It took me way too long to finish writing this post, the momentum all gone by now, as the despicable winter mercilessly disintegrates the remaining warmth of the summertime memories. I at once miss the summer and recall vague impressions of overwhelming confusion, a seemingly unending sentiment in my reality. What is this life that I’m living, why doesn’t it make any sense to me still?

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At the end of another summer, when I looked back, I discovered that often I’d felt grateful for being a somewhat happier person than a year ago. ‘Happy’ is, by all means, an over-simplification that takes advantage of its positivity to conceal the complications underneath, which continue to puzzle me even as time passes by. So yeah, let’s just stick with ‘happy’.

This summer I spent quite some days travelling, with only perhaps half of the time staying at my own place. First there’re a few ‘staycations’ in the city, with adorable cats—

So, basically, after Mona, I thought probably I could try spending more time with cats, the most therapeutic being in the world, and make some money out of it. Theoretically there’s no harm in this business at all, except for scratches, perhaps. I then registered as a petsitter on an app—and somehow got a depressed golden retriever and a nervous mongrel as my first two clients—through which a few cats made a fleeting appearance in my life. Some young, some old, some aggressive, some mild. Some attacked me fiercely when I refused to share my hamburger steak with him (I demand justice!), some with such a deteriorated appetite that I had to chase after her every few hours, almost begging her to eat.

But they are adorable all the same. There’s one afternoon when I sat by this 21-year-old cat-slash-monster next to the window, watching her sleeping in the sunlight, feeling relieved that her belly kept rising and falling, meaning that she’s breathing, that she’s still alive. I’d never get tired of this scene.

These stays also allowed me to explore unfamiliar neighbourhoods scattered around in the city, and experience living in different people’s home, whether it’s a well-equipped apartment in a new tall building a bit far from the centre that boasts an excellent sunset view, a top-floor two-storey apartment overlooking the populous shopping street, or a spacious townhouse in a decent neighbourhood dotted with overpriced eateries and boutique yoga studios where you can easily get to the seaside. All very nice for sure. It’s just that staycations like these can also be disorienting, because ultimately I was living someone else’s life. I lived in their place, used their kitchen appliances, took care of their cat, while aimlessly searching for a life of my own as rejection letters piled up in my mailbox. Sometimes I told myself these stays could be a guiding star that showcases possibilities for my future reference, and other times I just felt overwhelmed by the bleak outlook in my own perception. Possibilities, really? Seems rather impossible to me. And then the familiar sense of being left out would resurface. I left Hong Kong in search of an answer, a city where I’d finally find the sense of belonging, but perhaps there’s just no such city for me, perhaps I’d always be on the move.

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In early June I had a wonderful time in Barcelona. For my first trip to Spain I picked the most predictable city to visit, and fortunately it lived up to its fame. I guess what made the trip enjoyable in the first place is the pleasant southern heat, something that is, as proven by my experience in the Netherlands, indispensable for me. In fact, after this very summer, I can no longer feign the ability to withstand the long dark Dutch winter. White flag.

In a sunny Barcelona I did almost everything expected of a tourist. The evening I arrived, I immediately changed into shorts and went straight to a nearby restaurant for tapas and sangria.

The next day I went to Park Güell and Sagrada Familia, had paella, and watched a guitar performance with flamenco in the gorgeous hall of Palau de la Música Catalana in the evening. Oh wait, that’s already the second flamenco show I watched that day, because there’s also one in the park, the group of artists looking equally absorbed in their music and dance.

Both Gaudí’s masterpieces, the park’s interesting, and the church … its sublimity rendered me speechless. No matter how much praise I’d heard about it, it turned out to be beyond my imagination, incomplete yet perfect, filled with stunning details in every corner that invite me to linger around. The quiet, colourful interaction between light and shadows kept me engrossed, where my biggest regret about the trip arose: it was mostly cloudy that afternoon, the light not at its fullest. But then I told myself, that’s what’s so unique about the design; if I come a second time, there’s definitely something different to look at. See? I’m already thinking about another visit.

Standing below the breathtaking dome of Sagrada Familia, I even felt a tinge of envy towards Gaudí, for his peerless talent, for his ability to leave a mark in the life of countless people, for his name that has outlived its bearer’s material existence. In a way it could be said that my life goal is to make achievements similar to this, even if only remotely; sometimes I assure myself that I can already consider it done.

The third day I took the train to Sitges, a seaside town decorated with rainbow banners—and already felt welcomed. Had a very nice lunch in a local restaurant run by an amiable owner, excellent tomato bread and juicy, aromatic skirt steak, in addition to a cream-topped shot on the house (perhaps a coffee shooter?). Even as I was enjoying the food, however, my mind was filled with an irrelevant exhilaration, knowing that in an hour I’d be in a real sea, for the first time in two years. God knows how fed up I’m with the slimy, murky, grey sea in the north!

So there I went, a beach next to the blue blue Mediterranean Sea. Remove unnecessary clothing. Put on sunscreen. Lie down. Sit up. Read. Lie down again. Sit up. Stare at the sea. Should I wait until the sun’s not as bright to avoid getting sunburnt? But I couldn’t focus on anything at all, almost fidgeting. A bit sceptical about leaving my belongings on my beach towel unwatched, especially because in Barcelona everyone I talked to reminded me to be constantly on guard, I mustered some courage to ask two strangers to keep an eye for me. And then I leapt into the sea. ‘It is everything that I’ve asked for,’ a voice in my brain howled, ‘the sea that I deserve!’

Thus the rest of the afternoon was spent in the sea, as I bobbed up and down with the big tides, pushed closer towards the beach then drifting away. I felt at home there, so perhaps it is the sea that I belong to, after all, not any city. There’s a Chinese idiom, suibo zhuliu 随波逐流, ‘to go with the tide’, with rather negative connotations. But what’s wrong with that anyway? Once a GP with a curiously philosophical approach towards illnesses instructed me, who went to seek professional help after having caught a cold, that we should learn from the water: when it runs into obstacles, like rocks, it doesn’t try to overturn them, but instead make a detour. I was like, indeed, a good argument, but how is that relevant to my health? Thirteen years later I finally got the hang of it—when I run into obstacles, like the Dutch winter, I shouldn’t try to change it or get accustomed to it, but just make a detour, to escape from it; that’s how I can stay healthy physically and mentally.

With this memorable swimming experience, two days later I went to a beach inside Barcelona and enjoyed it. As I grow older I’m no longer fixated with trying out new stuff when travelling; if I like the sea, I go to the sea, period. Applying the same logic, I skipped some famous Gaudí casas to stroll around in neighbourhoods with blooming jacaranda trees (only learned the name when writing about it in my journal); also, several afternoons I hurried back to watch the French Open live in the company of two nonchalant cats raised by my hospitable hosts.

The more sporty host even took me rope-climbing one evening, and afterwards together with other climbers we went to a nearby Chinese restaurant to have late-night skewers on the terrace amid warm breezes—what a life!

At moments like that I’d blurt, ‘I want a life like this.’ But I was aware that it’s not my everyday life, because I’m just a tourist from the north, trying to seize every split second in the south, fantasizing at times about living in Barcelona for real. And then there’s my life that I need to return to, that I am not yet ready to give up, even though it doesn’t make much sense to me. Feels like I’m drifting in and out of realities like the great Taoist —or the butterfly, for that matter—my sense of self melting away.

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And there’s also the July trip back home, project of the year. But this post’s getting long, perhaps I’ll write about it later, or not at all. Who knows.