There are so many ways to answer this question. There are physical and tangible places, like the places we call home or office (although increasingly they are one and the same). Then, there are the places which are more than just physical, e.g. my favorite yoga studio, which holds profound emotional and spiritual meaning for me. Or we can take it to an even higher level and try to answer the question where is my place here on this earth? Conversely, when I move down from that high-up spiritual plane, there is the question of whether I am able to find my place in the physical world?

At its most basic level, I am always fascinated by the places where I spend most of my time—whether it is my home, bedroom, living room where I am writing this post now, or my yoga room where I have created a small sanctuary to connect with my physical, emotional, and spiritual selves. All these private places both define me and are manifestations of who I am. I used to go through this phase when I was in “hunter gatherer” mode. I ended up collecting a lot of antique Chinese furniture and figurines. Then, I caught the minimalist bug from reading about the philosophy of “danshari” (a Chinese/Japanese phrase which basically means to declutter one’s life). The realization that collecting and owning a lot of things doesn’t bring me joy, but weighs me down, has led me to clear all my private space. Now, my place is devoid of things.

As I broadened my perspective beyond my private spaces and looked out to the places I go to on a regular basis, what caught my eye and got me thinking was whether we have places which are livable. Livability must necessarily embrace diversity and inclusion. I live in an apartment building where there is a very steep ramp leading up to the building’s main entrance. The ramp was clearly built for vehicles and the main entrance was intended to be a grand and imposing place where people arriving and departing in vehicles could enjoy the view and sense of grandeur. But, for someone like me who does not own a car, getting in and out of the building is a real pain. I either have to “hike” up that ramp or walk up a flight of steps. I am glad I am still young enough that my knees have not given way. I have some older neighbors who are wheelchair bound and without help, they would not be able to get in and out of the building at all.

Unfortunately, this is not unique to my building. As I walked more after the pandemic, I began to notice that a lot of the pavements in Singapore are not at the same level as the roads. I have to step on and off the pavement every time I come to a place where the pavement meets the road at a right angle. This annoying feature is especially glaring in neighborhoods where we have heritage shophouses where the pavements are under an extended portion of the shop fronts. There, even the pavements are not level, and I am constantly stepping up and down as I traverse the different shophouses.

Due to the unique characteristics of our pavements in Singapore, I began to wonder again, where is my place—as a pedestrian—in this world? Clearly, motor vehicles are prioritized because pedestrians are the ones being inconvenienced by raised pavements. Why not have pavements on the same level as roads? The Japanese do that, and it makes it much easier for walking. Also, our laws need to be tougher towards drivers who do not give way to pedestrians. At this moment, if there are no clearly marked traffic light controlled crossings, pedestrians are forced to give way to motor vehicles, even bicycles. Drivers and bike-riders simply barrel down the roads, sound their horns, and threaten to run me down. If we truly want a car-lite society, I think we need to make walking a lot safer. Give pedestrians, like me, a clear signal that our place in this world is prioritized.

Another aspect of the physical “place” which fascinates me is what we do with old buildings. Growing up in Singapore, I always thought that it made no sense to hang on to old buildings as they were not built to efficiently and effectively house us in modern times. I couldn’t wait to get out of the old High Court building when I was doing my internship. The place was built more than a century ago and try as they might, the retrofitted air-conditioners just could not cope with the high ceilings of both the courtrooms and the judges’ chambers. The acoustics were so bad that I had trouble hearing what everyone else was saying.

But, as I got older and having visited cities like Paris and London which have done admirable jobs at preserving and repurposing their old buildings into workable, livable, and rather beautiful places, I began to have second thoughts about our own old buildings in Singapore. I eventually ended up buying and owning a heritage shophouse built in the early 1900s. It was my little oasis of calm in busy Singapore. My own time machine back to older and more gentle times. I spent years and thousands of dollars painstakingly renovating the house into my dream home. Trying to get the balance right between preservation of the past and making something fit for modern needs is very, very hard—and very expensive. But the house gave me that sense of place. It was unique. One of a kind. It represented everything that I believed in when it comes to architecture, heritage, and beauty.

On the work front, I was really glad that I spent a good three years with Airbnb. While I was there, I was able to bring my love for old buildings to life, in places like Japan and Korea where we worked with local governments and communities. In Japan, we encouraged people to acquire and/or renovate abandoned homes (akiya), transforming them into livable places. We did the same in Korea and promoted the use of old Korean homes (hanoks) as short-term accommodation. Every time I stepped into one of these beautifully restored old homes, I couldn’t help but feel peaceful, serene, and very grateful that I got to enjoy a little bit of history in a foreign land. What I saw, touched, and generally experienced in these old homes gave me a strong sense of place. They were different, unique. They contained the memories of people long-passed and bore witness to events long-forgotten.

Maybe I am being overly sentimental as I get older. But I think being somewhere is more than just temporal or spatial. There is almost always something more ephemeral and spiritual if we just stop and take it all in.

I think I have found my place in the world. It is everywhere.