Category: Travel

Kaua’i, Last Look

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Aloha from the hokey but spacious interior of our resort, the Kauai Coast Resort at the Beachboy
One of many scenic spots along the Wailua River Valley. 

Wet, dead fern leaves on a hike. My mother was glum because her feet were wet. 

Lots of these guys running around the island, crossing the road, not crossing the road, dead on the road…

Purportedly the best shave ice in Kauai, but we ordered the ice cream instead.  
To the (Kilauea) lighthouse. Or not. The view was much better from here than there, where one can only see ocean. 
My mom and I came back in love with Plumerias of all colors. 
The view along the Waimei Canyon Drive up to the Iliau Nature Loop.  
Clouds began to roll in… 
And we were suddenly in the clouds. A perky iliau despite the gloomy weather on the Iliau Nature Loop.  
Same day, on the drive down from the loop. Two-faced island.  

I don’t know what flower this is, even after a long and detailed explanation with our tour guide.

A hut in the grass. Not sure if anyone lived here but I wasn’t about to venture in and find out.
A pretty tree waving at the pretty sea. 

More plumerias! 
Until next time. Mahalo for your attention.

Letter from Kaua’i

BettyLeave a comment

Hey Guh,

It’s 4:30PM here in Kaua’i and I’ve just come from swimming in the ocean, barely two shades darker than when I arrived. Mom on the other hand, due to some crazy tanning skills, is dark as a panther, even though she’s been wearing a long-sleeved linen shirt, long shorts, a hat, and holding my umbrella as a parasol since we got here.


“I’m just dark,” is her response. She hates it, but then looks down at her brown ashy legs and shrugs, “Oh well. What can I do.” 

She’s napping on the florid Hawaiian print couch in our hotel and I’m writing to you on the balcony, which is supposed to have a “garden view” but really just faces the neighboring resort which is undergoing construction. It’s hard work for these guys, but they get the ocean breeze, an awesome view, and they blast some KIIS FM stuff (so my jam) from a fuzzy radio, but they can only hear it when their drills and hammers aren’t going on. 

If I tilt my chair to the left, I can see the ocean, which is right behind our hotel. It’s a cute place, definitely on the older side, but has separate living room and a full kitchen, which mom likes, a heated pool (though I think that’s unnecessary here) and hammocks hanging from the palm trees. Just a few steps away (God I sound like a brochure) is a nice stretch of beach, too rocky for some people but perfect for me and the other folks who swim with their head above water, that is, half-heartedly, because we’re not into snorkeling or scuba-diving, and who wants all that salt in their eyes? 


Traveling with mom is interesting. I’ve taken trips with just the two of us before, mostly destinations that were driving distance; we went to San Diego before I went to Berkeley and then to Napa while I was up there, but I forgot how much of each trip is just… driving and looking. Mom can walk for days, but she also walks very slowly (you know this) and needs good shoes or else she gets this glum look on her face, as though nothing in the world could make it right. 

The first hike I proposed was just after a rain and the path was too soggy for her. She’d brought these shoes with holes on the bottom, which I told her were perfect for Hawaii and that she shouldn’t wear socks with them but she blamed me, saying that I had told her it wasn’t going to rain much. I told her it was hard to predict the weather, especially in Hawaii. She thought about this and decided to be unreasonable anyway. 

“You said it wouldn’t rain,” she said.  


She was kind of a brat that day, but I got over it.  

So basically we’re in scuba, snorkel, kayak, zip-lining and hiking capital of the USA but we didn’t do any of that, mostly because well, I’m not really into any of that either, but I’m kind of afraid of mom getting really tired or hurting herself. 

This morning we went for a walk along the beach. I told mom to be careful because some of the rocks were slippery. I wanted to walk down near the water and she said she would too but she wouldn’t take off her shoes. I saw some interesting barnacles on a rock closer to the water and wanted her to take a look, thinking, I don’t know what, that maybe mom knew a ton about barnacles – God, barnacles! Of all things to risk your mother’s life for! – and she started towards me so I turned back towards the barnacles and suddenly I heard her cry out. I turned and there she was lying awkwardly between two jagged black rocks and I thought for a millisecond that I’d made her fall to her death because I wanted her to look at some goddamned barnacles.

Her face was twisted up in a grimace and I was frozen there on the beach, not even moved by the waves hitting me in the back of the knees, my mind completely blank when she started laughing. I let out the hugest sigh of relief and rushed over. She nodded towards my camera and said, over the water which seemed to be moving again, “Did you get a picture of that?”

 I didn’t (but I definitely thought about it when she started laughing) and asked if she felt anything amiss, bone-wise. She said, “Nope, thank God I have a fat ass.”

So mom is funny (though you knew that too). Funny in that she intends to be funny and also unintentionally. On the plane, she proved to be the most interesting seat mate I’ve had in a while – and I’ve sorted started this thing, writing about these seat mates because I’ve been traveling so much and have sat next to the some interesting people: e.g. Orthodox Jews who own their own printing company (they wanted to hire me onto their sales team), a girl named Leslie who was thinking about following her boyfriend out to California, and most recently, before Hawaii, a middle-aged authoress and HER elderly mother, both of whom were my worst nightmare. I still need to writer an essay about her, but let’s just say she wrote what seems like a terrible book and was telling me how successful she was until Border’s went out of business… I was like, “How come your book wasn’t anywhere else?” and she gave me this really irritated look like I didn’t understand anything about publishing and said, “Well, it’s on Amazon in digital format for $1.99.”

 When the sandwich cart came she pulled out her credit card and asked her eighty-year old mother what she wanted and when the old woman told her, she said, “Well, Ma, get out your credit card because you have to pay for it.” I was incredulous, but then remembered that her book was selling for $1.99 and I probably didn’t need to ask her how the sales were if she couldn’t afford to buy her mother a sandwich. Oh man. Knock on wood so that my own writing career will blossom and blossom for decades.

 Anyway, Mom though – she couldn’t sleep on the flight over and ended up just counting fat people on the plane, chuckling a bit to herself whenever a fat guy or woman got up and walked around or asked for another beer and soda.

 “Look, look, this fatty is getting up to exercise.”

 or

“Look, he’s getting another beer. See, Betty, every fatty is fat for a reason.”


I laughed out loud so many times during the flight people trying to sleep around me were probably getting irritated. And it was so funny, to see how childlike mom could be: when the beverage cart came around she asked first for a glass a milk. Milk! And then for a glass of orange juice, two things she never drinks when she’s at home but 40,000 feet in the air it’s totally okay. 

 “Milk, please.” “Orange juice, please.” It was bizarre.

And the fruit. Dude, woman eats two to three whole papayas a day, plus bananas and lychees. She was a bit miffed at the entire island of Kaua’i because pineapples aren’t as cheap as she thought. I think she imagined these bounties of fruit falling out of the sky, or just cartloads of fruit outside the hotel for 50 cents a pound, but yeah, the local stuff here is kind of expensive, but mom was like, “Okay, I’ll shell out for papaya.”

 But with pineapple she was more reluctant because dad’s not around to cut it into bite-sized triangles.

I get the feeling that she’s just not paying attention. I’ve heard her take a few calls from prospective students and I realize how hard mom and xiao jiu work to keep the Chinese school going, and how much of a headache it all must be, but because she believes in it, she keeps at it. Anyway, these calls tell me that mom is actually really on top of her shit in regards to the things that matter to her, and not that coming to Kaua’i with me doesn’t matter, but she doesn’t have to do anything in terms of planning, because she assumes I’ll be the tour guide and arrange everything, including drive her ass around to all these points which she sometimes doesn’t even get out of the car for, and…well, I do it because it’s in my nature, and it’s fine.


The most hilarious thing: is she is dyslexic for sure, and I think I might have inherited some of that. I get all mixed up about Chinese phrases and it’s the same for her, but in English. You know how she used to always say “May Robinsons” and “California Chicken Pizza” for CPK? Well, there’s a dish here called poke, which is basically sashimi marinated in sea salt, soy sauce, sesame oil and seaweed. Mom really likes it so I ordered it a couple times at various fish markets. She always goes, “Get the Polka Dot?” with a question mark because she knows she’s saying it wrong but can’t be bothered to knock off a few extra letters. I always want to tear my hair out. “Mom, it’s POKE!” pronounced “poh-kay”, I’ll say, and she just laughs, closes her eyes, shakes her head in that way.

 “Oh, what are you going to do about me?”

Nothing, really, but buy the poke. But it’s been a good time. We’re going to get some Barbecue now for our last meal in Kaua’i and I gotta run out and pick it up.

Anyway, that’s my little update: telling you things you already know about mom.




love,

Betty 

Kaua’i: Fish and Ice Cream

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For starters, there were a lot of fat people on our flight to Kaua’i. I wrinkled my nose at them while my mother chuckled to herself every time a 胖子 (“fatso” in Chinese) got up to get himself another soda.

“Everyone’s fat for a reason, Betty,” mom said, and I nodded, glad that the two of us fit comfortably in our economy seats. We had brought fruit, beef jerky, and granola bars to munch on the plane and watched smugly in our relatively slender frames as the others stuffed their faces with day-old overpriced airline sandwiches. 
Then we arrived in Kaua’i and forgot about the fatties on the plane. I drove my mother to a farmer’s market where she made a beeline for papayas, buying six. She would devour two that night. 
“Papaya doesn’t make you fat,” she would say as I stared, “It’s good for digestion.” 
Holding my mother’s six papayas, I bought a coconut and ask the nice but extremely wrinkled man to hack it in half and scoop out the flesh. I ate half a coconut standing in the parking lot in front of Kmart, refusing to acknowledge that it was akin to eating half a stick of butter. 
“It’s good for my skin. And antibacterial,” I thought. 
Then we raided the Kmart. The wrinkled man still fresh in my mind, I bought a man’s visor emblazoned with “Kaua’i” just in case I lost my mind and forgot where I was, and a tube of Ocean Potion sunblock which smelled like an orange creamsicle.  
My mother said, “Let’s get eggs, milk and cereal for breakfast. We can each eat two or three eggs a day. And if we have leftovers, we can boil them and take them on the flight home.” 
I nodded in agreement, thinking that we’d be hiking and/or kayaking so much that a big carb and protein and…everything-else-packed breakfast made sense. 
Breakfast of tourist champions. 
But conclude what you will from the following conversation: 
Me: Mom, what activities do you want to do? We can kayak the Wailua River, hike down Waimea Canyon, or go swimming at the beach right behind our resort. 

Mom: No… I’d rather not. 
We ended up walking, very slowly, a lot. Which normally isn’t enough exercise for me to say, “I’m gonna eat whatever the hell I want,” but when you’re in Kaua’i with your mother who thinks that eating two whole (sometimes three) papayas a day is the very thing one should do when vacationing in tropical fruit heaven, you follow your mother’s lead. Except with ice cream. Despite my sweet tooth being sharper than hers and relishing the occasional heaping plate of red meat, I have a similar palate to my mother’s; we like vegetables and fish. Lots of fish. And we like a good deal. 
Turns out, mom and I flew with the fatties to the right island. Below are the greatest culinary hits from our trip and the dishes behind our combined eight pound (four each) weight gain. 
Kapaa, HI 96746

This place was just down the street from our hotel and the most expensive fish market we visited, but huge portions and excellent seared ahi poke. Below are the seared ahi poke salad and mahi mahi plate lunch (sans rice).
POSTCARDS CAFE
5-5075 Kuhio Hwy. Ste. A
Hanalei, HI 96714
We came here on a recommendation while visiting the north shore and the famed Hanalei Bay. It’s a popular spot with tourists and locals alike and considered a “romantic treat” for people celebrating anniversaries, honeymoons, and engagements. There was a line outside the restaurant before it opened at 6PM, which gave the hostess a power trip. I let her take the trip because she was a stunning middle aged woman with arms like Linda Hamilton. I’m pretty sure she taught yoga during the day and never eats what’s pictured below. That said, the restaurant’s ambience and quality of food doesn’t equal their prices (our most expensive meal in Kaua’i) and afterward we decided to stick with fish markets. I do recommend their Hanalei Taro Fritters (don’t order the rest of the appetizers), Vegan Chocolate Silk Pie, and Deep Fried Macadamia Coconut Crusted Ice Cream (photo later). 
KOLOA FISH MARKET:
5482 Koloa Rd.
Koloa, HI 96756 
One of my favorite stops, in Old Koloa Town. It was sweltering that day and fish markets don’t exactly have seating, but we found a shady tree nearby and chowed down on their Hawaiian Plate with Lau Lau (pork wrapped in Taro leaves, which was very reminiscent of a similar Chinese dish) and fish cooked two ways (ahi and mahi mahi). Both were great and my mother, not a big meat eater, enjoyed the Lau Lau, which was like baby back ribs except without the ribs and the barbecue sauce… yeah. 

FISH EXPRESS
3343 Kuhio Hwy. Ste. 10
Lihue, HI, 96766

This place is number one. We bought fresh miso marinated butterfish to cook back at the hotel on our first night, and then came back for the grill, which is only open from 10-2PM each day.
“People get mad when they miss the grill,” said the young man behind the counter when we first went, and I immediately made a note to come back. The fish below was hands down the best grilled fish we had in Kaua’i – left is blackened ahi with a fragrant butter sauce and macadamia crusted cream dill sauce mahi mahi. Not pictured is the crab and ahi poke, which my mother ate like salsa, though without chips. She called it “polka dot” and insisted I buy the “polka dot” at all the subsequent fish markets.

“Mom. It’s POKE. Poke-ay.”

“Ah yes, polka dot is the dog.”

“….” (she was thinking of dalmatians).

We brought these to picnic near the beach and it was one of my most memorable meals. My mother complained a bit about the wind, then ate the fish and stopped complaining about anything.

CHICKEN IN A BARREL BBQ
4-1586 Kuhio Hwy
Kapaa, HI 96746

Our last dinner in Kaua’i, which we paired with a little bottle of wine I’d gotten from the plane. We shared a sampler which offered enough meat for three people, though if I ever go back I’d get the ribs, which were everything good ribs should be. Funny story: I called in my order and when I arrived, the girl said, “You’re the phone order?” 

“Yeah,” I said. 

“Here you go,” she pushed the box towards me and I said, “Wait, this is John’s.” 

Lastly, it wouldn’t be a proper food post without the literal cream of the crop:
ICE CREAM (clockwise from top left):
POSTCARDS CAFE – deep fried macadamia ice cream in coconut shell
ONO ONO SHAVE ICE – not shaved ice, (if rainbow sugar water is your thing, then definitely get it here) but their rather unnaturally hued taro and coconut ice creams.
PAPALANI GELATO – Pineapple (my mother) and chocolate.
LAPPERT’S ICE CREAM AND COFFEE – Kona coffee, my mother’s Achille’s heel and robber of sleep. She ate it at 7PM one evening and was doomed to toss and turn for the rest of the night.

And I had to give this guy his own headshot, because I miss him: Lappert’s Coconut Macadamia Nut Fudge. I went back twice and considered a third but my pants were feeling suspiciously tight and I didn’t want my mother to laugh at me on the plane too.

The End. 

First Look: Kaua’i

Betty1 Comment
It’s hard to take a bad photo of Kaua’i. Mother Nature’s done all the hard work so all you have to do is point and shoot. These were taken with the iPhone, which is not to say I didn’t do the touristy thing and lug around the Canon G12, but first, the easy-to-edit phone photos. 
It’s Thursday, our last full day in Kaua’i and my mother and I have breakfasted on eggs, fresh papaya, coconut and Kellog’s Smart Start, which we bought at the Kmart adjacent to the farmer’s market we visited upon arriving. It’s rained a little every day, but thankfully mostly during times we were in the car, driving from coast to coast. I hate driving, but Kauai makes it easy (and also a bit dangerous, because I’m easily distracted) with view like this: 
And this: 
My mother is a brave passenger, as I often swerve to the opposite side of the road trying to capture the views I’m seeing, but I pulled over for this one of Wimea Canyon. It’s almost comical to try and fit it on a single screen but you can click the photo to enter into fullscreen mode. 
While we’re at it, here’s another panorama of McBryde Gardens which was exciting for me (my mother said simply, “Where are all the orchids? I thought there’d be orchids”) because parts of “Jurassic Park,” one of my favorite movies of all time, were filmed here. In this garden there is a restroom which was donated by Michael Crichton. I did not photograph the restroom, but it looks a lot like this one in the movie.  
You know which scene I’m thinking about. 

A shot from the bus enroute to the garden. According to Bob the driver, this is where the sea turtles come to lay their eggs.

The real Fantasy Island. 
Bob the driver. His voice was flat like this __________. But he was very nice. 
Just one of many pretty faces in the garden and around the island. It’s not called “The Garden Island” for nothing.

No more driving today. My mom and I are going to take the day strolling around our hotel, the Kauai Island Resort at the Beachboy, an older establishment with condo-style amenities, right on a beach that can get rather violent in the evening. But for now the water is calm and the sun, not so harsh.

Have a great weekend. 

The Fragrant Harbor: Hong Kong Photo Diary

Betty1 Comment
Not supposed to take photos inside Bloomberg Hong Kong, but I did anyway.

In 2011 I spent a day in Hong Kong, walking around Lantau Island and then Central to kill time while waiting for my Chinese Visa to be processed. It definitely wasn’t enough time and I left wondering when I’d get the chance to go back. This year, I jumped at the chance to visit again with E and C, two friends from college whose first stop was Taipei, Taiwan.

Continue reading “The Fragrant Harbor: Hong Kong Photo Diary” →

Chicago: Seen on the Street

Betty1 Comment

It’s late. I’m tired. But I’m trying to post every day – just an exercise in consistency. I know quality over quantity, blah blah blah, but sometimes you just have to put something short and sweet.

Like briefs. Definitely short. Not necessarily sweet.

Alicia and I were walking to the Improv theater when she grabbed my arm and pointed at the ground.

“Is that…” We inched closer.

Yes it was.

“Can you see the size?” Alicia asked me.

I thought it was a strange question, but I suddenly had to know.

Ah. Large.  Would the man of steel be anything but a Taille Grande?

We looked up and down the street, but the man of steel was nowhere to be seen.

“That’s pretty funny,” Alicia said, “It almost beats the weave and lucite heel I saw on the corner last Friday.”

My Kind of Bookstore

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Bookworks, Chicago  

I like to read. It follows that I like bookstores. I’m not picky: If it’s got books, great. My kind of bookstore. But if it’s got used books, oh my God banana pants, fireworks from my heart and eyes.

In New York there was Shakespeare and Co. right down the street from the building in which I took Astronomy 101 (my first and last F – in college!). I spent many a rainy afternoon in there, browsing through books about depressed lonely girls, knowing I looked like an advertisement for Prozac. It wasn’t a used bookstore, just an independent bookseller with wonderful dark, wooden shelves, warm lighting, and that smell only certain well-loved bookstores have.

Then in Berkeley, I discovered Moe’s, a four-story behemoth of used books. They had a small selection of diaries, postcards, and new and notable best sellers, but I loved Moe’s for the breadth of what it offered in terms of literature. I rediscovered the classics, only because there were so many versions, sold by English majors past – or perhaps those people from other majors that dabble in English courses and, unlike English majors, could actually bear to part with their books. Moe’s stands today because I, along with dozens of other literary hopefuls, bought ten books every other week. (I say dozens because we Moe’s frequenters often saw each other’s familiar faces). There is nothing I love more, in a used bookstore, than opening front covers and seeing a very affordable price, usually a 6.- with a dash, very euro style – on the title page.

If I miss ANYTHING about Berkeley, it’s that bookstore, and the other two I frequented – Mrs. Dalloway’s on College Ave., purely for browsing, and Half-Price Books and Pegasus in my final semester because Moe’s, on South Side, was simply too far to visit as often as I’d liked. But Moe’s – I carry the memory of its familiar red and white striped sign and its endless, bountiful shelves in my heart of hearts. 

I didn’t intend to go bookstore browsing in Chicago, but Alicia and I were waiting for an Improv show to start and wandered past this gem. I noticed it, but didn’t ask to go in, but was relieved when Alicia grabbed my arm and said, “HEY! Let’s check this out!”

You can tell a lot about a person by what they look for in a bookstore. Alicia called out right away, “Do you have any books on organic farming?”

I thought about the books I had yet to read at home and the pain I’d cause myself if I were to go on one of my usual book-buying binges and have to haul all the loot home. I love books. I love used bookstores and believe we should support them absolutely – all bookstores, actually – but my carry-on would stay a carry on. I wandered through the shelves and thought how much Bookworks reminded me of Moe’s.

I went up to the register and asked the man, “Do all you used bookstores know of each other?”

He shrugged.

I said, “Moe’s? In Berkeley? Have you heard of Moe’s?”

He shook his head and I was disappointed in him. But then he furrowed his brow.

“I know of Pegasus in Berkeley.”

I almost shrieked because it was like meeting someone in another country and realizing you have a mutual friend. I went to Pegasus, located on the same corner as a bus stop for the 51. I would stand on the corner and wait and wait, and the damn bus would take forever, and I KNEW I would miss the bus if I went into the bookstore, but I’d go in, start browsing, and two 51’s would ramble by. That’s life.

If I were a denizen of Chicago, Bookworks would be a frequent haunt, a good friend. 

Instead I was a tourist:

Not someone I’ve read or will read or look up to in particular (except while snapping this photo). His legion of thrift-store clad fans at my alma mater who felt like they were special because they understood/got through “Howl” sort of turned me off to him. But he has an interesting face. As does the chimpanzee (do you see it?).
I realize the filters I put on this photo make it seem like a haunted, prison library. (“And from that pipe is where ole’ Johnny Scarface hanged himself…” ) But it was much warmer than this. But I do like haunted prison libraries. 
Crazy postcards. If this turns up in your mailbox and someone writes “I’m thinking about you,” they are creepy, and also, probably me. 

“Practical Chess Openings,” vs. “Impractical Chess Openings.” Story of my life.

I kind of wish I bought this.
Here is the link that explains why they did not make it big. I’m no Jazz connoisseur, but 240 views on Youtube sort of means dead.

I don’t know who’s creepier: he (with his crazy receding hairline and half-assed mullet) or me, furtively snapping a picture from a stand filled with children’s books. Probably him. 


For your address book:
Bookworks 
3444 N. Clark
Chicago, IL, 60657

My Kind of Town (Minus the Weather)

Betty1 Comment

I first went to Chicago in 2005 with my friend Charlene, who was kind enough to accompany me during a record-breaking cold spell. She waited in the lobby of a musty smelling building at the University of Chicago while I bombed a twenty-minute interview (twenty-minutes including the time it took me to walk to and from the man’s office) for a chance to transfer in as a sophomore. It was not one of my finest moments. I still remember telling the guy, a bookish yet ruggedly handsome mid-Western scholar with a five-o-clock shadow about my favorite books, none of which have changed. He nodded along, taking notes and I thought, “I’m so in.”

Then he asked, “So have you gotten a chance to look at the English program major requirements?”

It’s always the easiest stuff that catches you off guard. I replied breezily, “Oh I’m sure it’s just like most colleges.”

He stared at me for a few minutes, not sure if I was joking (it makes me sad to admit that I wasn’t), then very kindly, handed me the academic program.

“It’s actually quite unlike any other university’s English program.”

I swallowed whatever stupid thing I was going to say next, took the book from him, and paged through it silently, knowing that I had screwed up and that now he was just being polite. The program, if I remember correctly, makes Berkeley’s English program seem elementary. I switched majors after having spent a year and a half dicking around as an Art History major before I realized, “Hey, you have to care about Art and History,” yet was still able to complete the English major in a year. Had the man been generous with his evaluation of me and allowed me in, I’d still be at the University of Chicago, trying to decide between slitting my wrists (which I hear is a popular pastime at the school) and finishing my thesis (which is required).

The bad interview aside, I remember being cold out of my wits (which I hope gives me some excuse for flubbing the interview – cold brain cells are slow brain cells) and also, having a great time. My second day in, I thought, “I almost got frostbite yesterday, but this is my kind of town.”

I vowed I would go back someday in weather that was more conducive to my exploring the city, which seemed clean and pretty and mighty accessible, with trains and affordable cabs. And though I had heard over and over again that people in the Mid-West were famous for being friendly and hospitable, I did not know just to what extent, until Charlene and I, stuffed from a dinner at some famous Chicago Deep Dish restaurant offered our leftovers to a homeless man sitting on a grate.

“Oh thank you kind misses,” he said, his smile infinitely warmer than either of us were feeling, “but I’ve got enough to eat right here.”

He patted a giant plastic sack next to him, and bid us good night. He did not ask for money or berate us for being better off than he. It was strange, and one of my fondest memories of Chicago – a town where even the bums are content.

Anyway, this past weekend I returned to visit Alicia, a friend I made through work, and no interviews were involved, thank God. I was luckier with the weather this time – it was still freaking cold, but for the most part the sun was shining and sartorially, I was better prepared. I toured the city in a coat that could double as a sleeping bag, and wore the same cashmere gloves I bought on my first trip to Chicago – they saved my fingers then, and this time, enabled my hands to stay out of my pockets long enough to snap a few photos.

I’m not a great photographer, but I sure am handy with the ready-made photo effects. Anyway, like your typical Asian tourist I took more photos than necessary, so they’ll make it out across a couple of posts. But yeah. Very Highbrow is going (occasionally) visual.

I had about 30 of these window pictures. Next time, I will bring a book to read or be more vocal about borrowing the People Magazine from the people sitting next to me. 

Pretty building, the inner workings of which are a mystery to me.

Rather modern looking gargoyle on the Chicago Public Library.

 
The columns at Union Station.

Obligatory shot of the Sears – now Willis – Tower. It was so boring I jazzed it up and made it glittery, and now you are amazed.

A Family Vacation in Carmel California, Part 2

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Part II: Balderdash

The Acorn’s crowning glory, the place everyone could agree was beautiful and worth its wood was the backyard. It grew from a multi-tiered deck that led down into a freshly laid rectangle of grass, where there waited a horseshoe pit and a small platform for spectators or, as we used it, afternoon yoga sessions. Here, we could all stand together and see the ocean without being mauled by strong winds. Here was the grill where Andrew made delectable pork chops. Here was the hammock Caroline lounged in briefly before being summoned to play cartwheel. Here was the small square of sand with the metal rod sticking up where Darwin and Hoyt spent hours trying to toss horseshoes around, punishing the loser with push-ups. And here was the platform upon which Lynn led the girls from pose to pose until we ended up with the sun falling upon our faces in Shavasana, the yogic dead pose, feeling more alive than ever. 

 

On our last evening we dined at the Flying Fish Grill in downtown Carmel, a gem that slopes gently down to the beach, where a giant twisted tree stands with one sharp, dead branch jutting into the grey sky. Like stone, its trunk was smoothed from sandy winds. For dessert we bought a carton of Mocha Almond Fudge (an ubiquitous albeit elusive flavor – cartons never taste as good as scoops from a sweet shop) and two boxes of Magnums – ice cream bars I discovered on another beach, in another country to enjoy at sunset on the Acorn’s deck. And we did, taking in the seascape for one last time. Geese walked about the grass beyond the deck, foraging for their own sweet grub. My cousins played a final game of horseshoes. The sky glowed, than began to fade. The air was crisp, the sea calm, the grass soft but cold, as though prodding us indoors. Our ice cream finished, we went in, single file and slightly muted as people usually are at the end of vacations. Behind us, the sun fell slowly down behind the sea. 
In the living room Andrew announced, “We have time for one last game.”
Caroline and I nodded.
“Balderdash,” we said. They were leaving that night, while the rest of us the following morning.

As our parents talked wistfully in the kitchen – save for uncle Louis who sat down once again in his favorite chair – Caroline explained the rules of “Balderdash: The Hilarious Bluffing Game.”
The cards provide five categories including strange words, movie titles, and acronyms. Define or explain them. Make up what you don’t know and hope people believe it.  

Caroline was right, I was good and won the game by a two-space margin; though the highlight of the game belonged to my cousin Andrew, who for the acronym TEAM, wrote “Turtles of European American Mothers”. I laughed until my lips cracked. Balderdash indeed.

And all too soon, it was time for two of our party to break away. As Caroline and Andrew readied to go, Lynn played a little girl’s tune upon the old piano in the Acorn’s game room while her husband stood by, hands crossed over his chest, marveling.

“I didn’t know she could play,” he said, as I walked by.

A few walls away, my mother chatted quietly with Darwin, both thinking that the music wafted from someone’s computer. My uncle Louis stood up from his chair and paced around, dreading his youngest son’s departure. He wrung his hands.
“Too short,” he said, face forlorn, “Too beautiful, too short.” 
We stood on the grass, the only light coming from the Acorn’s windows and Caroline’s car, which glared at us from the pitch-black driveway and cast long shadows of our bodies left behind. Hands in our pockets we thought collectively of the following day, the long drive home, and life with less garden and less sea, more light at night. They waved goodbye. We waved back.
“And now we are eight,” Darwin said softly.
The Acorn became the only source of light.
As I wondered how far I dared to walk without a flashlight, Uncle Louis turned to go inside. “Too short,” he said again, “too beautiful, too short.” And though he couldn’t see, I nodded. Balderdash indeed.