Crying in the Museum Shop

Lancaster, September 1st, 2024

36 hours before departure

I woke up this morning with a strange sense of urgency, as if I had a countdown timer looming over my head, constantly reminding me of my dwindling time in Lancaster. Wrapped in a thick cardigan and armed with my giant water bottle, I decided to walk to the town centre from campus. It was a downhill 4-mile walk, which would often take around one or two episodes of Beautiful Anonymous (depending on how many photos of random trees and flowers I took along the way). The weather this morning was not ideal for walking, but I was grateful that at least it did not preclude the possibility of a quick stroll into town. It was quite windy outside, which was not unusual for this time of the year in Lancaster (or any day in Lancaster, to be honest). In the distance, I could see the tree branches swaying wildly and hear the whisper of the wind, regaling me with tales of wondrous adventures in distant lands. Actually, the wind did not bother me too much as it came to me so boldly, kissing my cheeks and tousling my hair until it became a tangled mess. I relished in how it glided through the air as if I were not there at all, as if I were a mere apparition and nothing more. In the unceasing shove and swirl, I felt my muscles working harder to move forward, reminding me that I was alive right there in that moment of time. Walking down the street, I felt the cobbled pavement through the thin soles of my battered ballet flats (which were probably not the most sensible footwear choice for long-distance walking). After the downpour last night and earlier this morning, the cobblestones had become quite slippery so I tentatively took each step and waddled along the pavement like an awkward penguin.

I had walked this route many times in the past year, witnessing the miraculous handiwork of nature through different seasons. In autumn, the streets were awash with the vibrant frocks of the trees, gold, berry-red and chocolate-brown. As the gentle breeze playfully danced through the scarlet canopies, loose leaves tumbled down, swirling gracefully in their mesmerising pirouettes. Amidst that rainfall of earthen hues, I breathed in their warmth and felt it permeate into every part of me. Months passed by and as winter started to whisper her icy serenade, the trees stood solemnly with their bare limbs, devoid of their usual cloaks. In the absence of adornments, there seemed to be a strange kind of beauty, primal, unadulterated, the kind of beauty that accentuated the splendid structure of nature - how branches diverged to form an intricate cobweb of bony limbs stretching towards the sky. Underneath the rough surface, there seemed to be a dormant stream of life, waiting to burst and embellish the world with vibrant hues of green. And then springtime came; her fingers gently caressed the air, infusing it with sweet fragrances and melting away the vestiges of winter. Each breath of fresh air filled me with a sense of life that flamed an urge to yell, just to hear my voice echo amongst the trees, just to feel that I was solidly there. Summer then arrived as honeyed sun beams slowly dripped from the canopies, coating the ground with a decadent shade of yellow. It was surreal to see the whole cycle of nature, to observe the slightest shifts in how the air moved, how petals transformed, and how each season came and went with its own quirks.

As I reached the town centre, the streets gradually became more crowded with an assortment of sounds. If I stopped walking right now, I could almost feel the heartbeat of the city vibrating through the air and the ground, quiet yet tenacious. On the streets, people moved like rivers, ebbing and flowing, never fully stopping but swirling around one another. After a whole year here, I still felt somewhat anonymous amongst this ocean of strange faces. Weirdly enough, I revelled in such invisibility for I could be anyone, or perhaps no one at all. No one knew me or had any preconceptions of what I should be, thus, I was free to (re)construct myself over and over again. I became what I moulded myself to be. As my mind got lost in this labyrinth of random thoughts (as it always did), my feet somehow carried me to the coffee shop I often frequented during assignment season. Although the shop was quite cloistered with tables cramped into a tiny space, that was part of its quaint charm. There was just something deeply endearing about sharing that small space with strangers as we all silently savoured a warm drink (preferably biscuit tea), read a book, or solved a crossword puzzle. Sometimes our elbows would touch and we would awkwardly apologise under our breath, then swiftly go back to whatever we were doing. At the table in the far corner, my friend and I would often sit, working on our essays, quietly giggling over a silly joke, complaining about the weather or just simply being there for each other. The warm beverage, the delectable sweet treats, the gentle music and the company of someone who genuinely cared, this coffee shop was my sanctuary, drawing my soul into a gentle cuddle for a few moments in this maddening world.

I walked past Dalton Square and decided to stop for lunch. I had always wondered what it would feel like to sit on one of these benches and watch the endless stream of people on the streets. Yet, every time I would find excuses not to do so, “Oh, I have so much to do today, but next week, I’ll bring my tablet here to read.” or “Next time, I’ll make sure to bring some light snacks to have a picnic here.” Now that the possibility of “next times” seemed rather dim, I made sure to stop by Dalton Square, even though it started to get quite chilly outside as the wind had become stronger. There were still patches of clouds lingering, yet it was not a dense blanket of grey that was native to Lancaster, but instead an array of white puffs scattered across the sky. When I was a child, I used to spend hours looking up at the sky and pointing out (to myself) what the clouds resembled. With that boundless blue canvas, I would compose tales with strange storylines (that were most of the time borderline nonsensical) and even stranger characters. A turtle with an abnormally long neck. A wooden house with chicken legs. A crocodile with butterfly wings. An octopus with bunny ears. Now all I could see was a chaotic congregation of white puffy shapes in acres of blueish grey. It is perplexing what time and maturity can do to a person’s world, or maybe that is just me. Sitting on one of the benches, I marvelled at the Victoria Monument, at how the raindrops from earlier this morning glistened like jewels in daylight. The square was relatively empty for a Sunday afternoon. The only people there other than me were an elderly couple on the other side of the square. They seemed so comfortable in each other’s company as their heads huddled close together over a book. I had always wondered how it would feel to find love so genuine that it kept on flourishing even in silence. In that rare moment of tranquillity, I felt the town within me, with all of its quirks and charms. This endearing place had been my home, albeit temporary, for the past year, the setting of every memory I deeply treasured. Like a storybook, it held a small surprise in every page, from rare days of golden sunshine to moments of kindness, fleeting smiles and gestures of appreciation from strangers.

After lunch, I stopped by the museum shop to browse through some knick-knacks to bring home before heading back to campus (I seriously needed to finish packing!). They had a selection of fridge magnets with different landscapes in town. It felt so weird to decide which one to get as if I were choosing which memories deserved to be kept and which ones to leave behind in Lancaster. It then dawned on me that when I left Lancaster, not only would I miss the people and the places I had grown fond of, but I would also leave behind the person I had become, the part of myself that was inextricably intertwined with this place. This sudden realisation paralysed me with fear and I bawled out like a petulant child in a confectionery aisle in the middle of the museum shop. The tears came in generous streams as if all my compressed emotions over the past few weeks had at last condensed into torrential rain. I really loved the person I was during this past year and I really did not want to lose her. I felt that with every passing hour, I was loosening my grip on her. I feared that my memories here would become hazy and one day I would forget how my teeth chattered as the cold seeped into my thin gloves and numbed my fingers during the winter months. I feared that I would forget how much I enjoyed talking with my friends about everything and absolutely nothing at all. I feared that I would forget how liberating it felt to take long walks on my own and ponder upon thousands of questions that I might never find answers to.

Somewhere between Dubai and Ho Chi Minh City, September 3rd, 2024

13 hours after departure

In retrospect, all my fears and worries seem so unnecessary. Now that I am miles away from Lancaster, I realise how grateful I should be that I have experienced something so precious that it pains me with sadness to move on. I do not know why but time and time again I find myself falling into this survival mode of avoidance. At times, I compare myself to a doomsday prepper. Although I found their conspiracies about the demise of civilisation utterly ludicrous (and somewhat amusing), I could not help but recognise that we share this outrageously irrational fear of ending things, of saying goodbyes. I may not have underground bunkers with an excessive stockpile of water, food, or ammunition to prepare for whatever catastrophe or emergency might happen in the future, but like them, I sometimes find myself taking somewhat extreme preparatory measures to protect myself against the slightest possibility of emotional distress. Sometimes it feels like the more happiness I have now, the more agony I will go through when everything inevitably reaches the end. Therefore, for years and years, I have successfully convinced myself that if I do not get too comfortable and develop attachments, I will be able to cheat the system and escape heartbreak (very logical, right? 🙂). This is ironic given that I often preach about the importance of experimenting. My favourite example is that in practicing writing skills, one’s obsession with producing error-free sentences may stifle their progress as they may not be willing to try out new languages for fear of making mistakes. Mistakes are not inherently bad; what matters is how we deal with them and what we learn from them. The same goes for heartbreak. In a world that seems to be inundated with tips on how to be happier, it can be easy to forget that sadness is an integral (and somewhat inescapable) facet of the human experience. For some reason, my weird survival instinct did not kick in throughout my whole year in Lancaster. I finally grabbed life with both hands. I made friends. I connected with people beyond the perfunctory talk about weather and traffic. I developed little habits that weaved themselves into my banal existence - a favourite spot in the coffee shop, a usual route to the park, a go-to sweet treat at the bakery, and a reading corner on campus. And to be honest, it felt amazing to live without the crippling anxiety of what might happen next. In this newfound freedom, I found my soul roaming barefoot on an open meadow and finally felt at peace with myself.

At the end of the day, I come to accept that each phase of my life has its forms of arrival and leaving. This time, I am saying goodbye with gratitude, joy, and so much hope, because to this moment, I have lived fully and completely. It will be a blatant lie to say that I am not sad at all to close this chapter, but there are waves of good memories, of smiles and warmth within my sadness. That is the inexplicable magic of memory - a treasure no one can take away from me. With time, my memory may become a flickering mirage of a distant time, but I have faith that they will always be there, present in how I talk, how I think, how I love, and above all, how I live. Thank you, Lancaster for a year of joy, heartbreak, and above all, wondrous adventure. See ya soon.