On Travel

It was early morning when we arrived in Melbourne, Australia. The first thing I noticed when I stepped off the plane was how cold and dry the air was, the very thing I had been looking forward to; Singapore’s a nice place, but the heat and humidity is reminiscent of a sauna, not something one can, or should, endure for years on end without break.

My first thought as I stepped into the new air was to bottle it for use back home; the very absurdity of that thought made me smile for a moment, but was soon replaced by a sad longing for Aladdin’s Lamp — “he would be able to bring it home” I thought to myself.

I have never been a good traveller. If I like a place, I would keep on harping on the fact that this trip, like so many things in life, will end soon. If I do not like a place, I would keep on harping on the fact that this trip, like so many things in life, still has an eternity to go before it ends.

Melbourne was in the disposition of the former — it reminded me much of Singapore, but with nicer weather. Every single day there though, reminded me that the trip was going to end soon. I was never actually very happy there, especially so since I liked the place.

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