As Long as There Are Roads
2026-07-31 · Campbell River, Canada
Remember that old Bob Dylan song “Blowin’ in the Wind” that starts with “How many roads must a man walk down…”? Well, ask that question a woman!
Some ideas come and go, some linger for a while, and a few refuse to let go until you finally give in, follow them, and let them become lived experience, an inseparable part of yourself. I’ve had a few of those key moments that suddenly kicked me in a totally different direction, and once on that new road, there just wasn’t any turning back.
They all had one thing in common: a small, surprising, unplanned event got the ball rolling. The people who nudged me onto those roads had no such intention, and most never found out what a life-altering impact they had.
A dreaded phone call from England during my first job as a programmer in a small start-up in Germany started a series of road trips through Great Britain and Ireland. Why dreaded, you ask? Because I was afraid of answering the phone in English. Travelling became my way of eventually overcoming that irrational fear.
After getting quite comfortable driving on the other side of the road, it was time to think of new horizons. How about Australia? Intriguing… but leaving the coziness of Europe? I’m not that brave! Then friends raved about their recent trip to British Columbia. Sounds British? I can do that!
A few days in Vancouver, a couple of weeks on Vancouver Island, two nights on the ferry from Bellingham to Skagway. After a short minibus ride to Whitehorse, I was off on the real adventure in a pickup truck with a camper. Back then, the Stewart-Cassiar Highway, my chosen route, was still all gravel, 750 km of pure wilderness. I added a few days in the Rocky Mountains before returning to Vancouver. That long drive gives you plenty of time to come up with all kinds of wild ideas… like immigrating!
Coming from a small, densely populated country known for its love of strict societal rules, northern BC was just the opposite: big and empty, live and let live. With each added kilometre, I felt as if I, as a person, was shrinking until I reached a comfortable size: no longer dominating, but a humble part of my surroundings.
The following year, I tried to replicate that feeling and find out: was it Canada, or was it travelling? I took the ferry from Germany to Finland, then drove all the way to the North Cape. Standing on the cliff at the end of the road, looking north and realizing that there was nothing but the Arctic Ocean between me and the North Pole, was epic. Did I have the same sense of endlessness I had felt in BC the year before? Strangely, no.
Don’t get me wrong, it was an amazing, unforgettable trip. On the way back, I hugged Norway’s fjords, perplexed by how many hundreds of kilometres I logged just to cover a short distance as the crow flies. I took another “shortcut” by ferry from Sweden back to Germany.
A year later, one morning I opened that thick envelope with the precious immigration papers! The only condition: land within six months! That’s a pretty short time to give up a well-established life with an interesting, fulfilling job in Germany. To go or not to go, that was the question?! Staying would have left me with one nagging doubt forever: what if I had gone…?
I couldn’t take that risk and arrived on January 19, 1996. I never stopped exploring my new backyard on Vancouver Island and have since visited many, but not yet all, provinces and territories of this vast country.
When I was about 10 years old, family circumstances required us to get from the mainland to a small island in the North Sea, and the only way to get there was by seaplane. I’ll never forget that feeling of looking at the tilted earth, a bird’s-eye view of the ocean, and tiny toy houses below. I decided to get a pilot licence for small planes as soon as I won big in the lottery.
Decades passed, and I never won.
Then somebody mentioned an ultralight flying school right here in my hometown, Campbell River. Time to add some elevated airways to my road maps!
I continued taking lessons toward my private pilot licence after moving to Victoria for a few years. I never felt the same joy and wonder at the international airport, but persisted for a while. One day, I was playing tennis when a small plane flew over the courts. I looked up and asked myself: Right now, where would I rather be, down here or up there?
That’s when I knew it was time to abandon that road.
I’m glad, though, that I followed the dream. My most memorable flight was my second solo over Quadra Island near Campbell River. It was like magic, and I felt free as a bird!
At the international airport, flying meant sharing the airspace with huge planes, checklists, procedures, and plenty of clearance calls with flight control. The romance of the tiny ultralight and Cessna 172 flights departing from the small local airport in Campbell River just couldn't be found anywhere in the sterile efficiency of commercial runways.
While Victoria turned out to be the end of my aviation adventure, it would kick off yet another exciting and lasting journey to faraway lands and cultures. You just never know what’s waiting around the next corner!
I hardly knew anybody and joined a recreational tennis group, hoping to make a few new connections. After lessons and play, everybody disappeared in no time, and only a Chinese university student, Yangjie, and I stayed behind. We hit a few balls, got talking, and added a few meals over the next few weeks. And so began a very unusual friendship that once again changed my life forever and opened another vast and exciting network of paths to explore.
After one of the reading breaks, Yangjie returned from a visit to China and suggested that next time, I should come too. Not hard to guess what happened next! I had never been to Asia, and China hadn’t been on my radar in a very long time. I’ll come back to that in a moment.
What an opportunity!
While I worried about taking up too much of his precious short time with family and friends—after all, I’m three decades his senior—he thought I’d probably join a few guided tour groups.
I’ve always loved immersing myself, looking from the inside out instead of feeling like a bystander. It was the year of Expo Shanghai 2010. During the first few days, Yangjie took me to a few sights, introduced me to the city and its super-convenient subway system, and taught me how to cross intersections on foot safely without getting killed. Sounds easy, but 15+ years ago, traffic in China was still a bit chaotic.
Then I was off on my own for the day. Needless to say, everything went well, and I felt emboldened. A few days later, Yangjie’s mom got me a train ticket to Beijing; my hotel there helped me book my ticket to Xi’an.
And I… I was hooked!
Over the years, I’ve visited about 30 cities and regions all over the country and always have plenty of ideas for my next trip.
During my second trip to China in 2011, I still had a couple of weeks left, and the weather forecast wasn’t too promising. I deliberately never responded to random online ads, but this time I made an exception and contacted Keats School. A few one-on-one Mandarin classes would perfectly complement my first attempts at learning the language.
Who would have thought this would become my very own travel pattern for years to come: study for four weeks at language schools in Kunming, Guilin, and Harbin, then travel for another four weeks to new destinations.
I always enjoyed life at school and the excellent relationships I had with my teachers. It usually didn’t take more than one or two shared meals with other students before I connected with my favourite companions for local outings, explorations, and good conversation. Not surprisingly, I’m still in occasional or even frequent contact with many of them, given how much we had in common: our interest in China, our diverse and often unusual paths through life, and the fact that we were all willing to spend money, time, and effort to attend classes.
As for my Chinese, I wish it were better—no doubt. But it has opened doors and created opportunities that would never have been possible without it. Everybody can check into a hotel using English or a translation app, but only with at least some language skills can you really connect with the local people around you.
It still feels like magic when I approach somebody: “Where is…?”, “How do I use…?”, “Could you take a picture…?” I’m older, tone-deaf (that’s bad when learning a tonal language like Chinese), and obviously not Asian. As soon as people realize that they can communicate with me, many do everything they can to prolong our encounter, personally take me to places instead of just answering my often super-simple inquiry, and ask me a thousand unrelated questions along the way!
Contrary to popular belief, reaching out to middle-aged or even older people instead of younger ones is the most fun! When do they ever have an opportunity to chat with a real-life foreigner—and a solo female traveller at that?!
I mentioned my friend Yangjie before. After leaving the Mandarin beginner level behind, his parents, who don’t speak English, took me to many unique destinations, the ones you usually don’t find in travel guides, and introduced me to relatives and friends. We often stayed in their homes. Such precious, unforgettable experiences!
I hinted above that the first seed for China was sown a long, long time ago. In my early twenties, yet another exotic and fascinating region—Turkey and the Arab world—sparked my interest. At one point, my Turkish was quite good. Now it’s all forgotten—yes, all of it. It’s so true: if you don’t use it, you lose it!
Back then, I took classes as a guest through the Department of Oriental Studies at the University in Erlangen. They also offered courses in Arabic and… Chinese! I seriously considered taking a Chinese class before signing up for Arabic instead. After the evening classes were cancelled, I didn’t pursue it further. Yet another road in my life that seemed to end, only to reconnect decades later.
In early 2019, a family event brought me back to Germany for a visit and then… Covid hit. No more travelling for a while and no more travelling to China for an even longer time!
Finally, in 2022, the first countries slowly reopened their borders. A friend whom I had met 10 years earlier at Keats Language School in Kunming had put down roots in Thailand. Seeing the devastation and impact the pandemic had had on local people, he encouraged all his adventurous friends to experience Thai hospitality first-hand.
He meant me, right?
We planned to meet in Bangkok. Shortly before I arrived, he had to return to the US on short notice, but connected me with one of his close friends in Prachuap Khiri Khan.
Never heard of that place? Don’t worry, me neither.
It’s a tiny, sleepy town right on the Gulf of Thailand. But since I didn’t know anybody and always enjoy off-the-beaten-path discoveries, I bought a train ticket.
What draws me back to Prachuap over and over isn’t the ocean with its spectacular sunrises, nor the playful Thai architecture and mischievous monkeys. It’s my circle of friends, mostly—but not only—expats. Similar to my experience at language schools in China, I felt I fit in from the moment I arrived.
In PKK, as we often refer to this coastal town, I’ve always felt I belong, while at home, even after 30 years, I still feel more like an outsider. I don’t blame the people; it’s me and my uncommon choices and lifestyle. One could say I just fit with a bunch of oddballs, not hockey or soccer fans. 🤣
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not unhappy here in Campbell River and have no plans to move permanently to Asia.
The more I travel, the clearer it becomes that natural beauty and spectacular sights are an incentive to explore, but it’s the people who give all these places, extraordinary or nondescript, their soul.
The restlessness that has always defined my life is as strong as ever. I probably won't head off to new continents, maybe not even new countries. But as long as there are people to meet and places to discover, the journey isn't over yet.
As long as there are roads, you’ll find me there.