By Peter WangTime in Dulan seems to stand still. Every second slides by without causing much fuss. I look over my shoulder to the right and squint against the light reflected by the diamonds scattered on the sea. Another beautiful day. I lay on a rainbow-colored, comfy but cheap-looking hammock on the rooftop and gently swing myself from side to side, in mourning for that copy of Eat Pray Love I lost last night, when everyone was here for the party.
I met Joe in the yoga session before the party started. She came from Australia but surprisingly didn’t have a strong accent. I still regret that I haven’t got, and probably would never get, the chance to ask for her social media ID so that we can stay in touch. I had so much fun joking around with her through all those torturous yoga poses while we strived real hard not to look like some scary creature in The Exorcist. She had that easy-to-talk-to vibe but was super cool at the same time. Blonde hair, black nail polish, tattoos on her back and a nose ring. Joe told me she once lived in London, and hated it. She said “the weather is shitty, everything is expensive, and the water tastes like crap.” I cackled. Now she stays in another hostel in the neighborhood and doesn’t know what’s next. Sometimes we just need to stop planning for life, I suppose. As to the party, well…, I was, and still am, a person way too uptight for these occasions. And yes, I do feel the sudden need to apologize to my friends, who sat just beside me that night, for being an unbearable source of depression. Man, this hostel has way too many foreign faces. And by foreign, I mean Western. Look, not that I don’t like it, …, but it does, in some way, stress me out a bit, especially when they all flock to one place. I admit I could be overly, let’s say to an unnecessary and annoying degree, self-conscious sometimes. Bands playing, tambourines ringing, people chattering, and the smoke of the barbecue slowly ascending and eventually blending into that tremendous patch of gray. Chaotic peacefulness. Really bohemian, I’d say. I looked around–a typical thing people like me do when pretending to be finding something or someone but actually are just alone–and realized that I was the only one being quiet. That was when I thought I should take some special classes, if there were any, for incapable-of-socializing-in-crowded-places people, given that I do talk and make friends with others–just not on certain occasions. Plus, I came here with my wonderful friends Justine, Rich and Lauriel, which I think can somehow be counted as an evident proof of that. Speaking of Justine, my story in Dulan started because of her. Watching the band playing, I laid my head on her shoulder, arms crossed, and then looked up to the ceiling, rusty, dusty under the dim lights, and all those memories came dragging me down. I thought of Remy. I smiled. Everything we did just came floating in front of me and the air started to become hazy. A summer fling is never too sweet, never too bitter. And I thought of those words I wrote for him. They even rhymed. Maybe one day I would publish them. I laugh upon this thought. At least that’s what I was thinking about. It’s always good to write things down, isn’t it? Everyone, I believe, has the urge to put things down for the simple reason that memory, quite inexplicably, fades. Just that we always have numerous excuses to keep putting it off. Unaware of the time, I yawned and the music and noises of the party came washing into my head again. I felt like I was so detached from the environment. I pulled myself up, and looked around, as usual. Everybody seemed to be in their own world too. In groups, I mean. Beers clinking, laughter echoed. I inconspicuously moved my way through the crowd to the stairs leading down to the second floor, lowered my head a bit, squeezed myself into that tiny rabbit hole, and left the joyful chaos behind. Ecstatic. I turn my attention back to the diary and notice the book lying quietly on the tiny wooden table by the hammock. With Billie. Emil recommended it to me earlier in the morning when I whined about my loss of Eat Pray Love. He seemed to be just back from the beach surfing. Danish, short dark hair, hazel eyes, tall. He’s forty, but simply doesn’t look it. A really nice guy. Really, really nice. Always energetic, always smiling, always greeting people. The kind of person you just feel comfortable to be around with. I think that’s the magic of old people–he always calls himself old although I think he is not. He kept using the word “raw” to describe this book about Billie Holiday, a jazz singer I’d never heard of before, and would always clench his fist in front of his chest to show how powerful he felt the book is. Well, not exactly my cup of tea. I smiled, slightly shook my head, as if finding myself lost in his personality, and went on with my writing. But I guess that will be it for today. I haven’t told you about Tim and Arthur yet, and the people we met on the beach, and of course, Remy, from this summer. I really want to, but I’ll save it for next time, not that I am running out of stories though. I will be leaving tomorrow, like some other people as well, which makes me a little sad. But that’s traveling. The thing about traveling is that you meet a lot of people, but it’s rare you meet people with whom you just hit it off and suddenly become good friends. And when you become closer with them you start to panic about the day when you eventually have to say goodbye. The struggle is real, I can say, but that’s another story. a
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May 2024
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