It’s January and time to go back to school. For some, that might be a gloomy prospect after the joys of the post Christmas festive period. For me, though, it’s as exciting as a trip to Antarctica, also as scary as starting a job for which I’m not sure whether I’m qualified.

To be embarking on a master’s degree in Psychotherapy and Counselling at Regent’s University at 71 is perhaps an unlikely route for someone who dropped out of school at 17. But now I’ve come full circle to the conclusion that nothing, for me, feels more stimulating at this point in my life than learning new things. That studying, far from being the bore and the chore it used to be, is a treat.

Turning 70 came as something of a shock. I started to feel I was drifting (飘). Without a big project, and without any major family responsibilities, I was starting to feel I was lying on a bed of thorns. Friends of similar age were lapping up their lives, socializing and travelling. However, I longed for something more. Or perhaps not more, but different.

As the gloom grew, I thought perhaps I needed to see a therapist. A friend, a psychotherapist, suggested that while therapy might be useful, doing a course on the basics of psychotherapy and counselling might be more up my street. Without too much thinking, I decided to give it a shot.

So that’s how every weekday I beep (发出哔哔声) myself through the gate with my student pass, which makes me smile every time. I felt privileged to be exposed to a group of my fellow students who were willing to be open to me.

While ageing is an inevitable process, we can get rid of a lot of the rules about what’s age-appropriate. Studying for a master’s degree in old age is a challenge, but it has provided me with a new perspective on life. Hence, ageing should never limit your ambitions.

For six hours we shot through the landscape of the Karoo desert in South Africa. Just rocks and sand and baking sun. Knowing our journey was ending, Daniel and I just wanted to remember all we had seen and done. He used a camera. I used words. I had already finished three notebooks and was into the fourth, a beautiful leather notebook I’d bought in a market in Mozambique.

Southern Africa was full of stories. And visions. We were almost drunk on sensations. The roaring of the water at Victoria Falls, the impossible silence of the Okavango Delta in Botswana. And then the other things: dogs in the streets, whole families in Soweto living in one room, a kilometre from clean water.

As we drove towards the setting sun, a quietness fell over us. The road was empty—we hadn’t seen another car for hours. And as I drove, something caught my eye, something moving next to me. I glanced in the mirror of the car; I glanced sideways to the right, and that was when I saw them. Next to us, by the side of the road, thirty, forty wild horses were racing the car, a cloud of dust rising behind them—brown, muscular horses almost close enough to touch them, to smell their hot breath. I didn’t know how long they had been there next to us.     

I shouted to Dan: “Look!”, but he was in a deep sleep, his camera lying useless by his feet. They raced the car for a few seconds, then disappeared far behind us, a memory of heroic forms in the red landscape. When Daniel woke up an hour later I told him what had happened.

“Wild horses?” he said. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I tried. But they were gone after a few seconds.”

“Are you sure you didn’t dream it?”

“You were the one who was sleeping!”

“Typical,” he said. “The best photos are the ones we never take.”

We checked into a dusty hotel and slept the sleep of the dead.

I used to fancy myself a pretty good vacationer. But on my family's recent week-long trip to Mexico our first real getaway since the pandemic began—I got mixed up.

The huge difference between the expectations and the realities of travel hit me a few hours after we landed in Cabo SanLucas, Mexico. Driving our rental car to Walmart to buy groceries, we found ourselves stuck in stand-still traffic for over two hours. I comforted myself with the thought that once we arrived, my vacation self would emerge: relaxed, flexible and ready for a surfing followed by a margarita(玛格丽塔酒) on the beach—while wearing one of several sundresses that had been gathering dust in my closet since 2020.

Readers, I did not.

First, I was defeated by what I will well refer to as “traveler's stomach.” Then, I was scared out of surfing by waves that seemed too messy and powerful for my skills. A chilly fog kept me from unrolling the sundresses I'd carefully packed, and I ended up wrapped in the same sweat-shirt that I wore on the airplane. All seemed ruined.

During the episode, I nearly drove myself crazy by asking constantly, “How can I make this better'? Can I find a different route in the traffic?” But it was just about acceptance: getting into the moment, accepting what it is, and trusting—trusting this may not be the best moment of the vacation, but there can still be good moments of the vacation.

Indeed, I noticed a shift in my mood. At some stage I did drink a margarita. Eventually, I had an enjoyable afternoon of surfing in the sun. But when I fondly remember this vacation now, I more often return to curling up on the hotel couch with my husband, watching “Stranger Things” in sweats; or sitting sand-caked on the beach watching our daughter digging with a local girl. In those small moments, I was simply present. That's what vacation is all about.