7/4/25 Farewell, My Second Homeland

Forgot my wallet today — had to set up Apple Pay again at a café. Kind of ridiculous. It’s been ages since I’ve done something like that. Maybe my head’s just been all over the place lately… or maybe my heart’s already drifted too far.

Yesterday, I spent the day in the Tigre Delta — a maze of rivers and reeds just outside Buenos Aires. It felt like a quiet pocket of breath, hidden at the edge of the city.

The coffee at this cabin wasn't tasty. I took a sip, winced, and gave up.

Ended up using it as watercolor instead.

The coffee layered softly onto the paper, one wash at a time — paler and gentler than regular watercolors, a kind of tender brown. With each coat, I had to wait for the sun to dry it. That slow drying became part of the painting itself — in the pauses, I found myself rereading Stories of the Sahara in Dreams (梦里花落知多少), a book that gathers fragments of Sanmao’s life after her husband José passed away. It’s filled with tender memories, quiet sorrow, and reflections on family, friendship, and home.

Sanmao — Chen Ping — was a writer from Taiwan, known for her deeply emotional and lyrical prose. She lived and wandered across Europe and Africa, and wrote about her life with vivid honesty. Her earlier works, like Stories of the Sahara, are adventurous and free-spirited; this one, though, is quieter, more aching.

When I was a teenager, I only liked her stories of the Sahara, or her days studying in Spain — the wild and romantic ones, full of curiosity and self-discovery. But this one… this one was steeped in grief. And back then, I wasn’t ready for that.

But now, I think I am.

Yesterday, I read a passage where she was preparing to leave the Canary Islands and return to Taiwan. In that moment, I felt an unexpected kinship with her — that aching sense of leaving a place you’ve come to love.

She was one of my favorite writers during my youth.

I loved reading about her days in the Sahara — her passionate, free-spirited, slightly naive but unwavering love for José. I also adored her whimsical tales of everyday life — like her witty battles with her Arab neighbors. She could write the desert like a fairy tale, or like purgatory. But more than anything, she lived truthfully, as herself.

But what truly made me feel connected to her wasn’t just the adventures. It was that little girl in her stories — the one who moved from place to place as a child, who woke up in the middle of the night feeling fear, separation, and a fragile kind of sorrow.

That longing for stability and belonging — she wrote it so tenderly, it aches to read.

And at the same time, there’s the little girl in the corner of a room, quietly reading, just beginning to understand what it means to feel unrooted. She went to boarding school at a young age. And now, at 28, she really has lived in many places.

Every departure feels like tearing off a small piece of her heart. People often say, "You’ll get used to goodbyes."But for her, it’s never been that simple.

I’ve long since “gotten used to” goodbyes —but every time I have to part ways with someone I love, or a city I’ve grown close to, I still cry. Not because I’m fragile. But because some things just can’t be easily replaced.

Inside my backpack, there’s more than clothes, a passport, and a pile of notebooks filled with scribbles. There’s also a heart that has always been on the move —a heart that’s never quite found a place to settle.

And now, I think I finally understand why Sanmao once said:"Writing is how I piece myself back together after being broken."

Because after too many farewells, we do begin to break.

I remember reading Amos Oz’s A Tale of Love and Darkness back when I was studying in Beijing. He wrote about his mother — a Polish girl who slowly fell silent under the shadow of war-torn Jerusalem. She had once loved poetry, snowfall, the sound of violins in Warsaw cafés. And he wrote, “Death came to her like a beautiful lover, silently.”

What broke her wasn’t just the war itself — but the kind of life one can see right through: a reality that repeats without surprise, without escape.

I was also deeply drawn to Sabina in The Unbearable Lightness of Being — a woman who was rebellious, untamed, untouched by convention.

She despised kitsch — not just in aesthetics, but in the deeper way Milan Kundera described it: the kind of sentimental lie that makes us cry not only because children are running on the grass, but because we are moved by the collective beauty of that moment.

Sabina rejected that, she refused to live a life where pain was sanitized, where contradictions were swept under the rug. She walked into foreign art studios of different men in high heels, elegant and explosive, always ready to disappear. She left her lovers, cities, countries — over and over.

Back then, I thought that was freedom. That was romance.

And I was once captivated by Zhang Ailing’s red rose — the kind that is willful and unapologetically pure. In her iconic short story Red Rose, White Rose, Zhang wrote that a man might love two women in his life: one, a red rose — fiery, rebellious, unforgettable; the other, a white rose — quiet, tender, and “marriage material.”But no matter which one he chooses, the other will become a lasting mark on his heart — either a stain of longing, or a ghost of regret.

The red rose burns bright. She is obsessive, unreasonable — and too beautiful to get close to. She doesn’t just ignore the rules; she simply refuses to be bound by them. She eats spoonfuls of peanut butter without shame. She speaks her desires without restraint. She is the one who lights the fire in her own fate.

I can’t forget Yu Hong either — the character played by Hao Lei in the Lou Ye's film Summer Palace. Yu Hong was a young woman who loved with reckless abandon, she didn’t calculate or hold back. Her tears, her body, her longing — everything was raw, exposed, unfiltered.

She wasn’t performative. She wasn’t safe.

She was simply — real.

And all she wanted was to feel alive, to live intensely, even if it meant breaking herself in the process.

These characters were ones I connected with deeply when I first encountered them in my youth. They weren’t perfect — but they were achingly real. They were brave, willful, tender, and raw. Even though I was still just a teenage girl, too young to fully grasp the complexity behind their stories, something in me whispered: “I understand.” 

I hadn’t lived their lives, but I knew what it was like to feel too much — to resist a quiet, predictable life, to crave intensity, adventure, and everything unknown. I saw in them what I would only come to understand later in myself: that restless ache, the refusal to settle for “just fine,” the longing to escape, and the fear of letting go.

As I grew older, I slowly came to recognize another kind of beauty. I began to appreciate rhythm and routine — weekly trips to the market, friendly greetings from the uncle who sells cheese, sitting at my desk to work or study for couple hours each day. I now have my favorite cafés, where baristas greet me with warm smiles: “Hola Shikin, todo bien?”. I’ve built a circle of steady friendships. I know which milongas match my mood, and in the soft night of Buenos Aires, I dance, exchanging quiet nods with familiar faces. Life no longer arrives in explosions — it seeps in quietly, gently, like sunlight filtering through the cracks.

I still love freedom and discovery — they remain the oxygen of my life, the way I stay alive inside. But I no longer wish to be a traveler forever. I’m beginning to understand that exploration doesn’t always mean leaving. Sometimes, staying is its own kind of adventure: to tend to a plant’s quiet moods, to cook a meal with care, to build a space called home, to grow older beside someone. That, too, feels expansive.

One day, I hope I can say to a place: “I’ve decided. I’m staying.” 

And to someone: “I’m not leaving. I’ll stay with you.” 

Wandering isn’t always romantic; and settling down isn’t always the end. Both are beautiful — just different choices in different seasons of life. “No man ever steps in the same river twice.” — Heraclitus.

Each time we stay or leave, we may feel we’ve been here before — but the river has changed. And so have we.

Hometown: Xinjiang

People often ask me, “Where is your home?”

I rarely know how to answer.

But my hometown — is Xinjiang.

A land of vastness, wildness, and freedom.

Here lies the endless emptiness of the Taklamakan Desert, and the glittering snow peaks of the Tianshan Mountains.There are glacier-covered ranges and winding, life-giving oases. In summer, grasslands stretch wide, dotted with herds of cattle and sheep, wildflowers blooming as far as the eye can see.There are also salt lakes — silent and mysterious — like mirrors of the sky.

As a child, I was always barefoot, dancing on the hillsides — stepping on loose stones and wild grass, nibbling flower petals, holding lambs in my arms, singing folk songs like “Why Are the Flowers So Red”, long before I even understood what the words meant.

My parents would take me to stay overnight with their friends nomadic families — nights I’ll never forget. Inside the yurt, the stove would be lit, and the air would fill with the scent of butter tea and wood smoke. The adults sang and drank heartily; we children huddled around the fire, fighting over pieces of qurut — dried yogurt snacks, tangy and firm.

Wrapped in a thick, floral blanket, I’d wander alone beneath the moonlight, careful not to step on the frozen cow dung scattered across the ground. The nights were cold — even the cow dung had hardened in the frost. I looked up at the Milky Way. The world felt enormous. And I — I felt completely free.

Xinjiang is where I first felt truly connected to nature — deeply, soulfully.

My father worked far away from home most of the time back to my childhood.

But on weekends, when the three of us were finally together, he’d wake up early and head to the market — bringing back a basket full of glistening fresh shrimp and crabs, just for us. Even in the farthest place from the sea, he always managed to find seafood that tasted like it had just come off the boat.

He knew how much I loved Xinjiang-style stir-fried rice noodles, but he worried about the hygiene of street restaurants.

So he brought a little notebook with him and visited my favorite hole-in-the-wall joints, asking each one exactly how they made it. Then he’d go off to buy the freshest ingredients he could find and recreate the dish at home.

He even learned how to make lamb soup the way the local herders did — simmered with “spring water” (which was actually bottled Spring mineral water from the supermarket). The smell of that bubbling pot would drift across the courtyard, carried by the wind, gently pulling me away from my desk and into the kitchen.

One sip — and it hit the spot. SATISFIED！

Weekend family dinners at our home never went without grilled meat.

Fresh lamb was cut into small chunks, threaded onto long metal skewers — alternating lean and fatty pieces, just right. My uncle was the true perfectionist. He insisted on using cuts from the shank, just enough tendon to make it chewy. He’d grill the meat slowly, turning the skewers with care, and when the fat hit the burning charcoal with a sizzle, that aroma would rise — rich, smoky, impossible to resist.

The meat didn’t need anything fancy, just a shake of salt, cumin, and chili powder — and it was enough to make your scalp tingle from the smell alone. That light crisp of lamb fat wrapped around tender, juicy meat — one bite, and the outside crackled while the inside practically melted. It was the kind of flavor that made you close your eyes and sigh.

On the side table, there was always a stack of naan — brought home from the bazaar.

In Xinjiang, no household is ever without naan. It’s a round flatbread, often stamped with delicate patterns. The outer rim is crisp, the inside soft and chewy. Traditionally, it’s baked by slapping the dough against the inner walls of a clay oven, giving it that unmistakable charred fragrance. The most classic kinds are sesame naan and piya-zi naan (stuffed with onions), but there are many more — rose naan, walnut naan… the list goes on.

And the best part?

My uncle, while grilling the lamb skewers, would casually swipe a piece of naan through the drippings — hot lamb fat mixed with cumin and chili powder, just before it hit the coals. That already-delicious naan would soak up all that spicy, sizzling flavor. One bite — the sweetness of the onions, the punch of cumin, the crisp char — with just a hint of meatiness.

It was divine.

Honestly? Writing this down is making my mouth water.

Off to the side, a huge bowl of cold noodles had already been prepared — tangy, spicy, refreshing, and perfectly chewy.

Then there was the cold salad, made from cucumbers, tomatoes, and chili peppers freshly picked by my grandma that morning from our garden. She’d throw in a few slices of piya-zi (onion), and mix it all together by hand into a big bowl — crisp, vibrant, and the perfect balance to the richness of grilled meat.

In the courtyard, the adults sat around the table, cracking sunflower seeds and chatting away. We kids ran wild, zigzagging around, waiting for the first skewer hot off the grill.

In summer, we often escaped into the mountains to stay cool — carrying watermelons, melons, raisins, nuts, yogurt, and naan. We’d chatter and laugh our way along the winding valleys, the car loaded with snacks and joy.

The moment we arrived, we’d drop the watermelon into the stream to chill it. Later, when the sun was beginning to dip behind the peaks, we’d pull it out — cold and glistening, its red flesh glowing like the sunset sky. One slice, and the crunch gave way to a sweetness so bright, it tasted like pure happiness.

In Xinjiang, we rarely bought milk from supermarkets.

Instead, you’d find someone on the street with a small stall tucked behind their car — and a big aluminum kettle beside them.

We’d line up to buy raw milk, fresh and still warm from the cow, thick like cream.

Milk tea in Xinjiang is salty — just like the people I grew up around. Rough around the edges, but warm once you get close. It starts with a dark brick-tea base, simmered slowly until deep. Then comes the fresh raw milk, a generous pinch of salt, and sometimes even a spoonful of butter. The kettle would bubble quietly on the stove, filling the room with a scent I still can’t quite describe — part milk, part smoke, part something more… something like home.

You drink it with both hands wrapped around the bowl, steam rising into your face. And with that first sip — the warmth travels from your throat to your belly, then settles somewhere deep in your heart.

And there’s still so much more…

Although I went to boarding school from a young age and didn’t spend much time truly “at home,” I’ve never once doubted this: Xinjiang is my root — the place where my soul first learned its sense of direction. It holds my first dances, my first songs, my first taste of freedom.

It is where I first understood what vastness means.

Where I began to learn what it feels like to belong.

Xinjiang — is the place I call hometown.

Beijing, Where I Was an Outsider

Later, at fifteen, I went to Beijing on my own.

When I first arrived in Beijing at fifteen, I was just a girl — wide-eyed and unsure, stepping into a city far bigger and louder than anything I had known. I felt overwhelmed. The buildings were too tall, the subway too fast, the crowds too many.

I missed home.

But gradually, something shifted.

I didn’t fall in love with the city overnight — not exactly.

But I began to notice its texture, its rhythm, its strange, sprawling beauty.

I began to appreciate it.

I grew fond of the steaming roasted chestnuts sold at the corners of narrow alleyways in winter.

The way Sanlitun — Beijing’s lively district known for its fashionable bars and late-night cafés — stayed buzzing with life even after midnight.

The soft neon glow peeking through the gaps between high-rises on hazy evenings.

I admired how there was always something being created —a poem, a short film, a play mid-rehearsal.

And I loved how taxi drivers could speak to you about politics, destiny — even philosophy — as if it were just small talk.

Beijing taught me that being artistic and being grounded don’t have to be opposites — they can coexist effortlessly in a bowl of chao gan (a thick garlicky pork liver stew, typical Beijing street food) or a night of experimental theater.

Back then, I used to spend my weekends wandering around 798 Art District (a former factory area turned into Beijing’s contemporary art hub). I’d collect theatre schedules, read Liao Yimei (a Chinese playwright known for emotionally raw, modern dramas), devour Wang Xiaobo (a Chinese novelist whose writing blends philosophy, satire, and romance), and zone out for hours in art galleries.

One time, for no particular reason, I even signed up for an open audition at Meng Jinghui’s theater (a well-known director in contemporary stage scene). Looking back now, I had absolutely no idea how to act — but I still showed up, passionately reciting lines from Zhang Ailing’s Red Rose and White Rose  (a novella exploring love, desire, and societal expectations in Republican-era China):"Tong Zhenbao..." I began, full of drama and emotion.

The director smiled gently and kindly stopped me."Thank you. That’s enough."

Thinking about it now makes me burst out laughing — I feel cringed for a second by that embarrassment.

Of course, I never heard back.

But honestly?

That moment remains one of the most adorably ridiculous highlights of my life.

I loved lu zhu huoshao — braised pork offal with baked flatbread soaked in a rich, garlicky broth — and bao du, thinly sliced beef tripe quickly blanched and dipped in sesame sauce.

I even had a soft spot for zhá guàn cháng — deep-fried sausage stuffed with starchy filling, crispy on the outside and chewy inside.

But I also adored the delicate, old Beijing-style desserts:

the creamy, milky nai lao (a traditional Beijing milk custard), the melt-in-your-mouth red date and yam cakes, and in winter, the jewel-like tanghulu — candied hawthorns on a stick, their sugary glaze cracking gently between your teeth.

Every time I ate these treats, I couldn’t help but imagine myself as a concubine in Empresses in the Palace — dressed in embroidered silk robes, a golden hairpin shimmering in my elaborate updo, and sleeves fluttering in the wind every time I raised my hand.

I watched Jia Zhangke (a filmmaker known for his raw, poetic portrayals) and Lou Ye (a director whose films often explore desire, identity, and censorship).

I listened to Cui Jian — the godfather of Chinese rock — and danced to New Pants (a Beijing-based new wave band blending pop, punk, and synth).

I began to question.

I began to resist.

And I began to search.

My high school had strict rules — students weren’t allowed to leave campus, so I learned to climb over the wall；

I didn’t enjoy university all that much, so I moved out；

On weekends, I often escaped the city — sometimes short trips,

sometimes farther: to Guangdong, where I studied leather carving;

to Yunnan, to learn tie-dyeing by hand;

or to sit quietly with a teacher of flower philosophy — an introspective approach to floral arrangement rooted in Japanese and Chinese aesthetics.

The first time I watched Keep Cool  (You Hua Hao Hao Shuo, a black comedy directed by Zhang Yimou), I was completely hooked.

Qu Ying played a fierce, no-nonsense Beijing woman — sharp, stylish, and full of attitude.

Jiang Wen, standing in the middle of a residential compound, shouted at the top of his lungs:"An Hong, I love you!"

It was absurd, desperate, and so sincere.

And then there was Zhang Yimou himself, playing a timid man from Shaanxi province who, sensing trouble, jumped on his three-wheeled bike and pedaled away without a word.

As the camera pulled back, all you could see were rows and rows of identical apartment buildings — background noise a mix of loudspeaker announcements and neighbors yelling at each other downstairs.

It was all so Beijing.

Rough, chaotic, noisy — and yet, honest. So honest it moved me a lot.

Just like that shout — "An Hong, I love you!" — raw and unfiltered.

No poetry, no pretense.

And maybe that’s why it felt so real.

Back then, my days were wrapped in exams, work, subway rides, smog, and endless “right answers.” Sometimes late at night, I’d sit alone on the bus, staring out at the neon-lit chaos of the city —feeling like an outsider.

Always slightly apart.

An outsider who didn’t want to blend in.

Beijing made me feel distant from everything, yet, nothing, but it also taught me how to slowly carve out the shape of who I was.

The winters were bone-cold.

The subways were always packed.

And from Guomao Bridge, the traffic never stopped flowing like a river of light and metal.

I’d stand in the middle of a crowd, feeling hollow inside, asking myself:In a city this big, is there any corner meant for me?

when I was 16

But maybe it was exactly because the city was so vast, so uncertain,

that I had no choice but to find my own language —

my own way of seeing, of creating, of expressing.

Beijing didn’t teach me how to “fit in.”

It taught me something else: that I didn’t need to.

What I needed was to keep thinking, to be critical.

To create. To learn.

To keep figuring out who I truly was.

Being an outsider is no tragedy.

Not every place you live in has to be called home.

Some places are simply places you’ve passed through,

lived in,

loved —

once.

Life in the UK

At twenty-two, I decided to leave Beijing and move to the UK for my studies. But it wasn’t just about studying abroad — it was the beginning of my conscious decision to step outside the bubbles I had grown used to. The protection of family was one bubble. The care of my ex-boyfriend. And the comfort of a familiar environment — yet another. I chose to leave these layers of warmth, because they were also gently suffocating. I wanted to walk into a world that didn’t know me — and that I didn’t yet know.

It wasn’t out of rebellion, and it wasn’t about running away. It was because, deep down, I knew: if I truly wanted to become someone free, clear-minded, and able to stand on her own, I needed to live through the kind of days where no one was there to take care of me.

Of course, I genuinely loved what I studied, and I was deeply curious about the world beyond my own. I wanted to practice living alone, choosing alone — to feel, explore, carry, and reflect, on my own.

I was just a few days away from turning 23

It was a farewell, but also a quiet resolve to begin again.

The UK — and London in particular — was a place I could never quite define. On the surface, it appeared restrained and composed, but beneath that cool exterior, it harbored a kind of freedom that was deeply seductive, even slightly unhinged — a freedom laced with melancholy, detached and decadent, dark and quietly defiant, always a little out of step with the world around it.

After graduation, I moved into a small flat in East London. Each day on my way to and from work, I would pass a handful of familiar storefronts: a secondhand record shop, a vintage clothing store, a well-known little fish and chips counter, and a cozy café where jazz music floated gently out onto the street.

One afternoon, like many before, I stepped into the vintage shop without any particular purpose. Tucked away in a corner was a military green Burberry trench — an older design, subtle and sharply tailored, with that kind of quiet elegance I had always admired. I tried it on without much expectation, but the moment I slipped my arms through the sleeves, I stopped in my tracks.

It fit as though it had been waiting for me. The shoulders aligned just right, the waist fell exactly where it should, even the length of the sleeves felt so precise it was as if someone had taken my measurements without me knowing. Standing in front of the mirror, I felt a strange sense of recognition — not dramatic, not loud, but unmistakable: this coat had been here for me, all along.

turning 24

I often took the Tube across the city, visiting exhibitions at the V&A and Tate — walking from one gallery to another, using my student card to get half-price or free entry. Some spaces were hushed and reverent, some works bizarre, some made me laugh, others pulled me into a kind of quiet contemplation, and sometimes, I left feeling completely bewildered — but always, somehow, moved.

On weekends, I’d go hiking with friends in the Peak District. The weather was often bitterly cold, and the wind stung against our faces, but being out there — walking through open hills and quiet fields — cleared something in me. My body ached, but my mind felt calm, almost sharpened by the cold.

I’ve loved cooking since I was little, so when it comes to food, I never really felt homesick — whatever I craved, I could usually make it myself.

On New Year’s Eve, I went to Scotland. I didn’t have a clear destination — I just wanted to see the University of Glasgow.

It was where my first boyfriend had studied.

Back when I was still in high school in Beijing, he was already living alone in the UK. Every night before going to bed, he would send me a “Good morning” message — and he did that every single day, for three years, without missing a day.

He was the kind of person who had learned to stand on his own early in life — clear-headed, independent, a little distant. I liked him, and I admired him.

I often told myself quietly: One day, I want to become someone like him.

Looking back now, I realize just how much he shaped me:

He was the one who first made me aware that many of the things I thought I “couldn’t” do were really just limits I had drawn inside my own mind;

He was the one who helped me see that certain patterns in my family — the way we communicated, the silences we accepted — weren’t entirely healthy;

And he was the first person who made me truly want to become someone independent, grounded, and capable of carrying herself through life.

I don’t know what his life is like now. But I’ve always been grateful for those years. Grateful that, even at an age when neither of us really knew how to love, we still gave what we had — and gave it fully, in our own way.

On New Year’s Day in 2022, I bought an open return train ticket and left from Edinburgh, heading south.

There was no schedule to keep.

Whenever I felt like it, I would get off the train — wander through unfamiliar towns, watch people, get a coffee, look at the streets, the churches, the quiet rhythm of places I didn’t know.

It wasn’t about checking places off a list. It wasn’t for a story to tell anyone. It was simply because — I wanted to stop.

So I did.

I still remember a rainy evening in Brighton — my friend and I sat by the sea, watching the sky darken slowly.

The wind tangled our hair into a mess, and we held mugs of hot chocolate laced with Cointreau, topped with a thick layer of whipped cream.

We sat around a small fire, saying nothing, just watching — the coastline, the moonlight, the flames dancing quietly into the night.

I still remember the version of myself who used to be terrified of conflict.

When I first arrived in Sheffield, my flatmates never cleaned the shared kitchen. At first, I silently tidied up after them — clearing the piles of mess without a word. But over time, that discomfort grew — like a sink full of unwashed pots — harder to ignore the more I tried to look away.

One day, I finally gathered the courage to bring it up in our group chat. Using my not-quite-fluent English, I tried to explain the idea of taking turns to clean. When I hit “send,” my palms were sweating, my heart was racing, and my hands were shaking.

That night, I felt terrible. Guilty, even — because I still wasn’t used to standing up for myself.

Later that winter, I went traveling — Berlin, Paris. When I came back and opened the door to our kitchen, I was speechless. The place looked like a modern art installation made of dirty dishes. Leftover food floated in the sink, the air was thick with a strange smell, and five bulging trash bags had taken up residence.

I didn’t say much. I quietly packed my things and moved out.

A few weeks later, another girl moved into my old room. On her first day, she defrosted a mountain of pig trotters and chicken feet on the kitchen table. My former flatmates panicked.

They messaged me:“Shikin, would you consider moving back in?”

Emmm. No.

Life in the UK didn’t follow any grand narrative, nor did it last particularly long. Because of the pandemic, many friends eventually left and returned to their own countries. With the lockdowns, the restrictions, and the never-ending damp winters, my final memories of that place remain a little wet — in every possible way.

I still remember a rainy evening when I stood alone in the kitchen and made a pot of improvised curry. I didn’t follow a recipe; I simply threw in whatever was left in the fridge — lettuce, carrots, garlic, tomatoes, frozen dumplings, potatoes, onions, thin slices of pork belly, and even a spoonful of spicy kimchi. The whole mixture simmered gently as thunder rolled in the distance, the windows fogged slightly from the heat, and the dampness of the air seemed to echo something inside me — a quiet confusion, coldness, a sense of disorder and fatigue, the kind of loneliness that doesn’t ache, but just lingers.

After finishing the curry, I opened the fridge again and took out the two ice creams I always bought: Häagen-Dazs vanilla & strawberry cream and Ben & Jerry’s chocolate brownie — they happened to be on sale, two for £7, which felt like a small kind of comfort, and they had always been my favorite combination. I sat on the sofa and slowly tasted each spoonful, letting the richness of the fudge soften on my tongue as I watched the rain blur the outside world. Nothing particularly important was happening — but somehow, that night stayed with me.

In my memory, being twenty-three felt quietly heavy — a time when I wanted to break free from the loneliness of standing alone in front of the stove, the window, the rain, and the long winter. But deep down, I think I already knew: that kind of solitude doesn’t belong to any particular moment.

You can feel alone even when you’re in love. You can drift off mid-conversation, even in the middle of a noisy group of friends.

Eventually, we all have to learn how to return to ourselves.

Back then, I could almost see the future me — in unfamiliar apartments, in unfamiliar cities, cooking, reading, watching films, writing, getting lost in thought, again and again.

Rain falling outside the window.

And inside, only the sound of my own breath.

The funny thing is — right now, at this very moment, I’m sitting in my apartment in Buenos Aires, Argentina, simmering a pot of shiitake and red date chicken soup.

The weather has cooled, the rain is falling outside, and the pot is bubbling softly on the stove. Everything feels almost exactly like how I once imagined it five years ago — and yet, not quite the same.

But in this moment, I don’t feel sad, and I don’t feel lonely.

I feel warm. I feel content. I feel deeply at ease.

I don’t belong to any one place, nor to any one person. But if I choose to, I can stay — in a place I love, or beside someone I hold dear.

I am unbound, and I am at peace with it.

I don’t know where I’ll go tomorrow, but I know this: wherever I am, I can create a home of my own.

Argentina, My Second Homeland

After leaving the UK, I began to travel.

Sometimes I was on my own, other times I was accompanied by new or familiar friends I met along the way.

At times, I visited famous landmarks; at others, I wandered through ordinary neighborhoods, slipped into local markets, chatted with elderly vendors on the street, and tasted foods I couldn’t even name.

I often stood at vegetable stalls with my translation app in hand, asking how they cooked things at home — pointing, laughing, exchanging gestures and words. Everything felt vivid, colorful, full of life.

In Egypt, every morning I would open the gate to the courtyard of the house I was staying in, and the sheep, camels, and chickens would wander over, humming softly. I’d toss out carrot peels, apple skins, banana peels — and they’d be overjoyed.

I moved around as an observer, a seeker, an explorer — eager to immerse, yet always ready to pull back.

I was constantly engaging, and then moving on.

Like a bird — free, drifting, sometimes lonely, a little unsettled.

I’ve had my share of brief, beautiful encounters.

And I truly love those romantic moments — the sudden exchange of glances, the accidental brush of hands, a kiss on the corner of a quiet street, a goodbye at a train station. They’ve made me laugh, blush, feel my heart race.

Not every connection needs to become a story with an ending. Some are simply sparks of tenderness — brief, flickering, and real.

I’ve never thought of those moments as meaningless.

To me, they were cute springs, blooming honestly in the middle of my heart.

And over time, I’ve come to realize — I no longer believe that “faraway places” are what I need to cure my sense of rootlessness, nor do I think that beauty must always carry a trace of sorrow.

Drifting and drifting, I found myself in Argentina.

I’ve written about this place so many times that, by now, I feel a bit lazy to lay it all out again. Let’s just say — it was one of those “when you know, you know” moments, here I felt like home.

I can’t quite tell whether it’s because I’ve grown more at ease with myself over time, or because this land carries a strange, quiet kind of magic.

The wind, the sunlight, the people, and the way they dance —everything moves gently, unhurriedly, yet always seems to land right in the soft, cracked corners of my soul.

It’s tender, intense, and just a little bit sharp.

Argentina is my second homeland.

Argentina never tried to make me stay —on the contrary, its immigration office seems quite good at pushing people out —and yet, I still find it hard to leave.

Over these two and a half years, I’ve learned so much. I learned a new language, dance, and different forms of art. I learned how to be alone, how to accompany, how to say goodbye, and how to love — and be loved.

I walked into nature and moved through cities.

I practiced courage, and I practiced tenderness.

I learned how to meet my inner girl, and slowly, to accept her and love her.

Sometimes, I think about the girl I used to be.

She dreamed of what she might become — wearing floral dresses, with long wavy hair that danced like water, walking freely through unfamiliar cities. She wanted to explore the world, learn new languages, sing songs she loved, dance the way her heart moved, and spend her days making things by hand — folk crafts, little creations, anything that felt close to the earth. She longed to meet people who were kind, curious, and full of light.

She hoped to live her life like a thick, beautiful storybook — no two pages the same, but each one honest, and filled with wonder.

And now, I realize — I’ve become the kind of adult she once dreamed of being.

I wear the dresses she imagined, speak in different languages, write in cafés, dance in the streets. I record podcasts, take photos, visit museums, grow plants, and exchange stories with strangers.

Maybe this life looks like drifting to some. But deep down, I know — I’ve been moving closer, step by step, to her. To the girl who has always lived inside me.

I’m also slowly learning to meet that little girl within —to understand her tantrums and her longings. I’m learning how to see her, how to catch her when she falls, how to become her friend, her mother, her father. The loneliness she once thought no one would ever understand, the sensitivity she felt she had to hide, the pain and fear that were never given a name —they are, little by little, being seen, being accepted, and being loved — gently, and truly.

I'm about to leave Argentina and return to China.

My heart feels a little tangled —it's that strange, quiet ache of drawing close to home, as if the wind were passing softly through my thoughts, leaving not lightness, but a kind of indescribable tension behind.

Argentina — my second homeland, one I can’t bear to let go of.

And maybe, having two places to call home should feel like a blessing. But somehow, it always leaves a small part of me feeling... unfilled.

My family call me "Niaoer" (Little Bird).

On the day I was born, my mother wrote:“My child, that day, the rain gently knocked on my heart. A little bird swept across the damp sky. I thought — you should be called ‘Little Bird.’”

Who would’ve thought — that my life really would unfold like hers, soaring across mountains and seas, through storms and sunlight, searching for light and direction in the cracks of the world.

“Like a bird, we glide through the illusions of space and time.”

And I wonder — where life will carry me next.

For now, I’ll return to my homeland, rest for a while on familiar branches, and reacquaint myself with the people I love, and the land that gave me life.

Then, I’ll take flight again — into the unknown, still growing, still becoming.

And in my own sky, I’ll begin to build a nest where I might one day finally come to rest.