And so it is decided. I am going to Mongolia. Tomorrow. It's hard to believe that this most incompentent and harebrained of schemes has actually worked. I mean, I actually rocked up in Berlin, found the MIAT travel office and said I want to go to Mongolia this week. Right there and then I bought a ticket, in cash, and for almost half the price of the ones I found online before I left, way back when in March.
I suppose that it had seemed like such an unlikely eventuality, doubted by pretty much everyone that I mentioned it to, that I too had begun to convince myself that it wasn't going to happen. I had accepted that there wouldn't be an available flight, that I wouldn't have the money. I had constructed an alternative route, heading back East through Poland and Ukraine before heading North to the Baltic and then perhaps looping round through Scandinavia. Or something like that. I'd grown rather fond of this route. It meant I could see and tick off more countries, I could go back to the Eastern Europe that I enjoyed so much, get to see Ukraine, which I now have a strong desire to see, and perhaps most of all, it felt safe. I could do it easily, I know how to get around Europe, I wouldn't go anywhere wilder than I'd already been. It would have had a nice narrative arc, too; as a journey, it would make some sort of sense on the map. I knew I'd find couches and friendly people and internet and train timetables and all that. It was comfortable.
And so, in the manner of all things, do we come full circle.
Almost three months ago, I sat in French campsite wondering many things. As I approached this junction in my journey, not knowing which road through the "yellow wood" I would take, I have found myself reflecting again. I suddenly realised that I hadn't been thinking much recently. By the Seine, I'd wanted to be able to just sit, and like that moment climbing when you realise you haven't been thinking anything, it struck me that that was what I missed about Eastern Europe. Looking back I found that over time, as I ventured further and as time passed, I thought less and less. I could sit on a bench and watch the world go by or the sea sparkle; half an hour, and hour would go by. I could sit in a train contentedly, just looking out the window, perhaps waiting for something interesting to fly by, but if it didn't, well that was fine too.I t makes you patient, this travelling. Trains are late, connections are missed, but without commitments, without anyone else, what does it matter whether you are here or there? The present moment becomes the only thing, full and content in itself*.
As I reflected more and more on the journey I'd taken, I grew more and more attached to the idea of carrying on round Europe. After I had bought the ticket to Mongolia I was surprised to find myself neither excited nor satisfied, but a little disappointed. I was surprised, most of all, by the ambiguity of my feelings. All the old arguments I had rehearsed in France were there. On the one hand, I'd actually managed to get a flight to Mongolia, and, wow, I mean, it's Mongolia, it's going to be wild and exciting and adventurous and amazing, right? On the other lay the comforting idea of Eastern Europe. There were double layers beyond those too, the desire to do something that scares me a little, the need to overcome doubts and throw myself forward just because it scares me. Like Frost's traveller, I too found myself sorry that I could not travel both paths.
But I thought more about this, wandering around Alexanderplatz and down Unter den Linden. And I saw that it wasn't simple comfort, that there was something more that I missed about my travels, something I'd missed whilst in Slovenia too. The people I'd met. I was sad to leave them behind. Buying a ticket to Mongolia meant the end of halfhoped ideas of seeing people again. While I was still in Europe the possibility remained that I could relatively easily have visited pretty much any of the travellers or hosts I'd got to know. That is gone now and the truth is that I don't know when I will see them again, because I know how life goes when you move somewhere new and start something as tough as a PhD and things just, well, overtake you.
Someone pointed out to me, a while ago now, that I never wrote about people in my blogs. I thought about this for a long time. It hadn't been a conscious decision, but I recognised that it was true. I think there were, and are, several reasons for this and, realising that these weren't going to change, the decision became conscious. I sought ways to get round it, flirting with the idea of simply listing all the people that have had some impact on my travels, from the most trivial to the most important, but I haven't tried that yet, I'm not sure why. Who knows, maybe I will towards the end. Why, then, have I avoided writing about people?
Maybe it is like painting or drawing, where I always found capturing faces the hardest aspect to manage, in that capturing a character in words is just too difficult. I shy away from trapping people in words that don't fit. If the reality of places is multifaceted, then people even more so. Too frequently I only see one part of them, one person of the many that make them who they are. Perhaps I miss their depths or sides hidden from even themselves. And if this happens when we meet, how crude any description must then be: one crudely sketched aspect of one aspect of of one side of one person. A sort of poor written equivalent of Sugimoto's "copies of copies of copies".
This could be seen as a cop-out of course. Perhaps it is. But maybe there is slightly more to it than that. I don't know how people would react to seeing themselves blogged about, it can be a strange experience. I wouldn't want to offend them or get them wrong and I am such an inexperienced writer I surely would. Many people have been incredibly kind to me, but write anything other than the highest praise and the internet is a big scary place and words can be interpreted in many ways... That might not be everyone's idea of fifteen minutes of fame.
Beyond that, many of the interesting things that have been said or shared with me are personal, perhaps not to me (but then if this blog doesn't attest to the fact that I have slightly unusual boundaries of what constitutes personal, then what does?) and who knows what people want for themselves and what they are prepared to share? Some of the magic of shared memories and special people are too easily lost when up there in neon. There is simply too much unknown, too much involved and that is why I stick to the places I see and the thoughts and feelings I have.
In many ways, it's a shame. Like looking at other's photos, perhaps blogs are more interesting when there are people in them, rather than an endless succession of beaches and mountain views. It is truly the people that make a journey. They make it worthwhile and it's from them that you learn. As I've been reflecting about the journey so far, it's the people I have met that stand out. For this, I have certainly couchsurfing to thank. I´ve been couchsurfing for over two months now and it has been a nothing short of a revelation.
It started as a way for me to save money, but it has rapidly become so much more. In fact it's now hard to imagine ever hostelling again, except through necessity. It's not just a way to meet people either, though that is what makes it great. No, for me, it represents my aspirations for the way the world should be: a global community based on trust, honesty, reciprocity, generosity, optimism and a sharing of all the good things in life. Above all it is about meeting some of the very best people I´ve had the fortune to spend time with; people that have changed my worldview, that constantly renew my faith in humanity and are rolemodels for ways to live well - thoughtfully, compassionately, meaningfully - wherever you find yourself. They have shown me how kind, considerate and generous it is possible to be**. Long live the couchsurfing revolution!
Speaking of revolutions, I am off to witness what might be the start of the next one, to see that harbinger of youth, passion and change. Yes, he who dares to hope for audacity - JFK. Wait, that is him right? ... maybe I'm just getting confused with all this Berlin history and symbolism and stuff... I'm sure no Berliner... Anyway I'm off to see him, because, well who knows what might happen and anyhow the museum I wanted to visit costs ten euros.
