Overshadowing my closed mind
By Sally Lee
An experience in Beijing, as I had been told, is synonymous with eating a luscious chocolate-chip cookie. The promise is a rich cascade of chocolate that entices every sense, opening a gateway to pure joy. But for me, the journey began not with sweetness, but with a jarring amount of crunch.
After a wearying four-hour journey, we landed in Beijing. The sunlight, thick and golden like honey, poured over the airport, its warmth a fleeting comfort after the chill of the airplane. Nevertheless, the air itself tasted unfamiliar; a rich aroma of noodles swirled with the scent of roasted chestnuts and a medley of unknown spices. This was my first taste of Beijing. I emerged from the airport and was immediately engulfed by a cacophony of noise — a relentless blare of car horns, locals chattering in Mandarin, and the distant rumble of a city filled with millions. As a sickening wave of dizziness washed over me, I clutched my backpack straps, my knuckles turning white. My hair, once neatly tied, hung loose and tangled, making it feel like nothing could assuage my discomfort.
“Gather around, everyone,” a booming but amiable voice sliced through my panic.
It turned out to be the tour guide, Otto, a middle-aged man with silver-streaked hair and a top-heavy frame. Immediately, Otto launched into the trip’s itinerary, unfurling Beijing’s history with such vivid detail that his words splattered colour into my mind, transforming the once cumbersome narrative into a warm companion.
“Firstly, we will take the subway to dinner,” announced Otto.
Enlivened, my heart hammered with anticipation. I hoped for exuberance, but a quiet doubt whispered that I was unprepared for what awaited, one that would undoubtedly soon blossom into an intimidating challenge.
Indeed, the first thorn was the subway. I had pictured an orderly queue, like compliant students waiting. Beijing’s subway was completely different. It was an outright stampede of rushing people. As soon as the doors slid open, a tide of people surged forward. I was a scrap of paper in the raging river, ripped from my family. Thoomp-thoomp, my heart fluttered, a scared little bird trying to find its nest. Everything felt absolutely blank, a canvas waiting for stars.
Still trembling, worry enveloped me as I stumbled out of the subway. How many more thorns were ahead? Haunted by the thought, I was funnelled into a bustling restaurant on a local street, where a second, more personal thorn pricked.
“This is a traditional Chinese restaurant, known for its noodles,” explained Otto.
As I entered, I was greeted with a melodic chatter of families sharing meals. While waiting, I envisioned a delicate bowl of noodles in a clear, savoury broth, surrounded by tender beef chunks and a fresh platter of vegetables. The reality was laid out on the table, a glistening, deep-brown masterpiece of hand-pulled noodles. Without hesitation, I cradled the steaming bowl and eagerly took an enormous bite, recoiling almost instantly.
“It’s so… salty, I feel like I just swallowed an ocean!” I hissed to my sister, my face scrunching up in disgust.
She, the ever-adaptable one, laughed. “It's different, not bad! You’ll have to get used to it.”
My parents murmured in agreement, their chopsticks diving back into the bowl, leaving me utterly alone in my disappointment.
That night, in the hotel, the salty tang of noodles seemed to linger. I scrolled through photos of home, each one a jab of nostalgia. My experience so far felt like a bar of the darkest, most bitter, unsweetened piece of chocolate, something I was expected to enjoy, but only made me grimace. Often, we’re sold a lie that travel is simple: “It’s just for fun, you’ll learn little.” However, it wasn’t until the last day that I understood the truth. We were going to Universal Studios, a place I yearned to visit. As the tour bus grumbled to a stop, I alighted enthusiastically, hoping for surprises. To my delight, there were multiple.
Upon entering the park, sounds of yelling ricocheted. Yet this time, they failed to pierce my newfound bubble of joy. The once nettlesome chaos felt “normal”, as if a maze was starting to clear. No, the sounds didn’t spontaneously change. I had changed. I had learned to adapt. The environment I once labelled “abrasive” suddenly became “imperishable”. To begin, the view was beyond breathtaking — a vibrant tapestry of cerulean and cyan, a scene so striking that wisps of clouds seemed to scud nearby, daubing shimmering stars onto my once pitch-black canvas.
Lunch arrived in the blink of an eye. Heartened by my adaptability, I deliberately sought out a new dish — a fish grilled to glitttering firmness. I squeezed a bright wedge of lemon over the fish, and as I lifted the first piece, the skin shattered with an audible crackle, revealing moist, flaky flesh. I barely registered the exquisite flavour before taking another bite, then another, until the skeleton lay bare, a testament to my courage.
In that instant, I understood the true meaning of travel. Like the noises, the flavours hadn’t changed; I had learned to adapt. My sister was right; the food wasn’t “bad”, just “different”. This was the true takeaway. If you’re not willing to let a place change you, to silence your own judgements, then you haven’t really travelled. You’ve just transported your worries elsewhere. Travelling is about adaptation, exploration, and education, no matter how isolated you feel. A trip will always be ephemeral, but it’s your choice to relish every moment.
Even now, what I regret most is the open-mindedness I initially refused to offer. I had allowed my closed mind to overshadow those first days. The problems I faced just seemed like an insurmountable labyrinth. Yet, it was navigating the labyrinth that made this trip indelible. This trip wasn’t just “fun”; it was again, the ultimate chocolate-chip cookie, where the overwhelming crunch had made the sweet moments of discovery even richer, a perfect recipe of ups and downs that forever earned a spot in my heart.