Twenty-five years ago, I wrote about my adventures in Egypt in a group email after one of my first days in Cairo. I was electrified by a visit to these twin mosques in the city that were bigger than any house of worship I had ever imagined. I bribed a watchman to let me climb the pitch-black, bat guano-covered stone steps of a turret up to the top of a minaret that stood perhaps 100 meters above the street below. The wind up there wasn’t strong, but it was steadier than my feet underneath me, and the consequences of wobbling too much weren’t abstract. There was no railing on top of that dollop of marble. My heart raced. I was short of breath. And then, looming in the far distance were the hulking pyramids. Giza was maybe 5 miles away? Maybe 10? They were almost mirages, so far away, so big, so fuzzy— the sandy grit that hung in the air offered a haze that only a wonder of the world could cut through. I went from breathing heavily from distress to outright breathless in amazement at their sight. The adrenaline kicking through me had a new name in that instant: Adventure. 

That moment pressed itself into me. I think about it now as I try to describe what it’s like living in Shanghai. I’ve been here for 4 months. I’m middle aged now. I moved here not for adventure but for employment. My wife and I seek to create routines for our daughter and ourselves to make this new place feel like our home. 

This week, I finally wrote a description of my impressions here — topics include the weather, the electric motor scooters riding on the sidewalks, trees, apartment buildings, the scale of this city, what you can get delivered to your door. 

There have been no minaret adventures. 

Part of this shift in what constitutes an adventure is perhaps predictable based on stage of life, although a little over a year ago I did not know we were going to be living in China. Unpredictability at this stage in life is not the same as it was decades ago – part of what made that day in Cairo so potent was it was my first time traveling outside of the U.S. on my own, and being launched into the world like that was exhilarating in a way that might be hard to duplicate in similar circumstances. 

In another way, though, I think that adventure might be increasingly harder to have because of the devices upon which we are now so dependent. In Shanghai, my phone is my ticket to everything, literally. I haven’t made one cash transaction since I arrived. I order food, groceries, Halloween costumes on apps on my phone (not my computer). I translate spoken words and printed writing with two different apps. I use the maps and compasses to navigate. My bus tickets and metro fares are paid via an app.

(Another memory from Cairo: getting on a bus and not having the fare, which I think amounted to 3 cents and was printed on a piastre note so small I thought it was a bookmark when I saw it. The man next to me paid my fare and said, “When you’re in Cairo, you don’t have to worry.”)

Historically, getting lost is pretty common for me. Following verbal directions has never been a strength— I routinely lose my way driving in my hometown. So in new locations, especially cities with long histories where roads aren’t straight or marked or where there are cab drivers who play the game “get as close as you can to the foreigner crossing the street” I need a lot of directional support. There was a driving trip in Costa Rica once where I was on a road trying to get back to San Jose. The road went over hills with lots of turns and junctions. I stopped constantly for directions. My Spanish was so limited that I had to set up every question so the answers were either “yes” or “no” (San Jose está allá — si or no?”). 

In Shanghai, I haven’t had to ask a single person for directions. I don’t know what I would say if I had to — I haven’t acquired any language proficiency yet. 

Moving is a struggle. You uproot everyone in your life. And then you try to get back into balance, routine, homeostasis. It’s different from the struggle to communicate how to find the bus, train, taxi combo to get to that village you heard about from the one person who spoke English at the tea stand yesterday. The distance and time between hugging the dome on top of that minaret in Cairo and ordering a gluten free frozen pizza to be delivered to my door in Shanghai feel further apart than 25 years and the leaps in technological capacities. Adventure once was an experience related to how out of place I felt in a new surrounding; now, Adventure is measured in how easily I can feel a part of a new place. 

I like it here. I know how to navigate the city. In most things, I feel I can mostly find my way. The adherence to a routine that offers me the energy to self-direct here is what counts as an adventure. I will not seek to find the top of the tallest buildings in town, but I will seek the little cozy corners where I feel like I’ve had an experience that’s mine. 

And then I’ll lay my head down at my regular bedtime and get into my routine for the next day.