

La Basilique Notre Dame De Fourvière

Lyon’s Silk History

Inspiration And Architecture Meet At La Confluence

Reflections: Lyon – A City with Old-World Charm That Looks to The Future

ITALY

The Journey to Lake Como

Memorable Menaggio

Charming Varenna

Bellagio: Memories of Days Gone By

Reflections: Picturesque Lake Como Inspires Dreams of Returning

SWITZERLAND

Zürich: The Delight of Being Among the Swiss

The Churches of Zürich: The Feminine and The Austere

Lunch With Afghan Asylum Seekers

The Rietberg Museum: Who Do We See in Our Reflection?

Recharging Inner Batteries on A Solo Journey

St. Gallen

The Economics of Living in Switzerland

The Historical Importance of Swiss Lace

St. Gallen’s Cathedral and Medieval Abbey Library

Reflections: Switzerland, Though Reserved and Pricey, Is a Joy to Experience

GERMANY

Lindau Island

Questions of Identity and The Sense of Home

Hundertwasser: Thinking Outside the Square

Augsburg: Reactions to Locations Depend on the Reason for Being There

The German Language: Thoughts on Long Words

Elegant Augsburg: Once the Wealthiest of Merchant Cities

Language Immersion

The Conflict Between Holy Roman Emperors and Regional Princes

Martin Luther And the Catholic-Protestant Split

Berlin: City of Culture, History, And Influence

The Bus Tour Reveals a Troubled History: 1933–1990

Intrepid Traveller or Unsettled Person in Need of Stability?

Charming Charlottenburg

A Divided Nation

Humour And Cultural Identity

Berlin’s Marvellous Museums

Reflections On Belonging: Berlin, Augsburg or Lindau

THE UNITED KINGDOM

Memories Of Past Visits

The V&A’s Exquisite Treasures Nourish the Soul

Being British: A Pint of Beer at The Pub After Work and A Cup of Tea Before Bed

Of London’s Museums: The British Is the Jewel in The Crown

Long-Distance Friendships Need Nurturing: A Night Out with The Girls

London: History Revealed on Every Corner

Fleet Street and The English Language

The Secrets Within Buildings

Along the Thames: Pubs, Architecture, and Enjoying the Park as Summer Ends

Reflections: London’s History, Museums, And Theatres Demand Time

THE UNITED STATES

Chicago: The Windy City I Once Called Home

Like Bait on a Hook Nostalgia Lures a Traveller Back in Time

A Cruise on Lake Michigan and The Domino Effect of World Events

San Francisco

The California Academy of Sciences

Fighting Off Seagulls at Fisherman’s Wharf

Iconic San Francisco Cable Cars

Extraordinary Victorian Terrace Houses

The Historic Panhandle: 1906 Earthquake and Hippies

Reflections: San Francisco – Where the Young Dare to Dream of Changing the World

Arriving Home to Bushfires and a Pandemic

Meditations On the External World: History and Global Issues

Transition: From External to Internal

Our Internal World: Identity and Solo Travel

APPENDIX

Tips for Newbie Travellers: Going Solo for The First Time

Travel Information Sources for Novice Explorers

References and Suggestions for Further Reading

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Preface

One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.

– Henry Miller

This memoir is for those who need encouragement to leave home and explore the world and in so doing learn more about themselves. It speaks also to my peers – baby boomers – wanting to spread their wings. By joining me on my budget journey around the globe, you’ll ‘feel’ what it’s like to be out there. In the search for belonging and meaning, it celebrates travelling alone – taking time out to re-evaluate one’s life. I’ve included reflections on living as an expat to flesh out what I’ve learned from exploring the globe in answer to my questions about identity, belonging and spirituality. The memoir begins with a childhood memory, the seed of all my journeys, and ends with meditations on lessons learned with thoughts on how we fit into history and what it might mean to be a global citizen with intention, ethics and a mindful way of living based on a self-defined spirituality.

Billions of people are unable to share the privilege of travel. They may lack the funds, the freedom, a passport, the opportunity, the physical ability, or merely the time. For them, it can only be a dream. For others, it’s a joy – for many, a passion. My gratitude for the gift of travel has become an essential component of my happiness.

Going solo is especially rewarding and takes a certain mindset and attitude. Being a ‘traveller’ on a journey with a purpose differs slightly from being a ‘tourist’ who may travel more to be entertained and to relax rather than engage with a place, its people and examine how new environments reflect oneself.

In the past four decades, the destinations and the people I’ve met have taught me that journeys are like a tango; it takes two, you and a destination. Over the years, I’ve made alterations to my tango costume to add more curiosity, openness, and respect. It’s now trimmed with environmental awareness, research on places and their history, and finished off with a friendly yet street-smart disposition. There are days, I admit, when aspects of my better nature mutiny and won’t get out of bed. The costume hangs near the door, mocking me – there’s no energy to dance, but making the extra effort to venture out soon has my feet dancing to the thrilling sounds of newly discovered places.

When preparing for a trip, I try to remember to pack my ‘better self’ to avoid being an obstacle to myself – lacking mindfulness or becoming stressed over things that will seem insignificant on reflection. Travelling in harmony with the world and putting my best foot forward is also a form of insurance because that version of me experiences a more rewarding connection with a place and its people, and I’m less likely to have to unpack regrets on returning home.

As a mature traveller, who likes to know where she’ll sleep safely and comfortably, I’ve learnt that journeys are best when not accidental. Living on the spontaneous edge used to be exciting when these bones were younger, but these days careful planning and clarifying the underlying aims of leaving home are preferable. When we know why we’re on a journey, experiencing the world has more meaning, and negotiating the unfamiliar becomes transformative rather than problematic. As the embryo of empathy for diversity grows, so too does a traveller’s self-knowledge.

Taking the time to understand the intangible emotional, spiritual, and cognitive rewards of travel, makes any journey more satisfying because we pay more attention, notice, and learn more. This has a positive effect on our moods. Research on the brain¹ shows that meaningful experiences release certain chemicals associated with feelings of satisfaction and happiness. Experiencing new environments, meeting people from diverse cultures, learning about places and their history and being thrilled by beauty in music, art or nature, all release neurotransmitters such as dopamine that creates a sense of pleasure, and makes us feel rewarded especially when we’ve completed an activity that has meaning for us. Serotonin is released when we allow beauty to nurture us – it stabilises moods and along with dopamine is linked to feelings of well-being and happiness. Our heart hormone, oxytocin, gets a boost when we empathetically engage with people. This has a positive effect on our view of life and self-perception.

Travelling can awaken you from the slumber of routine – you feel more alive – and as a focused and engaged traveller, you’re arguably happier because your tango is in step with the rhythm of the places you explore. When that happens, you’re more open to new perspectives on ways of living and thinking that may be quite different from what you’ve been used to back home. You may return as a transformed person with more confidence to be yourself.

Although many prefer exploring with a companion, in my experience, going solo makes it easier to connect with new environments than when cocooned with travel companions. More importantly, my ‘why’ and focus don’t need to match anyone else’s. Going solo, you are master of your itinerary and of every choice you make. Planning your accommodation, daily schedules, what to see, and where to dine are all up to you. Engaging with a variety of people, locals, expatriates or other explorers met along the way helps prevent going solo from becoming a lonely experience. When you’re fully engaged with a place and not focusing on fixed travel companions, you tend to absorb new environments with all your senses. You see, smell and taste, feel the textures, and hear the distinctive ways your destinations sound. We create richer, more meaningful memories when all our senses are engaged – and that’s what it’s all about.

Adding tasks to your journeys is an effective way to add meaning, something I’ve adopted from watching other travellers. Having a project not only adds enjoyment to a trip but – for solo travellers – dispels loneliness by making you feel more connected to where you are. While exploring a specific interest, the journey takes on a particular shape, a form that you have created; and like a team member, your project accompanies you wherever you go. As a bonus, it often breaks the ice socially as a conversation starter. Being on your ‘mission’ inspires confidence that can let you blend into the local community as a local or an expat, and this can also be a safety measure. You’re less vulnerable to pickpockets and scammers because they tend to target more obvious tourists.

A passion to explore people and their cultures gave meaning to this three-month trip, and to all my other journeys. Photographing art and architecture, researching history, writing, and exploring my questions on identity and belonging – both ambivalent concepts for me since childhood – kept me occupied each day. What would your project be – a course, learning new skills, writing a travel journal, making videos? The choices are endless.

For me, nothing in the world beats travelling – not only for the excitement and education, but also for the self-discovery it encourages. Many describe how travelling experiences have shortened the timeframe needed to grow into the kind of person they want to be. On the road, one also gets a better perspective on the world, and this often makes issues at home clearer. It’s easier then to sort out where you stand on essential questions requiring your decisions because travelling tends to bring your values into focus giving you a better handle on the direction your society is moving. Perhaps we can find opportunities to harness the awareness of shared global humanity that travel, almost by accident, empowers us with, to give a little back – to someone, somewhere, sometime. By sharing our experiences, we have the chance to make positive contributions towards a kinder and more empathetic future – be they large, or as humble as our smiles. A well-travelled journey is like a gift you can unwrap and enjoy repeatedly – long after your return.

Introduction

Belonging: If Not Here, Then Where?

Framed by a tight lilac perm, her flushed complexion became angrier as she wielded an umbrella and cracked her husband on the head. There were half a dozen women outside the two pubs on either side of the street. It was six o’clock closing time in Melbourne, and they were there every night to collect their inebriated spouses. With the buttons of her blue floral dress threatening to pop, the heavy-breasted woman barked an order at the man she’d just crowned. As he attempted to reply, he vomited. Some of the sour-smelling mess splattered right across the pavement – leaving orange polka dots on my father’s polished black shoes.

My mother and I would collect him from the station each evening after work and walk him home past this now-familiar scene. As he looked down at his shoes, I knew what Papa was thinking because every day since we’d arrived in what my parents described as a cultural backwater, he’d muttered, ‘We don’t belong here. We need to go home.’

It was December 1961. We’d only recently arrived in Australia from a country where the erection of the Wall that now divided Germany had frightened my parents into believing that World War III was imminent. They sold up and emigrated. Until I left home aged nineteen, the muscles in my neck would tighten as my father’s lament echoed through the house chiselling itself into my consciousness. His words were punctuated with slumped shoulders, downturned mouth and long silences as he sat chain-smoking and drowning his demons in beer.

Papa had quickly found a job in Melbourne. The family only spent six weeks in the converted army barracks in Bonegilla used back then as temporary migrant accommodation. The barracks were in rural Victoria and resembled a prison camp. As an expert lithographer, photographer, and commercial artist driven by his uncompromising perfectionism, Papa started irritating Australian colleagues the minute he stepped into their world. They countered his requests with the mindset they applied to all things, including the printing of billboards in dark blue instead of the light cerulean blue Papa had requested.

‘She’ll be apples, mate. Don’t get your knickers in a knot! Blue is blue. No one here cares what shade it is.’

He was losing his battle to assimilate, despite having sufficient English. My mother and I had none.

Mama was generally at a loss and only left the house to shop. She found this stressful, especially in butcher shops. The odour of lamb rising from bloodstained, sawdust-covered floors – the norm in those days – made her gag. In 1962, an acquaintance opened the neighbourhood’s first delicatessen. After that, apart from fruit and vegetables, all Mama’s groceries were imported goods from Germany. Her difficulty with English combined with her fall in status had already started a slide into depression. In Germany, she’d been a sought-after fashion designer managing her salon and training apprentices. In Melbourne, she would become a backyard seamstress.

Before I learnt English, I didn’t understand much of what the children at school said, but they repeated one word often enough to remember. The word seemed to separate me from the class.

‘Papa, what does Nazi mean?’

He didn’t answer. Shaking his head, he’d mutter the mantra about not belonging – that saw him return to Germany several times to move the family back. All attempts failed as he found neither employment nor accommodation, and worse, the Germany he remembered through rose-tinted glasses no longer existed, and yet he kept trying.

In the early sixties, the Australian generation that had fought in World War II was my parents’ age. Their memories – of both Australian-born Germans as ‘enemy aliens’ among them and as part of an aggressive enemy force abroad – were vivid and raw.¹,² One such was my primary school teacher whose brother had been killed in France. Ms G would punctuate her weekly war stories, during which she had me stand beside my desk as a case in point, with ‘Isn’t that right, Eva? That’s what Germans are like.’

There was nowhere to run. Nowhere I felt I belonged. Home was depressed. School was hostile. The television showed war movies, confirming my teacher’s view that my identity was somehow tainted with an asphyxiating shame. At the time, there was considerable pressure for migrants to adapt and assimilate often at the expense of their ethnicity, culture, and first language. I strove to assimilate.

My story is merely one example that relates to my generation and perhaps to any post-war immigrant community. However, it doesn’t come close to the harsh experiences of some other identities at that time. The Australian Indigenous, the LGBT community, and the southern European migrants, for example, were often ostracised. Some wounds are healed, some still fester, but in those days, the world seemed divided between marginalised communities and the Anglo-Saxon mainstream – that bent its collective knee to Mother England. Despite my inner conflict, I was proud to sing ‘God Save the Queen’ at morning school assemblies. For many of the one-quarter Australian population born overseas, national identity is often a challenging and unresolved issue. The desire to belong is universal and usually not as straightforward for those whose heritage lies elsewhere.

As a young adult, I felt the need to travel to Germany to see whether it felt like the home for which my father pined. It didn’t. Germany seemed too regimented and formal. I’d become too Australian – an identity that I defined as needing more elbow room and flexibility with an altogether more relaxed social environment. Also apparent was that I needed to improve my German language skills. During that trip, I visited Canada and met people who described themselves as Polish Canadians, Norwegian Canadians, German Canadians, and many more. All celebrated their ethnicity and their current national allegiance to a multicultural nation. I didn’t know such a thing was possible. I was in awe and would have stayed if I could.

In 1973, six years after the traditional owners of Australia were granted citizenship of their nation, the 1901 Immigration Restriction Bill generally referred to as the ‘White Australia Policy’ was renounced, followed in 1975 by the end of the Racial Discrimination Act. By the 1980s, Australia began to feel like the multicultural nation I’d briefly experienced in Canada, and borders had opened to non-Caucasian immigrants. While acceptance by the mainstream of some ethnic groups is still an issue, the general view of Australia as one nation made of people from over two hundred countries took the pressure off many immigrant communities, particularly those that could physically blend into the Anglo-Saxon mainstream.

By the mid-1990s, education departments saw ethnic language maintenance as essential to migrant self-esteem and identity. It was then that I completed a master’s research project in linguistics that explored why some German families who immigrated between the fifties and sixties kept their language and culture alive in Australia while others did not. The events of World War II were the main reason given by each family who’d disassociated themselves from their German heritage.

My father’s last attempt to return was not to live but to die in his homeland after learning his lung cancer was inoperable. However, he was unable to arrange palliative health cover. He returned to Australia, to a home he could never have afforded in Germany, and to an Australian healthcare system that provided for him until his death. It still makes me sad that during the twenty-eight years he resided in Australia, he was never able to acknowledge any of the countless opportunities the nation had provided its immigrant families. Sad too, is that in all those years, I never once heard my parents laugh.

Despite enjoying Australia’s multiculturalism, marriage, and raising my children in a free, generous, and safe country, my father’s words continued to ring in my ears. I suspect they are part of the reason I’ve so often boarded a plane – forever on that quest to go home, not to a physical dwelling such as I have in Australia, but to somewhere I’d emotionally and spiritually belong. In those years, the Australian passport I carried felt borrowed rather than owned.

Since 2007, I’ve travelled solo because I’ve found it a more fulfilling way to not only explore the world as I seek adventure, knowledge, the exotic and beauty, but also myself, and how I fit into the world. Along the way, I’ve met many women my age travelling alone, and their numbers seem to increase each year. Many have a cultural heritage that lies beyond the place they’ve been calling home for years, and like me, part of their journey is into themselves, some using travel to confront issues haunting them since childhood. Roles they may have played have ended, so their self-definition needs updating. They now see a chance to explore what they’re capable of at this later stage in life and uncover their essential identity. In selecting safe destinations for this journey, I aimed to give confidence to would-be solo travellers. Marrakesh was added to describe what’s it’s like to move out of one’s comfort zone as a step towards future, more challenging adventures.

By the end of this journey, I hope to have some insight to share on questions that occupy me, such as the following: Do immigrants retain their heritage, adopt the cultural identity of their new home, juggle both or adopt a global identity? Is globalisation eroding cultural diversity? To what extent do cultural norms become part of people’s identity and then govern how they behave in comparison to people outside their culture? Are these locked in stone? If national characteristics exist, what role did history play in forming these? How difficult is it to disassociate ourselves from our cultural heritage or its dominant religion? Are there universal aspects of religions and philosophies that allow for the creation of one’s own ‘rules for living’ a fulfilling and meaningful life? Does the type of government affect how citizens see their autonomy and potential? What role does gender play in this? What determines our personality? Can we rely on personality test categories to define us? Is it possible to have a core identity that exists separate from all external influence? To what extent are we able to change ourselves? What is it about a place or a community that makes us feel we belong?

Now on the plane,

my seat belt is fastened.

The engine whines. The cabin shakes. Images

outside my window flash past.

The centre of gravity shifts.

We’re off.

73_a_imaeg.jpg

The Ancient City at Boran Mueang near Bangkok. Women in longboats selling fruit and vegetables can be seen on many rivers and canals in Thailand. Here, they are part of an open-air museum that displays historical Thai buildings from all over the kingdom. These northern Thai structures built on water use prefabricated sections of wood, interlocked usually without the use of nails. They can be disassembled during floods and quickly reassembled. Bedrooms and bathrooms are enclosed, but all other rooms are open.

Thailand

The Journey and People We Meet Are as

Important as The Destination

At fifty thousand feet, I close my eyes and focus only on my breathing. This is it – the start of my journey around the world. I’d been in overdrive for the past two weeks organising my absence. Only yesterday, I’d submitted my students’ results – they all passed. I can let that go. It’ll be three months before I see that classroom again. Breathe!

There are only two passengers in this exit row. We both extend our legs into the extra space, my young neighbour’s hairy legs almost touching the wall that separates us from business class. When the meal is served, our shared avoidance of dairy products adds to the earlier awareness that we used the same brand of hand sanitiser and had been typing on the same-model laptop. This commonality sparks a conversation with James. Solo travellers, I’ve noticed, tend to latch on to the familiar, whatever form that familiarity takes because we tend to search for the icebreaker that will allow us to connect. James and I are soon slicing into each other’s history like surgeons under time pressure. We discover that we’d both lived and worked in Shanghai teaching English. We’d each delivered academic pathway programs for Australian universities; and while there, we’d also hung out at the same favourite clubs and bars: the Captain, the Blue Frog, the Long Bar at the Waldorf and bars with live music: the House of Blues and Jazz, the Peace and Radisson hotels, and the list goes on.

The superficial observations about enjoying similar music and films opens the door to discover that we’d also built romantic relationships with mainland Chinese citizens – his resulting in marriage – which had shattered for many reasons. Still, the main one by far was the enormous cultural divide. Beyond barriers of language that make deeper communication difficult, the overarching dominance of family and the norms of behaviour within an ideology of the collective rather than our Western focus on the individual eventually saw the relationships collapse like bridges over an increasingly turbulent river.

‘The day my mother-in-law moved in with us was the beginning of the end. She ruled the house. I became an outsider in my own home,’ says James. ‘Eventually, I left.’

The depth of our conversation is utterly inconsistent with our status as strangers. However, finding a human connection and exchanging existential insights can be valuable and enduring, no matter how incidental and brief that experience is while exploring the world, each other, and ourselves. These are the gems of solo travel.

While James works on his laptop, I reflect on what this conversation has meant to me. Such harmony with another on issues close to the soul is like a melody that reassures us that we’re not alone in this world and can find true commonality far from familiar surroundings. That he gave voice to how cultural issues eroded his relationship helped me to better understand the failure of mine. I’d known from the start there was a cultural divide to conquer, but until this conversation with James, I didn’t appreciate the immensity of the chasm that I hadn’t bridged – I’d walked out too. As my understanding grew, the grip the memory had on my heart released, and I began the process of forgiving myself – an epiphany inspired by a stranger who I’ll probably never meet again – a gift. Perhaps this is the reason some of us travel the world. We seek not merely to discover the new and different in the external world – but to uncover our essential selves as reflected in the differences and, better still, the similarities we share with people we meet. The announcement that we’re about to land shakes me out of my reverie. We disembark and say farewell.

My arrival at Bangkok’s airy and spacious Suvarnabhumi Airport on this tenth visit contrasts sharply with my first trip to Thailand in 1989. Back then, my former husband had been asked to undertake a four-month research project for the United Nations in Chiang Mai. Our three kids and I tagged along on this adventure. Leaving Melbourne in 1989 and arriving the same day in Thailand in the (local) year 2532 was the first of many exciting discoveries that challenged our fixed beliefs.

Back then, Don Muang was Bangkok’s only airport and the commute into town could take two hours in a cab struggling for road space amid tuk-tuks and rusty buses pouring out clouds of choking exhaust fumes. Today, however, the Bangkok Transit System or Skytrain that I’ve just boarded makes access to the city a breeze. Although traffic on the roads is still heavy in peak hours, millions now move around the city more easily to work, study, shop, or explore.

Knowing where I am: the first step in engaging with a destination

Historically, the area we know as Thailand was made up of several kingdoms, the Lan Na (Chiang Mai), the Ayutthaya, and the Sukhothai, before it became the (united) Kingdom of Siam. It was renamed Thailand in 1932, the same year that governance changed from an absolute to a constitutional monarchy.¹ Unlike its neighbours, the kingdom has withstood Western colonisation, a fact that inspires an underlying national pride, shared by all Thais I’ve met, no matter their ethnic heritage.

In the nineteenth century, the population increased significantly when King Mongkut (Rama IV) encouraged the migration of Chinese farm workers to facilitate the growth in Thai agriculture. Now, 14 per cent of Thais are ethnically Chinese and pass aspects of Chinese culture down through the generations so that it is still evident in their daily lives. Interestingly, this is the largest percentage of ethnically Chinese outside China. However, the overall Chinese heritage goes deeper. Some 75 to 85 per cent of the Thai population are descendants of the Tai, a group that started migrating from China over a thousand years ago. Intermarriage with other nationalities such as the Khmer and Malays has blended them into the Thai we see today, who share a common Thai culture.¹

Today, the Kingdom of Thailand is still considered a developing country. However, its GDP was globally ranked twenty-second in 2019, with its main exports being fuel-driven and electrical machinery, cars, gems, precious metals, rubber, and plastic products.¹ Politically, at the time of writing, the country stands divided between those supporting the monarchy and those seeking social justice, an end to corruption, and a return to a democratic constitutional government. Its monarchy recently reverted to absolute rule. The current king then became the wealthiest monarch on the planet when he took personal control over the nation’s wealth. Meanwhile, Thailand’s poverty rate has risen significantly. Dissension and opposition are met with severe punishment. It’s against the law to criticise the monarchy.

The Thai passengers sitting opposite me on the train are quiet and reserved. Deep down, they no doubt identify with one side or the other, but very few will declare their position. Discussions with Thai friends are ever more reserved because so many issues are taboo.

My stop approaches. The train’s air conditioning mimicked a polar winter and had me shivering all the way. How everyone here isn’t down with the flu all year round is a miracle. The doors open, and a blast of hot, humid air creates a momentary vacuum. I struggle for my first breath of monsoonal Bangkok air. Having travelled the north, south, east, and west of this kingdom, I relax into the soothing sensation of familiarity as I step onto the platform.

Hot and Humid Bangkok

As arranged, I find my friend Bill seated at a small table in the far corner of the sub-zero-air-conditioned McDonald’s near the station. He’s reading the Bangkok Post with his reading glasses sliding down his nose as usual. He now keeps them attached to a string around his neck. He’s dressing better these days, his green checked shirt matching his khaki trousers. Bill smiles, gulps down the last of his coffee, folds the paper, stands, and gives me a bear hug.

We exit into the heat and make our way along the treacherous uneven footpath towards the modern apartment complex, with pool and gymnasium, that Bill now calls home for many months of the year. Following behind on the single-file pavement, I try to answer his questions against the traffic noise: How was the flight? How’s work? How are the kids? I shout an okay to each question as we pass dozens of food hawkers.

‘How about chicken for dinner?’ Bill asks. ‘My fridge is empty.’

The smoke from the coals stings my eyes as we wait for two halves of the charred barbecued bird to be wrapped. I notice, as always, how the legs of Thai chickens seem longer and sturdier than elsewhere. They must do a lot of running before they wind up on a plate.

Taking the elevator up to Bill’s, I remember the last time I stayed in his comfortable two-bedroom apartment. Nothing’s changed; and the view of the fifty-metre pool, surrounded by sweet-smelling frangipani, is just as enticing as ever. He’d bought the apartment some years ago at a fraction of the price he’d pay in Australia. With an expatriate income – even an age pension – life in many Asian countries can be infinitely more comfortable, providing many small luxuries not usually affordable in one’s home country. The Thai government offered Bill the choice between a one- and five-year retirement visa. The expatriates I’ve met, who enjoy this better quality of life, play their part as consumers adding to the economy; and many have become involved in their local communities, often lending a hand with humanitarian efforts. The group I belonged to in Chiang Mai many years ago is still quite active.

After I’ve unpacked and we’ve made a greasy mess devouring the charcoal-striped chicken, Bill suggests going into town for some jazz. Wonderful! I’m delighted he’s remembered that the Saxophone Bar is my favourite place. Spruced up after washing dishes, we take the Skytrain and exit at Victory Monument. The warm evening air thaws us as we pass street hawkers selling everything from carefully folded underpants and budget electronics to food – fragrant with hints of coriander, lemon grass and coconut. As we enter the bar, I remember all the great bands that have lured me here on many past visits.

‘Let’s sit upstairs like we did last time,’ I say.

We make ourselves comfortable on the cushions in an alcove from where we can watch the bands from above. The first artist this evening is a one-man band. He sings soulfully into the mic. The bar soon fills with a mix of Thai and Western patrons. The second act starts tuning up. It’s a nine-piece brass band with a dominant saxophone and a female singer wearing a red African turban. She keeps the crowd engaged with her lovely voice. An alluring smile compliments her delicate hand gestures that dance to the rhythm. The band plays for two hours and then disappears. It’s intermission – time for more snacks and drinks while we await the third act.

The place is old and dimly lit, full of dark teak furniture. Musical instruments that have seen better days fill the shelves and hang from the walls above. The quality music, subdued lighting, and attentive waiters that ply customers with drinks and snacks all night make evenings spent here memorable, not least because of the feeling of inclusiveness that binds the audience to the excellent musicians and each of us to this special place. Looking around at this familiar scene nudges memories of my other music haunts in Bangkok.

Memories of backpacking and music

Sometimes I’ve stayed on Khao-San Road with its numerous eateries – many with live music. Nearby, at the end of Soi Ram Buttri (street), there are several great jazz bars where excellent young musicians jam away the evening at an astounding level of professionalism. That’s no surprise, as some are students at the Conservatory of Music at Rangsit University and members of its jazz ensemble.

People-watching around Khao-San Road can be an endless source of amusement. I’ve often observed young male tourists trying to impress their friends with macho confidence while gobbling down some fried grasshoppers offered by one of the mobile street vendors. This road is crowded and noisy. It’s fun to wander around at night negotiating hundreds of tourists, clothing and souvenir stalls and local street food vendors with their wheeled, fiery cooktops pouring steam into the thronging crowd.

I’d stay at a backpacker on weekends when working at a school outside Bangkok. My favourite group was a duo that performed next door. A thin vocalist with a broad smile and long ponytail on guitar was accompanied by a stouter moustachioed man who played a cajon drum. Each night, they performed popular English hits from the sixties through the nineties and I’d secretly beat out the rhythm under the table. The percussionist on Khao-San Road didn’t know it, but he was the inspiration for the purchase of my cajon that I’m slowly learning to play – surprising are the ways a trip can influence one’s life.

The arrival of the third act at the Saxophone Bar interrupts my trip down memory lane. Two guys on keyboard and guitar have taken to the stage. They start a quieter, more laid-back session.

‘You look tired,’ says Bill. He looks restless.

‘I am. It’s been a long day. Do you mind if we leave now?’

‘You sure you don’t want to hear the next band?’ He’s already handed his credit card to the waiter.

It’s almost midnight as we leave for the station, but the street hawkers are still busy selling their wares and cooking food. Even this late at night, crowds are milling around the sidewalk or sitting on tiny plastic stools enjoying a late meal. Light beaming down from streetlights transforms the steam from cooktops into a fog that intermittently envelops either the hawker’s trolley or their hungry customers as it shifts with the breeze from side to side. Had we not devoured all those fries, the aroma of spices would have been irresistible. Instead, we take the train home.

60021.png60011.png

The Inspiring Ancient City

I wake early. Over toast and coffee, Bill is focused on the little black diary into which he writes his to-do list for the day.

‘You’ll be back for dinner, right?’ Peering over the top of his glasses, he adds, ‘I thought we’d try a new Muslim place that’s opened nearby.’

‘Cool. I’ll be back by five. Hope you get all your stuff done. Bye,’ I call out as I step into the long tunnel-like hallway.

Reaching the Ancient City at Mueang Boran is best by train, then a cab. I’ve been before and know that taking photos there becomes insanely compulsive – such is the variety and beauty of structures from ancient to more recent designs. I’m excited. On the train, I read background information on a new website. In the past, this seemed one of Bangkok’s best-kept secrets, and I’d discovered it only by accident. The museum grounds correspond to the geographical shape of Thailand; and the buildings, temples, and monuments are exact replicas of their original, located on the site to match their historical, geographic locations within the borders of the kingdom.

It’s the connection to their culture that draws Thai visitors to the Ancient City. Here, they can escape from Bangkok’s modern concrete jungle and breathe in their history while viewing structures representing their core Thai identity. An entrepreneur called Lek Viriyaphant had initially planned to build a golf course featuring ancient Thai landmarks. In his research, however, he’d found many historical sites in states of disrepair. This distressed him enough to change his plans and construct this open-air museum to benefit future generations who would, through this site, learn about – and be proud of – their heritage.²,³ Like so many places I’ve visited worldwide, this superb museum makes me appreciate how much the public owes to the few individuals who put their energies into protecting the heritage of their nation. Their efforts validate a nation’s identity and add to citizens’ sense of national pride, not so much in the form of nationalism, but in an uplifting and positive way with a focus on the beauty, creativity, and spirituality that seems to bind them.

At the ticket booth, where it is, appropriately, one price for Thai nationals, another for foreigners, I’m offered the choice of either golf buggy or bicycle. I hire an inexpensive bike – and soon feel the strain on my legs from hopping on and off to take a thousand photos. Many of the vastly different buildings are masterpieces in intricate exterior detail while the interiors of some have stunning, delicately painted scenes with gilded highlights. My phone storage fills with images of statues, wats, temples, and ancient stupa. Among the grandeur of enormous regal buildings are the simple yet inviting teak homes of everyday rural folk. An older man taking his water buffalo for a walk stops to let me pat the animal’s head – the roughness of its hide and bristly hairs surprises me. They seem at odds with the long silky eyelashes that frame two soft brown