feliz dia del padre

I originally wrote this essay with the intention of submitting it Fremont News Messenger for publication today. Unfortunately, I’m an airhead (blame it on the blonde) and missed the deadline while I was gallivanting around the rice paddies. The good news is, I’m no longer limited to 250 words. Especially now, given the recent passing of my dad’s father, I just want him to know how much I love him and miss him. I’m not sure they know this, but there are a lot of times—even here, so far away—when I just can’t believe how I got so damn lucky to have the parents I do. I don’t know where I’d be without them. So here goes:

Lying under the summer sky, my sister and I shrieked with laughter, shattering the silence of the bay. “No way, Dad!” We’d yelp as we secretly clung to each other under our sleeping bags.

From the boat’s cuddy our father grinned, satisfied with his ghastly tale about the Headless Horseman haunting the Portage River drawbridge. His stories always included a rich history of the area: battles on the lake, noble Native Americans, valiant settlers. We didn’t realize it then, but our dad has always shared life’s lessons in a magical way.

As children, he taught us through his love for Lake Erie, as he revealed the beauty of the waves, the triumph of a fat perch on the line, and the importance of respecting nature and people alike. When we got older, his lessons moved to our driveway basketball court, where the sky darkened and dinner cooled as I practiced endless free throws. He taught me patience, persistence, and unconditional love as he waited out my poor shooting skills and surly teenage attitude. In college, he’d write letters. Homesick or heartbroken, I’d find a note in my mailbox, reminding me that, “this too shall pass.” Now, as I navigate the nebulous world of adulthood, he reminds me of one simple rule by which to live: help people. Be kind. Focus on family.

Today, half a world away on Father’s day, I smile and remember those summer days long-ago, knowing how just lucky I am to have such a wonderful father—and friend.

the hills are alive....

After finishing data collection last week, a bunch of us decided to get out of the city for a few days and head
to Jian Shui, a small city in southern Yunnan, followed by theYuanyang rice terraces.

Now, I’m no stranger to traveling on a budget. I’m a grad student, I’m poor—I’ve learned not to expect much from my accommodations. Or so I thought. On Sunday night, my roommate and I took a bumpy busride to Jian Shui to meet the rest of our friends. We showed up at the hotel, which compensated for its namelessness with holographic wallpaper and disco music. The first room we went to was filthy: skid-mark wall stains, cigarette-burned comforters, and more mosquitoes than I’ve ever seen in a natural environment. We decided to check out a second room. Room#2 was slightly cleaner, but the clouds of smoke hovering above the beds were less than appetizing. We entered Room #3 to find it was already occupied—by a cockroach. Shit. Choosing between which insect with whom I would sleep is not a dilemma I thought I’d ever face. But, it was late and we were tired, so we rationalized: a roach in one, a roach in all. So we climbed into bed, praying for no bedbugs, and turned off the lights. Two seconds later, Hila turned the lights back on. Bad move: roaches scattered across the floor like shy kids on the dance floor.

After a relatively sleepless night, we woke up and explored the town. Jian Shui’s a neat little city, composed mostly of alleyways, shops, and tiny restaurants. Most of these places have only a table or two; eating in one is like sitting in someone’s kitchen while they prepare the food a few feet away. The food is always fresh, usually from the market just a few hours prior, and usually quite tasty: rice with stir-fried eggs, tomatoes, or vegetables with plenty of la jiao, a searing spice I dump on everything. The specialty in Jian Shui is cho dofu, or literally, “stinky tofu.” The place reeks of the stuff; I never knew beans could smell so bad. ‘Course, most dishes apparently arrive with a side of bacteria, which now have taken up residence inside my GI tract. I’m pretty sure a small Chinese dragon has been chilling in my gut for a few weeks now. Everyone here’s some stage of sick though, so you learn to get over it and keep on movin’.

One bus, one van, and one taxi ride later, we made it to the rice terraces in Yuanyang. Truly, these mountains and villages and people are indescribable. The terraces are over 2000 years old, and in many ways it seems as though not much has changed. The villages that pepper the mountainside are home to several of Yunnan’s ethnic minorities. The women wear these brightly colored headdresses and carry woven baskets full of fruits and vegetables as they trek over the mountains to the market. Food is so central to life here: harvesting it, finding it, eating it. Pigs, cows, and roosters roam everywhere; they are slaughtered and cooked right on the cobblestone streets. The couple whose home we stayed in cooked for us each day—vegetarian, per request. Never have simple greens and rice tasted so delicious.

We encountered one couple on the top of the mountain on their way home to celebrate the Dragon Boat Festival. The man was carrying a live hen upside down in one hand; the woman had a giant basket full of leechy fruit and other goods strapped to her back. The irony of this situation is that we were all dressed to hike: backpacks, boots, snacks. The woman? She was carrying an oversized bedazzled handbag and was wearing heels. High heels on a mountain! Never again will I complain about uncomfortable footwear, that’s for sure. Later, we were treated to an impromptu concert on a cliff when a group of men, also returning home, stopped to play their recorders for us. There’s truly nothing like the sound of music with villagers and cows and roosters on a cliff overlooking ancient farmland.

We had great weather during the day, but the nights were chilly and rainy. Even so, I hiked alone to the overlook one evening to watch the fog reach its cold grey fingers down the mountains. Never have I seen something so haunting and beautiful. The next morning, we got up before the sun to watch it rise over the paddies. With the wind rippling through the rice and the clouds swirling around us, we watched in silence as the sun rose and crested over the peaks. Breathtaking.

So yes, I slept on dirty cots with Mickey Mouse comforters and cigarette burns. I shared a room with a small army of cockroaches. I got violently ill while standing inside a cloud. I took more than one shower literally standing on top of the toilet. But it was worth it. Incredibly worth it.

Kind of pretty, I suppose...

Might have had a lil' Sound of Music moment at the top....

The world's cutest kid....until you notice HE'S GOT A GUN! 

runnin' down the road, tryin' to loosen my load

I’ve started running again. Well, by running, I mean a pathetic combination of running and walking, or as I used to call it when I’d go with my dad- slogging (slow jogging) (sorry Dad!). I think it’d be fair to say that most Chinese grandmothers could outrun me at this point. That is, if Chinese people ran. So far I haven’t seen anyone exercising outside-and usually, the hordes that are walking are moving at a snail’s pace…which means I look even more out of place with my blonde ponytail and glasses as I bound through the streets.

Running in Kunming is like an obstacle course. I don’t use an iPod for fear of certain death from motorbike, bicycle-and-cart, stray dog, stray child, or one of a million other moving targets flooding the sidewalks. The worst would be running into one of the human toilets: parents forming a makeshift potty with their arms as their toddler pees on the street (made all the easier by the well-placed hole in the baby’s bottoms).

I try to be attentive, especially in the circles-of-death, or the enormous tunnel-like crossings where motorcycles and bicycles and pedestrians stray through the shadows and chances of survival  hover around 50 percent. Still, I find myself daydreaming, mostly about other routes I used to run. When I need energy, I think of New Haven: nothing motivates like the omnipresent threat of muggers. When I need calm, I remember my Arizona path. Running through the empty streets at twilight, I’d come into view of another sun-lit mountain range every time I turned a corner. Bliss.

Mostly, though, I daydream of Chicago. I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since I left. Perhaps it’s being in a city again—a real one, with people and sidewalk shops and movement—that makes me miss it.  Perhaps I’ll always be a bit homesick for the city I loved for so long. In any case, I like to imagine myself running a familiar path. Down the tree-lined sidewalks of North Orchard. Left at Fullerton—sprint through the Clark intersection before the stoplight timer ticks out. Jog through the park. Cruise down Lakeshore, occasionally racing the next runner ahead of me, more often cranking up the Sufjan Stephens and zoning out. Hit my stride as the blue of Lake Michigan stretches endlessly to my left and the skyline teases from the right. Spit out a few gnats. Pause for a stretch on North Avenue beach. Ogle the volleyball players. Turn around. Cool down through Boystown, dodging waitresses serving summer brews at Wilde’s and stray Cubs fans fresh from Wrigley Field. Sprint the homestretch back on Orchard. Take a breather on the bench in the garden in front of my apartment. Watch a butterfly or two. Go home.

Home. Where is that now? Where the heart is? Or, more likely, where my internet connection is? In any case, I'm off to explore some rice paddies for a few days, and then maybe on to do some hiking in Dali and Lijiang. Vamos a ver!