Pass the Adobo and the Existential Dread
Thanksgiving abroad: where the food is different, but the quarter-life crisis stays the same.
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This batch of daily diary entries marks another week of my solo-travel voyage throughout Asia! If you missed last week’s batch, you can read it here!
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November 29th, 2024
General Luna, Siargao, Philippines
The rain pelts the thatched roof like restless fingers, creating a rhythmic backdrop to our intimate gathering. I'm perched on a worn cushion, my watercolor journal open, listening to the conversations swirling around me like the steam from our mugs of tea.
It's Thanksgiving, thousands of miles from home, and this open-air hostel has become my makeshift family. Earlier, we shared a distinctly Filipino feast—chicken adobo and pumpkin soup replacing the traditional turkey. My phone buzzed with family photos, a distant echo of warmth that momentarily tugged at my heart.
As evening settled, we formed a circle on the floor. The conversation meandered, then deepened, fueled by the kind of vulnerability that only travelers understand.
A German girl, her eyes intense with purpose, broke the comfortable silence. "I need to get my life together," she declared, her voice a mixture of determination and anxiety. "I'm 22. Two years of traveling have been incredible, but now? I want to build something. An art therapy business. Four kids. A whole life."
A British boy, charmingly irreverent, responded with a quick quip. "Well, you can always freeze your eggs," he said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
Laughter erupted, cutting through the humid air.
"Actually," the German girl leaned in, "that's not as simple as it sounds. Do you know you have to pay rent for your eggs? Like, literally pay a doctor to store them?"
"Wait, what?" the British boy looked genuinely surprised.
A Spanish girl joined the conversation, her accent adding musical notes to her words. "I've talked about this with my friends in Barcelona. I want to enjoy my twenties, be a mother when I'm ready—not just because society expects it." Her eyes grew distant, painting a vivid picture. "I see myself at 95, at the head of a massive family table. Children, dogs, generations surrounding me. I didn't come from a big family, so I want to create one."
The conversation continued, a tapestry of dreams, fears, and unfiltered honesty. I remained quiet, absorbing every word, feeling a strange sense of peace. It felt good to feel the inner turmoil of my peers. We’re all connected in our adolescent existentialism.
An older traveler, his face etched with the stories of countless journeys, finally spoke. "Guys, I'm 31," he said with a knowing smile. "Trust me. You're fine. Don't worry."
Outside, the rain continued its persistent song. Ricky, a Filipino singer from Cebu, strummed a guitar nearby. Jack Kerouac's "On the Road" lay open beside me, a silent companion to our moment of collective contemplation.
Am I escaping or exploring? Is this wandering a valid path, or merely a prolonged adolescence? The questions hang in the air, as fluid and undefined as the tropical rain.
But right now, in this moment, everything feels perfectly, wonderfully uncertain.
Thank you for taking the time to read about my week. Next week, I’ll be sharing my next batch of daily diaries.
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I hope the rest of your day brings presence and gratitude.
See you soon!
Love,
Etai