Story time - a year I will never forget

The story of moving to China for 12 months and my life changing forever…

Originally uploaded to my now defunct travel blog and submitted to an online mag, I wrote this 7 years after I returned to the UK. I’m putting this behind a partial paywall as an affirmation to myself that my words are precious and one day publishers will pay me for it – I am a writer. I believe in the power of manifestation, so this is purely symbolic

All my regular weekly newsletters will continue to remain free and open to all; I love the flexibility and creative freedom this brings.

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It had been two weeks since I landed in China in the middle of a humid, sweltering Beijing summer.

And it would be today that I would begin a 5-hour journey through unknown cities with limited sleeps to my new home for the next 12 months: Wúxī.

I sat with three other language assistants assigned to a city that didn’t even get a mention in the China Lonely Planet guide, and although we chatted excitedly through the entire journey, we all carried nerves that only we could unpack in our own individual ways.

I was only 23 and I’d be alone for a year. I would meet friends, but ultimately I’d be alone. My friends back home would ultimately forget about me. I’d be alone.

A voice announced the approaching station and instructions for safely exiting the train – first in Chinese, and then in English ­– and then we had a few moments to gather our thoughts and a year’s worth of belongings.

me holding a 100 yuan note (2015).

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I met the head of the English department on the platform at Wúxī train station – a short and cheery man with thinning hair, the slight outline of a potbelly through a crisp white shirt and an infectious smile. We exchanged pleasantries after a firm handshake and a series of greetings.

After exchanging contact details with the other three language assistants with promises to keep in touch, I followed the teacher to a black estate car. I can’t for the life of me remember the entirety of that conversation on the drive to my new home, but I recall making out tall buildings and long stretches of road in a seemingly small city. Wúxī seemed unassuming, tentative and kind; it put me at ease. Colourful signs written in playful characters danced out at me. Dawn light settled on bodies of buildings and busy commuters. There were superstores and modest restaurants. Green street signs contained tongue twisting consonant clusters.

Wúxī (无锡): a tidy little city located in Jiāngsū (江苏) province; a 40-minute train journey away from Shànghăi (上海), with Sùzhōu (苏州) sitting comfortably 15 minutes away. Wúxī felt like it almost wanted to remain in old China, but couldn’t commit and decided to go the cosmopolitan route like its more boisterous neighbours. Eventually, Wuxi grew tired, practised some affirmations and decided to stay in her lane. And the further we went into our journey the fonder I grew of this little hub of indecision. That it was underrated and snubbed by popular travel guides meant I could explore it with little preconceptions and with less chance for disappointment.

The cluster of buildings started spreading out and steadily shrinking, and we passed over a wide bridge revealing a scope of the ebbing downtown area. After a few minutes the car started slowing to a halt.

Xihui Park in Wúxī, China, where my apartment overlooked (2015). captured by me.