No time or energy to craft something readable, so here’s a few sentences to sum up my life right now. Job – maybe (interning at a great place; returning to my restaurant roots as planned to make ends meet). Apartment – maybe. Life – maybe. Everything is so hazy and transient and unfamiliar that I don’t really know where to start. But that’s everyone at 25, right?

I am so wobbly and naive yet achingly self-aware here, I’m a little terrified of what’s to come. But I’m pretty sure it’s filled with nothing but good things.

When I get a moment, I am – really, promise! – drafting something infinitely more readable about life in China right now rather than a fluffy millenial woe-is-me rant, but while I find my footing, here are some visuals of what I’ve been up to lately.

(OH MY GOD THEY ACTUALLY HAVE INSTRAGRAM FOR ANDROID NOW I’m no longer a flailing poseur!)

A tree – a brilliant one, at that – grows in Brooklyn.

Many do, actually.

Inspirational posters outside a shop by my house. Also, my birthday is January 22. Nuuuudge, wink.

Illuminating Washington Square Park.

I will be using this. And I will be using it often.

Long-overdue illustration of my friend Sara.

Home. Home. Home.

a) About 80% of you spend approximately 1 minute on here, meaning there’s no way you read any of this.

b) Which means you just want to see something, instead. Re-generating at home has given me some time to sift through photos from my travels, which got the full Adobe treatment this weekend. Don’t read through this if you just want pretty pictures. (You probably didn’t read that, anyway. You just scrolled down.) They’re here, promise.

c) More people see this thing than I thought! SWEET.

Instead, I’ll just post a few golden credos gleaned from my time abroad.

On life:
Never be intimidated by people, as you never realize who’s just as intimidated by you. (Natalia, Canada, freelance journalist, model, and computer science and psychology major.)

On love:
When you have a doubt, you already have your answer. (Agata, France, model and ex-curator, living in Mexico City.)

On resilience:
Don’t let Panamanian thugs get you down. One day you’ll be in Milan shooting for Vogue and they’ll be adding you on Facebook. (Julian, America, but with a home base in Panama with his family. Model, who’s Vogue Italia‘s 6’1 answer to Tilda Swinton. Can you imagine growing up in Panama? His grandmother is a painter and was Diego Rivera’s assistant. I am seriously thinking of contacting him for a story on her.)

On all of those (and this is mine) – Don’t rush them.

All the king’s men… at the Terracotta Army in X’ian.

Remember this? Here it is in high-resolution. Residual guilt over creeping random couple aside, I really like the shot.

Fresh flowers in Milan.

My friend Sara explores the secret garden of a Milanese palazzo.

One of Milan’s winding roads.

Sunny shot of Istanbul’s Topkapi Palace, where the staff of Moses is (supposedly) housed. Mona Lisa? Please.

An appeasing display at the Spice Bazaar. Turkish Viagra, anyone?

Nice street shot outside the Opéra National.

Her eyes were watching the gods (@The Louvre). Still one of my favorites.

The Blue Mosque. Hardly any retouching required here.

Inside of the Grand Bazaar.

My favorite mural in Istanbul, located in the Taksim district.

Summer Palace in Beijing. Still one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever visited.

Peering out over the rooftops at Summer Palace.

40 models on camel-back in the middle of the Gobi Desert for a fake beauty pageant, which I’m currently crafting a piece on. And that must be the strangest sentence you’ve ever read.

“It was all a dream” clichés aside (and isn’t that the cheapest way of ending things?), I guess this blog is now shifting from “scintillating, stimulating travel blog about my awesome adventures” to just, well, “…blog.” I don’t know if what will happen next—moving to New York and starting from the ground-up—will nearly be as scintillating, stimulating and, yes, awesome (you can take the girl out of California…) as the past year has been, but rest-assured, it’ll be well-chronicled if it is.

And what’ll you do there, loca? Moving clear across the country without a solid plan in place? In the throes of one of the worst economies in history? Are you NUTS?!

I’m aiming for something in digital content production or possibly even art direction, given my writing background and love of web design/any design in general. Stop berating me, Logic and Reason, I know it’s super competitive and I’ll be lucky if I can do a Starbucks run for some overstressed megalomaniac creative’s second assistant, but if I don’t do it now, I never will. For the first time in my life, I have the means, the motive, and nothing to lose (uh, except a year’s worth of savings if I can’t placate said second assistant and am out of a job. But that’s a tale for a different day.) And, hey—Logic, Reason—just FYI, I’m totally cool waitressing or temping for a while if need be. Internships are also great—preferred, in fact. So callate la boca. Gotta pay the outer-borough rent somehow.

Being back in my hometown, however, a small, suburban offshoot of San Diego, has got me feeling all kinds of nostalgic, as well as given me some time to meditate on just how surreal 2011 actually was. I didn’t realize how many stories I had to share until relaying my time abroad to my good friend and mentor, the effortless Chantal Gordon (girl played wing-woman to Andre Leon Talley!) over coffee at my beloved Café Bassam. Expect plenty of anecdotes to fill this thing in the coming weeks as I chill at home updating my portfolio (I like to draw, too!), hawking my C.V., planning my move and gorging on sugar-free pudding (God bless America…).

For now, here’s an interactive take on what this crazy year consisted of that I maybe, maybe am thinking of sending to prospective employers, as well as a few shots from my last-minute road-trip up the PCH to San Francisco to visit friends. Vintage Clapton and the California coastline…nothing quite like it.

Slightly cheesy? Maybe. But I sure had fun editing it. Did you spot the Mona Lisa? Small, right? Did you laugh at the cute Russian models snacking on apples at the Great Wall? Just how fierce is that dude’s strut in front of the Forbidden City? And is that reallyVenice, or are those just fake gondolas at The Venetian and you just got Rick Rolled? So many questions…

Creep-tastically cool marionettes at S.F.’s Musee Mechanique, which houses a plethora of arcade games from years past. It’s easily the most incredible and terrifying place I’ve ever visited. And I used to live in China.

Lunch is served at Fisherman’s Wharf.

Similar to Beijing, S.F. is chock-full of wonderful, whimsical public art.

Yet another reason I’m glad to be moving to a car-less city. We coughed up $68 bucks here to satiate my poor little VW Jetta. Really.

Exploring Golden Gate Park at sunset.

Obligatory. Like my shades? They’re Prada. And totally borrowed from my good friend whose couch we were crashing on.

Dolores Park on a perfect Saturday afternoon. Interesting cast of characters there, I tell ya.

Solitude along the PCH. This was somewhere in between Half Moon Bay and Monterey.

“What’s wrong?” I say, prompting her to pull her headphones from her ears. A wisp of a girl from rural Russia, she is shy, soft-spoken and kind; today she radiates a lingering sadness in place of the usual teenage cheer she greets me with each morning. She is turning 18 next week and has never set foot in a nightclub. This is her first trip as a model. She shrugs.

“No work,” she says, turning towards me. “My roommate… work every day. What is wrong with me?”

This is why the most confident, interesting, and beautiful women I know aren’t models. They’re med students, they’re editors, they’re chefs, they’re kindergarten teachers—they’re wholesomely “normal,” in any profession that validates their sense of self-worth through hard work rather than the dismissive glance of a tired casting director. When I started writing this blog, I started it with the sole intention of keeping it travel-based, sharing my adventures with family, friends, and even internet randoms who might somehow stumble upon the page (and it happens – got my first-ever fan letter from a stranger last week! Say what?). But after a year—yes, year—of whetting my wanderlust through these strange means, I feel this entry is necessary as a sort of public service announcement to those who may be misguided by the glinting veneer of this super-weird subculture.

Models—at least female ones, but we’ll get to their male counterparts some other time—are ragingly insecure. Even the most arrogant I’ve encountered (though I’ve always considered vocalized narcissism to be the byproduct of insecurity—after all, if you’re talented, people will recognize it without your braying acknowledgment) fall to pieces over a missed booking or coolly appraising glance from a Client. (Captial C, thank you.)

At 25, I’m no longer afraid to admit this to myself. Modeling is just something I did for awhile, like any hobby you fixate on for a brief period of time. It’s not who I am. You learn to appraise your physical exterior with the objectivity of buying something at the supermarket. I’m acutely aware of what’s “wrong with me” (the ability to comfortably shrug on “gargantuan” size-6 pants after two weeks of living in Italy; pale, sensitive skin that turns cherry-tomato red after a simple scrubbing or crass remark; unmanageably coarse Persian hair that simply refuses to stand still). I accept these things and acknowledge them; I see them in the bathroom mirror each morning and have learned to love them in the way only you can when growing into yourself. And it’s not like I need a sartorially refined Greek chorus of Conde Nast editors to point these out—after all, participating in a fake beauty pageant in the middle of Inner Mongolia isn’t exactly Vogue Italia. But at 17 or in a different mindset, all of this vocalized “wrongness” can destroy you.

“If only you could just…”

Lose 10 pounds (that’s everyone). Grow 2 inches (everyone not 5’11.). Tweak your nose a bit (Two people. One went through with it.) Fix that smidge of a birthmark on your left wrist (One. She got a tattoo instead.)

“You would be perfect.”

I’m not that jaded. All women have this internal voice. It’s often supplemented by the subtle shoulder-jabbing of advertising. It’s just that with those who choose (and, yes, they must acknowledge it is a choice) to market their exterior as a profession, all of these “If Only’s” are publicly acknowledged—and loudly, countless times (sometimes in Chinese). The ultimate irony, perhaps, lies in the clichéd teenage girl’s mounting feelings of inferiority while flipping through the pages of a magazine, not realizing that those who comprise its pages are perhaps more insecure than she is. And, usually, they’re just teenagers, too.

As for me, I’m cool. I think I’m done with this. I’ve peeked through looking glass—or, rather, shop window—and decided it’s just not a world I want to inhabit any longer. Maybe I’ll change my mind one day. But for now, I’m perusing paid internships and places to live in NYC.

The most interesting and beautiful women I know aren’t models, though they may assume that identity right now. They’re people—imperfectly and gloriously so. Maybe one day they’ll realize that, too. If Only.

Here are some snaps from Italy to distract from the rant. Promise to be funnier next time.

Professions of faith inside Milan’s Duomo, the 4th largest cathedral in the world and the only Gothic cathedral in Italy. Notre Dame, who? (see below)

Interior shot of Teatro alla Scala, the famed Italian opera house where we saw Giselle, gratis. My friend in Italy is best friends with its ushers. They love her there–as does everyone. She’s just one of those people.

The Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, which now houses Prada, Gucci, and, yes McDonald’s.

Surveying the new kids in town at Milan Fashion Week.

Rehearsal for Jil Sander, where, later, its very talented creative director, Raf Simons, presented his final collection.

The best models at Milan Fashion Week were to be found off-runway.

Having a moment at Venetian Carnivale.

The Swan Queen reigns supreme in Venice.

Wouldn’t be a post about Venice without a few Gondolas in row–er, tow. Yeah, yeah. Bad one, but I had to.

Some of the masks were just insane. A good day for a disguise, no?

Embraces at Lake Como, where we passed the time with a $2.00 bottle of wine and morose couple-stalking. Was a beautiful day.

I’ve also come to realize that cities are people, too. Each has their idiosyncrasies that make you wholly enamored and exasperated at the same time. And each is as bold and memorable as those you encounter dwelling within them, even temporarily.

Mexico City? She’s that buttoned-up, all-knowing, effortlessly cool older sister who pulls double duty in confessional on Sunday after crawling back into her window post downtown all-nighter. She nods primly to her parents and elders, volunteers on weekends and wears a subtle perfume to mask lingering traces of Mezcal. Alone, she’s loud and brash and makes you laugh harder than anyone else with her refinery of region-specific vulgarities (a la verga, guey!) and passes you a cool flask under your desk during third period. And though typically barefaced, she always, always has a tube of screaming red lipstick stashed in her conservative leather messenger bag.

Beijing, meanwhile, keeps to herself. (Yes, I’m making all of them female, just for lazy metaphorical purposes. Gender re-assignment is welcome.) First impressions: reserved, futuristic and cold—but talk to her for an hour or so and you’ll glean a lush history lesson while waiting for her to continue the story. She wants you to discover the winding rows of Hutongs, smoky, saturated street markets, hidden views of cultural monuments and arcing temples that lie beneath her metallic exterior. Really, she does. But you need to ask her first, and you must ask politely—most of all, you need to speak her language. A translation book may be necessary. But she’ll make sure you find your way.

Istanbul, well, she’s a bit confused at the moment. Stuck in a moment of self-discovery as she shifts from tradition with trepidation, you’ll find her awkwardly trying on new clothes (Doc Martens, miniskirts) and lingering in nightclubs and galleries as often as you will having family supper and kneeling to daily prayer. Sometimes she’s lofty and introspective by the seaside; sometimes she shares her deepest secrets with you over ancient ruins. Her European elegance is underscored by her reticence to change, but her resilience—through natural disasters and centuries of political upheaval—is her most attractive feature. And she loves, loves, loves to cook.

I met the city/girl of my dreams last weekend, though, after a quick birthday trip to Paris, where I was lucky enough to intersect with good friends. A few visuals are below. This Smartphone photography-tweaking thing is getting to be a bit obsessive.

Entrance to the Louvre. Hey! The Mona Lisa is actually really, really small! And it’s actually across from the biggest painting in the museum, Veronese’s frenetic, huuuuge “The Wedding Feast at Cana.” Talk about misdirection. Can I also mention that the Louvre is the only museum I’ve visited in the world that only lists descriptions for its paintings in French?

France loves fonts. Lots of ‘em. Even their typography on simple street signs and at cafes is glorious, like this one above.

Totally obligatory I’m-in-front-of-the-Eiffel-tower! shot. I was really happy, despite my “whatevs, man” half-smile.

The Monmarte Basilica. See those people at its base? They sang me “Happy Birthday”.

Self-explanatory.

Birthday cake? Crepe with fresh whipped cream, dark chocolate, (French) vanilla ice cream, and almonds.

My favorite shot of the bunch. There’s a window that peeks into the Louvre before its entrance, and this dear young girl was feeling curious.

Big wishes inside of the Metz Catherdral, located just outside of Paris.

Also, speaking of cities, I come home to the sandy limbs of San Diego in three weeks. And then, as mentioned before, I plan to move to New York this spring. And I am terrified.

Wait ’till you meet that city. She’s absolutely nuts. You’re gonna love her.

In the busy streets of the Taksim district, patterned Hijabs commingle with salon-perfect blonde and youth-in-revolt asymmetrical bobs; in the seaside neighborhood of Ortakoy, the reserved curves of Mosques clash with their more commercial neighbors of Carrefour, cafes and lingerie shops; and, just about anywhere, unnerving gazes of the opposite sex appraise for just a moment too long before studying the ground out of habit. Sex is a contraband commodity here (and I mean that in the metaphorical sense, of course)—the irony lying in the fact that on a very surface level, in modeling-related terms, one can expect a full week of transparent lingerie castings administered by a quiet young Muslim assistant.

(“Istanbul is a sexy market,” I heard repeated countless times before my arrival. Which, to this I say, if “sexy market” directly translates to “gain 3 kg of winter weight and get approving once-overs from famously fickle Turkish clients,” which, in turn, has made me pretty busy over the past few weeks, then bring on the baklava.)

As with most of Latin America and Europe (note the exclusion of my motherland), life is deliciously, if not sometimes annoyingly, languid. Five minutes means one hour, one hour means two, “later” means “tomorrow”, and “maybe” almost always means “you better remind me again in five minutes” (repeat cycle). Unlike China, or even home, people linger here. And they enjoy every “five minutes” of it.

Also like Distrito Federal, Istanbul is a city that quite literally rests upon its history. Whereas the Spaniards, and, later, after the quake of 1985, its more modern-day denizens, rebuilt and restructured the grid of D.F. on the Aztec’s original city-on-a-lake of legend, fragments and landmarks from both Constantinople (see: Galata Tower, Basilica Cistern) and the Ottoman Empire (Topkapi Palace, The Grand Bazaar) rest below and amidst metropolitan life. The skeleton of the great Walls of Constantinople infiltrates the seaside, now impassively guarding suburban houses and power lines with a half-hearted shrug. (It should also be noted that D.F. and Istanbul have an affinity for tectonic hot zones in common, as well, with Istanbul resting directly between the Eurasian and African plates—what is it with former empires and earthquake zones?) And, just as these great cities sleep and shift and transform on their collective myths and fault lines, so do I.

And, so, my transforming act (this time perhaps the third and final one) has begun again. The structural steel, Blade Runner-like futurism of Beijing’s daily run has been replaced (when the weather’s nice) with waterside glimpses of the Bosphorus; the slangy American/Chinese “O.K.la” has shifted to the Turkish “tamam”; amazing connections have been forged yet again with all of the anecdotes that they comprise, like dancing to Shakira until 3am on Christmas Eve at a Mexican bar with your Brazilian roommate–followed by 13 hours worth of shooting leopard-and-sequin-spangled evening gowns in a post Tequila-induced daze. Again. Istanbul reminds me of Mexico City in so many ways.

Oh, and I’m going to Paris for my 25th birthday. Just because I’ve never been. And, well, officially entering your mid-20’s seems marginally less daunting when done in style.

Here are a few Instragrammed visuals from my time here so far.

Famed view of the Blue Mosque. It’s called this because of the blue tiles that score its interior.

Galata Tower, one of the oldest in the world. There is also, apparently, a nightclub inside. Not kidding.

Just before sunrise over the Bosphorus. Was told by a friend in China I must find a spot for this. I did.

Eerie interior of the Cistern Basilica, which once was the water supply for all of Topkapi Palace.

Turkish Mezas, or appetizers, during Christmas Dinner.

Aforementioned Mexican bar.

Aforementioned Brazilian roommate.

“This past year was a transformative one.”

You’ll hear that phrase used quite often around this season. It’s a particular resident of the white noise lexicon we tend to gloss over when skimming typical “Year in Review” round-ups. Something journalists reach for as an easy opening line, but never in the introspective context of our actual lives–the 364 days, some transformative, some merely a mass of menial hours, that culminate in another annual kicking of the gears onward.

But, somewhere, midst time zones and layovers in nameless Chinese airports and giving directions to cab drivers at 5am in 3 different languages; midst becoming enamored with the cultural nuances, the resilience, and, of course the people which reside in each passport stamp; midst changing identities for a living while defining and re-defining my own—well, not to get all “Eat, Pray, Love”-y dovey and soporific on here, but I’ve transformed. (I finally read the thing, FYI. Wasn’t bad.)

But enough about me. I’ve shifted—for the better, we’ll assume—marginally closer to the person I hope to eventually become. Boring, right? I should mention that I was only able to come to this conclusion, however, by befriending perhaps the most diverse group of individuals I’ve come across in a year’s time (this could all change, of course, as I plan my gradual move to Manhattan this summer, a city which I euphemistically consider to be God’s seminal social experiment. And I only lived there for 4 months! In 2007!)

From Malaysian beauty queens to former soccer icons; from timid, unassuming Russian teenagers (and their converse—those who know far too much already) to Swedish musicians; from Ukrainian teachers-in-training who fall in love with their roommates and leave their fiancées; from Somalian refugees to Polish PHD-candidates who spend their summers in Milan; from fellow North American freelance journalists to Tyra Banks-approved reality stars—to those I have loved but never really lost in this 10-odd months of travel: all of you I now count as dear friends in this strange, shimmering subculture. All of your stories are true and subtly diffused by the flattering light of memory, as is mine, at this point.

And, if I’ve learned anything from a collective year of this stuff, it’s that all of us long for the same things, even if we choose to seek them in very different ways. A clear sense of purpose and accomplishment (though some may not realize that yet. I sure didn’t, at 16, the same age as some of my former roommates in Beijing). To love and be loved in return. To feel appreciated for what we do and who we are, even if it’s just in small gestures. Perhaps most importantly, to have an unapologetically fantastic, heartbreaking, disorienting and, yes—transformative—time figuring out how to accomplish it all.

The aforementioned Polish PHD-candidate and I were having a late-night Skype chat (which I’ve come to love so dearly) a few days back about resolutions. Mine are simple, if not a little selfish and contradictory: to focus more on my future goals, while living wholly in the present.

“Mine, too,” she typed. “But please remind me about it every time I try to do something stupid.”

To which I say this—if we didn’t do stupid things, such as leaving a steady desk job to travel with quite possibly one of the most unstable, subjective professions imaginable (uh, other than “ freelance writer”), I wouldn’t be typing this to you now from Istanbul, as content I can ever recall feeling the first week of the New Year. If we avoided the stupid, the idiotic, the unthinkable, the nonsensical—well, we’d live very boring lives, indeed. Here’s to a very interesting 2012.

Too much introspection for one day. If you care, will follow this up tomorrow for a visual year in review. One more resolution—to make this thing more about travel! That’s what you’re here for, right?

The biggest bazaar of them all.

Please reference: Overheard

(Scenario: Two 20-something females, unaccompanied. Innocuously garbed in winter apparel, replete with heavy boots, tights and scarves.)

“Angel! Angel! I could be your Charlie!”

“Excuse me miss, I think you dropped something.” (We turn around, actually concerned). “My heart.”

“Hey, Spice Girls! Come spice up your life!”

(On wearing ridiculous pseudo-intellectual Ray Bans sans lenses.) “Those glasses don’t have lenses, you know.” (3 times.)

(On wearing Harem pants) “Come buy some more Turkish pants!”

“I’m the one you’ve been waiting for. Here. Right here.” (Wish it were really that easy!)

“Lady Gaga and Katy Perry!” (What? We were a little offended about which identities he was referencing. I mean, which one was stuck being Gaga?)

“Help me spend your money.”

“Future wife! Come here!”

“Sisters? Sisters?” (So hopeful, this one!)

Okay, so maybe the list wasn’t long enough to warrant one of these. But, seriously. Gentlemen—if you’re in the need of some new woman-wheedling material—visit the Grand Bazaar. Ladies—feeling frumpy? Seeking a Turkish husband whilst perusing Persian rugs? Visit the Grand Bazaar.

Still crafting a more eloquent entry on all of life in Istanbul. For now, enjoy the (God’s) eye candy above. Officially enamored with Instagram/snapping photos of anything involving illumination.

What is it about the internet? There’s something about rediscovering your high-school journal (er, in this case, Xanga) hibernating in the confines of Google like a digital specter that refocuses your place in the present. A 16-year-old stranger who trains their gaze on you as you shuffle down the road but who you’re too self-involved to notice. At first, they don’t seem familiar to you—why would you recognize them? But—wait–steady her mannerisms. The way she anxiously tucks her hair behind one ear as she speaks. How she smiles halfway; averts her eyes as she greets you. You know her—really, you do. You’ve met a few times before, in a place you’ve only visited once.

Things that haven’t changed:

Her sometimes-childish lexicon and predilection for using the word “awesome” when at a loss for something more marginally more impressive.

Her love of friends, food, and foreign films (“Run Lola, Run.” “Amelie.” “Y Tu Mama, Tambien,” though I probably shouldn’t have been watching that at 16.)

Her fondness for self-deprecation when she needs to realize that, really, she’s wonderful.

Things that have:

She’s no longer afraid to tell people how she feels. Actually, she’s no longer afraid of things, period.

Her wardrobe. Thank god.

She’s also significantly less mopey than usual, though that’s to be expected, when you’re stranded in a place as beautiful as Istanbul.

There’s nothing like realizing that you are exactly who you’ve always been—and at the same time, have become someone totally unexpected.

Going to write something significantly less self-involved next time and attempt a profile piece and full-on update of life in Turkey, promise. But for now, during this decidedly languid weekend, it’s nice to be contemplative.

I miss familiarity—or perhaps not familiarity, but routine, which I must now say goodbye to, once again, as I depart for Istanbul this Sunday to recycle some more of myself for 3 months of a new contract. You may not agree or quite fully understand, but this nomadic life is a rough one. Amazing people and places get stowed away (if you can fit them) once again in the ever-growing storeroom of your travels, and even if you feel the urge to unpack someday and rediscover them all, there’s a chance that they might just… slip through your fingers. Because memories aren’t people, and people aren’t memories, but memories are, indeed, what you carry with yourself as you depart.

I think after this—being wooed yet again by another seductive new culture–I’m done being a professional vagabond. Sorry for the melancholia, but it’s too much for my soon-to-be 25-year-old self to handle. On the plus side, I now have about 231 apartments I can stay in all over the world and 52 new Skype contacts. So there’s that. But I realize now I haven’t exactly been keeping you—the collective “you” of whoever is still stuck reading this thing—posted, so below is a quick list of all of the wonderful things I will miss about China.

• The hulking history of ancient temples looming over modern expressways and convenience stores like wizened sentinels.
• Being able to go to the Great Wall—twice—in the span of 2 weeks, just because you can.
• The smiling woman who sells you your daily breakfast of Dragonfruit for 10 Yuan (expensive, I know, but it saves a trip to Carrefour) each morning downstairs.
•
• Getting lost in Inner Mongolia with 4 models en route to yet another fake beauty pageant while searching for a 7-11 (they don’t exist in Inner Mongolia).
• Waking up to your Argentinean roommate’s Spanish swears as she prepares for yet another harrowing 9-hour day in the casting van.
• Enjoying bootleg Mexican Chilaquiles with 20-somethings (and almost 20-somethings) who represent 6 different countries.
• Seeing the stars in Beijing, which is something you usually miss on a daily basis, thanks to the sky’s usual shroud of clouds and smog. But you miss it nonetheless.

Perhaps I’ll add more to this love letter to China in a few days, but for now, this is farewell. Maybe we’ll meet again someday, when life is not quite so complicated.