Ghost Girl

NEW Yoga Blog

2011-09-01T18:46:00.000-07:00

To my loyal blog fans (all 1 or 2 of you), I'm here to announce my new Yoga blog, where I'll be presenting 1 yoga pose per day for 98 days. Whew. I don't think I'll be able to make it. But feel free to follow along with me as I try.

Mutants and Cows

2011-06-09T10:40:00.000-07:00

I've been told that I don't post enough on my blog, so here's a little toe dipping back into the cold water. Check out this sci-fi-esque news article in the WSJ about how Chinese dairy scientists have found a way to make cows produce human breast milk. I recently watched X-Men: First Class, which I thought was fantastic. For years, I've considered X-Men to be the best super hero series. "Mutant rights" represents all suppression-- gay right, holocaust, civil rights, the feminist movement.

They speak about the mutations as if it's evolution. The next step for mankind. And what feels real about these fantastical stories is that our technology is already there. If we can make a cow produce human milk, then can we make a human produce cow's milk?

How Sophocles Helps Our Soldiers Cope with War Trauma

2011-02-11T09:42:00.000-08:00

I didn’t know what to expect when I went to the Theater of War at the Los Angeles Air Force base. Google maps had sent me to the wrong entrance, so by the time I found the conference hall, I was flustered, twenty-minutes late, and surrounded by hundreds of active soldiers dressed in camouflaged uniforms and high top leather boots. The room was bland in that Power Point way, with three large screens projecting close-ups of the actors reading. I thought I had walked into a military press conference.

Five actors, dressed in everyday attire, sat on an elevated platform with individual microphones. They read Sophocles’ play about the fierce warrior Ajax, who returns from the Trojan War, and attempts to kill his Greek generals, but instead, entranced by the Goddess Athena, slaughters farm animals. When his madness fades, his sorrow grows, and he kills himself dramatically on stage with his enemy’s sword.

Later I learned that the Theater of War has been praised by the New York Times, Washington Post, and the Pentagon gave $3.7 million dollars for the Theater of War to perform at 50 military sites. Noteworthy actors ranging form Jesse Eisenberg, Paul Giamatti to Tony-award winning Broadway stars have participated in these readings. When I attended, it was the Theater of War’s 132^nd performance.

I listened to the play, but couldn’t help but notice the soldiers next to me squirming. Some rested with their weight forward; others leaned back trying to get comfortable. They had been up since 5:00 in the morning and this mandatory Ancient Greek reading was in three acts and over an hour long. I’ve been to enough readings to know that any reading longer than fifteen minutes leads to minds’ wandering and that’s among volunteer participants. I wondered: would 2,500-year-old Ajax with his stylized speech and suicide by sword be relatable to soldiers returning from Iraq or Afghanistan?

The reading ended, the actors took their seats and five panelists came to the platform. Bryan Doerries, the creator and moderator, was dressed in a black suit and shiny shoes, looking more like a businessman than an academic. He is a writer, translator and Greek mythology nerd, who was educated at Kenyon College—a fact I found relevant as he moved around the room inspiring participation and asking challenging questions. It was easy to imagine him as a Liberal Arts College’s favorite professor, who asked questions that provoked self-discovery and had no wrong answers.

He asked his first question: Why do you think Sophocles, an elected General, wrote and produced this play to be performed in front of 1,700 soldiers after 80 years of war?

The audience was momentarily silent. The question was a meta-question for any answer that explained Sophocles’ intentions also explained Doerries’. One soldier stood up and said that Sophocles wanted to shed light to the psychological traumas of war. Then another soldier said that when you hear about an awful story, it’s hard to relate to; only when you see it with your own eyes does it really effects you.

As Doerries’ questions flowed, people began connecting Ajax’s story to their own. We heard about: An officer who felt responsible that two men in his division committed suicide; a soldier who returned from the Vietnam War and had thoughts of taking his own life; a housewife who confessed that every car that drove up to her curb filled her with the fear of receiving bad news.

Something magical overtook the room during our discussion of Ajax. Somehow Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) was easier to talk about through the lens of a Greek tragedy. Sophocles wrote the story of Ajax to de-stigmatize PTSD, and used performance and theater as a form of catharsis. Through this reading, held in a similar way 2,500 years later, Doerries suggests that war trauma is timeless and global. If Ajax went mad returning home from war, then there should be no shame in it occurring to our soldiers today.

In the last year, suicide in the Army National Guard has doubled. Doubled. There is nothing hopeful about this statistic. The military has increased their focus on mental health, but it will always be a challenge for soldiers, whose job is to be tough, to admit they have a problem.

When the clock struck noon, a woman stood at the podium and with complete formality said, “This concludes your presentation of Theater of War.” I had nearly forgotten that I had attended a two and half hour mandatory Air Force presentation. Soldiers picked up their hats and exited towards the cafeteria, and as the room gradually emptied, I had the urge to talk to more soldier. I wanted to hug them, tell them that I respect them, listen to their dark stories, thank them for serving our country, and cry if they needed someone to cry with. But just as the open conversation had formed, it was over and people went stoically back to their business.

Sophocles figured out a way to make notoriously tough military men open up about their feelings. He wrote plays that revealed truths that mirrors could not reflect. And what absolutely amazes and humbles me is that 2,500 years later, through Doerries, Sophocles is still healing. Theater isn’t just for entertainment, but also for group therapy.

Aloha and Aloha

2010-05-16T23:54:00.000-07:00

I didn't blog or update my Facebook status during my 6 days in Oahu and 6 days in Maui, but credit my lack of computer-internet time due to the fact that I was busy exploring. My partner in crime, T-squared (name respectfully removed) was the kind of guy who wrote long lists of activities on a yellow legal pad, and checked each adventure off once they were completed. This method of traveling, which was new to me, the girl who used to travel with one-way tickets only, resulted in getting a ton of stuff done.

Here are some of the highlights:

* Surfing

* Snorkeling
* Hiking

* Maui Gold Pineapple (delicious!)

CY, the Dangerous Criminal

2010-02-11T20:12:00.001-08:00

I’ll be the first to admit: I made a mistake. I, Chellis Ying, confess that at 21:13 on January 20, 2010 at Wilshire and Sepulveda, I ran a red light. It was raining, I just had dinner with my cousin—I had a million things on my mind. And while it was happening, I said, “Oh crap, I just ran a red light.” Then I saw the flashing lights of a camera, and said, “Oh crap, they have me on film! Crap, crap crap!” (Please replace crap with language not suitable for children.)

I assumed that the ticket would be $150 or $200. Times are tough financially, on a global and personal level, and although mad I was willing to pay $200 without complaint for my momentary lapse in judgment. But then I got the ticket and discovered that running a red light costs $446. Did you hear me? I said, FOUR HUNDRED AND FORTY-SIX DOLLARS. Dear Lord, crap, that’s a lot of money. I could’ve donated that to Haiti and saved lives. Or bought myself a ticket to Hong Kong to see my aging grandmother.

When I discovered how expensive my mistake would cost me, I began to make a very unsexy sound that was a cross between a grunt and a whine. My companion, during this crisis, told me that I should never make that noise again, because it sounded a lot like I was attempting to take a crap. But I couldn’t help it. I was stressed. $446 is a lot to pay for running a red light.

Since the incident, I have researched my options—traffic school, contesting, volunteering, etc. I studied the pictures closely in hopes that the photos couldn’t identify me. But it does. I wondered if I could use the “it’s raining and I fishtailed” excuse. But the HD photos show that the road wasn’t that slick. I thought about pleading to the judge for a reduced fine, because of the recession, insufficient funds and/or female-related emotional/mental problems, but most likely, my sacrifice in dignity won’t be advantageous. (California is one money-hungry, broke State.)

It’s looking like the least stressful option is to just pay it. So, that is what I am going to do: frickin’ pay it. But I’m not giving up $446 without shedding some humor on the situation. So, here I go laughing my way through sighing this stupid check: hahahahahaha…HA!

And...the photos are pretty funny. Those automatic cameras expertly captured raw emotions. If a picture can be worth a thousand words, then it makes these photos quite the bargain.

New publication: "Blue and Maroon"

2010-02-08T15:21:00.001-08:00

My short-story "Blue and Maroon" was a runner up in the Our Stories' Richard Bausch Fiction contest. "Blue and Maroon" is about a down-on-her-luck seamstress, who communicates her affections/obsessions through sewing. Our Stories editor Alexis E Santi describes, "It's truly wonderful, odd, quirky and powerful." Quirky is a good way to describe the story because this was my first time writing from the perspective of a stalkerish protagonist. Turns out that I have a knack for it. But don't read between the lines, because it's fiction, kids, fiction.

Yo, 2010, What’s Your Deal?

2010-01-05T15:38:00.000-08:00

It’s been awhile since I’ve blogged last, and much of that has to do with being in a rut. Yes, a rut. If you are reading this and judging, then you probably think that ruts don’t happen to you. And if that’s the case, then you’re a genius. Please write a self-help book on Ways to a Rut Proof Life. I’ll buy it, write adoring comments on Amazon, and be forever thankful for my new super efficient life of publishing book after book of awesome stories.

But since you haven’t written this book, (what are you in a rut?) I was left unprotected from my latest speed bump. I hate to use the term “writer’s block,” because not writing isn’t deserving of a name. I had put myself out there with my memoir, The Nerve, and I was rejected. Hard. It’s a common story: writer receives rejections, gives up. Except the problem here was that I was falsely positive, denying that I had been affected by the feedback. When a writer doesn’t write, life sucks and for a few months my life hadn’t been sucking. Time passed with smiles and laughs—new relationship, mini-adventures, steady yoga practice, greats books to read, and then boom! Where did my writing go? I was suddenly sad and didn’t know what hit me.

Blaming the recession may be “so 2009,” but allow me to make an association since we’re only a few days into 2010: I blame the recession. Qualified people, who are unemployed, either turn lazy or become more resilient, and, in my case, a mixture of both. My finances went down, but so did my expenses. I started working at a yoga studio for classes, negotiated my rent with my landlord, ate meals at home, checked out books at the library, and restrained from buying a new pair of shoes all year. I began, to my surprise, find comfort in using my limitations as an excuse.

Last year, I met a hipster, who said she was “too poor to travel.” She claimed to be too poor to take the BART to San Francisco, too poor to go back to college, too poor to drink socially, too poor to volunteer in a soup kitchen. She was so passionately poor that I wondered if she did anything at all. And this got me thinking: the world is a scarier place when you’re aware of all your options.
My personal recession had less to do with finances and more to do with a recession of confidence. What’s the point in writing when nobody will publish my book? And that’s when I became just like the passionately poor hipster. I hid behind my excuses and allowed them to create tighter boundaries around my world.

But screw all that. I don’t have a reason for this turn around, but it hit me on new years. Time to give up again, but this time on my rut.

(This picture has nothing to do with this blog, but isn't my niece cute?)

Sunset in Point Dume

2009-11-21T10:05:00.000-08:00

Fun times in Malibu.

One Year in Los Angeles, Baby

2009-10-20T15:07:00.000-07:00

I have officially lived in Los Angeles for one year. Hold your applause. And despite the perceptions of fake books, bad smog and cluster#*& traffic, I like this city. Those who come to LA unable to find what they’re looking for, most likely don’t know what they want. LA is a huge, sprawling metropolis with pockets of culture and niches. It’s the home of hipsters, hippies, moral deviants, celebrities, straight-laced families, computer nerds, Armenians, Orthodox Jews, and Chinese-Americans. You name it, and you can find it here in LA.

That's me with Nicky Hilton at her birthday party.

A Conversation with Los Angeles
Me: I moved in with you a year ago. How does it feel?
LA: (texting a friend) What did you say?
Me: Can’t we celebrate our anniversary?
LA: Sure! Check with my secretary.
Me: I really like you.
LA: What’s not to like? I have beautiful weather, sandy beaches, diverse cultures and famous people live with me.
Me: My friends in San Francisco think you’re hard to get to know.
LA: I love SF. I love everyone.
Me: What should I do with my life?
LA: You can write TV shows, movies, novels, memoirs, marketing copy. You can work for an international company, a studio, become an agent, take acting and improv classes. Go back to school and get your Ph.D in literature or an International MBA. You can do whatever you want.
Me: Could you narrow down that search for me?
LA: Sure! Check with my secretary.
Me: I’m sorry that you’ve had a bad year. Every time I saw a moving truck, I worried about your unemployment rate.
LA: Have you driven the 10 between 2-7pm? People love me.
Me: How are you so confident?
LA: Listen, you’re a sweet girl. I would love to sit here and chat, but I’m on the verge of something big. Like really really big.
Me: No worries, but I’m just gonna hang out here for a bit. Maybe learn the ropes for writing for TV? What do you think? Could you call me if you have any openings?
LA: (Lady Hollywood throws her head back and releases a dramatic laugh.) Me call you? Now that’s funny. With humor like maybe you could make it here after all.

Happy Birthday, China

2009-10-06T11:01:00.000-07:00

When I first came to China, as a foreign exchange student in Harbin in 1999, I witnessed China’s 50-year birthday of Communism. I was a bright-eyed, 20-year-old academic back then, cynical of the government’s lock down on Tienanmen and a believer that socialism was merely a rouge for China’s true desire for Democracy. Now, as China celebrated its 60th anniversary of Communism, I am no longer the idealistic Liberal, who believes that the more Western the Chinese government becomes, the better the place will be. In the last ten years, Bush was re-elected for a 2nd term and our economy turned to shambles. Do we really have the right to act superior?

(Check out this October 1st, 2009 parade of tanks, missile launchers and soldiers marching in perfect unison!)

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

The main criticism in the Chinese workforce is that they lack ingenuity. When Apple goes to China to mass-produce IPods, Chinese people are able to execute the manufacturing flawlessly, but are unable to create a product with Apples’ sophistication. This myth is what helps American businessmen sleep at night feeling unthreatened by China’s rise to power. We are American. Nobody beats us in creativity.

But I beg to differ. I will be the first to admit that when working with editors in Chinese publishing, I was the biggest eye roller. I met heads of publishing houses in the English departments, who didn’t have a clue on what it meant to create a book. They overlooked covers with typos, gave French-Canadians jobs for being white, and shoved propaganda so unsubtly down a readers’ throat that the final product was comical. But then I met young editors, who couldn’t express their ideas to their superiors due to China’s strict rules of hierarchy. They were ambitious, diligent and filled with new ideas, and once their bosses retire they’ll be unstoppable. Think about this current generation running the country. They were educated during the Cultural Revolution, tending the crops instead of attending universities. Once this “forgotten generation” retires, China’s massive creative class will rise as the country’s leaders.

Now look at the US, where creativity is being dictated by capitalism. This year, Transformers 2 made the most money for a movie with the worse critic reviews. Lauren Conrad’s best selling novel is being turned into a movie. Pre-sales of Sarah Palin’s 400-page memoir is sold out on Amazon. We all know that publishers approached Palin and Conrad with ghostwriters and Transformers 2 pulled in an audience because of Megan Fox and explosions. Yet, we, the American people, support this cultural diarrhea, through our obsession in becoming famous. (ie. “Sarah Palin is just like me!”) In a market where talent is being overshadowed by celebrities with no merits, how do writers/actors/fashion designers stay in business?

I could easily spend the next few hours/days/months comparing the differences between China and the US, but it’s not my intention to prove that one place is better. In fact, my intention is to prove that, neither country is better or worse. If anything, I encourage you to see for yourself. China with its overpopulation, smoggy air, population control, inconsistent regulations, and cheeky tourism is a place worth living, and the US with its reckless overconfidence and whorish business practices are worth criticizing. Globalization is leveling the playing field.

China's bootlegs: The search for the perfect sneaks

2009-10-05T08:06:00.000-07:00

When I asked my friend Jay what he wanted from China, he said, “Misspelled Nikes.” I asked, “What about Abidas or Pumus or Reeebok?” As a former resident and frequent traveling to China, I am familiar with the array of bootleg products. I saw a Sting CD titled “Stinc,” a sweater with an Abercrombie and JCrew tag, and a Prado purse with the famous triangular Prada logo. But that was back in the early 2000s and China’s counterfeit products now have less typos. How was I going to find misspelled Nikes, when there were so many properly spelled Nike fakes?

According to the Stratfor on China’ fake s: “Counterfeiting is ingrained in Chinese culture. In Confucianism, the notion of the ownership of ideas is nonexistent, while the imitation of what is desired, be it morals or Viagra, is seen as good. And Beijing has unofficially tolerated counterfeiting to a large extent, despite international rules and regulations against intellectual property infringement. The government and military and security bureaus often counterfeit used software and other products for themselves. It is also quite common to see shops selling pirated DVDs sitting adjacent to government offices or to see uniformed police officers shuffling through racks of counterfeit DVDs.”

Clearly if China wanted to curb it’s lucrative counterfeit market, it could do so with stricter enforcements. But that would mean fewer jobs during an economic recession, and according to the rumors, law enforcers are the ones receiving the profits off the bootleg market. As for me, less fakes is way less fun.

But I do draw a moral line with bootleg books. I wont blink twice to return home with half a suitcase of HBO and Showtime series DVDs, but fake books mean that the author is not receiving any royalties and the struggling publishing houses aren’t making a profit. While working at China Books, authors often asked me how they could get their books into China. They pictured just a fraction of 1 billion readers making them ridiculously wealthy. But the reality is, if a book becomes at all popular in China, it’ll be photocopied and printed and sold on the streets.

The streets of downtown Kunshan, my second day in China, was where I found Jay’s Nieks. (Pictured below.) The swoop is elongated and the side is painted with the words “#1 Fashion.” I worried that by finding these sneaks so early on my trip, I would find another pair of a higher hilarity value. But as expected, for the rest of my trip, which included two fake malls, I only found fake Nikes spelled correctly. These Nieks were quite a find.

One person’s garbage is another person’s treasure: The dangers and delicacies of Chinese cuisine

2009-10-01T03:10:00.000-07:00

I confess that I’ve eaten shark fin soup at Chinese weddings and birthday banquets, and never realized that: a.) it is a privilege among the upper class, b.) their 6 fins are cut off upon capture and unable to swim, they sink to the bottom, and c.) the Chinese demand for shark fin soup has led to a 90% decline in the shark population. 10 humans are killed a year by sharks, but 100 million sharks are killed by humans.

CNN’s Planet in Peril: Shark Finning

In the past, shark fin soup was consumed predominantly among the elite in Hong Kong and Taiwan at $30 to $200 a bowl, but due to the rising middle class in China, the demand has skyrocketed. Traditionally, shark fin soup has been regarded as a tonic in Chinese medicine (improves digestion, invigorates the kidney and lungs), but scientifically speaking, there is little nutritional value. In fact the high levels of mercury could be harmful if consumed frequently.

The real kicker here is that shark-fins have no taste. They’re cooked for a long time until the cartilage separates and looks clear like noodles. It’s served in a chicken broth with ham and mushrooms.

“Finning,” a term that refers to cutting off a shark’s fin and dropping it back into the water, is affecting the entire ecosystem of the ocean from Costa Rica to South East Asia. And what for? Because someone decided it was a delicacy.

While eating three meals a day, I rarely think about how my definition of “delicious” has been influenced by the culture around me. Somebody else decided what was exquisite, gross, tasty, immoral, expensive, inedible. For example, when I was a little girl, I loved eating chicken feet, which is a common dish in Cantonese dim sum. There is no meat on chicken feet, just the cartilage, which is chewy, and the skin, which is soft and soaked in soy sauce. One day, and I remember this too vividly for an eight-year-old, one of my Caucasian friends, who was eating dim sum with us, said, “How can you eat that stuff? I imagine little chickens with their claws crawling across the floor.” The next time my parents ordered me chicken feet, I pushed the dish away. I said, “Chicken feet are gross.” I didn’t eat chicken feet again until my mid-20s and even then, I didn’t enjoy it as much I had in my youth. I still picture them with their claws, taking baby steps across a farm floor.

“One person’s garbage is another person’s treasure” certainly holds true among Eastern and Western cuisines. Chinese people prefer their food with bones, more flavor, which is why dark meat on a chicken and fish heads are considered the more appealing part of an animal. A baked piece of dry chicken breast is a turn off to the Chinese palate, and sucking on a bone for the juice is considered an uncivilized practice to an American.

While in Kunshan, I ate hairy crab for the first time, another delicacy in Chinese cuisine that Westerners could care less about. Yangcheng Lake, near Suzhou, is the main producer of this species of crab, which have the ability to live in murky waters. At 3 oz, about 1 oz of meat, the hairy crabs are shipped to Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Taiwan, and can be marked up to $30-60 a crab. It is nearly impossible to get any crab meat out of their little legs, so consuming hairy crab is mainly about sucking out the juices, and eating the prized gooey orange roe, or crab fat, in the center.

The demand for hairy crab is so high in Asia, that importers are considering meeting this through crab populations in the West. Due to the crab’s highly invasive nature, able to rapidly produce and affect local crab species, it is illegal to import live hairy crab into the U.S. Literally, Westerners want to get rid of their hairy crab population and Chinese people can’t get enough of it.

How to eat tiny river shrimp

Maglev! The World’s fastest train

2009-09-29T08:25:00.000-07:00

On January 2004, China launched the "Shanghai Magnetic Levitation Demonstration Operation Line,” or the Maglev, the world’s fastest train that reaches a record speed of 501kp/m (311 mph). The train travels 30 km from the PVG Shanghai airport to the Longyang station in Pudong, which connects to subway line 2. The train can reach its maximum speed in 4 minutes of 430 kp/h, but must slow down from there since the journey is only 7 minutes and 20 seconds. Construction of the train cost 2.5 years to complete and cost $1.33 billion dollars. The only comparable airport transport is the Heathrow express in London, which is of equal distance, but takes nearly 15 minutes. The difference between 300 km/h and 431 km/h only saves 10% of the travel time, or 50 seconds, and the route isn’t considered the most efficient way to get the airport, which is why the Maglev is deemed a success purely at an experimental level.

The Maglev cost $1.33 billion dollars. The ride is only 7 minutes and 20 seconds. In 2006, it caught on fire, although nobody was hurt. But, man, it’s SO COOL!

I was immediately intrigued with the Maglev, because it’s construction is such a Chinese-thing. They wanted to make the world’s fastest train using magnets, and no budget or danger or purpose of efficiency was going to stop them.

I rode the Maglev on my way to the Pudong airport and, like my fellow passengers, had my camera out zoomed into the kp/h ticker waiting for it to reach its maximum speed. The scene outside the window zoomed by in a blur. When the train coming the other direction ran parallel to us, a man shouted “ahhh!” as the chairs shook for one second, maybe less. The novelty of traveling at such a fast speed was purely cosmetic, for if I weren’t staring at the ticker, or aware of the Maglev’s pride to China’s ingenuity, I wouldn’t have known we were going that fast.

This is just one example of China’s ability to “get a job done.” How come California can’t build a high-speed train between San Francisco and LA, sin magnets, that’s just gratuitous, which would actually serve an efficient purpose? Because we’re not China, and we don’t create things for the glory of a country. Maybe we should though. Have I mentioned that the Maglev is cool?

(This photo is not of the Maglev, but was taken at the Shanghai train station, where I was waiting for the train to Kunshan. 1,600 of us had 10 minutes to make a mad dash between the waiting room, down the stairs, and into our chairs. It may sound easy, but it's quite claustrophobic, walking chest to back with strangers, like a mosh pit, while carrying your luggage. Plus, Shanghai is humid, so lots of sweating, and other people sweating on you.)

Modern Chinese Love

2009-09-27T18:35:00.000-07:00

While on the subway to the Pudong airport, I sat in front of a young Shanghainese couple. The boyfriend had stylishly spiky hair; the girlfriend wore 3-inch heels and skinny-legged jeans. He was attentive, doting on her with kisses and speaking with their noses touching. This public displays of affection has become a commonplace in the chic city of Shanghai, where the young enjoy their freedoms to love who they want, wear designer clothes, and, if they choose, make out in public. But what makes Shanghai unique is that the women, while beautiful, are notoriously pouty. Somehow during the 30-minute journey, the girlfriend thought it’d be a good idea to pop the white heads on her boyfriend’s chin. The boyfriend’s eyes watered from the impromptu facial, but he remained still as his girlfriend picked and prodded at his skin.

Feminism in China took a great leap forward with the implementation of Communism, which equalized the sexes, reducing thousands of years of patriarchal suppression and Confucian rules. The days of arranged marriages are foreign to this generation of the modern Chinese lady who has the freedom to choose her lover, either foreign or local. Yet, this sexual revolution remains vastly divided. I met university students in Harbin, who were so sheltered, they didn’t know why they menstruated. And in Guangzhou, close to Hong Kong, my high school students’ tried to trick me to translate “masturbation.”

Shanghai is by far the most progressive city in China in technology, cultural diversity, finances, and fashion. Walking in high heel shoes fascinated me endlessly for even in my sneakers I found it difficult to maneuver around the potholes and construction. While fashion is a form of expression and individuality, this desire to dress to the nines is a modern paradox. Shanghainese women may be more self-aware than the generation of women before them, but their purpose is still the same: to seduce a man who can provide for them. Perhaps this is just a stepping-stone towards equal opportunities between the sexes, but for now, I can’t help but see the history of foot binding repeating itself in high heel shoes. For anybody who thinks I am exaggerating, I challenge you to walk across a flooded Shanghai street with rapidly passing scooters, bikes, pedestrians and cars in 3-inch pumps.

Six Day Countdown to China’s Birthday

2009-09-26T05:06:00.000-07:00

The reason why I love China is because each time I go my mind doesn’t stop running. There are so many things I find fascinating about the PRC that is exclusive to this moment in history—the modernity, the evolution of traditions, the political hypocrisies, the new money. I was only there for 10 days, spent most of my time in Shanghai and Kunshan, but even then, I have so much to talk about.

In lieu of China’s upcoming 60th birthday October 1, 2009, I am going to write a 6 blog countdown on 6 topics about China:
1. Modern Chinese Love: Pouty women of Shanghai
2. The Maglev: Fastest train in the world that leads to nowhere
3. Shark Fin Soup and Hairy Crabs: the ethics of Chinese Cuisine
4. Fake Purses, Bootleg DVDs, and Photocopied Books: Who runs the underground market?
5. Internet Firewall: Is it effective, and how do you break it?
6. Happy Birthday, Middle Kingdom: My thoughts on China after a decade of travel

Stay tuned...

Shanghai at a Glimpse

2009-09-21T19:51:00.000-07:00

Shanghai is under construction in preparation for the 2010 World Expo and funded by this year's stimulus money.

Mom waiting patiently at the Shanghai Train station with 1,600 fellow travelers who have ten minutes to rush the platform and pile into their cars--a more difficult task than you'd expect with lots of elbows and chest-to-chest tip-toeing.

How can I resist NOT line dancing when there are so many lovely ladies gettin' in down in Kunshan's town center?

The view of the Bund with my Shanghai Crew. The walkway along the Bund is under construction for a double-decker tunnel, so we went up to a coffee shop, drank overpriced beverages, and enjoyed the view of Pudong, Shanghai's most famous skyline. FYI: Pudong (the towering skyscrapers behind us) was just a muddy pit 20 years ago.

Amy! So fun to catch up with my dear friend, who now lives out here.

This is by far the strangest purchase I've ever bought in China, but there was an artist making mini-sculptures and I couldn't resist paying just to see him mold clay into magic. Does this little sculpture look like me? And, more importantly, what am I going to do with a mini-shrine of myself?

Here is a full meal of famous foods from Yangcheng Lake near Kunshan. The Hairy Crab are a delicacy in the region and are sold for 50 RMB per crab locally ($7), or 150 in Shanghai and Hong Kong. Frankly, I thought it was a lot of cracking shells and sucking of crab juices for 1 oz of meat, but what do I know about delicacies?

The Right to Speak, Rebel and Blog

2009-09-21T06:24:00.000-07:00

Facebook, Blogger, Youtube, and Twitter are all banned in China, a fact that I knew, but didn’t fully comprehend due to my mainland friends posting FB status updates. People in China are able to sideswipe this government firewall, including myself, with Proxies and VPNs from free-speech nations. I am bringing you this post illegally.

The arguments against Internet censorship are too obvious for me to point out--spreading words, expressing truths, choice of opinion. And even though most of the news and shows on American television are complete and utter crap, I respect their right to be what they are: allowed to speak. So, you would assume that I would oppose China's bans on social websites. Except that’s not true. I am inspired.

China is attempting to control the opinions of a country, fearing that true individuality could lead to the disrespect of a nation, political chaos, dissidence and uprising, which at its worse could create complete chaos and unproductivity. Are they so far from the truth when looking at the debates occurring over Health Care? Sometimes I wish that the stupid people in the US (ahem, FOX news) didn’t have the right to spread fear mongering, wasting our time and money over wars and prejudices. But that’s the price we pay for complete freedom of our words.

What impresses me most about the human spirit is that no matter the obstacle people find their way into telling stories. Banned books, underground newspapers, secret meetings are a part of US’s History, too, and in this case China is experiencing its own information revolution through the Internet. Sure, we can complain that it’s not fair that China is restricting these sites. But I have a hard time believing that these restrictions are sustainable. If people want to be heard, they will find a way to make that happen, through sewing words into the linings of their coats, to sending messages in a bottle across an ocean, to using an Internet proxy from Canada.

I am jealous of this appreciation for information, living in a country where we are over saturated with quick answers. How often do we send a text or an email or post a status update thinking, it sure is great that I have the right to say anything I want? I, for one, have never posted a blog with such a strong sense of entitlement. I am breaking a local law to give you these words. And I don’t have a concrete explanation for my desires to do this, or know if any positive purpose is served. But that’s the human spirit for you. We’ll always want to do something more when we’re not allowed to.

Sayulita, Mexico is Safe

2009-08-27T16:43:00.000-07:00

An apology is in order to my mother, who I had been intentionally vague to about my trip to Mexico. With swine flu and an increase in violence, I just didn’t want to worry her. And now that I am back, safe and sound, no parasites, no robberies, no loss of limbs, I feel confident to detail my trip in its entirety.

First off, Sayulita, near Puerto Vallarta, is very safe. I wasn’t sure, because I read the government warnings beforehand, and after my robbery in Costa Rica, I’m extra paranoid about safety. One indicator of a place’s safety is to listen to the locals. In Guatemala, my host mother panicked if I wasn’t home after sunset. In Tijuana, we were told to not leave the gated area, even during the day. And when I walked from downtown to SOMA through San Francisco’s Tenderloin, I was asked, “Did you seriously walk here by yourself?” Hotel tenants, taxi drivers, convenient store vendors don’t benefit by saying a place is safe when it’s not.

In Sayulita, I left my purse on the beach and went surfing. I asked the waiter to watch my stuff, and he kindly tucked my bag under a tablecloth. When I returned all my things were in tact, including two digital cameras and a small plastic bag of cash.

Sayulita is a small fishing village one hour north of Puerto Vallarta. During the low season, June to October, many of the B&Bs and restaurants close down. Between the US recession and the fears of Swine flu, Sayulita was desperate for visitors. It was low for even low season. For a few days, we were the only ones living at the Bungalow, and we took over a suite meant for four for $50 a night. When walking into a restaurant or eating at a taco stand, the servers would be so excited, they acted like we were giving them a present.

Being in Sayulita during low season was what made my experience unique. Meeting new people was easy and prices were lower. But with that said a gray cloud hovered over the idyllic surfing village. One waiter asked me, “Donde está la gente?” Where are all the people? I said, “La crisis económica ha afectado a todo el mundo.” The economic crisis has affected the whole world. And he asked, “Don’t Americans get a pension when they’re fired?”

One local told me to go home and tell my American friends that Mexico is safe. So, here I go: Mexico is safe and beautiful. Please continue to travel there.

Ultimate Wipe Out '09

2009-08-21T16:43:00.000-07:00

The rain and clouds have brought the largest waves Sayulita has seen in a month. I, feeling confident on the bunny slope, decided that I’d paddle into a large wave, and attempt to ride it in on my stomach. Big mistake. Turns out that you can still wipe out even if you don’t stand up. My board nosedived forward, the back flipped up, and I face planted tumbling the long way into a somersault. I have learned something new about the human nose. When massive amounts of salt water are thrusted with maximum force up your nostrils, the water doesn’t release immediately. It waits for an hour or two, causing you to speak with congestion, and then all of sudden, you’ll be eating dinner and the water spurts out your nose, causing this immense release that you didn’t realize you needed. Today I learned, that my sinuses have the capacity to hold much ocean.

It’s raining again, a much needed break from the unrelenting sun. I have turned a different ethnicity again, and was even asked if I was a local. This seems to happen to me all around the world in beach spots—Guam, Thailand, Hawaii, Costa Rica, where my dark skin and long hair mistakens me for a person of the indigenous village. I knew I should’ve become an international spy.

The Beauty of Bright Orange Walls

2009-08-20T20:56:00.000-07:00

I haven’t been the best blogger during my Mexican-surfing-taco eating adventure, but it’s just been so hot. Like sweat through your shirt, impatiently cranky, drink gallons of water but never pee HOT. In Sayulita, this is considered the low season. Half of the restaurants are closed, hotel prices are lowered, and the street venders are extra persistent to sell you their beaded necklaces, hammocks, 2-week tattoos and other trinkets. One restaurant owner told me that it’s better to take off from June to October, then to struggle to stay status quo. And the reason for this shut down of tourism on the Mexican Pacific Coast? The heat.

Right now though, I am happy. I am sitting in an open kitchen, on the second floor of Bungalow Aurinko, listening to the rain fall against palm leaves. The breeze is soft and fresh against my skin, and the smell reminds me of Oregon and the tropics. Oregon and the tropics don’t mix as factual memories, but the rain makes me nostalgic for comforting places.

I was inspired to come to Mexico after spending a weekend in Tijuana a few months ago, full blog here, where I realized that to understand the US, I had to understand our Southern neighbors. Mexico has a range of lifestyles—urban to rural, poor to wealthy, and safe to unsafe. Tijuana is a town where kidnapping of Americans is rampant, and Sayulita is a fishing village where people don’t all lock their doors. Having lived in a city, I understand the delicate balance of a city block where a fine-dining restaurant can be 20 feet away from crack dealers. Rich and poor live hand and hand all around the world. And so does beauty and ugliness.

Mexico is beautiful. As I type, I am surrounded by color. The walls are orange and covered with ornamentations and oil paintings. The food is equally bold with spicy, salty and sweet tastes all at once (lime, chilies and salt on everything). The locals have distinct features, dark eyes, sharp cheek bones, and smooth skin. And the ugliness? The poor economy, violence, untamed drug trafficking… well, that’s not something I plan on focusing on in between these bright orange walls.

Waves, Tacos and "Coca"

2009-08-19T11:37:00.000-07:00

I think I just asked the fruit vendor if she had any cocaine. I meant to ask her for fresh coconut, “coco,” but instead asked, “Tienes coca?” What surprised me most was that she told me that if I wanted any “coca,” I could buy some at the corner shop. Did she mean chocolate or Coca-Cola? Either way, anything is possible in Mexico.

This is my second attempt at surfing and I am realizing that the waves I rode in Costa Rica were too monstrous for a beginner. Before it took me five or so waves of wiping out just to get to the “line,” but here, the waves are baby waves, like a bunny slope at a ski resort. Most of the surfers are on long boards, and the skilled locals are doing hand stands and tricks. Nothing is more relaxing than hanging out on the line. This is where surfers straddle their boards, separated from the beach by white wash, looking out into the horizon for upcoming waves. There’s a camaraderie among these strangers, men and women of all ages, who are all out there waiting for Mother Nature to make them fly. When a wave approaches, a subtle rise in the smooth, blue surface, surfers scramble to turn their boards around, the water behind you arches, and you feel a power thrust you towards the sand, people, restaurants, and beach chairs. And when the ride is over, you quickly turn around and head back to the line, where it is quiet and peaceful and the ocean tells you what to do.

I like surfing, but I am still not very good at it. The one thing that I have been successful at during this trip is finding the best taco stand in Sayulita, down the street from the plaza. For 10 pesos, less than 1 dollar, you can order a pastor (pork) or carne asada (beef) taco. They’re served with diced onions, cilantro, a cube of pineapple, on a corn tortilla with homemade red or green salsa. What makes this taco stand better than the others is its cleanliness, not a fly in sight and every plate and surface is immaculate. The ingredients are fresh, the meat tender, and their tacos are not doused in pork grease. They are only open at night, but rest assured that I’ll be be back for more.

The Adventures of a Responsible Traveler

2009-08-17T20:30:00.000-07:00

With each new place I’ve travelled to, I’m learning that: I am getting old. Back in the day—wow, not to brag, but let me brag—I used to do the craziest things by myself. Trains from Thailand to Singapore; hitchhiking though Spain and France; staying with farmers along the Chinese countryside. There was no path too off the beaten track for me. Back in the day.

The theory behind emotional growth is that each time you overcome a fear, you’ll be less scared for the next time. But then why do people tell me that it was better I travelled while young? And why am I more scared with each trip?

Today, I arrived in Sayulito, Mexico. I waited for my friends flying in from San Francisco, bargained a taxi down with a hotel, found a place for the night close to the beach, walked down the beach, ate fish tacos with guacamole, bought some repellente de insectos, took a night swim in the warmest ocean water I’ve ever felt, and was back at the hotel, ready for bed by 8pm Californian time.

My travel companion keeps asking me for advice about each situation, and the more I talk, the more I sound like a jaded lover—my lover being travel. For example:

Friend: Is that OK to eat?

Me: I’ve had traveler’s diarrhea more times than I can count.

Friend: Is the hotel safe?

Me: It doesn’t look any safer than my hotel in Costa Rica and I was robbed there.

Friend: Did the taxi driver scam us?

Me: Yes, but paying a few dollars your first day in the country is part of travelling.

Friend: How come you don’t want to rent a surf board? Me: I was sucked under for so long last attempt, I like not having salt water shoved up my nose.

There’s some truth that the more you travel, the less shocking things become, therefore affecting your risk-to-adventure equation. For example, when looking at the ocean during a beautiful sunset, a younger version of myself would be swept up in the moment and dive right in. But now, I think if I dive right in, I’ll have to rinse off all that sand, rewash my hair, wait for it to dry, reapply insect repellent, find a new outfit, clean the one I spoiled, and where do I put my purse with my hotel key and money?

The thing is I still ate the taco that I wasn't sure if I should eat; I still paddled out and wiped out under a wave; I still left my stuff in a place that I'll never be 100% sure is safe. I still do the things that I love to do, but it comes with extra baggage. Responsibility. Worry. Experience. I can see the progression of time changing me.

Predictions of Future Motherhood

2009-08-11T13:09:00.000-07:00

I spent the last five days visiting my brother, Dalton, who has a three-year-old and one-year-old. Dalton is the nicest person ever, a high school Chemistry teacher, patient and hospitable, and it doesn’t surprise me that these traits have carried with him into fatherhood. During the summers, he is a full-time dad, and he loves it. When my endurance for “playtime” waned, Dalton kept tickling, jumping, cleaning, feeding, giggling, and hugging. Aunty Chellis wanted a nap.

The milieu of parenting books give specific instructions on the proper ways to raise a child, but I’ve always believed that none of that matters. During college, I went through a phase of deconstructing the ways my parents raised us incorrectly. They didn’t teach us Chinese. They didn’t know themselves well enough. They had no money. They had no plan. They didn’t know how to communicate their emotions. And then time passed and I stopped caring about these things. Everyday I appreciate the efforts they’ve put into my life. They tried their best. The details are unimportant

As I’ve observed the ways, my friends and brother have turned into young parents, I am learning that their personalities stay the same. If they were diligent college students, then they parent meticulously to the book. If they were laid back and social, they prioritize “girl’s nights” and “date nights.” If they always thought the grass was greener on the other side, they’ll say, “Can you believe it that I am a parent?”

And this made me wonder: of what I know of myself, how am I going to be as a mother? I prioritize being malleable and a minimalist, because I believe that flexibility makes you more equipped for life’s challenges. This means that my kid is not going to have many toys or clothes, just lots of books. I’ll eventually break down and buy a television, because educational programming for children has raised in quality. But no cable in the house. All shows will be downloadable or bought on a DVD. When I get tired, I’ll use the television as a babysitter crutch, and then feel guilty for not putting in my maximum effort. At a young age, I want my kid enrolled in a bilingual Mandarin school, even if China’s economy crashes and everybody in the worlds speaks English. Extended family will have a strong presence with the goal of grandparents being utilized for permanent day care. I often forget my friends’ and families’ birthdays and already know that I wont be the most detail-oriented mother, but my child will never question my stability and support. I will discipline them with tough love, forcing them to work hard in school and sports, even if they complain. There is a high probability that by the time my kid(s) are teenagers, they will be unruly, wanting to travel, defy rules, push the limits, because they will learn early on the importance of self-expression and making mistakes. Hopefully, this phase will pass and they will emerge into adulthood with more confidence to do something great.

Of course, this all is theoretical, and who knows how I will act when fatigued after work or feeling nostalgic for my independence. I commonly hear young parents explain how they no longer get as much sleep, how hard it is to potty train, or deal with teething, or pay for day care. Young parents like to tell single people how hard parenting truly is. I get it. It’s probably why I am not a parent right now. But one day.

SuperWalmart: an urban girl's culture shock

2009-08-09T08:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I went to the Super Walmart in Aurora, Colorado. As I perused the tall shelves under the bright halogen lights, seeing the same yoghurt and vegetables for 30% cheaper than California, I felt as if I was in a 3rd world country where my dollars stretched further. It also had more variety in each product, like strawberry and peanut butter M&Ms or suntan lotion for babies' faces. It was cleaner, less crowded, cheaper and with more variety.

The Super Walmart made me want to move out of California.

For years, my self-expressive nature has been anti-suburbia, influenced by its negative depiction in the media. For example, in my favorite opening for a show, Weeds, and the movie America Beauty. Urban elitists worry that suburbia threatens their personal expression. If you live in a house, on a block with the same houses, in an area with chain restaurants, then what differentiates you from your neighbor?

My brother lives in Aurora, Colorado, population 300,000, over half the size of Denver. Aurora is the 3rd largest city in Colorado, and has such a large presence that a former mayor wanted to rename the region to the “Denver/Aurora Metropolitan Area.” This was quickly dismissed though because Aurora doesn’t have a central business area and is suburban in character.

This was my third and longest trip in Aurora. Perhaps my mystique of city life and California has faded, because life in Aurora seemed pretty swell. Nobody in Aurora has to worry about finding parking, or sluggish traffic on the 10 West, or hiding all belongings in your old Honda Civic, whose windows have been smashed in three times. Sure, in San Francisco and Los Angeles, where I have lived for the last six years, I have the option of going to the theater, attending readings from famous authors, rocking out at concerts, but how often do I actually do that? Is living in the city worth the 30-40% mark up?

These aren’t questions that I have to answer now since it’s just me. But I understand why suburban life is so great for families. I wish that the houses didn’t all have to look exactly the same, but that’s a small debt to pay for cheaper mortgages, good schools, safer neighborhoods, and more food and toys for your kids.

This brings me to my blog for tomorrow: kids.

A Happy Facebook Birthday

2009-07-24T09:59:00.000-07:00

Yesterday on my 30th birthday, I received: 52 Wall Posts, 12 emails, 9 phone calls, 7 text messages, and 2 cards. Eighty-two birthday greetings total, which is a new personal record. While I would like to say that this has to do with me spending 30 years blessing the life of others, I can credit a single contributor for 82 birthday wishes: Facebook. Long ago, before social networking sites, a girl with a summer birthday wouldn’t always receive acknowledgement. School was out, families were off on summer trips, and my parents never made a big deal about birthdays. But not anymore thanks to Facebook and the little reminder in the corner that doesn’t let a birthday pass. I also contribute to my friends’ wall posts with a “Happy Birfday!” and always pride myself in remembering. But is “remembering” the right feeling?

Despite the overflowing amount of “adoration” flooding towards my virtual and cellular inbox, I spent most of the day alone. I woke up and headed to the Children’s hospital to donate blood, and was turned away for having traveled to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan in the last twelve months. Donating blood on my birthday has been a long-standing tradition—celebrate a little life; give a little life. I was bummed to be turned away for the second year in a row.

Then I decided that I needed a little pick-me up and went to the Best Buy to either buy a cheap laptop (for traveling), air conditioner (my studio is hot) or a car stereo (to connect to my iPod). My brother and mother called so I ended up wandering the rows of Best Buy, and leaving, in typical Chellis-fashion, without having made a purchase.

Half my birthday was over and I hadn’t “treated myself,” or spent any physical time with people. What I wanted to do was take my laptop to my favorite coffee shop, but was told from Leota via Yahoo Messenger that I couldn’t do any work on my 30th. So, I took myself to a matinee of Harry Potter, a mediocre movie, but in a theatre with excellent air conditioning. By 5:00 Elise met up with me; I dragged her to a hip-hop class. I stopped by Jay’s office below the dance studio. Then had dinner with a friend. Mary came by to borrow something. Out of the 82 birthday virtual greetings, I interacted with 4 friends face-to-face.

The most commonly asked question I received yesterday was, “What are you doing for your birthday?” I was embarrassed to say, “nothing.” What’s with all the pressure to “do something?”

But I will end these birthday ruminations on a positive note to spare the “awwws” and “ewwws.” I have much to appreciate this year—my family, my health, my friends, my opportunities. Recapping with friends last week in the Bay Area made me realize that I am in a good place. I am. And thank you, friends, for wishing me a happy birthday, in particular the 3 of you who I had never met.

30 Reasons Why I Am Amazing

2009-07-21T15:46:00.000-07:00

If you look at today’s date and look closely at my passports below, you will notice that I am turning 30 in two days. I keep saying, “I am ready! This is great! My 20s were fabulous!” but in saying that, I can see people doubting my explanation. A person truly confident in turning 30 doesn’t need to explain all the things they have done. People just know, right? So, maybe, I am not super confident with my clock ticking towards immortality. Maybe I look at my mother, who had three children at 28, or at Jonathan Saffron Foer, who published Everything is Illuminated when he was 25, and I wonder why haven’t I done these things yet?

With that said, here is my list of 30 Reasons Why I Am Amazing:

1. My name is Chellis, phonetically pronounced like “police” and “Elise,” not “trellis” or “jealous.
2. I’m 5’10.
3. I can tan.
4. I’ve traveled a lot.
5. I can speak four languages.
6. My family is close and supportive.
7. My friends mean the world to me.
8. I drive a black Civic that has scratches on the right side.
9. When I was in sixth grade, I won a Benton County essay contest titled “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice anywhere.”
10. I was the CVHS prom queen in 1997.
11. I used to swim the 100 yard backstroke under a minute.
12. When my friends visit, they love my air mattress.
13. The other day, in Thai town, I witnessed a car accident and offered to help.
14. I’m not afraid of needles.
15. I have a high pain tolerance.
16. Sometimes my pain tolerance is so high, I don’t know when my body is telling me to rest.
17. I feel bad easily, like when I lose touch with a friend or have to change plans.
18. People, who are close to me, have the power to pressure me into anything because of this guilt.
19. Sometimes when I overbook myself, I am filled with so much guilt, I take a flight to a foreign country and hide.
20. Sometimes I run away from my problems when I travel.
21. I constantly deny that I have problems, because the truth is always harder to face.
22. Like the fact that I’ve had so many break ups, I worry that I will never feel affection towards another person.
23. Or that I have so much to give, I forget to give to myself.
24. Or that I waiver on my stance on being unemployed. On one hand, my writing productivity has made a huge jump, but on the other hand, monetary compensation is a validation of one’s worth.
25. The first time I thought about my parents’ mortality was this year when my father offered to give me their bed after they died. The mere thought of this makes me teary-eyed, which makes me realize that I can be unrealistically sheltered from the world.
26. In 2007, I started writing The Nerve, a memoir that details my time at Kenyon College inflicted with trigeminal neuralgia. I am only halfway through with the book and found writing about my youthful mistakes harder than I ever imagined.
27. After being robbed last year in Costa Rica, and having my car broken into three times, I am surprised every time I go back to my car or apartment to find my belongings untouched. My worry with being robbed goes beyond being just careful. Now I am paranoid in an unhealthy way.
28. I worry the most about my computer getting stolen, and losing The Nerve, which is backed up on an external hard drive that I always keep at a different location.
29. Admitting my insecurities makes me feel more secure in myself, because honesty is the definition of confidence, and appearing overconfident makes a person more susceptible to judgment.
30. And yet, I am overconfident and under confident all at once, a paradox that I assume dissipates with age. Like 30.

Exotic Bolinas

2009-07-17T12:28:00.001-07:00

I am sitting on a long wooden dining table in a house that came out of a fairy tale book. My wonderful hosts, two talented writers, have rented a cabin in Bolinas for the summer, to finish their books. I am amazed by how far I feel from San Francisco, despite being just an hour away. Bolinas residents have torn down the highways signs in an attempt to keep their town reclusive. With only 1,200 residents, Bolinas is the home of artists, surfers, hippies and writers. It's so quiet here, I can hear whenever a car passes. Shhhh...

San Francisco vs. Los Angeles

2009-07-15T12:52:00.000-07:00

When I come to San Francisco, I am often asked, “What do you like about Los Angeles?” I am happier since my move ten months ago, therefore the logic is: I must like LA better. But, truth be told, little of my life has changed since I moved 5.5 hours South. I still write in coffee shops, take regular yoga classes, hang out with friends either by going out for dinner or watching a movie. My habits are the same; I am the same person.

Yet, the NorCal vs. SoCal debate still rages on in my head, because while I am overall happier, I left a lot behind. Unlike most of LA, I did not move down there to get closer to the entertainment industry. In fact I left a strong literary community behind—one that I struggle to match down South. A week in SF passes quickly, because there are too many friends and family members that I want to catch up with and I never have enough time. While walking down Clement or Valencia St, I find myself concocting a love poem to the city: Dear San Francisco, I didn’t leave you, because I stopped loving you. I just had to go.

In LA, I don’t get that familiar, comfortable feeling that welcomes me like SF. I am in perpetual curiosity. For example, last week after a morning at Manhattan beach, I took a detour to Stockton and checked out the Watts Towers, Simon Rodia’s masterpiece sculpture. On July 4th, I listened to the talents of a street performers on Venice Beach, and dipped in a pool in a West Hollywood home. I never know what is going to unfold while I am in LA. The stereotypes of LA are true in that there are subcultures of superficiality, an obsession with being famous, bad traffic, and the tackiness of large signs and commercial businesses. My parents emigrated from Hong Kong through Los Angeles. My grandmother’s grave, which I hadn’t visited in 20 years, is 6.5 miles from my house. I don’t know what it is, but something about the place feels right for me right now.

A close friend of mine, cut me off in mid-conversation this week, and said, “You are a complicated person.”

Old passports

2009-07-12T10:06:00.005-07:00

The Dangerous Life of a Writer

2009-07-11T15:15:00.000-07:00

One day, around 2005, I decided to own it: I’m a writer. Since then, this declaration has impressed few people, especially in LA, a city where aspirations often exceeds one’s capabilities. But I wasn’t saying this to win a popularity contest. I was saying it as a way of committing to a lifestyle, to learning as much as I could about a craft. I was saying it to give myself confidence for all the sacrifices I have made and will make.

Yesterday, I put “Writer” under my occupation on my application for a Peoples of Republic of China visa. My passport is abundant with Chinese visas, from business visas, tourist visas, employment visas, and I didn’t suspect that yesterday, after years of travel between the two countries, that I’d receive any trouble. But, to my dismay, I had suddenly become a risk to the PRC, and my petition for a multi-entry visa was denied. Why?

I had been waiting at the embassy for two hours and it was nearing their hour lunch break. I was helping out my parents who were leaving for Shanghai next week and needed a visa rushed that day. I had planned to go to China in the fall and figured I would get a 24 month, multi-entry visa now to spare myself the future trouble.

This was the conversation that ensued between me and the woman behind the window at the PRC Embassy in San Francisco. A window separated us with an electronic mike that she had to turn on in order for me to hear her. There was a long line of people behind me.

Woman: You are a writer?
Me: Yes.
Woman: What do you write?
Me: I don't write about China.
Woman: You need to explain in this space what you write. (She points to an empty box on the back of the form.)
Me: I’m not very successful.
Woman: Are you a journalist?
Me: Nobody reads my stuff.
Woman: The consulate needs to know when writers travel to china.
Me: You can put me down as “Editor” instead of “Writer?”
Woman: Come back in 2 hours.

(I take the form and fill the blank space: “I write children’s books." Two hours later.)

Woman: The consulate is only permitting you to have a single entry visa.
Me: Serious? Why?
Woman: I do not know.
Me: Am I being denied a multi-entry visa, because I am writer?
Woman: I only work here.
Me: Is this going to happen every time I apply for a visa? What if I resubmit my application?
Woman: If you do, then we must keep your paperwork for our records and show that you have declined the visa.
Me: Some people don't even consider me a real writer.
Woman: Do you want the single entry visa?
Me: OK?
Woman: Pick up your passport on Wednesday.

When I walked away from the embassy, having spent over three hours there, and wasting $130 gratuitously, it dawned on that that was the most attention I’ve ever received for being a writer. Even when I said, “I don’t write about China,” I was nervous, because I do write about China. (***Dear Embassy, if you are reading this, please note that I write about China in a respectful way.)

A part of me likes the idea of writers being dangerous forward thinkers, whose work threatens to light a fire among the masses and cause a wave of passion and opinions. Unfortunately, I don’t live in a time or place like that, and most of my writing either lives in my hard drive or whispers softly on an overcrowded internet highway. I romanticize the readers, who live in strictly censored environments, who, unlike Americans, truly appreciate the written word. Freedom of the press makes us take for granted the influences of literature.

Too much salt in the Salton Sea

2009-07-02T14:42:00.000-07:00

Every Californian, in particular, Southern Californians, needs to see the 2004 documentary Plagues and Pleasures on the Salton Sea.

One statement, made in the film, that resonated with me is that you only need to visit the Salton Sea once to feel sympathy for the place. When I went out there with my buddy Ransom Riggs, two weeks ago, I was overwhelmed by the death and decay--the smell of rot, the fish carcasses, the abandoned homes. I was convinced that the sea was a toxic wasteland. I read that the sea was filled with sewage overflowing from Mexico, a statement that turns out to not be true.

The Salton Sea was caused by a run off of the Colorado River in 1905. The overflow went to the Salton sink, the deepest part of the Imperial Valley and a major area for salt mining. The largest lake in California quickly became as salty as the ocean. In the 1950s, the sea boomed as a major tourist site. But the combination of the desert (not dessert) heat, which could reach up to 120 degrees in the summer, and the sea's salinity increasing by 1% each year, made it difficult for the fish to breath.

Too much salt! That's what was killing all the fish. All the dead fish created high levels of bacteria and when the birds ate the fish, they began to die, too. The local government decided to diverge the clean water from the Colorado river to LA and San Diego instead of wasting it on the Salton Sea and now the water is receding and animal deaths has increased. Politicians want to forget that the Salton Sea even exists. And scientist predict that if the lake evaporates, it will create a huge alkaline dust storm that will completely blanket and destroy Palm Springs.

The problems with the Salton Sea are not easy to fix. A part of me thinks that we should just let it dry up, because the reason the lake can't survive in that climate is because it was never supposed to be there. It's killing millions of fish and thousands of birds every summer. But then what will happen to Palm Spring? With most of the wetland dried up in California, where will the birds go?

More photos from Ransom Riggs:

Palm Springs: Too hot, too handle

2009-06-29T10:19:00.000-07:00

I went to Palm Springs for the weekend and learned that the desert is hot. Like seatbelt burning, energy sucking, shriveled skin by the pool, hot. I woke up early Saturday morning, because it’s the desert and it’s bright, and found myself unable to bear the desert heat by 10 a.m. I am not unfamiliar with the browning affects of the sun, (see Morenas), but this was a whole new scale of heat. All weekend, Palm Springs held a steady 110, cooling into the night to 95. And I wondered: how and why did people create a civilization here?

A Quick History of Palm Springs: For thousands of years, Native Americans made their residence near the canals and hot springs of Palm Spring’s desert, until the Spaniards arrived in the 1800s and nearly wiped out the Indians with the great small pox epidemic of 1862. Mormons arrived to Americanize, Zoning restrictions separated class, Frank Sinatra, Bob Hope, JFK and other Hollywood stars began to vacation in the Coachella Valley, and then boom, here emerged the town of Palm Springs, whose main economy is based on tourism.

Golf courses and resorts with lagoon-shaped pools speckles Palm Springs to create the atmosphere of a “desert oasis.” 42,807 people reside in Palm Springs year round with an upsurge of tourists during the winter, or during events such as the famous Coachella music festival. The hotels used to shut down in July and August, but now remain open, despite the heat. The downtown has all the basic amenities with movie theaters and high-end restaurants.

We have the ability to create communities in extreme temperatures, but at what point is the heat too much? According to the Department of Health there were 8,015 heat related deaths in the United States between 1979-2003, which was more than hurricanes, lightning, tornadoes, floods, and earthquakes combined. In fact, two days ago, hundreds of cattle died due to extreme heat in Nebraska.

Over the weekend, I kept saying, “This heat is killing me,” which turns out is not an exaggeration. This is not to say that I didn’t enjoy Palm Springs this weekend. How could I not staying in a resort, perusing restaurants, sitting by the pool with a good book? But if you’re planning to head to Palm Springs for the weekend, I have just two words for you: Winter Time.

Michael Jackson RIP

2009-06-26T13:32:00.000-07:00

Over the years, MJ’s fall from grace has turned him into a tabloid star, Wacko Jacko, not the King of Pop. But since the news of his mysterious death unfolded, the perception of him has changed to the positive. It’s easy to criticize a man when he’s going through struggles, but hard not to revere him after he passed away.

And this is the exact reason why I can’t stop thinking about him. MJ’s talents, challenges, insecurities, and solitary death are a reflection of our worse fears on mortality. MJ deserves the super-stardom that he received, with musical and dance talents that defined decades of entertainment. He had a dance style all his own, and a voice that went high and low with lyrics that moved the masses. He has been an iconic pop star my entire life, dancing with Diana Ross and Britney Spears, and his music will live on even after I am long gone.

Michael Jackson was a star. His fans created him and they destroyed him. And the argument made when celebrities complain about fame, “it’s their choice to be famous,” can’t be made with MJ, who was thrust into the spotlight as a child in Jackson 5. His evolving face, from a handsome young man to a pale mold, can only be accredited to his growing insecurities. Michael was just too sensitive. I wish things had been different.

I, like many others my age, have been affected by the loss of a great man. I hope that now that he is gone, we will only remember him fondly.

Also, check out these dance moves! The guy dances like he’s on ice.
Moonwalk

With Diana Ross

With Britney Spears

More Pandas

2009-06-23T15:57:00.001-07:00

This is just too cute to not post:

Salvation Mountain

2009-06-22T10:25:00.001-07:00

I was about to write a blog about Salvation Mountain, but I like Ransom Riggs' blog better. Here are some of his super-rockin' photos:

Pandas: More than just a cute face

2009-06-21T22:45:00.001-07:00

There are approximately 2,000 pandas in the world, and this year, I have seen four—two in Hong Kong and two in San Diego. That’s .2% of the Panda population, which I can proudly say has been graced by my presence.

I find this 2009 personal fact odd, considering, and my apologies to Jenny, I don’t like zoos. I don’t like cages and I don’t like gross tourism, so logically, I don’t like it when animals behind bars get their pictures taken by middle-aged men in Hawaiian shirts and a sun visor. I understand that conservation is the San Diego Zoo’s top priority, and there are some animals so extinct that they don’t even live in the wild. But. Their cages look like prisons.

I can’t blame my friend Jenny, who I have known for fifteen years and have visited in Hawaii, Wales, Oregon and now, San Diego, for wanting to go to the zoo, because I was the one who suggested the idea. She was hoping to recreate a childhood experiences; I was hoping to get over my issue with creatures in cages. Not sure if that happened, but, at least, I got to see my favorite animal in the world: the panda.

Here are some interesting stories about pandas:
* Panda Diplomacy: Ever since the Tang Dynasty in 625, Pandas, who only exist in central China, have been given to other countries for diplomatic purposes. Between 1958 to 1982, China gave 23 pandas to nine different countries, most famously when Mao Zedong gave two pandas to Richard Nixon. Since 1994, pandas are only loaned to other countries for the hefty fee of up to $1,000,000 a year.

* Panda hugs: Early last year, a 20-year-old student in China was mauled by a Panda after climbing into a panda cage to give it a hug.

* Panda Porn: In Thailand, animal keepers have been able to boost the population by showing pandas, who are normally poor breeders, footage of other pandas procreating.

* Panda Fashion: Here is clip of an adorably strong panda unafraid to beat up a tourist for a jean jacket:

* Panda Dog: This is what happens when a panda fan gives her dog a make over:

Love, Loneliness and Joshua Trees

2009-06-19T13:23:00.000-07:00

The first time I had heard of Joshua Tree is during Season 2 of Friends when Rachel, unable to forgive Ross, looks out her window, into the rain, with U2’s “With or Without You” speaking the words of her broken heart. It was so damn romantic my little high school heart pitter-pattered for passion.

Skip ahead fifteen years, and I’m taking a trip to Joshua Tree’s National park, the inspiration behind U2’s album, and thinking back on that scene with Ross, Rachel, and the younger version of myself filled with romantic ideals.

The Joshua tree, or Yucca brevifolia, is native to Southwest North America with a long root system that enables the tree to live in the harsh, dry climates of the desert. Due to the tree’s lack of growth rings, it’s difficult to determine the tree’s actual age, but if they can survive the desert, they can live for hundreds, sometimes thousands of years. Joshua trees, because of their long roots, live spaced out from one another. Their “cactus-like” tops don’t reach towards their neighbors, but stretch like fingers towards the sky. Joshua Trees are the most independent and sturdy of trees, who live for years and years. All alone.

In fact, the Joshua Tree is the antithesis of romance. Who wants to spend thousands of years with roots, like arms, pushing life away?

As I stood in the Mojave desert, surrounded by Joshua Trees, thinking these thoughts on companionship, existentialism, and Jennifer Aniston, I become lost in the beauty of the desert. This issue of independence and compromise has been a common topic among my girlfriends, who whether single, engaged, married, or divorced, strive to find deeper meaning in their lives. Heavy stuff. But I was thousands of miles away from my urban Los Angeles studio. In this desert, the simplicity of the beige dirt, blue skies, smooth boulders, and lone trees filled me with a meditative balance. If I held my breath, all I heard were birds. And if I thought real hard, I could remember the lyrics of that damn romantic U2 song:

See the stone set in your eyes
See the thorn twist in your side
I wait for you

Sleight of hand and twist of fate
On a bed
of nails she makes me wait
And I wait without you.

The End of the World

2009-06-18T12:46:00.000-07:00

Metric’s lead singer Emily Haines said, while dancing the hipster two-step, that “post-apocalyptic was the theme of our generation.” Certainly there is truth to this in the movies (alien invasions, mutant uprisings, giant tsunamis), and in the news (swine flu, ice caps melting, deteriorating ozone, resources depleting), and in literature (Pulitzer prize winning novel, The Road.) Why are we obsessed with the destruction of civilization? And why now?

Recently, I went on an adventure with my writer/director/photographer buddy Ransom Riggs. We drove 560 miles in one day to the Salton Sea, Salvation Mountain and up through Joshua Tree. Adventures can be had traveling over vas oceans and they can also be found within driving distance from your home. When Ransom described the Salton Sea as “post-apocalyptic,” bells rang off in my head. What does a place look like after the end of human existence?

We embarked on our trip at the pre-civilized hour of 5:30 and headed East towards the desert. The road led us between the towering structures of the Riverside windmills, which speckled the mountain skyline moving with graceful rotations. The alien-like objects foreshadowed our surreal adventure, where at any moment I expected zombies to jump out of abandoned buildings, and mountains that looked like people to reach up and stretch their arms.Our anticipation for the Salton Sea were met as soon as we entered the park. We came across a run-down resort with an empty pool. All doors were opened. Graffiti colored the free space with meanings that held an unusual weight: “Don’t trust that bitch,” “God is love,” “The end is near.” Walking towards the Salton Sea edge, I was struck by how huge the body of water was. There were mountains along the edge, water that was blue and expansive. A lone man, clean-shaven walked by with his dogs and a coffee mug in hand. This image was almost normal until Ransom said, “look down.” My foot was on a pile of tilapia, belly up. The entire shore was covered with fish carcasses in varying stages of decay, including fresh deaths floating along the surface of the water.
When we pulled away from the resort, we passed the same man with the dogs crossing the railroad tracks. He was the only person we would see for miles.

Death was everywhere. In the air. In the trailers with no wheels or walls. In the lifeless animals that never stood a chance. How did the largest lake in California (376 sq mi) get this contaminated? Theories emerge that it wasn’t just one thing that destroyed the Salton Sea—Mexican sewage refuse, industrial dumping, and the lack of an outflow of the lake means that changes, such as salinity content and floods, occur at an accelerated pace. Bacteria levels due to massive fish die offs have affected the bird population. And despite discouraging people to fish, we saw three fisherman.

The Salton Sea, in its former glory, was pushed as a major tourist attraction for water sports and fishing, but now, I can’t imagine a vacationer picking the sea for its “natural beauty.” We messed up. Big time. Everything about the place reminded me of my own mortality. When one thing falls apart, like the toxicity of a sea, a whole world can be destroyed. The abandoned buildings occurred within my lifetime. And people, in those earlier days, who built their dream homes along the water and invested their life savings for a diner, never could’ve foresaw that in a few decades, the sea would murder all life.

This is why our generation is obsessed with “post-apocalyptic” themes. Because we are aware that, at any moment, the rugs under our lives can be yanked from under us. We want to be prepared, in our imaginations, for the worse, because we have so little control of our environment.

For more, from my travel companion in crime, Ransom Rigg’s Mental Floss blog on Salton Sea. And amazing pics.

NEW Blog

2009-05-15T12:50:00.000-07:00

I have decided once again to resurrect the blog (formally Gypsy Queen, Saturn's Return), which was created in spring 2008 to detail my overseas adventures. But then I moved to LA and signed a lease. I'm settled. Is my life blog-worthy? And my answer is: is anybody's? I may not be traveling from country to country, but my wandering restless nature hasn't stopped moving. With that said, the blog lives on in a new form. Less passport stamps, more LA-centric, but the same uncertain, self-deprecating, overly analytical me.

Getting Hungry at 826LA

2009-05-15T11:33:00.000-07:00

Photo taken from Caroline on Crack, an insightful blog on events around LA.

Despite having eaten dinner prior to 826LA’s panel on Food Writing, I left the session ravenous. Right of the bat, Jonathan Gold, the only Pulitzer Prize winner in Food Writing, said, “I remember being freaked out the first time I had a meal that cost $1,200, but it’s part of the job,” thus appealing to an entire room’s editorial and gastrointestinal fantasies. Who wouldn’t love that?

At the beginning of the session, this dream of pre-paid succulent meals and exotic travel sounded highly accessible. These were all normal creative people, who loved to eat, just like me, right? But then they began telling their stories about how they landed jobs at Bon Appetite, LA Times, LA Weekly, about how new media was threatening traditional journalism and about how everybody had a food blog these days, and I began to see that this panel was exceptional.

For ninety minutes we talked about food politics, culinary authenticity, food writing clichés, the relationship between food writing and cooking, the culture behind meals, and I learned that in order to become a food writer, one must be obsessed with food. They didn’t just know the best restaurants in town, they knew the best places to buy local produce, what ingredients grew in which parts of the world, and the relationship between different flavors with one another. And they knew how to write about all of this in an accessible way.

One of my favorite moments in the workshop was when someone asked Jonathan if he took notes in a restaurant, and he said that he didn’t take any photos or notes because he had a unique food memory. He said that in order to enjoy a meal, you have to experience it in the moment. Gold said, “If you scribble down notes, you can see the trees but the forest is far far away. You can only experience it while you’re experiencing it. It'd be like taking notes while having sex.”

As with all one-day seminars on a specific genre of writing, I find that aspiring writers come with the goal of uncovering “the secret.” Novelists want to know how to structure their book. Memoirists want to know how they can overcome their personal truths. And food writers want to know how they can write and eat good food, too. With every seminar, the conclusion is always the same: Follow your voice; stay determined. And this is advice you can never hear enough of.

The Writing About Food seminar was held at 826LA East in Echo Park, tucked behind the Time Mart like a little secret. 826 is a national, non-profit organization established by Dave Eggers, that provides free tutoring for students ages 6-18. Besides drop-in tutoring, 826 holds a number of literary events to raise money and promote the arts, such as last week’s Away We Go premier and the LA Beer and Craft Fest.

Tijuana: a place of chaos, fear, and hope

2009-03-02T11:07:00.000-08:00

When I told people that I was going to Tijuana for the weekend, the first response was, "Be careful." The Department of State released a travel warning on crossing the U.S.-Mexican border. Tijuana is the busiest border in the world with 300,000 people crossing the border every day. It's also the fastest growing city in North America with 80,000 people moving there annually. The combination of Mexican corruption and the U.S. being the highest consumer of recreational drugs makes Tijuana a crime rampant city--drug and human trafficking, rape, kidnapping, murder. Within the last year tourism has dropped 50-60%. In 2008 alone, there were 843 reported murders.

My mom asked me a simple question: "Why are you going there?" I went to Tijuana with Mosaic, a faith based organization that promotes global awareness. We were there to volunteer in an orphanage and be of service to the local community. Despite being agnostic, the only one, I felt relaxed among the other volunteers. Nobody pressured me about my faith. Nobody tried to convert me. In all honesty, the spiritual atmosphere was comforting. I wasn't networking. I wasn't trying to impress anybody. I was among caring people, who were working hard just to do good.

That's the thing about stereotypical liberals, which I could be classified among. We assume that devout Christians have ulterior motives when helping others. Except as with liberals, as with conservatives, as with Muslims and Christians, there is range of intentions and actions. There is something to be said about actually going to a place and doing something. That is what impressed me about Mosaic.

Los Angeles to Tijuana takes two and half hours, but factoring in traffic, border crossing, bathroom breaks, obtaining Mexican car insurance, it took us 4-5. I have always found borders fascinating. From my experience, crossing a border is more administrative trouble, but the landscape, the city, the people remains, in general, the same. For example, along the Tibetan border, all the people speak Tibetan. Or between the Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan border, there are the same dry mountains. In this case, the world changed in a snap. Vendors spilled into the roads selling ice scream, porn, masks, churros, gum, newspapers, fruit juice. And the roads were speckled with pot holes and mud puddles that went as high as the car door. Even the dirt seemed more dry.

When we arrived, we headed to a youth center to serve pancakes and make lion masks out of lunch bags. In the afternoon, we cleaned and painted a church. We played basketball, soccer, and games with the local families, then served hot dogs and chips while the locals watched A Cinderella Story. (Yes, Hilary Duff.) We made a late night run to the most delicious taco stand, and by then we were all exhausted, having woken up at 5 and having worked all day on our feet. We slept, 15 of us in one room, on the tile floor of the church. We woke up early and headed to the orphanage.

The orphanage is located on a hill that faces North overlooking the U.S. Border. There are 44 children who live there, ranging from age 2 to 16. The orphanage has to be selective of its visitors, because Americans often come down to Tijuana, especially around Christmas, to give money and gifts to the children. The most startling contrast I saw was a dilapidated building surrounded by weeds and dirt roads, and a teenage girl listening to her Ipod nano. When we left, a 5-year-old-girl looked up at me and asked, "¿Tienes un regalo para mí?" Do you have a gift for me? And a little boy said in perfect English, "Give me a dollar please."

I'm not an idiot. I know that despite all my efforts to do good this weekend, I had no affect on Tijuana's youth. Mosaic plans to go to Tijuana every month to establish relationships with the children, and I think that is awesome. Projects like these tread with so much uncertainty, but the group's ambition to affect change makes it difficult not to feel hopeful.

I know so little about Tijuana's future, but I do know that my perspective of our Southern neighbor has changed. I believe that Tijuana is more of a reflection of the U.S. than it is of Mexican culture. We are the reason why Tijuana is so violent. We are the reason why children beg us for money. We all know that our economic prowess comes with side affects, and that's why we feel guilty, which doesn't always help the problem. I believe that Tijuana will be a safe and healthy place one day, because in believing that, I am believing the same for America.

Hong Kong

2009-01-27T13:28:00.000-08:00

Hong Kong is like Trader Joes during the busy hours: buying a 12 pack of toilet paper requires elbowing, waiting in line, and inevitably leaves you exhausted. To say that I came back tired sounds like I am the world biggest wuss, because what exactly did I do? I went to Ocean Park and saw pandas, dolphins, jelly fish and rode roller coaster rides. I visited Asia's largest Buddha in Hong Kong, and sat in long cable cars that wove in between mountains. I shopped in sophisticated malls and bargained in street markets. And, I ate, overate, than ate some more.

I've been to all of the tourist sites in Hong Kong before--I've seen the Peak more times than I've gone to Alcatraz--but we were in the important position of playing host to Polina, my sister-in-law, and Marina, her mother who was visiting from Kyrgyzstan. My brother was introducing his new wife to the family. This may sound like a simple task, but in my family, nothing is simple. My father has 7 sisters and 4 brothers, and including spouses and children, a family gathering can be up to 40 people.

Unlike my Hong Kong cousins, my exposure to aunts, uncles, and grandparents were infrequent, which is why upon graduating from college, I moved to Guangzhou. I was drawn to the intimacy of kin. Even now, after becoming more acquainted, I find it incredibly cool to have five generations in one room (great grandmother, grandmother, father, me, cousin's children.)
I went to Hong Kong not expecting anything new--same food, same super fun cousins, same loud spoken aunts, same HK sites, but, to my surprise, I learned something. Much of this has to do with my Third Uncle, a retired principle and walking encyclopedia, who revisited old sites with us. For example, I learned about Taoism.

When I go to Hong Kong, I pay respects to my grandfather. He has a home on a steep hill that overlooks the ocean. We bring him pork, rice, and pastries, and burn incense and paper lined with gold. We take turns Kowtowing to his grave three times. Then we pack up the food and leave. I've done this countless times before, but always just followed the rules being told to me.

Enter super-smart Third Uncle with an explanation. He explained that once the food and drinks upon the tablet have been consumed by the ghost, it is edible for humans, but not for other ghosts. Money is placed on top of the tablet, and incense is burned behind the grave to protect the ancestor from other neighboring ghosts. The paper lined with gold is money burned for the ancestor to use in the afterlife.

My family is full of computer scientists and engineers, and I wonder if they actually believe in ghosts. I do know that there is something calming and respectful about paying respect to my ancestors. I agree: "These rituals may vary in different places, but their purpose is the same, i.e. to practice filial piety, bring security to the family, and help people to get rid of the psychological fear of death." 1

So, I am pooped. All those people on the streets. All those HK tourists sites. All that learning. All that eating. All that family to catch up with. I wouldn't describe my week in Hong Kong as a vacation. Time off from work should be spent on the beach with a book, but I also wouldn't have missed it for the world.

VP Tour Guide

2009-01-20T16:25:00.000-08:00

I had intentions to post more regularly on themes that I often contemplate while here: urbanization vs. ruralism, modernity vs. tradition, East vs. West, youth vs. maturity, but this has been the busiest trip ever. Moments to myself have been rare and my exhaustion is at an all time high. There are 10 people and 2 maids living in one apartment, and I am sleeping on the floor in my parent's bedroom. Usually this sort of accommodation would bother me, but I've been sleeping with incredible success despite the noise and distractions.

I missed Obama's speech last night, but not without trying. I was curled up on the floor with my laptop and NPR.org, heard about the hypothermia in the crowds, and then woke up to old ladies shouting in Cantonese.

Hong Kong, ahoy

2009-01-18T05:57:00.000-08:00

Welcome back to my travel blog, which is making a one-week cameo performance for my trip to Hong Kong.

Yay. Woohoo. Hello again, World!

All right, I confess to feigning enthusiasm. I just woke up from three-hour nap, which is all I’ve slept in two nights. I left Los Angeles on Friday night and arrived in Hong Kong Sunday morning. I took the train to my grandmother’s house. Ate three mini-bananas. Went for a run in the park. Carried groceries for dinner at the wet market. Ate dim-sum with 39 family members. Then napped back at my grandmother’s house. I was awoken just now to the clicking and clacking of mah jong tiles, a familiar sound that will always make me think of family.

Hong Kong is the one place that is novel, yet familiar. I am on a trip and yet I also I am also coming back home. I’ve never officially lived here, but when I arrive, I don’t use a map to get to Kowloon, or exchange money at the airport, and no matter how many years pass, I can’t forget my grandmother’s home number.

I haven’t uploaded any pictures yet, but here is an old one, but a goody. If you look closely, you can find me, seven-years-old, sitting in the center, wearing a former ballet recital pink tutu, and sporting a home perm. Some things don’t change.

"This is it"

2008-08-28T14:01:00.001-07:00

Although there are many adventures to be had, this is my last post for this travel blog. Loyal fans (aka. Mom), do not fear, the writing will continue. Just not in a travel blog form.

Some recaps:

Antigua, Guatemala: I spent a month here learning Spanish 7 hours a day and living with a host family
Colon, Costa Rica: I spent a month at the Julia and David Artist colony and wrote around 100 pages in my book
Santa Teresa, Costa Rica: I surfed, did yoga, hung out with my buddy Abeer, and learned, the hard way, what happens when you get robbed
Vancouver, Canada: Amy and Adam's wedding
Seattle: Laughed it up with Andrew and Nicole
San Francisco: Wrote and recouped in the world's best city
Philadelphia: Aaron and Betty's wedding
New York: Caught up with old friends
Baltimore: Ate crab and reminisced about Guam
Charlottesville, Virginia: Hung out with my best of buddies, Catherine Rice (and hubby Peter)
Dublin, Ireland: Intruded on the Roderick honeymoon
Cardiff, Wales: Learned about rocks and Wales from Jenny, the geologist
Kazakhstan/Kyrgyzstan: Spent ten days in Central America meeting my sister-in-laws family and attending my brother's wedding
Brussels, Belgium: Toured the EU capital with Monique
Manchester: Visited my Aunt
London: Explored the sites with my favorite cousin

A friend recently asked me, "Will you be bored staying in one place?" It's a valid question, and my answer is, "no." When I left for my trips, I was filled with a restlessness. Astrologists call it Saturn's return. Elders refer to it as a quarter life crisis. All I knew was that I had many options. Too many. And I didn't want to blink my eyes and have another year pass.

The conclusion of my trips occurs naturally. I feel ready to move forward in my career, my relationships, my writing goals. I appreciate all of the experiences that I had, and seeing many of my friends who live far away. My deepest thanks goes out to my many hosts: mom, dad, Catherine, Tom, Levin, Aston, Polina, Amy, Adam, Andrew, Nicole, Beth, Tony, Catherine, Pete, Danielle, Gino, Rachel, David, Jenny, Hobart, Deborah, Monique, Abeer, Zarrin, Aaron, Betty, Mark, Brian, my aunt Catherine and others.

Before this turns into a long winded Oscar speech, let me conclude with two quotes I abide my life by:

"If you want to write, find something to write about." D.L.
"Without struggle, there can be no progress." Frederick Douglass

And if you have time, like I had recently in the Vancouver airport, check out the New Yorker's Louise Erdrich reading of Lorrie Moore’s short story “Dance in America."

This is it.

More Photos around London

2008-08-28T13:42:00.000-07:00

At a whopping five days, London turned out to be the place I spent the most time at. My gracious hosts spent nearly all their time entertaining me, between seeing the sites, pumping up at the gym, watching the Olympics, eating local delicacies, and attending the theater, my London trip was full of fun and meaningful experiences.

Standing tall and proud in front of the British Parliament.

Does this phone work?

Here we are getting ready for the theater....

Check out these break dance moves! I LOVE street performers, and London proved to have some of the finest. The silver statues were a bit weak, but these break dancers held their weight.

Bishkek Trajedy

2008-08-24T12:33:00.000-07:00

A plane went down in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan killing 71 people. I saw a brief report of this, a ticker on the bottom of the screen, while working out in a London gym. The economic contrast of being in a fully-equipt, British gym and the memories of Bishkek's Soviet simplicity felt oddly surreal. The world is a small place, yet so vastly diverse.

My best wishes goes out to the families of the victims.

Long live the Queen

2008-08-23T17:45:00.000-07:00

Here are some pictures with Hobart, Deborah and I out-and-about in London.

Eating fish and chips... yummy (surprisingly).

Looking tough along River Thames.

Eating tapas, and looking colonial. Atleast, the picture does.

Here we are humming a famous British tune in front of Westminster (not Westminister) Abbey.

Pictures from Brussels

2008-08-22T02:11:00.000-07:00

I am off to a London Yoga class, but my biggest fan (my mother) remarked that I haven't been updating my blog recently. This is true.

Unfortunately, I have fallen ill the last few days, again, but am feeling better and am in good hands in the UK. I am even going to gather my strength for a yoga class, and then see how I feel from there. Here are some pictures from Belgium:

Eating Thai food with Tim (surfer, Australian friend I met in Costa Rica), Monique (former roommate from San Francisco), and Beatrice (Monique's French friend.)

My Sacrifice to the Travel Gods

2008-08-18T04:45:00.000-07:00

Bonjour everybody. I have been waiting for this day for a month now, and it includes an entire day of pajama-wearing, reading and writing. I am in Brussels, visiting my former roommate, brilliant linguist, and human rights extroidanaire, Monique.

When I arrived, we walked around the city, saw a flowers festival in the square, cartoon drawings on walls, a photo exhibit in an old building. After spending the last 10 days in a former Soviet country, I am overwhelmed by the beauty of Brussels' architecture. Brussels, although the EU capital, isn't considered one of the elite Europeans cities, such as Paris, Amsterdam, Rome, London, etc, but it's beautiful and unique, and if you know anything about me, I prefer things less flashy.

This desire for the less flashy would explain my excitement to visit Kyrgyzstan. Wow, Kyrgyzstan. How do you even spell that? I had to turn up my fearlessness, because I was with my parents, and I wanted them to think that they were in good hands. Me. Super traveler. Afraid of nothing new. I can negotiate you a cab, get a good rate, find a skilled driver, all while using a Russian pocket phrase book. For the most part, I felt that I did my job, except during my final days at Issykul lake.

I went to bed that night, looking forward to going for a long swim when the sun came out. We had been watching the Olympics on Russian TV, and I had contracted the Phelp's craze. (Phelpsian = to achieve greatness and perfection.) I didn't think that anything was out of the ordinary when I went to bed, but when I woke up at 3 a.m. to debilitating stomach cramps, I questioned my ability for survival.

Now, I am familiar with with the "spicy intestines," or travel bug. Diarrhea and I have been close travel buddies all through Asia and Central America. But this was no ordinary sacrifice to the travel gods. The cramps were severe. Pain struck me every five minutes. I laid in bed perspiring and exhausted. My parents in the room next to mine heard my middle-of-the-night moanings and came out to see how they could help. I was given medicine, which I quickly threw up, and told to poop in a way that only parents who have wiped my poop before could encourage.

For the next 48 hours, the parents I tried to stay strong for during our travels, fed me oatmeal, served me water, and nurtured me back to health while I laid in bed. I can act tough many/most of the time, yet the role reversal nearing the age of 30 was a refreshing change.

Another change in me is that I feel ready to go home. I don't regret any of the places I've been, or how much of my savings I've dipped into, or taking time for myself and to visit friends. No other word can describe the last six months than "amazing." But, this last month, I've moved to a new place every 1-3 days. (Philadelphia, New York, Baltimore, Charlottesville, Dublin, Cardiff, Manchester, Tokmak, Bishkek, Issykul, Almaty, Manchester, London, Brussels.) That's not how I usually like to travel, and if I had a choice, I would travel like I had in Central America, with a month in a place to really learn the language and get to know locals. When I break down all the time, I've spent on taxis, busses, trains, and planes, it would equal more time then 30% of my trip. Isn't it time for me to unpack?

Far away stories

2008-08-15T11:09:00.000-07:00

I am alive and well, but exhausted. During my ten days in Kyrgyzstan, I had very limited access to the Internet, but I am in England now and am comforted by Western amenities. (Hot showers, soft toilet paper, English signs, McDonalds' arches, lines on the road, regulated taxi companies, using a monetary currency that people want, etc.)

I am too lazy to write more, so here are some pictures from the trip. Good times.

Here are the Milikinas and Yings at the wedding reception on 08/08/08.

Here we are hiking to a waterfall after overeating at a picnic.

Lounging by Issykul Lake on the last day.

The worse part about being far away from home this month is that I felt like I should have been in Colorado to meet my new nephew, Jamison. Congrats Dalton and Amanda! We missed you guys and Jamison looks exactly like Dalton when he was a baby.

Ireland and Wales pictures

2008-08-02T10:09:00.001-07:00

Here is Jenny and I at Eisteddfod, a Welsh festival that began in 1176 to promote nationalism and the Welsh language. Here we are at Cardiff Bay eating ice cream, showing off our toothy grins.

Look at Jenny reaching for Wales from the U.S. at the Millennium stadium. Good little expat.

Here is David, Rachel and I on the Ireland coast, walking along the water and chatting about American consumerism.

Here is Rachel and I looking fit along the Dublin river. The next morning she dragged me out to to this same spot for an urban run. I must be overseas.

Whaling for Wales

2008-08-01T16:25:00.001-07:00

What is there to say about Wales, the United Kingdom's least known country? When I first arrived, I struggled with the rain, especially since my wardrobe was customized towards Central Asia's 110 degree weather. I had to borrow clothes from Jenny, who is nearly a foot shorter than me. Needless to say, she lent me her umbrella.

Today though, the weather let up and we walked down to the Cardiff Bay. Jenny not only guided me through one of the UK's great coastal cities, but also through New York Times crossword puzzles, which had dictated the emotions of my day. In the morning, we nailed a puzzle and we were feeling pretty good about ourselves, but in the afternoon, we got stuck on, "An early sign for summer," (virgo) and I felt intellectually incompetent.

As far as Wales, (it is late, so pardon my truncated list):

- Although Welsh is written with romanized letters, the words don't appear to make phonetic sense. For example, "how are you?" is "Sut ydych chi?" (No joke.)
- Wales is the smallest country in the United Kingdom, 8000 sq miles and 3 million people.
- Wales is a musical place, and I am trying to convince Jenny to join a choir.
- When I speak, with my slurrish, bland, American accent, 9 out of 10 times a local will ask me to repeat what I said.
- There's a castle in downtown Cardiff next to a temporary carnival on the University of Wales campus.
- "Lost" doesn't stream outside the U.S.
- British book covers are better, in my opinion, than American books. (I perused a British Barnes and Nobles.)
- While on the bus into the city from the airport, I saw the construction site for a new Costco and Walmart.
- Madonna launched her summer musical tour in Cardiff.
- Famous children's author Roald Dahl is Welsh.
- Welsh toilets don't flush unless you press the handle very hard.
- A famous Welsh dish is called "faggots and peas."

Rain, rain, go away

2008-07-31T07:54:00.000-07:00

The day before I left, I asked myself: Will I need a rain jacket?

I answered, Nah, Bishkek is 110 degrees.

And now, as I sit on Jenny's computer in Cardiff, Wales, still damp from my walk over from the bus station, I am cursing myself for being unprepared. I packed light, (7 days of clothes and a wedding dress), but what do I do now that all my clothes are wet?

Unprepared would be the best way to explain my trip so far. For example:

1. The Euro/Pound to Dollar exchange: Last time I lived in Europe in 2003, the Euro to dollar ratio was 1 to 1. And now it's 1.6 to 1! I exchanged $100 at the airport and actually stopped the guy and said that he made a mistake. Now I understand how most people in the world feel when they go to the US to travel. Our money is worth so little here.

2. Ireland and Wales have rain in the summer: As an Oregonian and a swimmer, I've always considered myself someone with a high tolerance for water. But SF must have made me soft, because the weather here is ridiculous. Rain, rain, cloudy skies. All of the time. I've been re-wearing the warmest clothes I own for the last 4 days.

3. Public transportation is slow: Mentally, I break down each trip to the actual travel time. For example, I think Dublin to Cardiff is close, because the flight is only 65 minutes. I forget that the trip will take much longer. I have to walk to the Dublin bus station, wait for the bus, get my ticket, wait for the airplane (which was late), fly, get my bags, find the Cardiff bus stop, wait for the bus, sit on the bus, get off the bus, figure out where I am, and walk in the rain. From door-to-door, the trip took me 5 hrs. When I had planned all of these European trips to visit friends, I kept thinking that everything was close. Silly me.

4. GBP: GBP = Great Britain Pound and looks like a squiggly L with a line through it Why didn't someone tell me this before? Crossing between Euros and Pounds has been a surprising challenge for this Creative Writing major who never took an economics class. I accidentally inserted a Pound in an Irish train ticket machine, which David had to fish out with another coin. Did I commit the worse cultural faux pas, to use the one currency Ireland is trying to disassociate from?

Despite the rain and currency complications, I am glad to be here. The Rodericks were great hosts in Dublin. We listened to Irish music in a traditional pub, went to the National Cultural Museum, taste-tested Guinness from the brewery, and had inspiring chats about writing and travel. And now I am in Cardiff, visiting Jenny, an old, dear friend from Corvallis. Oddly, this is the third time, I’ve visited Jenny while she was working in a lab—Eugene, Hawaii and Wales.

Luck of the Irish

2008-07-29T09:46:00.000-07:00

Traveling has taught me of the fluidity of itineraries. I can plan and schedule with great detail for days, weeks, or in this case, months, but when it comes to the actual travel time, unforeseeable events just happen.

For example, on my way to Dublin to visit David and Rachel (friends from San Francisco), I booked two separate tickets-- from Washington DC to London Heathrow and London Stansted to Dublin, Ireland. I assumed that five hours in between flights would be sufficient time since it takes 70 minutes by bus between the two London airports. I get to London easily, my luggage arrives, my spirits are up, and I book a ticket for the 7:40 a.m. bus to Stansted, leaving plenty of time for my 11:15 flight. But the bus never arrives. It has broken down. The next bus would get me into Stansted at 10:30, which would mean that all of the stars would have to align for me to make my flight. When the bus arrive in Stansted, a Polish woman I befriended, says, "Run and you may make it!"

I grab my pack off the bus, knocking over a suitcase, and take off running towards the airport. It is 10:30 exactly, and I think, as I pump my arms back and forth, leaning forward as my large pack weighs on my shoulders, that maybe I will actually make it. I get to the tunnel and the security guard stops me. He says that that there is a fire drill and nobody is allowed in or out of the airport.

Needless to say, I miss my flight. I am forced to spend 50 pounds on a new flight that leaves at 12. And even then, as I am going through security, the checker says, "You better run." I had watched "Run Fatboy Run" on the flight over and couldn't help but think that everybody in Europe ran unnecessarily. As soon as I passed the lines, I took off sprinting. I had a Hollywood moment, dodging old ladies and jumping over small children on my way to Gate 58, which is, of course, the furthest gate from the entrance. I arrived barely in time for my flight, and eventually, nearly 24 hours since I left Charlottesville, Virginia, made it to David and Rachel's apartment.

There was a blurry moment before I arrived at the apartment, that I was by myself, falling in and out of sleep, unaware that I was in Ireland, and seeing hallucinations of my dreams walk onto the bus. I saw an unwed friend with a baby, an exboyfriend making out with an old man, a version of me in as a little girl in a swim suit. I asked the passenger next to me if he knew where Trinity College was so that he would wake me before I arrived.

The point of all of this is that traveling is not always glamorous. Embassies don't return passports on time, buses break down, overnight planes ruin sleep patterns, hours pass without showering or eating. By the time I went to bed last night, I had been awake for 30 hours.

On the flip side, today we took the train to the ocean. The sky was surprisingly blue after a night of rain, the breeze chilly but refreshing. We ate fishcakes and calamari, and took a long walk along the water. I could have had a similar day walking along the water in San Francisco, but something about being in Ireland, and knowing how difficult it had been to get here, made the simple moment more pleasurable.

Plus, I heard that the Guinness is better here. Ireland: to be continued...

Tour de friends (with pictures)

2008-07-25T20:52:00.000-07:00

I have the tendency to write in my blog and not post links and pictures. Too lazy. Sigh. So here are some pictures from the last week, which means don't expect any pictures for the next few entries. Also, I have a camera with a lens that flips backwards, hence the multitude of self-taken shots.

Here's a picture of Peter, Catherine and I in Charlottesville, Virginia. Catherine has been my bestest friend since the 6th grade, and that shmuck with the confused look on his face is her new husband, Peter. He claims to be sneaking into my room to read my diary, but I told him that I post all my entries online in a blog. (So, Peter, if you're reading this, yes, I called you a shmuck, and yes, I will use my two-step, round house combo in a fight.)

Here is a picture of me, Danielle, and Catherine in Baltimore, Maryland. We were all Pacific Island Clubmates on Guam in 2002, and have ridiculous stories to share about what girls do immediately after they graduate. Danielle has recently moved back to the US after five years in Japan, and is engaged to a talented photographer, Gino (not pictured here.)

Despite Beth's insistence not to post a picture of her on my blog, I can't help but give her and Tony a shout out for being the best hosts ever, on a Monday and Tuesday nonetheless. Here is a picture of Beth, Tony, Lindsay and I in Manhattan, celebrating the day before my birthday with delicious Chinese food. Beth and I went to Kenyon together, and have been close friends ever since, although we don't get to see each other as much as I would like. Lindsay recently moved to New York from San Francisco, and is finding her way back into busy/exciting NY life. Lindsay and I roamed the streets way too late my last night, but we got lost in interesting conversation. That happens.

Here is a picture of Rochelle, Leota and I on my last night in San Francisco. The three of us met at USF's MFA writing program, five years ago, and have shared countless number of evenings laughing our butts off. During this particular night, we talked about pop culture. That happens, too.

A 29-year-old's blood

2008-07-24T20:02:00.001-07:00

On my birthday, I have a tradition to donate blood--celebrate a year of life, give a year of life. The act reminds me of how much I have to thankful for.

Except this year, in Charlottesville, Virginia, the blood center wouldn't accept me. Apparently, Tikal, Guatemala is a Malaria danger zone, and I have to wait a year since I travelled there for my blood to be worthy. Instead, I watched Catherine (my best friend from age 10), get stabbed and drained on my birthday behalf. Could I be a more intrusive guest?

After Aaron and Betty's wedding, I went to New York for two days to stay with Beth and Tony (Kenyon friends), I caught up with Lindsay (SF friend), and met up with publishers to talk about books. I took the train down from NY on my 29th birthday to spend with Danielle (friend from Guam), Gino (her husband) and Catherine in Baltimore. We drove to Charlottesville this morning to Catherine and Peter's beautiful, country home, and now I am listening to the crickets chirp ridiculously loudly.

Whew.

I have been travelling for a week, but the people and places I've caught up with has been extensive. When we're working, it's hard to take the time to see everyone important in our lives. I feel so blessed to a.) have the time to see people and b.) be filled with so many amazing people in my life.

I may have been overly robbed in the last two months, but there's only so much that others can take.

Gypsy Queen

2008-07-21T20:14:00.000-07:00

Please note that my blog has a new name. The reason for this is because the second portion of my travels consists of different goals. Self-exploration is taking a back seat to meeting up with old friends and spending time with my family. My travels will take me to Philly-NY-Charlottesville-Dublin-Cardiff-Manchester-Almaty-Bishkek-Brussels-London, and with each place, I will be spending time celebrating important relationships.

I was eating sushi with Beth (my amazing older sister from Kenyon) in the Upper West side of Manhattan, explaining the concepts of Saturn’s Return. I told her that I had learned three new skills: Spanish, Salsa and Surfing. As I spoke, it dawned on me how past tense this all seemed. Whatever storm had stirred within me four months ago has been soothed by travel and new skills. I feel calm now.

The term gypsy is inspired by my insightful hair stylist Minerva, who recently high-lighted my hair red and blonde, and insisted that I am a gypsy. At first, I refuted this term, defending myself with, “Do Gypsies use Excel spread sheets to plan a trip?” Although I am away from a traditional office, I have carefully planned each place with a budget in mind, and giving myself time to write. Minerva said that a true Gypsy is someone who doesn’t hold material possession important, and feels the need to follow the winds to a new place. Responsibility and skills are irrelevant. She is right then. I do like how alive my mind feels in a new place, and I do like living simply with just a few things.

So, Gypsy I am (for the next two months at least.)

The Hamiltons

2008-07-20T19:44:00.000-07:00

I am back on the road after 2 weeks of respite and my first stop was Philly for the Betty Ky/ Aaron Hamilton wedding. In my attempt to be economical, I took the most round about way, which consisted of 5 trains, 3 buses, 2 flights and 1 taxi. I left my house at 4:30 p.m. and got to the hotel in Philly at 2: 00 p.m. the following day. I am too old for long voyages like that.

I arrived in Philly to discover that my luggage was lost. I began to question what terrible luck I have been having with my possessions. For the last month, my things just don't want to be with me. I caught Zarrin (the luscious lips above), who brought extra dresses from Boston. What a sweetie. She's been dressing me since 1997, and some things don't change.

Luckily, after calling the airline a few hundred times, my luggage arrived shortly before the wedding. I may have exaggerated the truth and said that "my" wedding dress was in the bag, which must have appeared strange because I am using at backpacker's pack. I haven't used this particular green bag since my exchange student days in 1999, but in Costa Rica, I found myself carrying my suitcase hugged up against my chest on stairways and dirt roads. I decided for Part II of my trip, I would dare to deal with the heavy load on my back. So far, the bag suits me, although I wish that I hadn't brought 5 books. Books are always my main problem. I can't ever cut down.

Despite being tired, I had a blast. I have been looking forward to Aaron and Betty's wedding ever since I found out that they were engaged, and I bought my ticket out East far before I received my invite. Aaron and I go way back. We were friends as freshman in Lewis hall. Aaron welcomed me into his home in Wooster, OH over holidays, because my family was in Oregon and I didn't always have the chance to go home. He was one of the few people who supported me when I was sick, and I knew then, at 18, that he would make an amazing doctor. And look at him now. Aaron graduated at the University of Chicago with an MD and MBA. He met Betty there, also a doctor, and they're both doing their residency in Internal Medicine at U Penn.

Speaking of doctors, the wedding was full of them. Mark and Brian (handsome boys above) were driving down from Boston when they witnessed a car tumble 4 times. Mark and Brian had to pull a woman out of a vehicle and tend to her wounds. The ambulance didn't arrive until 30 minutes later. The patient survived, and the boys were shaken up. Mark is an ER doctor, who tends to emergencies like this all the time, but he felt helpless without his equipment.

If there was a moment to choke on a piece of steak, it would've been at this wedding. With how many doctors there, it wouldn't have even been a risk. I felt so safe.

All in all the wedding was as fun as I had imagined, but I wouldn't expect anything less hanging out with Aaron, Betty, Mark, Brian, Zarrin, Lonnie, Spencer, Bart and the Hamiltons. Good friends are hard to come by and I am blessed with outstanding ones.

Now I am in New York. Rock on.

Eating cake with Sporks

2008-07-15T11:43:00.001-07:00

I haven't posted a picture since my camera broke up with me in CR, but what's a blog without pictures? Here's a picture of Nathan and I eating stale cake with little sporks. Photo credit: Alika Tanaka Yarnell.

Shattered Glass

2008-07-15T10:09:00.000-07:00

I must have offended a robber in a past life, because last night, out at my favorite Eritrean restaurant, Assab, in my favorite, safe neighborhood in San Francisco, Inner Richmond, on one of the busiest streets in town, Geary, during safe-respectable hours, 6:30-8, my car was broken into.

I'll refrain from complaining too much, since I was having a great night out with Shimon, Alika, and Nathan, and the damage is only going to cost me $184, $100 covered with insurance. I was talking to a freind last night, who asked, "Are you OK? You sound so happy." It's not that I am "happy," but I don't feel upset. Just a bit worn. This is the 3rd time my car has been broken into (same window, front passenger seat), and in comparison to recent robberies, the damage is minor. Ironically, I have been riding my bike around the city, the last three weeks, to save money on gas and stress with parking. Similiar to what happened in Costa Rica, I never would've guessed that my belongings were unsafe. Geary at 6:30 at night on a Monday? A hotel room that opens up to a busy street?

I wonder what measures I can do to prevent more robberies. Stay at home and never take my car out of the garage? Never own anything worth robbing? Being scared all of the time even in safe neighborhoods? None of those options sound appealing, but surely, there must be a reason for my recent bad luck. In a time where I am filled with borgeious guilt and am taking a six month off from financial stability, why am I being tested with robberies?

Dear Humanity and Fate, I still believe in you.

San Francisco Treat

2008-07-07T17:08:00.001-07:00

You may have noticed that my blog posts have tapered down in June and July, but that is because this is a Travel Blog, and I am in San Francisco now, a place I can almost call "home." It's not that I don't have things to share, but being home, or almost home, makes me lazy. I don't blame you, San Francisco, or you, blogger.com, but me. Stop being lazy, Chellis.

The other day, after telling a young hipster where I had travelled, she had responded, "That's so great that you're having a life changing experience." I cringed at her response, and realized that I have a major pet peeve with the term "life-changing." Isn't all of life in the process of change? Moving to Central America should be as life changing as being back in San Francisco. And it is, when I take off my critical lenses and bother to look.

First off, I have to give a shout out to the people of SF: Tom, Steve, Rochelle, Karl, Jonas, Leota, Josh, Molly, Chanan, Aston, Polina, Mom, Dad, Catherine, Laurie, Nick, Ben, Wendy, Jeannine, Cory, Lisa, Robyn, Craig, Alika, Nathan, Caroline, Shimon, and others, who make coming 'almost' home meaningful. A place is only as beautiful as its people.

San Francisco is a unique city. I am living here with some slight lifestyle alterations. I don't have a home, but am squating at my friend's house, and I have given up driving, choosing to stroll around the city on Tom's old mountain bike. I am writing at the Grotto during the day, which has the affect of making me feel like I have a downtown job. Overall, it's nice to be back.

One Woman's Guilt

2008-07-01T11:15:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I went through my storage unit and was shocked at how much "stuff" I owned. Not just junk, but things that I rotated and used on a regular basis. Then I drove my car for the first time in three months, newly tuned up (thanks to my parents), and felt indulgent to be behind the wheel. Will I ride my bike? Take the bus,? Use the train? My new MacBook arrived to replace my stolen IBook and this gift to myself, which should have sent me clicking my heels with joy made me sad. The whole point in traveling was to reprogram my mind to see the world in a new way. I wanted to distance myself from the "things" I thought I needed. Before I left, I couldn't live without my hair dryer and today one feels like a luxury. I had been traveling with one pair of worn out sneakers, but it turns out that I have enough sneakers to change up each day of the week.

How quickly I had forgotten the possessions that made up my life. How quickly I had wanted to. I was asked, "Aren't you sick of wearing the same clothes every day?" And my honest answer was "no." I felt relived. The only reason I rotated my clothes as often as I did was because I was worried that other people would notice me wearing the same clothes. When I was traveling, I had roughly 7 days worth of outfits, and I wore what was clean and warm.

Everybody has their vice though. While mine is not clothes, it has always been my computer. I can still recall the sickening feeling when Abeer shouted, "They took our computers!" She said this as I found my passport--a navy blue document filled with stamps and visas, a citizenship that millions have sacrificed their lives for, and yet, at that moment, I felt like my identity had been stolen.

But that was three weeks ago and my emotions have had time to adjust. I've been the recipient of extreme kindness (money from Steve, Peter, Alika, Jennifer, Catherine, my parents), music mixes, kind notes, letters, and love. I have been given so much that I am starting to feel guilty for all that I have.

The whole reason I was robbed was because I am wealthy. In Guatemala, my host mother couldn't believe how nice my Ibook was. She had never seen a white computer before. I told her that my computer was old, I had the simplest model, the letters on the keyboard had faded and two circles where I placed my palms were gray and worn through. She asked me how long I had it, and I said, "three years." As I said this, I became aware of how ridiculous my life was.

I struggle with understanding what it is that we truly need to make our lives complete. I am aware that I "need" a computer to store my writing, my photos, my music, and that I "need" nice clothes, to stay warm, appear normal, feel good, and that I could never live as simply as a monk, although those robes do look comfortable, or an organic farming hippie, although their ideals sound captivating. What I want is balance. If my travels and years and life have taught me anything, it's about appreciation. Perhaps, that is the only good coming out of all of this guilt.

Wedding Season

2008-06-28T00:48:00.000-07:00

When I tell people that I have four weddings to attend to this summer, the typical response is, "That sucks!" Somewhere along the way, the bridzilla reputation and industry rules have created a negative perception of weddings. People say, "That's expensive," or, "How boring." I've attended 14 weddings in the last 8 years, nearly all but one solo, and each time, I've had a blast.

But, really, why wouldn't I?

Weddings are an excuse to gather with a purpose--a reunion, a party, a reminder of something good in this world. In most cases, guests are required to fly to a destination, use vacation time, upset the routine and comfort of their lives to travel and prioritize a personal relationship. There are so many reasons we can be forced to make time for one another-- a sickness, a funeral, a crisis, but weddings are rare occasions when we get to celebrate something beautiful.

It's difficult to talk about weddings and love without sounding contrived. Hallmark and romantic songs have turned the language of love into cliches. But with much honesty, I enjoy weddings. I get to dress pretty, watch someone I care about be extremely happy, eat delicious food, and dance to cheesy music.

Last summer, I zipped through 3 weddings using my weekends only for the celebrations. But this summer, I plan on taking my time. If I am going to fly far, I might as well make the best use of my time and see as much as I can.

Here is a list of the great weddings I've been fortunate to attend to in the past:

Amber and Ted (Oregon)
Dalton and Amanda (Oregon)
Marisha and Mike (Michigan)
Dhiren and Jasmine (Dubai)
Rochelle and Karl (California)
Jessica and Mike (Texas)
Andrew and Nicole (Oregon)
Jenny and TC (Oregon)
Catherine and Pete (Pennsylvania)
Alika and Mason (California)
Rachel and David (California)
Aston and Polina (California)
Ryan and Tiffany (Massachusetts)
Amy and Adam (British Columbia)

Canadian Wedding

2008-06-16T00:29:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I wrote in my blog last and much of it has to do with not having my computer (aww, pity party for me.) In actuality, I have been recovering well to the robbery. The first three nights post invasion, I couldn't sleep. I cried. I kept questioning, "what if I had..." But these days, I have nearly forgotten what it's like to take a walk with my IPOD, capture moments on film, write freely in my electronic journal. Well, I haven't forgotten those things, since those are my most treasured activities, but I've managed to distract myself enough to be happy. In fact, super-duper happy.

I was a bridesmaid at Amy and Adam's wedding in Vancouver. I couldn't be more flattered to be a part of the wedding party, and inspired by an amazing relationship. Every detail was meticulously planned (go, Amy) and the participation on the dance floor neared maximum capacity. Nobody danced more than Amy though, which just goes to show what a cool chick she is. I've been the 15 weddings in 4 years, but I learned a lot from Adam and Amy about planning a wedding.

I visited Sharline and Jade, then Andrew and Nicole, and I have so many wonderful things to say about both of these couples, but my ride is about to take off. So until later.

Robbed, Sad and Thankful

2008-06-10T12:45:00.000-07:00

This morning, I looked in the mirror, and I couldn't recognize myself. I have had plenty of mirrors to peer through during my two months in Central America, but something about the brightness of the bathroom and the size of mirror made me take a double-take. I am brown. I have freckles on my nose. My hair is nearly blond and I have more mosquito bite scars than I realized.

Abeer and I were robbed two days ago. We left our hotel room and some local punks broke through the window. They didn't take our passports, but took our laptops, Ipods, hard drives, digital camera, $350 of cash, and over $6,000 worth of equipment. Abeer had lost more expensive equipment than I, but I hadn't backed up my computer. I saved the important stuff, like my three books, but lost 4 years of pictures, my entire music collection, unfinished short stories and essays, and 3 years worth of personal journal entries.

During my last day in Santa Teresa, I went around town and in my obsessive way conducted an investigation. I wanted to know who our robbers were. All fingers pointed to the same group of boys--drug dealing surfers, Ticos and Nicaraguan, who weren't sophisticated enough to steal credit cards. They just wanted "stuff," and a few bucks to buy crack or weed. The sleepy town seems peaceful and safe, but if you scratch below the surface, you can see the racial riff that divides the locals (the poor) and the foreigners (the rich). 50% of the land and businesses are owned by Israelis, Europeans, and Americans. Can I blame the local boys for their envy?

Abeer has been much wiser and calmer than me through all of this. I haven't been able to sleep the last three nights, constantly obsessing the same questions: What should I have done differently? What will the boys do with my most personal belongings? My stories? My photos? How did I make a grave mistake? And with each time I am hard on myself, I come back to feeling appreciative for how lucky I am. They didn't take my passport, I wasn't hurt, and I wasn't alone. If I learned anything in all of this, I learned how important it is to have companionship. I can't imagine how different this robbery would have been if I was by myself. Breaking down the door, filing police reports, paranoias on safety, meetings with the hotel manager, feeling sorry for myself were all conflicts made manageable due to not being alone. As a pair, we became brave. We made jokes all weekend. We came to the conclusion that the 10 days we spent together in Costa Rica were amazing. It's true that I feel burned. But I also can't let one bad experience oversimplify months, years of positive travel adventures.

Also, I feel lucky, because I have so many amazing friends and family members. I have too many people to thank right now, which could easily turn into an Oscar acceptance speech, but in particular, thank you Peter Rock and Stephen Elliott, who Paypaled me cash and support. I am flattered by your kindness.

Living Books

2008-06-07T18:56:00.000-07:00

I realize that I live a literary life and tend to become fascinated with patterns and themes, but something very strange is happening in the books I've been reading. A writer's intention is to pull a reader in personally, but the last few books have had unusual coincidences with my life today. For example:

1. Gabriel García Márquez's 100 Years of Solitude: I read this during the most time I've spent alone, witnessing the most consecutive days of rain.

2. Julia Scheeres' Jesus Land: The memoir was written to memorialize the relationship between a brother and sister, Julia and David. I came across this book while at the Julia and David White Artist Colony, which was created by Bill White whose children, Julia and David, suffered early and tragic deaths.

3. Michelle Richmond's The Year of the Fog: I booknapped this book off the shelves of an Israeli restaurant in a town where quality books have been hard to find. I inhaled Fog in two days. A week before I left for Central America, Michelle, who is always out and about in the SF lit scene, told me that she stayed at the White Colony to write her latest novel (Coincidence #1). The book provides rich details about San Francisco, a town I feel much nostalgia for, and then jumps to Costa Rican surf towns (Coincidence #2). The affect was a strange sense that the plot was following me.

I love books. If I can appreciate one of the many things that I've had the opportunity to do this trip, it's been read. Yesterday, the waters were choppy, so I stayed in and read Fog. There's something so relaxing and pleasurable about spending an entire day getting lost in a book.

I am SO cool... kinda

2008-06-06T11:09:00.000-07:00

The culture of surfing is one that entails massive coolness. There’s an image to the sport. The questions: “Have you been out yet?” “Were the waves any good?” “Check out this bruise.” The male to female ratio is 10 to 1 with tubular surfer dudes walking around in board shorts and flashy abs. Truth is, Abeer and I don’t really fit in. In fact, despite living 2 minutes from the ocean, Abeer entered the water for the first time yesterday. And although a party town, we’re usually asleep by 10.

Another traveler from Colorado split her head on a surfboard, and was looking for a swim cap. I said, “I have one.” This caused quite the intrigue, because in the entire village there wasn’t a cap to be found. I said, “If I had a choice, I would wear my silver cap and tinted goggles surfing everyday.” And this was followed with eye rolls and head nods. “You’d look ridiculous,” one surfer claimed.

I responded, “Could I look any more ridiculous than I already do?” With just one week of surfing under my belt, I have far from mastered the sport. I can get out to the “line,” (where the surfers go to catch waves,” I can stand (on occasion), I have two major bruises (one on my knee from a floating log, and one on my upper bicep from paddling), and I have turned brown like a local. I look like a surfer (no cap and goggles), but truth is I am still not sure that what I am doing can be called surfing.

I love the water, and learned at a young age how to prevent water from going up the nose: blow bubbles. But here, I have had salty water blasted up my sinuses until I am coughing and sputtering for breath. I can do flip-turns indefinitely against a swimming pool wall, and yet here, I have also been twisted and tossed in summersaults, pulled and dragged against the sand and rocks. When I see a huge wave coming overhead, I drop my board, hold my nose, and wait for the wave to pass. My leg will be pulled back suddenly as the leash on my board tightens, the strap digging into my ankle, and I relax my body into the force of the water, like a rag in a large washing machine.

The goal is to paddle out to the line and then catch a wave. Except sometimes, merely paddling out will take all my efforts. I’ll be pushed back by waves so often that in a ten-minute paddle, I’ll realize that I haven’t moved anywhere. And I am a good paddler, too, with these swimming arms of mine, but against those waves, none of that matters. Things have improved though when I switched to a smaller board. I switched my 7’6 to a 6’8 and have found it much more manageable in the water. The point of a larger board is to make it easier to catch a wave and stand. But the 7’6 board was so big, I couldn’t get it out past the waves to set up.

Overall, my surfing experience has been mixed with utter bliss and painful beatings. The ocean is breathtaking. Just being out there laying on a board makes me happy. But other times, like when standing on the shore looking at the waves, I wonder why the hell would I want to go in. The waves hurt. My body has taken a beating. Besides bruises, I have aches in my joints and sore muscles.

The first time I went surfing was as a sophomore in high school on Waikiki beach in 1995. I went with the Corvallis Aquatic Team for our annual trip to Hawaii. Our coach, Rick, was a huge surfer. He would say, “If I am in a bad mood, it’s because I haven’t had the chance to surf.” I was on a huge boat of a board, surrounded by tourists shouting, “Get out of the way,” and I loved every second of it.

The best thing I did in Guam was join an outrigger canoe team. I would leave my evening shift and run down the beach, jump into a boat, and paddle out into the sunset. Nothing made me happier than being out in the water, watching the colors of the sky transition from orange, red, green, blue, disappearing into the ocean horizon.

My decision to come to Costa Rica to learn to surf is a natural one. Pulling through the water. Working with the ocean. Balancing on a board with a dancer’s grace. These are all elements that are a part of my life, a part of my body, a part of what makes me feel alive and appreciative.

I admire the surfers out here with their dedication to catch the next big wave, their laid back attitudes towards travel, their desire to be closer to the ocean. But some of the surf-talk can drive me nuts. All male-pride and bicep flexing.

Abeer and I moved into a fancy little room with air conditioning, TV/DVD player, maid service, private bathroom, hot water, mini-fridge, a terrace, a minute walk to the beach, all for less than what we were paying for at a group hostel with a communal bathroom. Just $23 a night for the both of us. On a daily basis, we say that we love our place and that Lonely Planet sucks. If you plan on staying at a place for longer than a week, it’s best to throw the guidebook away and figure out the terrain. Last night, I ate a fresh mahi-mahi coconut curry, and today I had gourmet pizza with fresh gorgonzola cheese. I take amazing yoga classes five times a week, surf everyday, eat delicious food, write and edit stories, all while hanging out with one of my favorite people, Abeer. Life is not too bad these days.

Surfing

2008-06-02T14:32:00.000-07:00

I stood on my board this morning. Fun stuff.

Writing from Experience

2008-06-01T17:06:00.000-07:00

My homiest of homies, Stephen Elliott is teaching a writing class on writing from experience. I took this seminar last fall, and went in with unreasonably high expectations. Steve's my buddy, I've heard him talk about writing a bazillion times, and even with my prior judgments, I was impressed with Steve's insight. The great thing about Steve is that he's not afraid to give writing rules. He precursors them with, "Learn to build your filter," and then says, "This is what you should do." I appreciated that candor. There are too many "ifs" and "exceptions" in writing classes. Also, this class isn't just for nonfiction writers. Steve talks about ways to hone personal experience into fiction, too. For more information: sfgrotto.org/classes.html

Writing from Experience

Instructor: Stephen Elliott
Contact: tribe@stephenelliott.com
Number of sessions: 1
Meeting times: Monday, June 9, 2008; 6 to 8 pm
Course fee: $50

Description:
Your experiences, and how you process them, are what make you unique as an individual. They're also the most valuable things we can offer readers. We'll talk about writing from experience in fiction and non-fiction, and how to use our lives as jumping off points and framing devices for the stories we tell about others. We'll also talk about the dangers of writing from experience and overcoming the blocks set in place (often unnecessarily) by our fears of exposure. We'll look at strategies for getting past those fears and for dealing with friends and relatives whose memories might be different from our own. Finally, we'll focus on unlocking our lives and the joy and value of integrating the worlds we know with the worlds we create.

Enrollment/Payment:
This is a one-time seminar with limited enrollment. To reserve your space please send a check in the amount of the course fee (made out to Stephen Elliott) to Stephen Elliot, c/o SF Writers Grotto, 490 Second Street, Ste. 200, San Francisco, CA, 94107, or pay online with paypal to the email address tribe@stephenelliott.com.

Instructor bio:
Stephen Elliott is the author of four novels including Happy Baby, which was a best book of the year in Salon, The Village Voice, Newsday, The Journal Gazzette, and Chicago New City as well as a finalist for the New York Public Library Young Lion's Award and a California Book Award. He is also the author of a book of erotica, a non-fiction memoir of the 2004 presidential campaign, and the editor of three acclaimed anthologies. He was a Stanford University Stegner Fellow. His fiction and non-fiction has been published in The New York Times, Esquire, GQ, McSweeney's, Tin House, The Sun, and many anthologies.

Morenas (Brown-skinned girls)

2008-06-01T16:23:00.000-07:00

I wear sunblock, SPF 50 to be exact. But my skin doesn't like to stay white and I am now nearly back to the color I was in Guam. I didn't go surfing today. I went to a yoga, (did my first headstand), wrote with Abeer, ate Israeli food, and walked around the town. I should maximize my water time if I want to learn to surf, but my body is completely exhausted. The current and waves were so strong yesterday that merely getting past the initial waves took all my efforts. I feel comfortable diving into the water and swimming, but with a board, I feel clumsy and tied down. Another beginner surfer in my hostel got hit with a board and split her head open. The waves are powerful and I am bruised and sore from my meager attempts.

Tomorrow though is a new day, and I have signed up for my first surf class with a female instructor. This is helpful especially since my top has fallen off twice. I've had a couple of instructions on the beach, but this will be my first hired teacher. Hopefully, that will give me courage to battle the waves again. I confess that after yesterday, surfing during high tide, I have become wary of the current. I LOVE the ocean, I love being in water, I love everything about the waves, but I have learned to understand it's power. When I lay in bed about to fall asleep, my body spins and rocks with the water, as if if trapped in a washing machine. I can't get the surf out of my mind.

Here is a picture of Abeer and I wearing matching blue skirts. It's been great to have her here. She's not learning to surf, but she's writing and being a positive influence on my work. Today at lunch, she said that I carry a lot guilt about using my time efficiently. Do I really apply an abnormal amount of pressure on myself? I should stop doing that.

Sun, Sun, Sun

2008-05-30T18:31:00.001-07:00

Throughout the day, I released sudden outbursts, "I am so happy!" The hurricane that was supposed to strike this area (all over the news, tourists went fleeing) decided that I had complained too much and headed North instead. I woke up this morning to the most beautiful and perfect day that continued into the evening. I woke up at 6:30, walked the stretch of the beach, took a yoga class at 9:30, ate lunch, rented a surfboard, hit the waves (or the waves hit me), drank a papaya-banana soy milk shake, went swim suit shopping, and now I am in a cute Israeli cafe waiting for Abeer's bus. I had the most perfect day, and I am sore, exhausted, burnt, and smiling.

Plus, everybody here is so nice--a tropical, sunny sensibility that makes me think about Guam. There are a lot of surfers and hippies out here, and a ton of Israelis who have opened up restaurants. I've been hanging out with an Australian web developer and a Canadian stewardess, who have kindly taken me under their wing to show me the ropes on a surf board. Surfing is hard! Although I don't know if you can call what I did this afternoon surfing. It was more awkward diving and gasping under waves, skidding my shins on rocks, dehydrating under the sun, damaging my dry and highlighted hair, singing my shoulders dark copper. But I loved it! I rented a board all week, so I am heading back for more abuse tomorrow.

Stormy Pacific

2008-05-29T17:44:00.000-07:00

I made it to Santa Teresa, after a 6 hour bus, ferry ride, and some hitch hiking after the driver dropped me off at the wrong place. But I am here! And it's... rainy and gloomy. A storm has struck the Central Americas so the water is too choppy for surfing, let alone learning. But my spirits are up, because the rains parted for the afternoon and I was able to walk around. Santa Teresa is a cute surf town with yoga, hippies, hostels, 4 x 4's, falafals, and of course, surfing. Abeer gets here tomorrow night, and I am crossing my fingers because the afternoon ferry was canceled today.

Of course, the roads aren't paved, but there's WIFI aplenty.

More later, just wanted to tell Mom that I was safe. (Mom, I'm safe!)

Surf Camp or Bust!

2008-05-28T17:02:00.000-07:00

I leave for Malpais tomorrow morning so I have to get packing. It's been raining like crazy, but I envision the beach being different-- blue skies, gorgeous sunsets, pina colados flowing from the faucets. The meteorologists and locals tell me differently, but screw them. We're an era of global warming. Everybody is getting a tan in '08.

This afternoon, I had a surprisingly beautiful moment with nature. Right outside my window, a nest of termites were hatching. Carlos flagged me down excited, and told me to look closely at this piece of wood. Termites were bursting out of small holes and flying into the air. They surrounded all around me disappearing into the sky like confetti. Another artist came out and said, "Spray them down. Gross!" Normally, I've had this perception of termites as one of the "evil" bugs, but now, they remind me of butterflies. There was something so magical about little flapping objects coming from a small piece of wood, flying into the air for the first time. It only happens once a year, and I felt so lucky to witness the birth of so many babies. Plus termites don't bite people, just wood. I wish mosquitoes were that way, too.

Many of my publishing/writer peeps are heading out to LA this weekend for Book Expo America, and I wanted to give them all a hearty shout out. I wish I could be there to catch up and play, but I guess I'll head out to the beach instead.

The Ants Go Marching

2008-05-26T19:03:00.001-07:00

I have two more days left in Ciudad Colon, and then I am off to Malpais for some surfing, yoga and productive editing time. Abeer Hoque and I had been planning to meet up for months, but our schedules kept criss-crossing. And then suddenly, the stars aligned and we found her a cheapo last minute ticket from Peru. Next thing I know, we got a date. I told her to come prepared, because I have a lot of editing that I need her to do. For those of you who don't know, Abeer is my writing partner. I only have one, and it's serendipitous that I'll be spending a week with her after I've been producing all of this work. Lucky Abeer!

Today when I woke up, it started to drizzle. Sigh. I was frustrated. All this rain is getting to me. My towels never dry, my sponges get moldy, but most of all, I don't get to hike. And then, the skies cleared. We saw sun in the afternoon for once, and I had to run out and soak that in for a moment. There's a trail that loops around the property. I took my camera, my new favorite mix (thanks, Levin), and climbed up the hill. At the top, there's a view of the mountains and Ciudad Colon below. I stood there with my eyes clothes feeling the wind against my cheeks, my arms outstretched, listening to the soundtrack of my Costa Rican moment:

"It is said that you cannot be found, under arms, broken sculls, I will lay down. I can be found beneath the road. Safe to say, that I will never be found.... You will be crowned Queen of all that you have found. Alone."

I really love it here, but confess that I am ready to do some exploring now. I stayed the perfect amount of time. Another artist from New York is staying for a whole year. That's great for her, but as for me, I would lose appreciation of the beauty in my surroundings. I complain about the rain, but three weeks ago, I welcomed the drizzle. The same thing happened to me when I was living in Guam. It was the most beautiful place I had ever lived, and yet, something inside of me stirred for more. Maybe that something is still stirring within me. Nonetheless, I'll be marching on.

Speaking of marching, while I was hiking, I came across this path with leaves that were moving. I looked closely and it was an army of ants. I have no idea why they were carrying leaves to another place with leaves, but maybe they were in training. I found their collective movements beautiful, and you all know how I feel about bugs.

Olbermann on Clinton

2008-05-25T11:49:00.000-07:00

Woah, woah. I am speechless. Olbermann's articulation and honesty is powerful. He raises some incredible points on Hilary's recent remarks in comparing staying in the race until June to Bobby Kennedy's assassination.

Thanks for the forward, Aston.

Funny Swim Caps

2008-05-24T21:52:00.000-07:00

I've been prone, with my endless days of distractions, to take self-portraits. I recall looking funny in swim cap. It turns out I still do. Funny swim caps.

Also, I just finished reading Julia Scheeres' memoir Jesus Land. Amazing. She lives in a San Francisco and writes at the Writer's Grotto, so somebody reading this must know her. If you do, tell her that you have a friend that couldn't put her book down. I was impressed, not only by her story, but by how honestly she told it.

23 Days of Solitude

2008-05-22T12:31:00.000-07:00

Last week, I read Gabriel García Márquez's 100 Years of Solitude, and appropriately so, I can't stop thinking about it. While his magical realism writing style is not applicable to the work I am producing now, I can't help but find ironic themes in the book to my life here.

Plot: 100 Years of Solitude is the story of the rise and fall of a fictitious town called Macondo through the lives of the Buendía family. Macondo is the name of a banana plantation near the real village of Márquez's youth, Aracataca, and in the novel it is the banana farmers who remove Macondo from obscurity. Eventually, the population of the city dissipates after 4 years of non stop rain. Melquíades, a gypsy philosopher, leaves a parchment of truth, which is eventually translated by the last remaining Buendía.

First off, from reading the plot, it's apparent that my life is not running in complete tandem to the novel (no inbreeding, or gypsies), but I believe that when stories are successful, even magical ones, they make you look at your life differently. For example:

Timelessness in solitude: What day is it today? I've been here for 18 days and yet, I feel like I just arrived and have been here forever. My typical day consists of me writing, reading, swimming, yoga--all quiet acts that have calmed my social temperament. I look at a calender regularly to root me back in a linear reality, otherwise I would have no sense of time passing.

Circular repetition of history: In the novel, generations reuse the same name for daughters and sons, which emphasizes the circular nature of history. The same problems and accomplishments occur over the years. This is also a large part of the writing process, which works in multiple re-reads and re-writes. Sometimes after a long day of writing, I'll have less pages than when I started.

Destruction erases truth and memory: When the last Buendía died, it represented the families failure to leave behind their history and truth. In one scene, three hundred laborers are carried away in a train and dropped in the sea, but because there are no witnesses, people don't know what actually happened. A writer once said (Margaret Atwood?), that we all want to leave our hand print on a cave wall. That's why writers write, that's why people have children, that's why we care about passing on stories. Writing this memoir is a complete bitch. I am struggling so hard to tell my story, but a part of me can't stop.

Bananas: Costa Rica is the second largest exporter of bananas in the world. There are five different types of bananas in this region and I love them ALL. I eat about 5 bananas a day and have dreams of turning into a monkey. Also, a side question, why did Gap Co name their brand "Banana Republic?" Doesn't that term encompass all that is negative with colonialism in Latin America?

Rains: This aspect has made me think about the novel the most: the rains. Lately, the rains have started from 2 in the afternoon and go into the evenings. I find slugs on my window, mold gathered in my water cups, slippery mud along the paths, and a feeling of dampness that soaks under the skin. At first, I welcomed the rains, because I liked the idea of tuckering into my cabin for some quiet writing time. But the rains have been pouring relentlessly for a week now, and I confess that it's a bit much. After a full day of staying in my cabin hearing the pattering of rain against my window, I looked forward to waking up in the morning for a walk. Even as I type now, I look out my window and see beyond the lush foliage, gray skies and thunder clouds. The only silver lining in the clouds is that the mornings are always sunny and beautiful. It sure makes being an night owl impossible.

Truth in the Parchment: The book ends with a final moment of truth that encompasses the entire journey of the Buendía family. I'm still waiting to translate my truth in the parchment, but perhaps on my last day a sentence of great enlightenment will be revealed. Cross my fingers.

Ode to Facebook

2008-05-21T14:26:00.000-07:00

Pretty funny.

Snakes and Spiders, oh my

2008-05-20T15:20:00.001-07:00

In lieu of my war with bugs, my mom sent me this dramatic and disgusting clip of a British woman's Costa Rican souvenir.

Earlier this morning, I had a 20 minute conversation with Carlos (the colony's animal tamer) about snakes and poisonous spiders. He claims that we are all safe, because we live near a hospital. As long as we can get to a hospital within two hours, we wont die. One time, in his home village, a man was bitten by a snake and had to travel by horse to the closest hospital, which took him five hours. The man survived, because he remained calm and didn't panic. Apparently, staying calm can cause the poison to travel slower.

Today, while swimming the final laps of my 40, 30, 20, 10 lap set, a leaf turned out to be a dead rat and I shot out of a the pool like a missile launching into space. Firstly, why did it take me so long to notice the little bugger curled up at the bottom of the pool, and secondly, why was I so scared of something that was clearly dead? Later when asked if I bothered to remove the rat, I said, "Is it my job to do things that I am scared of?"

Lesson learned this morning: Staying calm can save your life.

Lesson learned about myself this morning: If I am bit by a snake, I am a goner. Despite living with the beautiful Sage Grace (Catherine Fox's Boa) for the last year, I am not going to be down if a wild, poisonous snake sinks their fangs into my shin. I like to think that I am calm under pressure, but snakes, fangs, tarantulas, scorpions, dead rats, all make me want to poo in my pants.

Speaking of snake charmers, here is a picture of my dad holding Sage Grace the day before I left San Francisco. Unfortunately, this was the only picture I had of my dad in my camera, so whenever somebody asked, "What about your family?" I showed this to them. Since my Spanish was not that great, I had a hard time explaining that the snake belonged to Catherine Fox, (shown below) who was a contortionist in the Circus and a two-time Olympic Gold Medalist in swimming. Usually the response was, "Tu padre es muy joven," (your dad is very young), followed by confused looks and questions about whether it was common for Chinese people to join the circus and own snakes. I knew enough then though not to mention that I had drank snake blood shots in China. Now that would've been culturally confusing.

Hilary, seriously, drop out

2008-05-19T15:52:00.000-07:00

For some reason being outside of the U.S. has enflamed me even more about the politics in our preciously wasteful country. Hilary, please drop out. You're acting like a bitter, broken-hearted ex-girlfriend, who refuses to admit that we broke up. It's over. OVER. You're a smart girl and you gave a hearty effort, and I have no doubt in my mind that you'll find something great soon. I respect your fight for Universal Health Care, and, as I woman, I am proud of all of your successes. I think the "bitch" comments are completely uncalled for, but please stop getting in the way of productivity. We already waste millions of unnecessary dollars campaigning against one another, as if we're in the middle of a civil war. What worries me the most is when candidates go outside of the U.S. to talk trash about their opponents. Is this the most effective way of improving international relations?

Plus, I have a funny feeling about that McCain-fella. We can't get too comfortable in our vantage point; he could surprise us. Charlie Black has got his back, and if we learned anything about the 2004 elections, anything could happen. Obama is starting to roll up his sleeves and make attacks, and while I don't approve of such tactics, I realize that this is the system we have created. We, Americans, are a fickle bunch. Go Obama. Si se peude.

(Also, Costa Rica is still great. I learned that Colon does not have man-killing tarantulas, just hairy, friendly spiders who like swimming pools. Whew, more laps for me.)

Blu: Animation

2008-05-18T11:20:00.001-07:00

Here's an amazing animation done on the walls of Buenos Aires.

MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.

War with Bugs

2008-05-17T19:46:00.001-07:00

The bugs are EVERYWHERE. They are trying to eat me.

I had previously mentioned that my War with Bugs ended in 2001 in Guangzhou, China, but I take that all back. Yesterday, a number of incidents have put me over the edge, which would explain why I am wearing long pants, long sleeve and have been swatting at bugs for the last hour.

1.) I was writing peacefully in the afternoon when I overheard a scratching noise from up above. I didn't bother to look up, since I often hear unexplainable noises in the rain forest. Then a huge thumb-sized bug, fell on my face, and onto my keyboard. (Enter girlish scream.)
2.) I was at the pool doing my usual daily laps to get ready for Surf camp, and when I was done, I went over to the side of pool to put on my flip-flops when I nearly stepped on a huge, hairy tarantula. (Enter more girlish screams.)
3.) I was in bed last night, all tucked in under the covers, reading the final pages of the greatest piece of literature of all time, 100 Years of Solitude, when I felt a crawling up my leg. I snatched the bug between my fingers inside my pants, and proceeded to do an elaborate dance, which probably looked like a sexy strip move. (Not really, since I was screaming like a little girl then, too.)

And tonight, I made the terrible mistake of leaving my door open for zoo of insects to come flying through. We were making a bowl of French Onion soup and a few of the artist were coming in-and-out. I left the door open, because I was hosting, but didn't think that meant I was hosting the entire frickin' rain forest. I have never seen up close this many different kinds of bugs--moths, little green spiders, water beetles, mosquitoes, long skinny bugs with pointy tails. And they're not afraid to come up real close, too. Grrr.

During the day, I leave my door open for the fresh air, but didn't realize what a difference it is to leave the door open at night. I am sure that my bed will be crawling with critters, which means, guess who is not going to sleep well tonight?

Costa Rica doesn't usually have this many bugs, but it's the start of rainy season, so they're out and about terrorizing, (who else?), just me.

Dancin' Shoes

2008-05-16T09:03:00.000-07:00

It's 10:00 a.m. and I am just getting up. That may not seem like sleeping in, but in a place where the sun rises at 5:30, and the prime sun time is before 2, I might as well have slept in the entire day. But I was up late. Here's why.

Last night, we had dinner at the director Francisco's house. We ate garlic tilapia, tomatoes with melted mozzarella, mashed potatoes, and banana bread pudding with ice cream. (I really am roughing it out here in the rain forest.) I, of course, ate too much food, and came home around 8:00 p.m., and jumped into my pajamas. Usually, around 8, I tucked into bed with my book, falling asleep around 9-9:30. I was brushing my teeth when I heard a soft knock at the door. In a gated community where only 9 people live, nobody had ever knocked on my door, let alone at night.

I opened the door and it was Carlos. Carlos is Francisco's brother who is the colony's go-to handy man. He loves hikes, cuts down bananas, grows orchids, and rarely can be found not smiling. Last time, we had dinner, I asked Carlos and his wife Nancy, a Columbian, how they met. They said at a discotheque seven years ago, which I found particularly interesting given their age, somewhere in the late 40's. I asked them if they still went out dancing and they said, "Of course, we will go together next time." Hence, the late knock on the door. Carlos said, in Spanish, "Nancy and I are going dancing. I only have room for three in my pick-up. Do you want to come?"

I looked over at my comfortable bed, felt the minty freshness of a mouth ready for slumber, and said, "Sure, I'll meet you in five."

We ventured into San Jose and shortly later found ourselves dancing to a live Costa Rican band at El Trapiche. The place was only half filled for a Thursday, but I liked the local music--very bouncy--and the restaurant circled a large dance floor, welcoming everybody to dance. Unlike Las Venduras in Antigua, where the floor was filled with professional Salsa dancers with perfect technique, nobody was here to show off. Everybody just wanted to dance. I kicked up my dancing shoes for a few Latino twists. But after two bands, the old lady in me past her bed time, had to fight back yawns. None of us were drinking, but my endurance for staying up late had dissipated with my early morning wake-ups.

Carlos saw that I was tired, so we left before the final band. Nancy commented that one night she danced for eight hours without stopping, and I felt slightly bad that I had been the one to kill the party. Turned out that I wasn't, because Carlos was taking us to the Castro Discotheque, to "experience the contrast." The discotheque had a huge dance floor with strobe lights, hip-hop, electronica-Latino music, scantily-dressed clubbers, and a mix of all races--African, Latino, Asian, American. Carlos and Nancy took off for more dancing. My feet were exhausted, I could imagine closing my eyes and sleeping right there surrounded by bass music, but I danced more, not wanting to be the one to drag the party down. Finally, Nancy wanted to sit down and we decided to leave. I was walking outside, when Carlos said, "Hold on, let's go upstairs." By then, I shrugged my shoulders, "Why not?" We sat down at a Karaoke bar and sang Latino songs sipping juice and water.

Similar to the hikes where Carlos would explain herbal plants, he told me about the passing buildings, the type of music we would listen to, the steps for a Latino dance. During the drive home, Carlos kept laughing, "Chellis is tired."

I crawled into bed later than I ever had in Central America, feet sore, body sticky, feeling so tired I wondered what my real age was, (28 or 68?), and yet filled with the satisfaction of a Costa Rican night well-spent. Except tonight, around 8, the only person I plan on spending the night with is Gabriel García Márquez and the final pages of his book.

Please Donate to China's Earthquake

2008-05-15T07:22:00.000-07:00

For the last four days, we have seen the estimated casualties of the earthquake rise in China, and I was startled this morning to see that 50,000 people had died. (9/11 casualties: 2,974, Hurricane Katrina: 1,836) A primary school was the epicenter of the earthquake, which, in a land of only children, left hundreds of parent's childless.

I can't help but think that with 75% of villages wiped out that there are people recovering from their wounds to discover that every single person in their life was killed--their best friends, their spouses, their children, their enemies.

As with all tragedies, I can only hope that this gives us a greater perspective of the futility of our politics, and makes us appreciate the quality relationships that we have in our lives. Everybody is quick to criticize the Chinese government, a young organization with a long history of "saving face," and yet, a strong kudos can be given to the their current national relief efforts. The devastation reached the mountainous region of Central China, which is far more difficult to reach than New Orleans was during Hurricane Katrina.

Let's send our best wishes to China, and please donate to American Red Cross Response to China's Earthquake. (Large donors so far: Yao Ming and Franklin Graham donated $285,000, Jackie Chan $1.5 million, Jet Li $145,000.)

Informative blogs on the earthquake: China Books and Shanghaiist.

The hottest 9 second video ever!

2008-05-14T13:41:00.000-07:00

If the below rain clip was too tame, here are 9 seconds of hotness that will surely get you going. (Directer: Ben Schneider; Assistant Director: Christopher Fundakowski)

Quiet Time

2008-05-14T12:38:00.000-07:00

Wow, it certainly didn't take long to get the attention of Andrew Jackson. A mere shout into the cyberworld and there he came riding in on a Google white horse. For your efforts, I have posted a picture of you and Hobart looking tough in Macau. In case you don't know everything about me, Andrew and Nicole Jackson met me in Hong Kong last February during their around the world adventure after stints as Nuclear Engineers in the Navy. Andrew and I met after being casted in a 5th grade play (I was Rappin' Rino and he was Cool Cat), and Nicole has considered meeting me for surf camp (you still coming?). The other tough guy in the picture is Hobart, my "unofficial" favorite cousin who lives in London.

Yesterday, I woke up with a head cold, which I blame my former house mates in Antigua Ben and Chris. There were 15 people living in my host family's house, and I saw the flu claim a new person each day. Even the cooks, our host mother and maid Naya, were sick, so I woke up every morning expecting the worse. When the worse never came, and I was just a mere witness to the sniffles and sneezes, I felt pretty darn proud of this immune system of mine. I arrived in Costa Rica and gave myself a huge high five. I went for long waterfall hikes, I worked out every day, and I pounded my chest like a Gorilla in heat. But then a week later, I woke up with a cold. I am not sure if it's the same cold, but nobody else here is sick, so, again, the blame goes to Ben and Chris. They're also doctors, which makes spreading disease all the more ironic. Ben and Chris, I hope you're proud.

It's not that bad being sick here though, since I have very little responsibility. Levin told me to get some rest, but in all honesty, I can't imagine resting anymore. I wake up when I feel like it, I breath in clean air, I eat fresh fruit and vegetables, then I sit at my computer and write. When I am "tired" of writing, I read. When I am tired of writing and reading, I sit by the pool. And when sitting by the pool gets boring, I get in. And then I go through the cycle otra vez.

I've been here over a week, and I don't know where all the time goes. I feel suspended in a space of solitude and tranquility. Every once in awhile, I get intimations that I am in Costa Rica--the Spanish speaking pool boy sifting flowers off the water surface, the scorpion on my ceiling that makes a crunch under my shoe, the little delectable bananas that I pick right off the tree. But otherwise, I exist entirely in a world of the printed word.

It's great.

The Rains

2008-05-12T14:47:00.000-07:00

The locals warned, "You are lucky that the rains have not come." Apparently, this month is the start of the rainy season, which explains the mosquitoes and bugs. It's a few days late, but it struck today.

This morning I awoke to a beautiful day, the sun shined bright by 6:30. I walked down to the village to buy some groceries (a papaya, of course), and came back for a dip in the pool. By the time I had toweled off from my swim, I felt a few drops falling from the sky. And by the time I had come out of the shower, the rain thundered down like an engine. Paths turned into rivers, and the sky sounded like a stomach grumbling. I made myself a cup of green tea and watched on my patio as the rain fell down in sheets. Perhaps it's the Oregon in me, but I've always loved the smell of rain.

(I tried to post a video of the rain, but I seem to be computer illiterate, so Andrew Jackson, if you're reading this, feel free to give me a blogger-video tutorial. Andrew, it's in an MVI format, what should I do?)

Happy Mother's Day, SjCa!

2008-05-11T16:45:00.000-07:00

I wish I had more adventurous things to say, but I have been here for a week and I don't know where my time goes. I write, I read, I swim, I practice yoga, I cook meals, I attend the symphony, I go on hikes, I study Spanish on Spanishpod.com, I walk down to the supermarket, I watch the ants carrying leaves, I play on Facebook, I'll call a friend on Skype, and then it's time for bed. I feel oddly at peace though way out here by myself, as if I am pressing a large reset button, which will allow me to be social again. I like that I am required to only do what I want to do. Maybe that's how some people live their lives everyday, but for me the weight of obligation makes everything difficult, even if it's self-imposed. But why am I talking about that, when I could be ..... (insert activity that I am not going to tell you, because I don't have to.)

Also, check out Tom and Adam's book from their Graphic novel class: Shakegirl. It really is outstanding.

I love you, Papaya

2008-05-10T08:12:00.000-07:00

Dear Papaya,

I thought I knew how sweet you could be until I moved to Central America. They push you too quickly up North, forcing you to be plucked at too young of an age. But here, in the tropics, you reach your full potential. Long and colorful like a pumpkin, firm and juicy filling each taste bud with refreshing flavors. Wilkepedia describes you as tasting like a peach and pineapple with the texture of an over ripe cantalope. Oh, how the world does not know you! You are unlike any other fruit. A peach? A pineapple? Please. You are a papaya.

I confess that last night I googled you. I had to know if you were good for me. We were spending so much time together, and I wondered if that could be dangerous to my health. But as it turns out, you're not only tasty, but good for me, too. A strong source of potassium and fiber, and low in fat.

Papaya, I don't know what I'll do when I move back up North to the land of adolescent tropical fruit. I wish I could steal you in my suitcase and freeze you to enjoy for years to come. I would give you to my mother who has always loved papaya, but has never tasted papaya like this before. And I would share you with my friends who may have overlooked you as "just another fruit." You're not "just another fruit." You're special. And I really wish I hadn't eaten an entire one of you in two days. But you're worth the hike down the hill for more. Speaking of, that hill is calling my name.

Your adoring fan,
Chellis

Confusion in the Tropics

2008-05-08T14:29:00.000-07:00

I confess that my legs look gross. I've always been susceptible to bug bites, even in the States, but here they're unavoidable. I cover myself with Deet: I have the 36% cream, the 10% family lotion, the 20% spray. And, yet, the buggers persist through. I have a bite on my calf, my thigh, the top of my knee cap, on top my ribs, below my shoulder, on my shoulder, on top of my foot, and even my lower-lower back (aka. ass.) I burn a Raid coil at night, even though it's makes me feel a bit wuzzy, and I never leave food around.

But, considering all of this, I'm not that frustrated. I lost my battle to the mosquito in the Fall of 2001 when I was living in Guangzhou, China. It was right during Monsoon season, and I was sweating and rained-on all-day. When the rains stopped, the heat persisted and the mosquitoes were out to kill. I applied Deet like I drank water. At my worse, I had 40-50 bites all over my body. I started wearing long pants and long sleeves in 100 degree weather, and if I was in my apartment studying, I was under my mosquito net. Those were rough times. This is nothing.

I've also overcome my fear of geckos. They're all over my room here, but compared to the moths, mosquitoes, tarantulas, scorpions, and centipedes, I am relieved when I find a gecko. Back when my parents were living in Singapore, while I was in college, I would scream like a little girl when I saw a gecko crawl out of the air conditioner. I would stay up all-night imagining little geckos crawling into my bed, in between my toes, and resting on my nose.

During my hike yesterday, a fluorescent blue moth flew into my ear. All I heard was buzzing and I screamed (like a little girl), "A bee flew in my ear, get it out! Get it out!"

My problem with the bugs is that I don't have a lot of experience with them. For example, I don't understand ants. I have a compost pile of food that ants never go near (perhaps, I am that bad of a cook?), but they attacked my lotion bottle and they love my gas stove.

Today has been a nice quiet day. I woke up at 6:30, wrote, ran some errands down in the village (it's a hike), and learned how to make a cold tuna-pasta dish from a filmmaker who is giving me cooking lessons. Now I am off for a short hike, and if you're going to ask, yes, I will be applying more Deet.

Pictures from my hike

2008-05-07T18:55:00.000-07:00

Here are a couple more pictures from my hike this morning. Can you really blame me for being distracted? (Don't answer that.)

The Triple S Program

2008-05-07T18:05:00.000-07:00

Before embarking on this trip, I came with specific goals. Of course, I wanted to write and experience a new place, but there were new skills I wanted to learn to fight against Saturn. I call it the The Triple S Program: Spanish, Salsa, and Surfing. All S's are new skills that I had little to no experience with. My goal: to learn them.

So far, I've tried my best to "master" Spanish and Salsa. I am not fluent, nor am I a professional Salsa dancer, but they are skills where if I were asked, "Do you speak Spanish?" or "Can you dance salsa?" I would answer, "yes!"

Check and check.

The final S though is going to take place my last week in Costa Rica. I am researching for an all girls surf camp for 7-10 days. They all seem to cost an arm and a leg, but beating Saturn doesn't come cheaply, (except Salsa classes were pretty cheap), and neither does renting a surf board. Plus, this also means that I need to get my tortilla-filled butt back into shape.

Part of that plan to get back-in-shape consisted of me taking off for a hike at 8 a.m. this morning, which ended up lasting until 2 p.m. Some writer I am. I spent most of the day sliding down muddy hills, dipping in swimming holes surrounded by cascading waterfalls, and learning about the natural herbal powers of the plants around the area. Carlos, the go-to handy man of the property, loves to go hiking. When he volunteered to show us around the area for a "quick" hike, we ended up hiking all-day. And it was an absolutely breathtaking journey the entire way. I was in Guam and Oregon and China all-at-once.

But now I feel horribly guilty for having lived here for two days, and I have only added one page to my book. I am going on lock down until Friday night, which means I am not allowed to leave the property or do anything other than write and work out. That means if you catch me on Gchat, Skype, Facebook, or YMS, please tell me to go away. Tell me that I am big loser that needs to get to work. Tell me that writing is never easy, but it's the only thing I do that makes me feel worthwhile. Tell me that there will always be other watering holes, other hikes, other nooks and crannies to explore, but never will I have a chance to have my only responsibility in the whole world be to write. Tell me that and I'll hate you. But tell me that and I'll listen.

Volcano Pacaya

2008-05-06T19:46:00.000-07:00

In case you don't have Facebook, here is a picture of me surrounded by molten hot lava. I'm at Pacaya (see earlier post for full details.)

Not this time, Saturn

2008-05-06T17:53:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up with one helluva bitch slap from Saturn returns. Questions circled my mind: When will my book be done? Where will I go when I run out of money? When will I finally stop messing around and start living my life? Where is that life going to be?

I wake up early in Central America, because the sun rises earlier. I was up and about, after attempting to sleep in, by 6:30 a.m. I sat in front of my computer for a few hours enjoying the leisure of WiFi, remembering how nice these keys, my keys, felt under my fingertips. No more public computer labs for me. I can read the New York Times with my morning toast, add pictures on Facebook (I just did, check them out) and surf all the porn I want (that’s a joke, mom.)

But by noon, my productivity level plummeted and the questions in my head began to depress me. How spoiled can a person be to be sad surrounded by all of this?

I decided to go on a fieldtrip into San Jose. Buses run regularly into the capital and in 30 minutes I was in the heart of the city. San Jose is completely different than Guatemala City. I left my bulletproof vest behind. In fact, San Jose has more similarities to San Jose, California with it’s outlet stores, diverse population, hip hop street performers, and fast food chains. San Jose has such a strong infrastructure that you can drink water from the tap. I tried it today. The water is tasty. I met up with some artists who work in an art gallery near the center of town. I learned that the contemporary art scene, although small, exists in Costa Rica and consists of a lot of talented and devoted artists. One illustrator/writer I met used his art to end a life sentence in prison. He spent ten years there and now all of his work is thematically linked to imprisonment.

When I came home, I had a Skype date with Tom Kealey. I felt so happy to hear his voice, because I regularly call him but only get his message machine. Life and writing advice spewed from his mouth in that familiar way I had grown to depend on. He also said that Ben and Wendy read this blog regularly, and joked that they know more about what I have been doing thousands of miles away than what Tom has been doing a few blocks down. Thanks Ben and Wendy for reading! And Tom, will you go visit the Duncan Street more often?

By 6ish, that Saturn sinking feeling returned, so I went for a walk around the property. I climbed up a steep hill and watched the sunset dip past the mountains. I had foolishly stepped out of my cabin in flip-flops and shorts and had to play hopscotch with the pebbles. A wild bunny dashed between the trees. The walk was breathtaking. When I had looped back to the colony, I spotted a worn down tennis court with a laundry line and a trampoline. Nobody was around, so I kicked off my shoes, and I started to bounce. I bounced until sweat gathered on my brow. I bounced until pebbles stuck in my toes. I bounced while dogs barked, the sun fully disappeared, and the urge to cry was replaced with memories of me in a pink dress, a little girl, so excited to be flying.

Saturn, you didn’t win this time.

Costa Rican Paradise

2008-05-05T13:17:00.001-07:00

When I arrived in Guatemala, I immediately went into panic mode when my ride was ten minutes late. I imagined being kidnapped or robbed, told to hand over my passport in a language that I didn’t understand. But this morning, my experience from arriving in Costa Rica couldn’t be more different. I calmly went through immigration, picked up my bags, ordered a taxi (paying for it dollars) and had a pleasant conversation with the driver in Spanish about Gabriel Garcia Marquez and books. I arrived at the colony, and I couldn’t be happier about my cabin.

I have a fully furnished cabin with a kitchen, bathroom, and a deck with lawn chairs. My long solid wood, writing desk overlooks the mountains and tropical vegetation. The only sounds I can here are birds chirping. This morning, I went down to the village of Colon and bought groceries at the local supermarket. I bought everything that I would want to buy in the US, like cheese, rice cakes, peanut butter, chow mein noodles, papaya, and soy sauce. It didn’t take me long to wish I were staying here longer.

I also left Antigua feeling a bit sad. My host mother repeatedly hugged me from morning until morning, and I had grown quite fond of my new friends Ben and Chris, who divulged hospital secrets, opinions on Universal health care, and tips on how to win in cribbage.

Much of this month has been about unexpected companionship. Not just from male med students from the Midwest, (Tim, Tony, Chris, and Ben), or lawyers from Oregon (Gina and Ryan), or MidEastern history majors (Sombit), but from Guatemalans, too: my favorite maestra (Anna Mercedez), host mom (Maria), and salsa teacher (Josua).

I am glad to be here though writing in solitude, but I also appreciate the interesting and caring people I came to know along the way. I feel lucky.

Plus, I have my computer back (hold the applause), so I’ll be posting more pictures.

"Team" Toole

2008-05-01T08:19:00.001-07:00

When traveling, it's easy to make friends. We drop our guards. We're more open to meeting new people. We think less about who we don't have time for and more about how great it is to make a connection. For example, in San Francisco, most of my friends are writers. I didn't intentionally exclude doctors, lawyers, architects or others, but when living in a place for a long time, my social world underwent revisions.

The best thing to have happened to me in Guatemala was at PFLM's orientation when I met Tim, Gina, Ryan and Sombit. I came here without any expectations of making new friends. That was the whole point of leaving San Francisco, to get away from friends and family in order to make time to write. But instead I did the opposite.

Last night, I said good-bye to Tim Toole, the last of our PFLM posse. Since I arrived in Guatemala, a month ago, I've seen Tim every day, including entire weekend where we travelled to Tikal, Lago Atitlan, and Pacaya, and I never once got annoyed with him. (That says a lot. I'm sort of a snob.) Tim coined phrases, such as: "Fear is an aphrodisiac," "my lady (in reference to his teacher)," and "I feel like the third person, preterit tense for 'to put'" (poder = puse). He's off to Chile for two weeks, then med school in Layola, and will be getting married next summer. (In Antigua, right?) Tim is already greatly missed. I couldn't have hoped for a better partner-in-crime.

The only consolation to having said good-bye to many friends is that I'll be leaving on Monday for Costa Rica. I'm looking forward to the time to refocus my energy into my book. My last day of Spanish is this Friday, and while I am far from fluent, I can't complain (although I do) about how much I've learned here.

Also, in great news, my manzanita is expected to arrive this evening! I confess that not having my laptop has made talk more to my host family. I only have four more days here so no more WiFi in the house for me. Maybe that's a rule that I should abide in the US, too. Vamos a ver.

2008-04-28T16:30:00.000-07:00

The last few days have a been a bit rough. My tummy has been the home to a not-so-friendly parasite. Luckily, during my hike up Volcano Pacaya, I was accompanied by a friendly doctor, Tony, who prescribed me antibiotics, which, of course, I bought at a corner pharmacy.

During my travels, I have become familiar with the travel bug. Like the time in Xishuanbanna, China when I was on two day hike, and was struck with the double ended throw up, having to cut my trip short. This last case wasn´t as bad as that, but I did feel strong contractions and theurge to give birth to something large and inhumane.

I am better now though, thank you. I am in my final slide home in my Guatemalan adventure. My Spanish is not as good as I had hoped, pero un poco un poco mejor. Me gusta mucho mi maestra esta semana. (but a little better. I like my teacher this week.)

Despite the stomach bug, Pacaya was incredible. I´ll upload pictures soon of me roasting marshmellows over molten hot lava. I didn´t know what to expect when hiking the most active volcano in Central America. I thought it would look like the classic science project with the baking soda and paper mache. Instead, we climbed over a mountain and walked over dark mounds of cooled off sentiment, occasionally passing flowing rivers of red lava. Girls would shout, ¨My shoes are melting!¨ It turns out that lava is hot.

Pacaya

2008-04-27T10:47:00.000-07:00

I´m about to hike Pacaya, woohoo. Should be cool. And mom, don´t be scared. I´ll write everyday. And Gina, thanks for stalking me. You and Ryan are missed.

Manzanita, I miss you

2008-04-25T17:21:00.000-07:00

While I have the ability to think with global perspective, I still freak out with day-to-day speed bumps. For example, my computer broke. There's a small piece of the extension chord stuck in the outlet. My reaction: "This is awful, I have to go home. How am I going to write in an Artist Colony without a computer? Why did this happen here and not in San Francisco? Why now?¨ And then, yes, I cried. Like a Born-in-a-Developed-Country little Girl. This is similar to the time in Harbin, China when I broke a hot water thermos and glass spilled all over my room. The damage only cost me $2, but I didn´t have a broom to sweep up the glass, the water was filled with boiling water, which was five floors down, and I didn´t know where to buy a new thermos. These annoyances, while at home, are no big deal, but in an unfamiliar place, these challenges feel apocalyptic.

After my computer broke, I brought it to a technician in Antigua, who saw my Manzana (Apple) and immediately shook his head. Apples haven't hit Antigua yet. He recommended a store in Guatemala City, an hour away.

Now if anybody has heard about Guatemala City, then they've heard of the "stories." Murders. Gangs. Car jackings. Drug trafficking. Stolen purses. The mere mention of the place makes my teacher shiver. And she's from Guatemala. How do you think a tall, Asian girl (who clearly sticks out) feels? I wasn't about to take my most prized possession on the public bus, so I hired a driver to take me to this city. Enter Jorge Mario, the school's driver.

The director of the school arranged for my maestra and the school driver to escort me to the Capital on Friday morning. Along the way, my maestra tells me that she never goes to the city without her husband, that the violence and gang activity has increased in the last few years, that the thieves have become so adept at stealing your wallet, you won’t even realize it´s gone. When we enter the city limits, we pass a Dominos Pizza, a Koreantown clothing store, three or four Pollo Campero´s (the Guatemalan fast food chain.) The city looks like what all cities look like-crowded, wealthy, the roads have BMW´s and school busses. My teacher falls silent, peering out the window. She points to a market and says, ¨You wouldn´t last five minutes in there without losing everything.¨

Guatemala City is divided into 15 zones. It´s a city of rampant violence, but increased wealth and a growing artist community. This is where the writers and musicians live, and where businessmen go for opportunity. The Apple store is in Zone 9, near the airport. Jorge Mario, like a true gentleman, says that he´ll park the car so that he can escort us. We park the van in a public lot and with directions in hand, ask the parking tenant, a teenage boy carrying an automatic weapon, if he knows where the store is. The parking tenant points in a direction to the left, meanwhile another man approaches us offering to help. I have my computer in my backpack. With all of the stories swirling in my head, I imagine this man pulling out a machete or gun. He looks us up and down, then points in the same direction as the tenant, and says, ¨Have a good day.¨

We leave the gated parking garage and my maestra is silent. We pass a boy on the sidewalk selling cell phone chords. She grabs onto my arm. I whisper to my teacher, ¨I have to use the bathroom. ¨ She says, ¨Oh dear.¨ We follow Jorge down the block, crossing a busy intersection. We´re as silent and as nervous as solders crossing the border of enemy lines. We walk a few feet and there emerges, like the gates of a holy grail, a beautiful Apple store, complete with the Apple Icon, simple interior of black, gray graphics, and crisp, clean white computers. I dash into the store and announce, ¨I need help. My computer is broken!¨ A Guatemalan man named Andre, says in perfect English, ¨Now, what is the problem?¨

This is a topic that often comes up with my friends here: Are we paranoid about our safety or are we being smart? Last night, I nearly peed in my pants when a car, at night, stopped in front of me. It was 8 p.m., dark, and I had just one block to walk to meet my friend Tim. There was nobody behind me, but I could see a woman up ahead holding a baby. The car stopped. The window rolled down. A man with long hair poked his head out and stared at me. I said, ¨¿Que paso?¨ He said, ¨Cuidado caminar solo a la noche.¨(Be careful walking alone at night.) The car peeled off on the cobblestone. My heart was racing and suddenly my surroundings--a rundown garden, an old garage, a boarded up house--felt like a tourist death trap. I started running, flip-flops flapping, until I reached the Internet cafe where Tim was at.

I try my best to go out, be young, travel, maximize my opportunities, but this issue of safety keeps coming up, either as a joke or in a sad story. Perhaps my dependency on my computer has more to do than Gmail, Facebook and Blogger.com, but feeling connected and safe in a place that I don´t feel safe at. Send best wishes to my manzanita (little apple). She´s all alone in the Capital, getting dismantled and probed.