Why I stopped backpacking

On a chilly night in the mountain city of Dalat, we all walked over from the hostel to a bar blasting American Top-40. Drink special of the night: Shitty Vodka with Coca Cola. I grabbed a beer instead.
I sat there among a mob of mostly Brits and Europeans, warm beer in hand staring blankly into a distance that did not exist. Separating into groups of 3–4, the usual suspects pop up: Where have you been so far? What’s your favorite place? Where are you from?
I often make an effort, but nonchalance once again begins to blanket all of my desires. I’d rather not…These moments are fleeting. Memories: overrated. Consequence is oddly absent in a lifestyle where you are stripped down to essentials and forced to interact with others on an equal playing field. It’s a fucking Instagram contest for the attention of basic-bro & next-chick with all the racial baggage to match. We are not equals. I am not them and they are not me.
I survey the group. It’s deja vu. Krabi, Koh Phi Phi, Hanoi, Hoi An, Mui Ne, ___, ___. They’re self-replicating and fueling my increasing feelings of isolation. Hours roll by. I finally decide to leave and walk out without saying goodbye. It’s a long way back. I walk on dimly lit streets through layers of fog observing what architecture I can. Everything is an illusion. At the hostel, I laid there on my bunk contemplating. The world felt so small…

For meaningful bonds to form, there has to be sufficient time capital. Fleeting moments only produce fickle bonds. The hostel model is great at driving engagement, but when occurring at such short intervals, interaction is often reduced to superficial levels. This can significantly diminish their value and can even create channels of prejudice.
I don’t ever regret backpacking, but I decided to return to New York. Even though I knew that I would never completely get over the feeling of being alone, at least back home I could be among peers. I belonged in New York, my home.
