Before I begin, a disclosure for you. I have written and re-written variations of this blog post countless times over the past two months. Those accounts have detailed, among other things, a period of change, one that I’m both terrified of and exhilarated to have the means to experience. The words you see below are a piece-meal of these different entries (chronicled in so many unsaved Word documents and cliffhanger paragraphs) as well as an explanation of how I’ve now come to find myself on the opposite side of the world.

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Fall is a time of transition. September 1 has always been a time of unequivocal change – my ‘happy new year moment’ or the start of a new fiscal company calendar. The season always came as a welcome reprieve to me, blowing out the humidity and swooping me off somewhere new. What I realized this year, though, was that those changes have always been fairly inconsequential and predictable – for 17 years it meant the start of a new school year, and last year the extension of my job as a journalist with Canada’s national broadcaster.

This past summer, I started feeling restless. I’d allowed myself to be consumed by work. I was thinking about it 24/7, not sleeping, and suffering breakdowns every few weeks. There were other reasons, too, but for the sake of brevity and professionalism, the Internet shall hear none of it. At the same time, I was on a career path – getting amazing experience, covering a variety of stories, and making connections with people in the community. This was the structured “right” path I had always expected my feet to follow. That path is one of certainty – continued praise of my journalistic prowess from co-workers, fawning in my parents’ social circles, and maybe, one day, even a coveted full-time gig in this shrinking media world.

Then the cocktail of uncertainty mixed with gutsy naivety hit. This “right” path wasn’t looking so desirable anymore. I didn’t want to keep zipping full speed ahead on this fast track to career, this permanence. I wanted to make mistakes and see the world and pursue personal projects. If life was a video game, my health points were sitting at 10 out of 10. I decided to be selfish, while I could still afford to be.

So I gave my boss my resignation letter and stopped working at the end of August.

…At which time, I learned one lesson very quickly: big decisions do not automatically lead to big change. I thought that by quitting my job, all the problems I had would dissolve alongside. But it turns out being fun-employed for the first time ever just gives way to a whole bunch of other insecurities (if you allow it, which for a while, I definitely did).

Okay, so it’s September. With an unprecedented period of time of think, I come to the realization that my perception of self-worth and my job are so closely intertwined. I had an interesting conversation with a friend and role model of mine a few weeks ago. We were talking about new encounters you have with people, and how one of the first questions asked is usually ‘so, what do you do?’ Up until this point, I’ve always been able to say that I’ve been a journalism student or I’m a reporter with CBC or I work with Enter Traditional Job X Here. These titles, I realize now, have always served as interesting and impressive-enough sounding crutches on which I can somewhat appease social expectations.

Now, I no longer have that crutch, that position that gives me tangible value in a society that is so job-centric. So I’ve been trying to figure out where I fit in as just Hilary. What are my passions, my opinions, my skills, when I’m actually given the time to try and figure them out?

I’ve been struck with panic and the question: have I forgotten how to make change in my life?

Luckily humans are adaptable. I am young (23) and equal parts naive and hopeful and stupid enough to think and know and worry obsessively that I can get out of this funk. I’m also grateful to live in a socio-economic situation where I can even afford this uncertainty.

The past two months have witnessed depression, anxiety, newfound romance and freedom. Somewhere in the middle of those feelings, I decided it was the right time to go travelling. I have money saved, time, and few commitments. It’s the trifecta of good timing. I don’t deny that escapism is also coming into play – a desire to run away from all the emotions and pressures of home. But its also driven by a desire to learn more about the world we live in, and see what life is like through the eyes of people who don’t always have the time and luxury of worrying.

So that, my friends, is the long-winded version of how I now find myself in Nepal.

More to come, certainly.

(Also, more photos in the next posts…I just needed to get these words out there, first)

It was a happy accident that found me in Waiting Area Q at 10:57 p.m. on Thursday, May 30.

Let me preface this by saying my flight from London Heathrow had landed at Toronto Pearson International Airport an hour-and-a-half earlier, and I had determined I was far too cheap to pay for a hotel room for the time remaining between then and my 10:15 a.m. flight to Sudbury. I was not alone. My giant backpack had come through the luggage claim in need of rechecking in the morning. For one hour I lugged it across Terminal 1 like a scrawny waterboy carrying an entire hockey team’s gear, my pride turning grimace to smile when someone gently hinted I get a luggage cart (spoiler alert: I did).

After trying to recheck my bag for my Friday morning flight, the Air Canada representative confirmed my suspicions: no bags could be checked until the morning. (This is when I gave in and got a cart, feeling as though I was Atlas unloading the weight of the world from my shoulders)

Settling into one of those comfortable-at-the-outset-but-awful-once-you-realize-they-have-high-metal-arm-rests chairs, I slung my legs over the bar and welcomed my fate: 12 hours of complete discomfort and body contortion. I bought a Fudgesicle to console myself (because I’m five-years-old), and continued reading Game of Thrones on my iPad.

Then, as if out of nowhere (or maybe from behind the flight check-in counter, I was distracted by Jon Snow’s exploits beyond the wall), the Air Canada baggage clerk reappeared, a kindly-looking gentleman who had chuckled and clucked his tongue at me when I had tried to rid myself of my backpack earlier.

“Do you know about Waiting Area Q?” he asked me.

“No,” I replied, for earlier walks had only brought me so far as the Popsicle purchase, some two floors below the departures area.

“Well,” he said with a small grin, “if you follow these letters all the way down to the Q section (he gestured at the tall platforms with neon yellow lettering), they have seats without the arm rest barriers. They even have televisions.

It’s like he could sense my anxiety over the metal bars.

I nodded my thanks, trying to not outwardly display my compulsion to toss down my Fudgesicle and push my cart to Waiting Area Q as fast as I could. After all, how many people was he telling about seating area? I would not have it be full.

I finished my snacks and bolted.

As any sensible person who didn’t just come off an eight hour flight from a place where it was now 2 a.m. would have realized, Area Q was close to abandoned. A man sat sleeping by the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hangar-like terminal, and there were a few others scattered around the 100 metre by 100 metre area.

Unlike the other parts of the airport with those screwed down, arm rested seats, Waiting Area Q had gone rogue. Banks of pleather seats had been moved everywhere, creating contained two-row “beds” and benches with spectacular window views. I initially settled in the kids play area, attracted by not only the prospect of a long row of seats, but moveable foot rests/pseudo-playthings and a squishy surface under foot, a pleasant thing that seemed to utter “liability-free” with every step. I watched old Spiderman cartoons on the flat screen television.

My iPhone bleeped at me. “Charge me!!” it wailed. I relocated my stuff 20 metres over next to a window and a small Xbox stand.

I quickly realized that in the land of stiff limbs and low volume oldies that monetary currency of any nationality is null. Waiting Area Q is a place where electricity – or more specifically the outlets that provide it – make you the area overlord. It’s a battle for power, in the most literal sense, and my overnight fortress was been primely positioned. I was sitting in a corner with not one, but two power sockets. Simply put, my stuff was safeguarded by new friends throughout the night in exchange for the use of just one sweet socket.

It’s now 2:51 a.m. and I’m half writing this story in my Moleskine and half people watching. The aforementioned kids section across from me is now full of adults, some splayed out under a plastic tree structure, as though it were the Tree of Life. A cleaning woman makes her rounds, dusting and cleaning up after phantom passengers. To my right, a number of Air Canada employees are dozing off while facing out the window.

In the transience of our journeys, we have all ended up here, in Waiting Area Q, united by convenience and the human need to sleep. As the sun rose, phone alarms jingled like handheld music boxes, and people dispersed. The atrium of Area Q was awash with morning light, the brightness acting as a magic eraser, inviting people to rise and move on. Tomorrow night I’m sure these seats will be filled and rearranged once more, and that temporary shared bond between strangers will start again, at this far end of Terminal 1.

(“You Can Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac just came on. How appropriate. Now, I sleep.)

I am in Cornwall right now. Cornwall is the western-most county in England, and was the first destination on what promises to be more than a few trips away from the busyness of London.

On Friday I took the train from London’s Paddington station all the way to Penzance, Cornwall, a town on the Celtic Sea that is considered to be the gateway to western Cornwall. I’m ecstatic with my choice so far. I hadn’t even planned on going further west than Plymouth, at the edge of Devon county. That was, until I had a chat with a local now living in London – she went to school in Falmouth and insisted Cornwall was worth exploring. And, since I determined long ago that locals recommendations are better than those of the tour books, I took her advice and boarded the five-hour train to Penzance. More to come on my love of train travel.

It is now Saturday, day two in Cornwall. Shortly after arriving I decided I wanted to go to Land’s End, the most westerly point of England and the infamous edge of the country. It’s all Atlantic Ocean from there, baby.

So this morning I hopped aboard the 300 bus (a fantastic purple and cream coloured double decker with deeply hued magenta seats), Land’s End-bound. I initially planned on walking the 10-or-so mile journey, but decided against it when warned of how narrow and windy the roads are.

But there was no shortage of walking today.

After getting to Land’s End (I just want to call it King’s Landing SO badly, damnit, Game of Thrones!), I took the obligatory “Land’s End marker” photo and headed on my way. Land’s End itself was a little too “look at all these kids amusement things we’ve erected in hopes of taking all your money!” for me, and I was eager to hit the trails.

I headed out along the Coast Path, the morning wind blowing roughly through my hair. The sights were spectacular. Really just inexplicably beautiful. Jagged granite cliffs reach up from the crashing shores of the Atlantic. The violent winds, salt spray and high acidity of the soil mean limited vegetation grows along the cliffs. Bushes clumped along the surface, and bright yellow flowers made patches of gold.

Rounding a corner, I saw the first stop along the Coast Walk: Sennen Cove, a small village built up onto the rock. It was like the Cornish equivalent of a Greek island town, only with less steep of a climb to the top.

I adored Sennen Cove. I explored fishing boats that had been dragged to the shore.

I wandered onto the wide swath of beach, my hiking boots sinking into the sand with every step. I looked back to see my footsteps, but the surf had almost immediately reclaimed the spot, the natural culprit refilling my path as though I was never even there.

I spent the next while on the beach until the incoming tides chased me back to shore. I knelt over and scoured for pieces of beach stone as though I were seashell picking on the shores of Skerries, Ireland, just as I did so many summers as a kid.

After a lunch of Cornish pastries and tea, I headed back to Land’s End. One of the attractions of the town is a place called Greeb Farm, where there’s a small livestock petting zoo (goats!!!!!) and roosters running free round the lot. There’s also a workshop area where traditional Cornish artisans have set up shop.

That’s where I met glass engraver Bill Davenport.

And, like any good journalist on vacation, I spent far too much time chatting with him, our conversation peppered with one-sided questions and a wide-eyed curiosity for his art.

Bill started as a glass engraver more than three decades ago, after he bought a set of tumblers to engrave as a gift for his mother. For those first pieces he used a silver engraving tool, but quickly discovered the tip to be too crude for such delicate handiwork. After displaying at one show and inadvertently selling three pieces (he had deliberately priced them “too high” as to not tempt buyers), Bill got serious about the craft and relocated to this workshop at Land’s End.

Now Bill uses a stipple tool for commissioned works, chipping away at the glass until it creates the image of an animal, household, etc. The pieces he sells in this workshop space are created using a hand router tool, which buzzes like a piece of dentistry equipment as we speak.

Bill primarily creates his designs freehand, though he says he will sketch in advance if it’s something with firm customer specifications. I wasn’t permitted to take photos of the finished glass, but just imagine the meticulous work Bill puts into pieces. And, as he told me, the most important lesson he ever learned was to not overdo the design, but rather to let the negative space that is not chipped balance that which is.

My day in Land’s End finished with a walk to Sennen, a cappuccino at the Apple Tree Cafe and another double decker bus ride back to Penzance. The sun had come out so I sat in the open-air top, my hair once again a tangle worthy of Medusa, my eyes fixed on the Cornish countryside below.