I read Iris Murdoch’s ‘The Sea, The Sea’ and ‘Ender’s Game’ by Orson Scott Card.
I sleep. Alot.
It’s the first terrifying experience of backpacking alone, and as I’m left at the train station, I’m not filled with fear, but a burning shot of adrenaline alertness; a fend for yourself alertness. As I make my way through Beijing Main Station’s steel barriers, I enter a sea of dark-haired heads and become indistinguishable from the crowd. Beijing travelling is hot and sticky and distinctly not modern, and I battle with language barriers and reading barriers to make my platform.
It feels dangerous on the dark platform, rushing towards my cheap L-class, student-cheap train, but the train itself has the light, vaugely clean feel that attempts something clinical for the fifteen something hours six strangers are about to spend in around three meters squared of space.
Being alone, I feel at once reassured and threatened by their presence. Too shy to approach them, wary of being caught in a life-story trap, I curl up with my rucksack at my feet and settle into a long journey interrupted only by the rattle of the untouched food trolley and the occasional jarring-chug into not-my-station.
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