day one

I haven’t done a very good job of keeping a log thus far, but there’s no time like the present to start. I will attempt to redeem myself.

Despite the plane fiasco, I got on my flight out of LA at around 2 in the morning. I was seated next to an Asian kid who immediately struck up a conversation with me. He was a Stanford-bound freshman, and so full of nervous bubbly excitement and uncertainty that I smiled wistfully. I remember being there as though it was yesterday.

We discussed our feelings of lack of direction. He taught me a little bit of Chinese, and answered my questions about the infinitely confusing characters on the tray table and headrest cloth. His nervousness about riding a plane for 13 hours was very obvious, and I did my best to stay up and keep him company—meaning I stayed up for about 50 minutes and passed out for the rest of the flight. I tried, but planes always put me to sleep.

Blink, and I’m in the bowels of the slumbering giant also known as the Beijing airport—at around 4 am. As we land, I ask my Stanford friend, “Is that fog?” He shakes his head with a knowing grin. “Smog.”

It is completely deserted--we are the first arriving flight of the day. The employees who are chattering to each other in small groups, clutching their coffees, stare blearily at the odd foreigner, almost as though it’s too early for the sight. I got a little lost—one person pointed me towards domestic passport control for my entrance into Taiwan, and another to international. Even the airport staff are split on it, I guess. The customs officers yawn as they stamp our passports, barely giving them a glance.



The blood red sun slowly, painstakingly clambered over the smog as I settled myself near on a bench with a book.

Blink again, I’m on my flight into Taipei. They upgraded me to business class. I watch Bride Wars and eat a remarkably good omelette with ham. I look around and notice that I am the only woman in business class. I also notice that I am not the only foreigner—a rather cute white guy is sitting on the other side.

Blink, I’m at baggage claim, picking up my imp of a suitcase. I’m on my way to find the shuttle I need to be on when said cute guy approaches me and asks if I’m going to the monastery. I now have a 6 foot 3, blonde, Northern Californian turned Oxford-bound rugby playing travel buddy.

Things are looking up.



Another blink and my travel buddy and I are on the train. I’ve found out that he likes international studies, dark chocolate, Guinness, and reading. We spent the train ride mostly in silence, broken by the occasional comment—him buried in a book and me watching miles and miles of flooded rice paddies fly by.

Finally, we arrive. We grab our last supper of meat at a burger place in the train station and are bused in a group from there to the monastery. It is nestled at the foot of the mountains—their silhouettes are visible in the distance, giant sentinels standing watch. I have time for a quick shower and then bed. As I unzip my suitcase I smile to myself.

Here we go.