009: The Big May Solo Trip - Day 1

Entries from my 3-week long solo trip in May 2024.

And, just like that, nearly two years have gone by.

To anyone still here, hello! I hope you’re doing well, that you’ve had a wonderful summer, and that you’re happy with how the last two years have gone. How are you?

There’s been a fair amount of change on my end. For one, I graduated from university in July — you’re (figuratively) looking at the proud holder of a first class honors degree! I’ve since moved back home to the US, and I’ve started my first full-time job in NYC.

Going to university in the UK was one of the best decisions I’ve made in my life. It really was a formative experience, and I’ll treasure the friends and memories I’ve made there for a long time.

That being said, I haven’t told you about most of it! Somewhere between frantic library sessions, running to/from badminton matches, and a frankly unbelievable amount of travel, this newsletter slipped through the cracks. My apologies.

While I haven’t published much about my university experience, I’ve accumulated quite the collection of journal entries these last few years, and I’d love to share some with you.

Introducing…The Big May Solo Trip

We’ll start with a series of entries I wrote while traveling throughout Europe this past May. We don’t have classes in Easter term (our third trimester), as you’re meant to use the time to prepare for exam season.

Luckily, I’d chosen my final year classes in such a way that I only had one exam to prepare for — business ethics, my best (and favorite) class. In light of this, I spent the first 3 weeks of May on a grand European solo trip, before flying back to Durham for my final exam.

Here was my itinerary:

• Leg 1: Western Europe

  • Amsterdam

  • Brussels (with a day trip to Bruges)

  • Luxembourg

  • Cologne

• Leg 2: Switzerland

  • Lucerne

  • Grindelwald

  • Rivaz (on Lake Geneva)

I spent 1-2 nights in each city, taking trains between each, and stayed in youth hostels for the duration of my trip. For those not familiar with hostels, they’re quite the experience. They allow you to save on accommodation costs (I spent between €35-50 a night), but you sleep on a bunkbed, in a room shared with 3-7 other people.

A few of the hostels I stayed at required you to make your own bed, which can be a challenge — especially when you arrive in the evening, your roommates are fast asleep, and you’ve been allocated an upper bunk.

Still, I find that hostels are a part of the experience. The bunkbeds might be tight, and my roommates might have a habit of setting (and promptly snoozing) a series of 5 AM alarms, but they make solo trips a lot more interesting.

Anyway, I digress. I’ve included the entries from day one of my trip below.

It’s worth noting that these are genuine journal entries; they’re a bit random, free-flowing. I use my journal almost as a creative writing opportunity — a place to explore certain ideas, certain characters (including this one narrator I’ve drawn up, a 20-something named Kaylyn).

(What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t really have an existential crisis about Paul McCartney, I just thought it’d be interesting to write about. You’ll understand in a bit.)

On the train to Manchester

5/1/24: Today is Wednesday, May 1st. I’m on a train from Durham to Manchester, and have been for the last 40 minutes or so. It’s 7:40 AM now; we’ll arrive in Manchester around 9:15 AM, and my flight to Amsterdam departs at 1:15 PM.

I started a new book, The Art of Travel, which I selected last night. After I read 20 pages or so on the train, I put it down, fearing that I was reading too quickly — I didn’t want to be left without a book for the remainder of the 3 weeks.

I sat still for a few minutes, listening to the conversation between the man and woman in front of me. They weren’t speaking of anything interesting, however, and I quickly lost interest. I decided to take out my AirPods and listen to some music.

The first song that came on was “Primrose Hill,” by James McCartney. I didn’t know Paul had a son; at least, I assume they’re related. Two male, musical McCartneys — they must be father-son.

I wondered if James sought Paul’s help at all, when making music. I mean, wouldn’t you? If you had a Beatle for a dad?

But then I thought about it a little more, and concluded that it probably wasn’t all I’d originally made it out to be. Imagine the pressure, trying to make it in the music world with a last name like McCartney. The expectations that come with it.

I thought of Paul, who had paid his dues many decades ago, who was now a part of that exclusive group of people that had well and truly made it. Who had absolutely nothing left to prove, to anybody.

How wonderful it must feel, how secure. How affirming, to have achieved that level of self-realization. Did he dream of this, as a young teen? Did he have a sense of his own greatness?

Some do, you know. I think, to some extent, that I have an inkling of this.

Like nearly everyone my age, I like to believe that I’m cut out for great things. Not Beatles-level great (obviously), but still a respectable amount. Above average, perhaps.

But it’s hard to maintain that belief, to keep that fire burning, when you have little to no evidence of it. When all you have is potential, big talk and big dreams, but nothing in the way of proof, because you haven’t proven yourself yet.

I long, I think, for that sense of security, that incontrovertible evidence that I am not merely clinging to delusions of grandeur, like a child (or a psychopath). Paul has achieved that and more, more than even the most ambitious, self-assured child could have imagined.

I wonder if he knows it, if he goes about each day with the lightness, the assurance that must accompany it. He must, surely.

Surely he knows that, if anyone on this earth has the final word on musical authority, it’s him. Surely he knows that any music he releases is beyond critique, even if the magazines say otherwise. That the world loves and respects him, no matter what.

But, then again, I imagine it’s difficult to see when you’re on the inside. Everyone, seemingly, is vulnerable to imposter syndrome. It must be worse when you have that spotlight on you, when you know the world is watching.

It’s a shame, really. You can’t achieve that level of success in private, but you can’t enjoy or appreciate it in public.

[Author’s note: I then concluded, in very dramatic fashion —]

And yet, we all carry on. And so must I.

At Manchester Airport

5/1/24 (cont.): It’s 12:37 PM now, and I’m sitting near Gate 10 at Manchester Airport (Terminal 1). The passengers on our plane’s previous flight are disembarking now; they lug their suitcases (with visible effort) down the stairs, onto the pavement.

Twin lines of people stream from the front and rear doors; the plane is like an enormous ant colony, with two exits.

I recall how when we flew to Norway, in first year, I was taken aback my Elliot’s laissez-faire attitude toward boarding. He insisted that we sit at the gate for as long as possible, waiting until the queue trickled down to the point that once we joined, we’d walk straight on through.

Sitting there, watching other passengers join the queue entirely too early (a ritual I practice myself), felt curiously wrong. Like watching others run out of a burning building, while you just stand there.

I couldn’t tell you why it produced such a reaction; we had no reason to get on the plane before we needed to. Especially as we had checked our suitcases; we didn’t even need to compete for overhead locker space.

At a Chinese restaurant in Amsterdam

5/1/24 (cont.): It’s 6:49 PM, and I’m sitting at a table at Lanzhou Hand-Pulled Beef Noodles, in Amsterdam. After settling into my hostel (I claimed the bed next to the window — which I pulled a few inches apart from the one beside it), I changed into something more appropriate for the sunny weather.

I then lied down on my bed to research dinner options. The last thing I had eaten was that Whopper at the Manchester Airport Burger King, so I was quite hungry.

The woman at the cash register (at Lanzhou Hand-Pulled Beef Noodles) wasn’t the friendliest; once it became evident that (despite my appearance) I wouldn’t be able to converse with her in Mandarin, she became noticeably colder.

The thing is, I can understand her perfectly — I just wish I had the vocabulary to reply.

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That’s the end of the entry. Thanks for reading, and I’ll be back in your inbox with the next issue soon-ish! I expect it’ll be a bit more frequent than the bi-annual cadence we have going currently, but can’t promise more than that.

As always, a reply (even just to say how you’re doing) is always appreciated. And if you had particular thoughts on this journal entry format — whether you loved or hated it — please do let me know!

Hope to hear from you soon!
Kaylyn