first day

To get to my uncle’s house you have to walk through a narrow winding road not open to cars. To get here I traveled twenty hours, thirteen of which were on an on the whole unpleasant plane flight from San Francisco to Taipei, and if I had to leave today it would have been worth it.

My cousin (my mom’s brother’s first child of two) brought his little girl (seven years old) to the airport to meet me, and it was wonderful to see them. I’d met my cousin for the first time back in high school when he visited California, before he was married, and he looks the same. I remember my brother told me that he’d taken my cousin to Universal Studios and when he saw King Kong during one of those tram car rides, he jumped out of his seat and exclaimed, WOW. Now I feel like him and every thing I see is King Kong.

My uncle (my mom’s eldest brother) looks older than I imagined he would. He’s in his late seventies, but still I imagined him to be sturdy, like my grandparents on my dad’s side. Which makes no sense since they’re not related, but that’s what I thought. Comparing my parents and relatives at home to others here, I see how living here versus America does make a difference in how you age. My uncle is frail, with my mom’s nose and warm eyes with his eyelids folded towards the middle so they look like they slant. He has trouble sleeping, like my mom too. My cousin-in-law is super friendly and sweet, though her Vietnamese has a different accent and can be hard to follow. Their daughter is adorable, already a quietly strong person who refuses to admit she’s motion sick or complain about it. My other cousin (my mom’s brother’s second child of two) has a daughter too, six years old. The two of them make me so glad that I could visit while they’re still young. Even though they keep only slight memories of you (as I assume, from what I remember of visits from people when I was a kid), it’s nice to know that you met during that time in your life, because it passes so quickly. Like how I met my half-German cousins when they were a few years old and now they’re teenagers and it’ll never be the same when I see them again.

I’ve always been so close to my immediate family that for a long time I hadn’t given much thought to my extended family, also because they are really extended, all over the world. Somewhere along the line that changed. A lot of my drive to come here, and what’s already been affirmed in small and substantive ways, is that roots really are roots.

Living in this home is like a friendly version of the Simple Life. Things are less comfortable, but not un-so. There’s no air-conditioning, but several fans. It is as hot and humid as my parents promised (90 degrees with 75% humidity), but surprisingly I don’t find it that bad. I like humidity. My parents were worried about how I’d survive without AC, but if it stays like this the fans are more than adequate. As long as I can shower. As far as that goes, the hot water runs out, but there is hot water. There’s no shower head, just a teeny stream of water so you have to squat and actively place water where you need it. This sounds un-ideal but somehow felt as nice as what we have in America, I think because I was more aware of being dirty and hence more aware of getting clean. The bathrooms are bit gritty but the linoleum is shiny and cool to the touch. We budget on electricity but there it is and the biggest surprise, my cousin wired me to the internet, old-school. Can’t use the phone while on it, but it’s there. All in all, nothing that requires more than once to get used to. I am grateful to our Southeast Asia trip last year, because most things feel nice in comparison to having a mouse crawl up your arm in the middle of the night, trekking outside in pitch dark to use the restroom, and having electricity go out on you at an unknown time of day. And the Cambodian bus ride from hell nearly desensitized me to insistent honking, which is also the norm here.

Also, today I had mangosteen and lychee and dragon fruit. It is good to be here.

vermont (crossing bridges)

I used to be really scared of driving across bridges. It was fear intermingled with absolute love, or fear because of love, or something. Who hasn’t fallen in love with Golden Gate, with all that it represents and with its fiery hues against all that blue above and below. A lot of the things that fostered my attachment to it scared me at the same time. The slope upwards, the creeping towards the middle, frightened me most. So much water underneath, and I can’t swim. If in the outer lane, so close to that fragile edge. A sturdy structure, but such a short distance from surface to only air. If in the inner lane, the sounds of fast-moving cars going the other way, and sometimes the subtle shake of the road. As a passenger I unconsciously gripped my seat with one hand and the side of the door with the other. As a driver I alternately went fast and slow, never able to decide which was worse (though impatience usually won out). The instability, the unfamiliarity, the vastness, or my perceptions of these things; all of it made me lose my sense of ground. This normally doesn’t faze me too much, I’m not afraid of heights or roller coasters or anything like that. It’s something about the risk associated with beautiful things.

I grew out of it, at least the specific fear of bridges. I don’t know why or when, just one of those things like not talking to my stuffed animals anymore or not expecting the tooth fairy after awhile. But I still think about it sometimes, and the feeling underlying the fear more than lingers.

In Vermont there are hundreds of covered bridges. The question of why they’re covered came up, and I couldn’t think of a good reason. They span little creeks, and you drive through them in about two seconds. You can see through to the other side before you enter the first. All the ones we saw were red. Some of them smelled like paint. You could see every plank of wood forming their structure. You could walk across them without feeling the very slight elevation. They felt like playgrounds.

I can’t remember the last time I felt that safe, and I wasn’t sure where that was coming from. The smallness, the covering, the utter quietness and stillness—it didn’t really matter, just an illusion of safety, except there wasn’t even the illusion of danger. I had a flashback of how I felt standing on the Golden Gate this summer, cold, the wind blowing ferociously, buried in the fog and feet tiptoe on the ledge. And I thought, they’re not so different. The former, the wonder of my conception of beauty, of what’s worth crossing, how large and intimidating and formidable our minds make things, those excited and scared and naïve goosebumps. The latter, the indescribable comfort that comes from dispelling the fear without losing the immensity, or the image. Feeling the safety and the excitement at once.

I would like to hang onto October for a bit longer.

place

I'm finding it harder and harder to post because at home I have fleeting thoughts, I'm perpetually sleepy because I know I can sleep, there's little structure to my life and I feel little need to impose one. Though that last feeling is waning. I have California for two more days, and I so want to get back to school, and see everyone, and get settled into our room, and start our last year of classes. I can't wait for A-entry, special-meat Wednesdays, Professor Parker, sweaters, Bernard, frozen yogurt in cake cones.

Not to say that home wasn't wonderful. Basically, I saw a lot of movies and a few people. I watched Broken Flowers, 2046, March of the Penguins, Transporter 2, 40-Year-Old Virgin and The Constant Gardener. *Broken Flowers was a little slow and Sarah thought it was pointless, but I liked the concept of revisiting the different people that run through your life, and thinking about what each one says about your own character. It was after she saw *2046 that Sarah texted me, telling me to come home. After seeing the movie I understood that impulse. It was a lot about reaching out, and trying to grasp people who are more like air, smoke even...visible, with presence and movement, but without outline. I don't have the means to describe what it was really about; it would take more expression than I have. Images and lines and phrases come to mind. The line that I referenced once and that both Stephen and Sarah referenced, separately and at different times, was: "Love is about timing." The right time is just as important as the right person, and with that comes the right place because sometimes that's dependent on time. I liked how the main character's experiences flowed into the stories that he wrote, so that you couldn't tell which was informing the other, because it worked both ways. *March of the Penguins was so simple, it was amazing. It didn't need any artifice to convince you of its beauty. This is just the way it works, creation and the affection and sacrifice that come with it are just natural. That's the most optimistic thing I think I've ever seen in a movie. *Transporter 2 was pure entertainment, and fun to see on the big screen since I saw the first one on DVD. *The 40-Year-Old Virgin wasn't as good as I thought it would be, based on its cheesy poster and word of mouth. I didn't think it was that funny, but I can see why people thought it was unique as far as raunchy movies go. It was ultimately really sweet-natured, and about a growing up process, and it managed to support both theories of sex-isn't-everything and sex-is-really-important at the same time. *The Constant Gardener was on par with movies like Schindler's List and Hotel Rwanda, the kind that induce a mixture of inspiration and frustration. You want to prevent and stop such things, you want to help, but the reason you do is the same one that makes it hard to--these are big problems, fueled by the very human tendency to ignore what isn't in front of you. And then afterwards, when you're aware, what do you do? What causes do you choose to pursue and which do you have to leave behind, and will you really help? Africa is so beautiful, and so full of mysteries. That must make it all the harder for those with good intentions to go there.

The people were better than the movies. I saw Richard, ate ice cream with him (Ben & Jerry's, minus the life advice) and drank with him (and got a drunk dial from him a few hours later). I had lunch with Kristina today, and we had our usual updated discussion of the Real World and the actual real world. We talked about her moving houses, and I still can't believe that there will never be another birthday party on Prairie View, no more loitering in her driveway. I visited Steph's new place in Los Altos, and it was so nice to see her again, and strange to see my SoCal rival enjoying and living in NorCal. We hung out with no obligations to study later, and that was also different. I ate sandw(h)iches with Aud before she went back to Portland. Besides the company I like getting together with her because we can stay in Fremont. I know that Fremont residents don't share any particular qualities but there is that natural connection of coming from the same place, especially when we went to a high school comprised mostly of San Josians. It was during our conversation that I started consciously thinking about the role of places. She talked about how home wasn't exactly home anymore, and I told her about my feelings of displacement and the illusion of permanence that I attach to home, and a few days later in her journal she likened herself to water, dispersing to various areas but eventually flowing back to one place. That made me think about how I'm not built to change shape with place in exactly the way I thought. I think adjusting to the East Coast made me downplay the importance of my surroundings. I thought home was a feeling I could assume anywhere that interested me, and I didn't give much thought to how I create that feeling, or how it's created.

When Andrew came to California, and we made our way through San Francisco, I could feel how linked place and not just experience but character are. We both knew we were sharing something different with his visit to my home, and I remembered why I relish opportunities to show people places, college to my friends from home, and home to my college friends. We saw so much of the city, from so many different viewpoints--on the ground, from the car, from the middle of the bay, atop towers and hills, along bridges.

Adventuring with Sarah, in Pacifica and downtown San Jose, made me think about it more too. Driving along the coast to Pacifica, we followed a curve and suddenly, we were driving into the sky. It was just blue, the ocean melted seamlessly into the sky ("where's the horizon?"), and we kept moving and it moved too. Then the completely opposite atmosphere of downtown, a place I should totally feel distant from now--seeing it at the peak of nighttime revelry, seeing the dressed-up and made-up girls, the top-down cars playing loud music--that's not my downtown. My downtown was lines of uniformed high schoolers walking from Notre Dame to the cathedral; it was traipsing around the water fountains and Starbucks and the Tech in summery tank tops and jeans; it was musicals and science fairs and pre-winter-ball dinners. But still, it felt the way the new ND building feels--not mine, but still mine.

The truth is, certain places do move me by nature of more than pretty scenery or tall buildings, or even remaining the same as when I'd known and loved them first. I can't pinpoint all the actual reasons, there are so many and the majority are subtle. I don't have any real questions or definite statements, only that the idea of place is more complicated than I thought, the feeling of it simpler, and my love of it stronger.

small town new england

Weekend before last Andrew and I trekked to Concord, MA (of Lexington & Concord). Home of Walden Pond and for two years two months and two days Henry David Thoreau, and Lousia May Alcott and Ralph Waldo Emerson (wrote all that out because I just realized the insistence on middle names). It's only twenty miles from Boston but somehow it took us a few hours to get there. I liked being in a car on the East Coast again. It reminded me of the trips Stephen and I took freshman year to Vermont and Maine. The entrance to a completely different world is so seamless, from buildings to trees. I love driving along those narrow roads with stretches of green trees above and around. The trees arch over the road, so it's shady except for the way the sun makes it through the gaps between leaves, and it feels cozy and small, even as you're aware of the miles of pure woods beyond the bit of pavement you're on.



Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity. Here's the reconstruction of his hut. I looked at it and it seemed simple enough. But I think, so many details could still be wrong. I'm sure he described his room quite thoroughly, enough to have the right furniture and items and probably even in the correct general vicinity of the room. But who knows what could've been different on a certain day or even all the time? What if he liked his chair tilted in a different direction? What if he didn't fold his blanket like that? What if that's not how many logs he liked in his fireplace? It seems little, but when that's all there is, it matters a little. I know the point was that possessions are insignificant, but it reminds me of the way King Lear declares, "Reason not the need." People always have needs beyond mere necessity; most of the time we're not aware of them because the line between need and desire is so blurry. For Thoreau, though, it was obvious; he saw what he needed to physically survive and what he didn't. But those other things--the way he arranged things, how he liked his bed made, the kind of view he received from his window--he needed them too.




We saw the Alcott and Emerson houses, from the outside mostly. When we were leaving the Alcott House it was pouring and we ran, sheltered underneath his jacket, across the road to our car. I've never been one to be saddened by the rain, but it's never made me particularly happy either, until various conversations and moments and sounds and experiences and sensations made me value the pitter-patter.



He spotted this sole flower, brightness amidst all green, lonely and defiant. Bittersweet, like that ivory-billed woodpecker that may or may not be the last of its kind. Are they aware, are they sad or are they proud? Like the rose in The Little Prince who thinks her worth lies in being the only one that exists. So distinct and apart from its surroundings, but somehow it defines everything else around it because it's the only thing you focus on.



Maybe it's because he's so separate from my daily life, but when I'm with him I feel like it's just us, like that single flower or those narrow roads. The world is as we are at that moment, lovely.

lost in boston

No, that's not really Kyoto. I've never been to Japan, much less been there alone. But during particular moments when I walk to work in the Back Bay, I feel like Charlotte in Lost in Translation (though I'm pretty much lost anywhere). Those walks remind me of Charlotte walking through the busy streets with her clear plastic umbrella but also of when she's by herself in the gardens. Copley is my favorite area in Boston, the perfect combination of city and town. I'll miss going there twice a week next year.

between two coasts

Spring break doesn't seem very long ago, but summer feels so close. Just when I thought I was ready to leave, so many good things have come and others are on their way, making me feel more attached: surprisingly fun concert (Busta!), 20th birthdays, warm weather, Springfest, skirt days, ArtsFirst, Troy, sushi.

Sappy but sincere: the best thing about the West Coast is that its beauty seems ordinary and the best thing about the East Coast is that its beauty surprises you.