From "Wanting Nothing" to "Let Me Have a Sip of That Borscht" — Contentment and Desire in Travel contentment-travel-desire-en

 Have you ever experienced this moment while traveling? You meticulously planned your trip, listed every must-visit attraction, only to find yourself exhausted and wanting nothing more than to lie flat in your hotel. After waiting two hours at those influencer-hyped spots, you take one photo and have no idea what to do next. Standing on a foreign street, you suddenly ask yourself: Am I really traveling, or am I just completing an assignment?

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A recent Cantonese song has struck a chord with countless people. The lyrics go: "Give a rose, and your hand still holds its scent / Give someone borscht, and only an empty nostril remains / to smell the fragrance." These lines take the classic saying "The rose in hand, the fragrance retained" and turn it inside out — give someone a rose, and your hand retains the scent; but give someone borscht, and all you're left with is an empty nostril to sniff the aroma. Behind this humorous self-mockery lies a question that travelers deeply understand: when we pack our itineraries to the brim and stake all our expectations on others' recommendations and guides, how much truly belongs to us by the time we return home?

Tang dynasty frontier poet Cen Shen once wrote: "Ten thousand miles on imperial duty, wanting nothing for myself." Traveling vast distances on orders, with no selfish desire — this is the ideal of selflessness. But travel is never about "imperial duty." It is a journey we choose for ourselves. If even travel becomes a task of meeting others' expectations, how is it any different from "giving away the borscht"? We simmer a pot of soup called "the perfect journey" — but who ends up drinking it? The influencer bloggers? The likes on social media? Or our own anxious heart that can't bear the thought of "wasting the trip"?

The true wisdom of travel lies precisely in the philosophy of "keeping a bowl of borscht for yourself." I know a friend who travels alone regularly. Her approach baffles many: she flies to a city, skips every attraction, finds a local breakfast spot each morning, reads on a park bench in the afternoon, and shops at the evening market to cook for herself at her accommodation. When asked, "So where did you go, what did you do?" she smiles and says, "I lived there for a few days." This is the most contemporary interpretation of "wanting nothing" — it's not about wanting nothing at all, but about wanting the ordinary peace of making a meal and drinking a bowl of soup in an unfamiliar place.

This reminds me of Li Shangyin's line: "The silkworm's silk ends only when death comes; The candle's tears dry only when turned to ashes." Originally expressing ultimate tenderness and devotion, this line is also often used to symbolize giving everything you have. In travel, this "giving everything" manifests as a terrible travel anxiety — you must visit every attraction, try every recommended dish, take photos fit for your social feed. This self-depleting travel style is precisely what deserves the most caution. In an age of extreme social comparison, this "performative travel" is draining our true passion for exploration.

Learn to leave room for a bowl of hot soup amid endless expectations. The meaning of travel is never about how many places you've been, but whether you have truly "arrived" at yourself in those places. Next time you set off, skip one queue and give yourself the time for one meal. Sit in a small eatery in a foreign land and take a sip of your own borscht — you'll find that this is the best reward travel can offer.

A bowl of borscht self-mocked in song, paired with the millennia-old "silkworm and candle" and "wanting nothing," finally brews a new life philosophy — learn to leave yourself room for a warm bowl of soup amid endless longing, and your travels will last all the longer.

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