Author: Jade Park

After the college entrance exam, before starting university, I worked as a private tutor. I became close with the student’s mother as well, and after lessons we often shared meals or sat down for tea and conversation. On the last day of lessons, I think, we had a meal together, and she said something that stayed with me.

When you start dating someone, she said, try to imagine what it would be like to marry that person and live a life together. If, at the end of that imagination, something feels off, then they’re probably not even the right person to date.

For some reason, that stayed with me. Whenever I met someone, I found myself wondering what it would be like to marry them. Looking back now, until I met my last boyfriend, now my husband, that imagined ending never felt right. Maybe this way of thinking had even ruined relationships that could have been fine. But for me, it worked like a kind of safeguard. Imagination is just imagination, dating is dating, and marriage is marriage, but at the very least, it kept me from getting involved with someone truly wrong.

I thought of that conversation again because travel feels similar. Most of the time, travel is just passing through places, but at some point I started imagining what it would be like to actually live there. What would it be like to make a life here, to spend my everyday in a place like this, and how might it change me. I find myself thinking about these things without trying.

In the way a server looks at me while taking my order, in the expression of a barista handing me a coffee, I try to read something from them. What would it be like to move here, not as a visitor, but as someone who lives here.

By the third day, I found myself thinking that if I could keep doing my work here, whether remotely or in some other way that allows for a steady income, I might want to live in Bicheno. I had left Launceston before I could form much of an impression, and in St Helens, aside from a wonderful shop called MinT Gallery, felt like it was fading. Too many shops were closed on Sunday, the streets were quiet, and there were too many houses up for sale. Maybe that’s why, arriving in Bicheno after that slight disappointment, I started to think that living in a small, quiet town like this might be nice.

Bicheno was small, but full of a kind of gentle liveliness. The supermarket and restaurants were quietly busy in their own ways, and the blowhole, though much smaller than ones in Kiama or elsewhere, kept splashing without pause. There was something charming about how accommodation, cafés, and even a laundromat were gathered closely together in this small town. There were houses for sale here too, but not as many as in St Helens, and the whole town carried a certain feeling. I thought that living here, writing or doing some kind of work, might be peaceful. That it might make me feel lighter, more at ease.

When I was first considering moving abroad, I went through a similar process. The US? I might get shot, and what if I couldn’t’t afford healthcare. Would working there really be any different from working in Korea? Then Canada? Maybe better, but there’d still be a big time difference with Korea. Would it be hard to stay in touch with family? Then how about Australia? My husband had lived here for about a year on a working holiday visa, and it seemed alright. Would it still be okay now? Okay, then Australia. Decision made.

We tend to make big decisions quite easily. I think it took about ten minutes to decide which country to move to. And deciding that I could live in Bicheno took maybe thirty minutes of being there. The thought of leaving our life in Melbourne and moving here entirely didn’t even feel that unreasonable.

Someone once said that people travel to return home, to realise how precious home is. I agree with that completely, but for me, travel also feels like a way of exploring the possibility of another home. To imagine what it would be like to live here, what everyday life here might feel like, how this place might change me. And to imagine how all of this, which feels new to me now, would look if I were someone who belonged here. To wonder what locals see that visitors don’t, and to look around with that question in mind. Maybe that’s the real charm of travelling.

Over the two weeks in Tasmania, the only places I found myself wanting to live in were Bicheno and Strahan. Places where I wouldn’t just be passing through, but could stay as someone who lives there.

The thing I cared about most for this trip was accommodation. When I was younger, I thought as long as I had somewhere to sleep, cheaper was better. It usually didn’t affect the next day’s plans. I was young. Now, if I lose a day of sleep, I feel it for two. If I don’t sleep properly, the next day becomes a nightmare.

Many of the places I used to justify as “good value” turned out to be noisy, or had creaky beds, or uncomfortable mattresses, or tiny, poorly designed bathrooms. There was always at least one thing wrong. I used to get through it with energy and stamina, but now I don’t have the energy, the stamina, or even the will to do that anymore.

Back then, I had time but no money. Now, I have less time but more money, so the places I used to choose no longer make sense to me. Also, since I already knew I would be walking a lot in Tasmania, choosing cheaper accommodation felt like it could ruin the whole two-week trip. The motto for this journey was simple: eat well, walk well, sleep well.

We arrived at our hotel in St Helens in the evening. It was spacious and nice. We had to take the stairs, as there was no elevator. Even though the stairs and hallway creaked with every step, the room itself was quiet. It was a good first impression of our first accommodation on the first day of the trip.

Dinner at the restaurant attached to the hotel was disappointing, but the excitement of the beginning of the trip softened that a little. And I slept well. I’m not sure how much I’ll write about accommodation in the rest of this travel series, but almost every place we stayed over the two weeks was good. After long days of walking, it felt good to rest, to sit quietly in the evening, and to sleep comfortably.

Booking accommodation and then actually staying there made me realise again how much my way of travelling has changed. When I was younger, I would sometimes pull over at a rest stop during a road trip and sleep in the car. Now I wouldn’t even consider it. Safety aside, I already know how difficult the next day would be if I did.

Back then, waking up in the morning felt like the hardest thing. Now, I wake up at six or seven without trying. I used to stay up until midnight or later, not wanting to waste time. Now, by ten, I’m already sleepy.

There was a time when any room with something resembling a bed was enough. Now, I think about how comfortable the bed is, how good the bathroom is. A jacuzzi would be even better, especially if it’s a place I’ll return to after walking twenty kilometres in a day.

Someone once asked me: if you had to travel far, say a twenty-hour flight, would you rather fly business or first class and stay in a modest place, or fly economy and stay in a five-star hotel or a private villa? I’d choose the latter. Accommodation matters more than transport. No matter how uncomfortable the trip is, as long as I can rest well afterwards, it’s fine. Especially for a longer trip, a week of comfort matters more to me than twenty hours of ease. That was the mindset behind the places we chose in Tasmania.

As I mentioned in the previous piece, travel is about understanding someone else’s everyday life, but it is also a process of noticing changes in myself. It’s during travel that I see parts of myself I don’t notice in everyday life.

I see myself waking earlier, going to bed earlier, allocating more of my budget to where I stay. It reminds me that people don’t remain the same. Sometimes I discover parts of myself I didn’t know. Sometimes I realise that what I thought was part of me no longer is.

I used to think the most important thing in travel was to see more, experience more, feel more. But maybe what matters most is simply sleeping well. Without the energy and clarity that come from rest, none of it would be possible.

Our first night in St Helens was satisfying. After checking out, we found that it was Sunday, and most shops and restaurants were closed, so there weren’t many places to stop. The weather was a bit cloudy, with some light rain, but the Bay of Fires was still beautiful.

Still, despite its beauty, the place felt like a town in decline. Too many houses had “For Sale” signs. Not many shops were open. There weren’t many people around. It made me think that it’s not just people who don’t stay the same. Places change too.

With that thought, we headed towards Bicheno.

There is a Korean saying: ‘San neomeo san’ — ‘mountain beyond mountain’. It’s a metaphor for how one difficulty is followed by another, but it’s not just a metaphor. Korea is not a large country, yet it’s full of mountains, so if you drive even a little outside the city, you literally keep seeing mountains beyond mountains. It’s one of those places where it’s hard to see the horizon.

Not long after I moved to Sydney, I went to see the Blue Mountains, and I remember being struck by the horizon stretching endlessly across open fields the entire way there. Ah, this is a continent. This is flat land. A place where a saying like ‘mountains beyond mountains’ would never even come to Australians’ mind. It felt the same after I moved to Melbourne. A place where it’s easier to see the horizon. That’s what Australia was like to me.

But then, unexpectedly, during the first thirty minutes after getting off in Devonport and heading towards Launceston, the words my husband and I kept repeating were, “This feels just like Korea,” “It’s mountains beyond mountains,” “There’s nothing but mountains,” “Why is it all mountains when we’re on an island?”

Unlike Sydney or Melbourne, where you pass through gentle hills and open fields for a long time before reaching anything grand, here (and I might be exaggerating a little) the mountain peaks in front of us felt like they were reaching the sky, and we were driving right through them. It felt like driving somewhere in Gangwon Province in Korea. Maybe because it reminded me of where I used to live, I felt a strange sense of familiarity, and my first impression of Tasmania was a good one.

We stopped at a raspberry farm café in Christmas Hills for a simple brunch and a raspberry latte. I don’t usually like the tartness of raspberries, but their raspberry jam was genuinely good. Just 2 hours after getting off the ferry, we ended up buying souvenirs to take home (raspberry jam!) and then headed towards Launceston.

At the farmers market there, we had Korean hotteok (a sweet filled pancake). After walking through The Gorge, admiring the vast nature and being surprised by the bright, hot weather well over 25 degrees, we set off towards St Helens.

There were a few route options: heading back up to follow the coastal road, or going further inland. We chose the road through Scottsdale. The reason was simple. My manager Lucy is from Tasmania, and she told me she grew up there. And just in case, it needs to be said, I’m not a stalker.

I think the place and culture a person grows up in become part of who they are. People who live in a “mountains beyond mountains” country like Korea have historically been somewhat insular. It wouldn’t have been easy to connect with the outside. On top of that, summers are very hot and winters are very cold, so maybe people just wanted to get things done quickly and go home. I think that kind of environment has shaped part of my own identity. Here, in a country of wide open plains where it’s neither too hot nor too cold, people feel more laid back than Koreans. The weather is pleasant, so there’s no need to rush, and the paths are flat, so there’s no reason to be out of breath.

So I was curious. What kind of place did she grow up in? On a larger scale, Tasmania, and more specifically, what is Scottsdale like? If I passed through even briefly, would I understand her just a little more, even just one percent?

She’s my manager, but also someone I’d like to stay in touch with even if I leave the company, a friend of sorts. I believe we can make friends at work. Maybe not in the traditional sense of sharing every personal detail, but something like a ‘professional friendship’; closer than just colleagues, limited in some ways but still allowing parts of yourself to be seen. I’ve always had one or two friends in previous workplaces, and I’m still in touch with them. Lucy feels like that kind of person to me, and that’s why I was curious about Scottsdale.

We only passed through briefly, but it felt like a quiet town. Not the kind of place where everything is loud and bustling, the kind that would make people want to leave, but a place where like-minded people gather and enjoy a calm, understated kind of togetherness. A place that looks like a still lake on the surface, but if you look closely, there are small currents moving here and there, like a valley with subtle eddies.

Sitting at a brewery, having beer and pizza, I briefly imagined little Lucy’s everyday life; meeting friends, shopping, going to school in a place like this. It might just be my own projection, but I felt like I understood her a little better. I didn’t stay long enough to draw any grand conclusions. That’s really all there is.

Maybe travel is, in a way, a continuous process of imagining someone else’s everyday life. Whether they’re figures from history or ordinary people who once lived, or still live there, wondering what they did, how they lived, what they liked, what they achieved and lost, and how others saw them. Trying to grasp the weight, the outcomes, and the impact of their everyday lives. Maybe that’s what travel is.

For those brief thirty minutes in Scottsdale, I found myself thinking about Lucy, my manager and my professional friend. Growing up in Tasmania, a place that, in many ways, feels so similar to Korea with its many mountains, I wonder what parts of us are alike, and what parts are different.

If you missed it, here’s Day 0.

The first time I ever got on a big ship was when I was seventeen, on a school trip in my second year of high school. We took a ferry from Busan to Jeju, spending a full day on board. As far as I remember, that was my first experience. As we were approaching land, the water became shallow and the ship started to rock, and I remember feeling quite seasick for about an hour before we got off. So on this trip too, I worried that I might feel really sick when we arrived, but still, with excitement, I boarded the Spirit of Tasmania.

I’ve never been on a luxury cruise, and I’m not sure if I ever will be (the idea of having to stay on a ship for a long time scares me), but the Spirit of Tasmania was still quite large and impressive. It can carry 1,400 people and load up to 500 cars. Built in Finland in 1998 and operating between Melbourne and Tasmania since 2002, I wondered if, in a way, this ship is also an immigrant. Like me, living settled in someone else’s country? Nice to meet you, friend.

There may be bigger and more luxurious ships now, but I thought that for people boarding this ship nearly 30 years ago, this must have felt like a luxury cruise. It felt solid and well put together—like a distinguished gentleman working as a senior model. Ah, right, she’s a she. Then maybe a strong, dignified grandmother?

Friday, 20 March 2026. We take the overnight ferry at 10 pm to Tasmania. A 14-day journey that will begin and end in Devonport. This ship marks the beginning. We were told to arrive two hours early, so we hurried and got there around 8 pm, received our boarding passes, and checked in. But after that, the waiting time was too long. It wasn’t just “too long”—it was toooooooooo long. If they had just told us roughly when boarding would start, we could have had dinner at the terminal café, gone to the bathroom, done anything. But worried that if we got out of the car and boarding suddenly started, it would become awkward, we just stayed in the car, anxious and fidgeting. I don’t even sit this long at work, but my back started to hurt. Seriously.

After a long wait, we finally boarded. As soon as I threw my luggage into the cabin, I ran to the shop and ate something that was either a very late dinner or a midnight snack, washed up, and lay down to sleep.

I hoped I wouldn’t feel seasick when we arrived in the morning. But no—arrival wasn’t the problem. The whole way there, I felt nauseous, the ship rocking and swaying like Shin-chan dancing. Lying down, I couldn’t fall into a deep sleep, but I didn’t fully wake up either. I’d wake up thinking, “Is this seasickness, or is my stomach upset because I ate so late and went straight to bed?” then drift back into a shallow sleep, wake again thinking, “Is this seasickness?” “Am I asleep, or am I awake?” and fall back into that same shallow sleep again. It became an endless loop. After some time passed, I got up around 6 in the morning, came to my senses, had some coffee, watched the morning sea, and saw the sunrise.

When I was seventeen and took a big ship for the first time, the closer we got to land, the worse the seasickness became. But on the Spirit of Tasmania, I realised that the closer we got to land, the less I felt it. All night, I kept wondering whether this bed I was lying on was just a bed or a waterbed, whether I was seasick or just feeling unwell. But by morning, the ship wasn’t rocking at all, and my stomach felt completely fine. Maybe it’s the difference between the seas of Korea and Australia.

Anyway, Saturday, 21 March, 9 am. We got off the ship and our car’s wheels touched the ground in Devonport. The journey finally begins. Thanks to this immigrant ship from Finland, we made it safely from Melbourne to Devonport. Thank you, Spirit of Tasmania II. See you again in two weeks.

People say it’s important to experience things for yourself. And I think people tend to believe that once they’ve tried something, they understand it well. At least, I must have been like that. My past experience of being on a big ship wasn’t entirely useless, but it was completely different from this one. It was a voyage that taught me that I shouldn’t so easily conclude, “I’ve done this before, so I don’t need to do it again,” or “I already know this from before.” What else have I dismissed like that, thinking I already knew because I had done it once before? Maybe I’ve been carelessly overlooking many things that I could have experienced and felt in new ways. Just as yesterday’s weather is different from today’s, the ship of when I was seventeen and the ship of 2026 were very different. Or maybe I’m the one who has changed.

And so the journey begins.