He himself rarely spoke, and only with extreme caution, after examining what he was going to say a thousand times. And because I knew that my ideas would sound childish and baseless to him, I became quiet around him too.

Around him, I became a bomb about to explode.

And yet he was still several steps ahead of the other suitors because he had my parents’ approval—especially my mother’s.

Once I gave him two books as gifts: The Alchemist and A Gamble of Love. I told him that if he read them, he would understand my inner world a little better.

He read both books. Then one day he called me from work and, in the middle of the conversation, said, “Since you believe in this kind of stuff, please tell the wind to come and cool our room down. The air conditioner in our department has been broken for several days.”

He said it sarcastically, because in The Alchemist, the protagonist at one point receives inspiration from the movement of clouds and finds his way.

Of everything in those two books, that was probably the last thing I expected him to take seriously.

Regardless of whether I actually believed in what he called “this stuff,” the fact that he had given himself permission to mock me like that was reason enough for me to call off the whole thing.

My mother found my reason very difficult to digest because her thinking was closer to his. My father, however, stood behind me and would not allow my mother to pressure me into making such a major decision.

Maybe if I had married one of those other suitors, by now I would have had children and we would be sitting around a table eating dinner together.

Instead, I was stranded beside that bad-tempered talking bear in a cold pickup truck on a dark, unfamiliar road hundreds of kilometers from home.

Suddenly I missed my parents. I missed my home. I wished I weren’t so far away.

I was almost about to cry. Maybe one tear even escaped.

When I reached the health worker’s house, the lively girl with the world-traveler mask was nowhere to be found.

Still, I didn’t want anyone to see the collapse inside me. I kept up the act. But I never again mentioned my plan to spend a month living among the tribe.

The next day, the health worker’s husband took my car keys and went to retrieve my car. The health worker and I then drove toward the tribe in a relative’s car.

I stayed there for a full day.

Because I knew I would soon be going back and would not continue wandering, I tried to enjoy myself at least now that I had come all that way.

There was another thing about me: sorrow never tended to last very long. My brain quickly found some way to make me feel better.

I saw some fascinating things, and that short trip taught me important lessons.

The most interesting thing about meeting the nomads was realizing that they did not live however they pleased—or at least not in the carefree way I had imagined. In fact, their lives were governed by rules far stricter than those of the city.