40 Days, Solo: A Designer's Study Trip Across Asian Continent

It was an early spring morning when I received the request. Chengdu outside my window was shrouded in a thin mist. Her voice on the phone was soft but held an undeniable focus: "I want to spend 40 days traveling from the eastern end of Asia to the southern end. I'm not looking for landscapes. I'm looking for the gaps where architecture speaks."

Her name was Vivi, and she was an independent architect and interior designer. The ancient structures and modern landmarks were the teachers she wanted to meet.

As she spoke, countless buildings of all styles from East to South Asia flashed through my mind like a movie: brick and stone, mountains and light and shadow. This was a crucial journey for her to hear her own design language.

I took a deep breath and got to work.

North to South China Crossing

The trip began in Beijing. I arranged for her to stay in a renovated old house deep in a hutong. In the mornings, she would sit in the courtyard, watching the sunlight slide off the glazed tiles of the Forbidden City's corner tower and fall at a slant onto the modern glass curtain wall of the building next door. She didn't speak; she just recorded the flow of light and shadow in the cracks of the walls in her sketchbook, her fingers tracing the mesmerizing, worn texture of the old bricks.

In Xi'an, I arranged for a visit to the Big Wild Goose Pagoda Square in the morning. She stood in the shadow of the pagoda, watching elderly people practice Tai Chi. Behind the ancient tower, a newly built glass library reflected the morning glow.

Zhangjiajie and Guilin were masterpieces of nature. At Tianzishan, she stood at a viewing platform, watching the clouds drift over the peaks, then suddenly turned to her guide and said, "The mountains here look like they were sliced by a knife, but the bamboo lodge we're staying at looks like it grew out of the mountain."

In Yangshuo, Guilin, we settled into a teahouse by the Li River. She sat on a bamboo chair, watching fishing boats glide through the ink-wash-like landscape. The traditional mortise-and-tenon structure of the boat's canopy and the stilt houses on the riverbank overlapped in the water's reflection. Without finishing her tea, she pulled out her camera to capture the dancing eaves in the rippling water.

The Tibet portion of the trip required the most caution. I arranged for her to stay in Lhasa for two days to acclimatize to the altitude. The Lingka Hotel was a group of traditional Tibetan-style log cabins. Hand-woven thangkas hung in the hallways, and the window frames were inlaid with copper carvings. When she opened the window, she could see the golden rooftops of the Potala Palace glowing in the warm sunset light. Every morning, she would sit on the hotel terrace, watching monks walk by spinning prayer wheels. In her sketchbook, the geometric lines of Tibetan architecture and the outline of Mount Everest began to appear. On the day we drove to Everest Base Camp, I had the driver stop at a viewpoint on the winding road. She didn't look at the snow-capped peak. Instead, she was focused on recording the simple huts that locals had built with stacked stones on the side of the road. That sense of simple order later became a touch of brilliance in her designs.

Unique Hotels and Smooth Transportation in South Asia

When she crossed the border, I arranged for the smoothest possible transition. Her flight from Lhasa to Kathmandu was on time. The driver who met her was also a local guide, and soft Nepali folk songs played in the car. In Kathmandu, she stayed in a boutique hotel converted from an old house. A hundred-year-old Bodhi tree stood in the courtyard, and the room dividers were hand-painted with a Buddhist stupa. She didn't visit any crowded attractions. Instead, she sat on the terrace at dusk, watching the copper dome of the stupa shimmer in the sunset, her fingers unconsciously tracing its arc on the tabletop.

Paro Valley in Bhutan was the climax of the trip. I chose a boutique resort deep in the valley. The buildings were made of local wood and stone, with roofs that mimicked the slope of the snow-capped mountains. The window of her room faced the mountains and rice paddies, and a pot of wildflowers sat on the sill. One afternoon, she went to the Paro Dzong on her own. When she returned, she didn't mention the monastery. Instead, she told me at dinner, “A tiny blade of grass is growing from a crack in the temple wall.” Her words stunned me. I realized she wasn’t just looking at the architecture; she was seeing the coexistence of time and life.

In Agra, India, she went to the Taj Mahal. I specifically arranged for a morning visit. She stood on the wet stone steps, watching the pure white tomb gleam like translucent snow in the morning light. In Galle, Sri Lanka, she stayed at a seaside colonial-style hotel. The room's balcony looked out onto the ancient fort. In the evening, she sat there, watching the sunset paint the city walls a golden red as the salty sea breeze blew past. She didn't go to the beach. Instead, she sat in a corner of her room, using a pencil to sketch the lines of the fortress towers and the waves on the paper.

The entire 40-day journey had no delays and no rushed moments. The flights, vehicles, and guides all quietly interlocked. During the trip, she sent me many sketches, capturing the details of the buildings she saw.

As the plane took off, the sounds of the airport broadcast and the rumble of the luggage carts seemed to be gently blown away by the wind, but the memories of her journey abroad would become the fertile ground for her creations.