Posted by Jenny Tao on April 2012 on Haolaoshi.wordpress.com

It was one of those tumultuous turbulent years - our pathetic yet optimistic friend, Mr.Tao, age 30, had weathered the deluge of Cultural Revolution which uprooted him from Shanghai and dropped him off in a small town in the Northeast part of China, an hour outside of Harbin. It had been five, six, seven-eight-nine-ten years since this move. This Mr.Tao is perfect in every aspect, except that he has no roots, no power, and not money.

By sheer luck, he met a parentless girl in the city of Harbin, Miss.Z. Younger by 4 years, with passable looks, the girl’s only flaw was that by most normal standards, she was a bit retarded - she didn’t care for money, and only cared about finding “a scholar.” The two met and instantly clicked as old kindred spirits do. Outrageously, under the circumstances that neither has much money nor permanent housing of their own, and weren’t even in the same town, the two insisted on a courtship that lasted over a year. In modern times, there’s a term called “defective” - meaning extreme lack of common sense to the point of malfunction - and so what will follow now is just a simple retarded story, taken from the annals of adventures from this extremely defective couple. 

—-

The golden season of harvest had arrived, and our duo of lovers serendipitously realized that although dating is lovely, the cadence is getting a bit stale - time to take this to the next leve. All around them, friends, with their nearby (and alive!) parents hovering and ushering, were getting their weddings over and done with. “Does this mean that if we don’t have our parents buzzing about, we can’t get married? Non-sense! We’re not second class citizens!” The couple thought.  And so, the two agreed on the extremely brash decision: “We’re getting married too!”

(If this decision were to be put to the judgement of everyday old Northeastern Chinese folks, the common agreement would be “Oh good lord, these two sure are brave - how are they going to survive life?” How, They ask? Well, in the words of Grampy Deng Xiaoping - “Survive by feeling for the stones and wading across the stream,” of course.)

Anyway, at that time, the #1 to-do when it comes to getting married? Registration - and, in realizing this obstacle, our two idiots became immediately confused. Logistically, their Residency papers resided in different towns - so the question of where they should get married became the first puzzle. Sigh, they didn’t even get started yet and it was already a disorienting situation. Thankfully, Mr.Tao, being from the South and in possession of nominally more intellect, quickly figured out the situation -  wedding registration needed to take place where the male applicant’s citizenship resides - in this case, that small town about an hour outside of Harbin (the City). To be frank, Mr. Tao had never thought that he’d end up in the Northeast, working at a small town that no one has ever heard of, much less register to get married there.

On the day of registration, at 3 or 4PM that fateful afternoon, the two arrived at the small town. The town had one dirt-paved road running through - on the days without an active market, there were almost no one on the street. The sparsely placed one-story houses were all gray and without much signs of liveliness.

One of these houses, the ugliest, tiniest of the lot, had a skillfully installed metal chimney poking out of the little peep-window on the door. A gigantic sign hung about the little door, and from top to bottom, the characters read “Heilongjian Province Hulan County, Kang Jing Jing Community Population Control Office.” Perhaps it was the size of the sign, or the ridiculous number of characters on the said sign, the entire thing looked magnitudes larger than the door itself. It was all quite intimidating - after all, official business get conducted behind this little door. 

Mr.Tao’s girlfriend, Miss Z, had arrived at this little town via train that day, her big city residency papers and with a handful of candy, individually wrapped in fancy candy paper, in tow. Having never done this before, the two felt awkward and out of place as they poked their head into the little door. Once inside, there weren’t much to this little room - just a 50-something, expressionless, half bumpkin, boyish old man sitting there behind a two-drawer office desk. They walked up, mumbled to the old man and asked where they can go to get registered to get married. The boyish old man in a thick hick accent accent indicated that he, in fact, is in charge of that business. The two glanced at each other in shock.

(Later, the two admitted to each other that they couldn’t quite believe that this guy is in charge - indeed, the derelict office had bare walls, and simple furnishing; furthermore, given the solemn purpose of this trip, the old bureaucrat’s colorless drabby get-up threw the couple off.)

The tense nervousness of the couple dissipated as the stern, unknowable old man unexpected cracked a smile. A closer look at the old man revealed a face that exemplified the typical “old farmer” image the two had know from the propaganda posters, his deeply grooved wrinkles neatly tucked upon his face in rows, and it was as if any minute, a bit of dirt might fall out of these crevices. Nevertheless, that smiling face seem to hint at a certain level of education and authority, and even that mouth of yellow teeth seems a bit more approachable with each passing moment. 

Mr. Tao quickly produced couple pieces of the candy and placed them in from of the old man, and in a thick Shanghai-accented Mandarine greeted the official. It was laughably nerdy, as he didn’t seem to know that nobody in this neck of the woods inquires “How are you Sir?” - they make do with “Have you eaten?” The old man laughed and said, “Where are you from?”

Mr. Tao: “I’m from Shanghai.”

“We don’t process marriage registrations for Southerners. If your’e from Shanghai, you should get married in Shanghai. Why are you two here?”

“Well my residency paper changed location due to my occupation, and so I’m stuck here, I can’t go back.” Mr. Tao gave the full account of his unique situation.  

Satisfied with that answer, the old man turned to Miss Z. “and you? did you bring your residency papers?”

He asked a couple more follow up form-questions and that was that. During that era, everyone knew of someone who got in trouble by asking too many questions, this old man was definitely the clued-in sort. Interview over, he took a certificate-looking marriage license form, a stamp, and an ink pad out of his rickety drawer. Carefully, he flattened and positioned that piece of paper with his sooty, waxy-yellow chronic smoker’s fingers. He took up the pen, and filled out the form with unexpected expert penmanship. In a moment, it was revealed that one truly cannot judge a hick by his accent - for judging by his structured yet fluid handwriting, one could easily tell that this guy is an upstanding member of the community. The old man’s official attitude towards this ceremony put the two idiot kids at ease, as they watched him carefully and deliberately placed the stamp at the perfect designated spot for a few seconds, then, upon releasing the stamp, he blowed on the ink and the stamp mark before he wrapped up the stamp and locked everything except for the certificate into the drawer again.

The entire process took about 15 minutes tops, ending with a processed marriage license certificate. The two vaguely recall the old man saying some congratulatory phrases as they were leaving. He locked up the office right behind their departure - for goodness sake, it was autumn, there remains much to be accomplish in this small town, in this man’s day - perhaps he returned home before the sunset to do some maintenance jobs around the house…

Leaving the registrar’s office, Mr. Tao and Miss Z were now in the best of moods. There weren’t a soul around, just a few stray dogs loitering on the streets. The two walked along the main dragged, holding each other’s hands, and ate the rest of the candy. They couldn’t believe that they’re now (in the eyes of the law) legally wed. It’s hard to adjust to this new relationship status. There was nowhere to go - the little town had no restaurants nor any other venues of entertainment (and even if it did, the two had no money.) And not to mention, Miss Z still had to catch the 5PM train back into the city. Instead, the two used the remaining time to discuss the upcoming end of the month honeymoon trip to Shanghai.

The thing was, neither of them have much cash to spend, once the train tickets were booked, there wouldn’t be much left. The upside is this meant that there weren’t much to plan - other than making a plan to improvise as the trip unfolded. As for the question of where to live once they come back from their honeymoon…well they figured that they’ll deal with it when they come back.  

So they waited together on the train platform on this cold and windy Northeast autumn afternoon. Mr. Tao asked Miss Z if she felt cold, though, not wearing much himself, he couldn’t really give her any additional jacket for warmth. So they waited, and talked some more, trying to get as much details pinned down as possible, lest they have to do additional planning via letters in the coming days (there were no telephones available to either of them.) 

Soon the train arrived, scheduled to stop for only two minutes. Mr. Tao saw to it that Miss Z boarded the train, then zipped over to the window where she had settled down.  By the time Miss Z quickly got to the window, the train is already moving.  

Miss Z was just about to sink into a bout of melancholy when she heard the commotion coming from behind her - a cranky old farmer loudly complained behind her, yelling at no one in particular, “Motherfuckers!  What the friggin hell did I do to deserve this? How did that goddamned steam get all over me? Bastards!” He continued to bitch and moan as he wiped the water off his face - the old man was chasing the train, and somehow his face got sprayed by steam when the train sounded its whistle as it was rolling away from the station. It was a good thing that his leathery skin and tough thick jacket protected him from any lasting injuries. Seeing that the farmer wasn’t hurt, Miss Z couldn’t help but laugh at this unexpected comical distraction, and was thus distracted from the otherwise poignant parting. Old farmer calmed down after a while, and Miss Z thought about the toiling life of these farmers, and breathed a sigh of relief over her own, now that she has married her scholar.

—

Several days later, Mr.Tao and Miss Z each received their monthly paycheck. The honeymoon is scheduled to go down before October 1, the national holiday of China. The route: Tianjin - Beijing - Shanghai. Satisfying travel doesn’t depend on money, much like a good meat bun doesn’t depend on the wrinkles in its skin - Mr. Tao borrowed a 120 film camera from his company (usually used to film agricultural specimen), and the couple both asked for a 12 day honeymoon vacation. As soon as the two bought matchin southbound multi-pass train-tickets, they ecstatically went on their way.

First stop was Tianjin - the two stayed with an aunt of a work colleague. People sure didn’t ask for much in return in those days - all they had to do in exchange for a whole day of free lodge and food was to bring a parcel along from the colleague and deliver it to his aunt. (Of course, the two idiots still went out during the day to sample the famous “Go-bu-li” (Doggie No-Likey) meat buns.)

Then it’s off to Beijing - again, they didn’t have not a whole lot of money, so again the two used their network to find a family to crash with for a couple of nights. They visited Beihai Park - where the famous Chinese musical number”Let Us Swing Our Oars”  was filmed. Like dorks, the two did an reenactment of the song at the park.

Though money was tight, the two clenched their teeth and took the host family to experience Beijing’s famous “QuanJuDe” restaurant (known for their Peking Duck). Turns out the roast duck restaurant wasn’t nearly as spacious they had imagined - in fact it was so crowded that everyone had to stake out a seat by standing behind someone seated and eating at a table. Of course, this gave everyone ample amount of time to figure out what to order. After the dinner, Mr. Tao complained that the restaurant was “Overrated!” But Miss Z knows, he was hurting from the final bill. 

With two cities under their honeymooning belt, the two readied themselves for their final honeymoon destination - Shanghai, where Mr.Tao’s entire family lives. It was customary to bring something for the family back in Shanghai - after all they were all prepping to host a wedding dinner for the happy new couple. So Mr. Tao got very clever - he had heard on the Tianjin to Beijing train that the pears at Heibei’s Tsangzhou county were only 8 cents a pound.* ”Let’s go and buy some of those pears, bring them to Shanghai, and share them with the entire family!” Mr. Tao excitedly suggested. 

The plucky couple plotted: Mr. Tao would take the train to from Beijing to Tsangzhou county in the morning on the morning of departure, and Miss Z would take the evening train leaving Beijing; and the two will meet up again at midnight when Miss Z’s train pass by Tsangzhou county. And so the two parted that morning, each embarking on their own adventure.

Miss Z went to the Forbidden City and paid the 20 cents admission.** The place was so huge, Miss Z was instantly overwhelmed. She went to the large famous palaces within the park, then made her way to the Western Quarters. At the beginning, she carefully took in the decor, scrolls, paintings, vases, clocks, robes - the antiques of that sort. Then after a while, fatigue set in as she realized that everything looks more or less the same.

She walked all morning on an empty stomach, and couldn’t find the bathroom. She thought to herself how awful it would be to live here permanently, day in and day out, it would be so tiring to traverse through the endless palaces and courtyards. Of course, given the expensive admission, she figured she’d at least keep on looking. And so in this fashion she made her way to the eastern palace, and there she got lost and couldn’t find her way out of the Forbidden City (but in the confusion, she did manage to find that public restroom). She eventually found an exit (nowhere near the entrance that she’d use to come in), and it was already 4:30 in the afternoon. So she bought some food on the street, packed, and rushed to catch the 7pm train. Irrepressibly, she found herself missing Mr. Tao, who went off on his own to buy pears, in Tsangzhou.

Once on the train, an exhausted Miss Z couldn’t rest. She saved two adjacent seats and settled in. Restlessly, she waited and pined for the arrival of midnight, when her lover would come aboard the train. The train finally arrived at Tsangzhou, a couple of food vendors paced the midnight platform. Miss Z looked amongst the trickle of people to seek out that unpredictable Mr.Tao, but he was nowhere in sight.

“Perhaps the train is too long, and he’s on the other part of the platform, or perhaps he’ has already boarded the train a while back, and is on the train already?” She thought to herself as the train pulled away, and quickly sped away from Tsangzhou. Miss Z stood up to look up and down the aisle of the train, hoping that Mr. Tao would appear. The train traveled on, another hour passes, Mr. Tao is no where in sight. Dissappointment and fear alternated their presence within Miss Z’s entire being. She doesn’t know what to do other than just sitting there in her seat, numb and panicky at the same time.

She wondered about Mr. Tao’s safety, and regretted letting him go on his own to go to some gangland Tsangzhou county to buy some god-forsaken pears. Another two stations came and went, and still, Mr. Tao didn’t appear.  The endless rhythm of the train mimicked the waves of worry that washed over our bride, Miss Z. She thought of her pending arrival in Shanghai, where she knows no one, and didn’t even have the new in-law’s address with her. While it was unlikely that she would become homeless at Shanghai train station, she also wouldn’t have enough cash and rations to buy food. 

It was in this desperate cloud of pensive worry and plotting, the train approached yet another station. Miss Z looked at the station name - it’s a main stop - the train had arrived in Shangdong province, Yanzhou county. “Isn’t this the place where the bluefaced Dou Erdun sold his horse??” Miss Z’s despair reached a new height as her spirit sunk to a new depth - “Mr.Tao said he’d get on in Heibei Province…and now the train is very far from that meeting place…”

Just as the thought was flashing through her mind, out from nowhere, Mr. Tao appeared in front her eyes. Without thinking, Miss Z punched Mr. Tao in the arm.  ”Where the heck did you run off to? Why did you JUST get back on?”

Mr. Tao, who had now traveled for nearly a day and then some, flashed a wide toothy grin. (Years later, Miss Z recall that it was the first time she witness his post-adventure bubbly exciting expression.) With a sackful of pears in tow, Mr.Tao’s smile stretched the width of his face. “Let me tell you what happened! The pears at Yanzhou weren’t that great, so I went to another county to buy them. I ended up taking two extra transfers to catch your train! Don’t worry, I figured it so that it all works out!” Finally, Miss Z’s heart dropped back into her chest.”Oh you figured, you figured so it works out, how do I figure that you were a man of your words? I almost died worrying about you!”

—

And so concludes the adventure of our idiot couple’s wedding and honeymoon. At that time, many couples married this way - but not many went on different trains to buy pears, and even then, few would run through two provinces, to the dismay of their new bride, to buy said pears.  Of course, this was just the first episode in an endless string of fiascos and adventures this idiot couple embarked on. Through these adventures, they encountered luck, bliss, defeats, successes - and through those adventures, they have now tasted all the bitter and sweets, the ups and downs of a bumpy bumbly life. Together, they have walked together for 20, 30, 40 years now - walked from their youth into their senior years - what never changed was their excitingly idiotic approach to life. These two, they’re hopeless. 

—Notes—

*actually, the pears were cheaper than 8 cents a pound, it was 8 fen per 500g. 100 Fen = 1 Yuan. 500g is about a lb.

**again, 20 fen, not cents. 

This week - Alamo Square!

I’ve never really paid much attention to this particular hood in SF - I’ve mentally earmarked this hood with the tags “22-Muni,” “Full House Intro,” and “Who lives there??” It seems like every time I meet a loquacious but non-technical guy looking to become a biz dev at a start-up in SF, they’ve always lived ‘near Alamo Square.’ So yeah, I feel like I’m basically taking a mini-vacay to the land of wantrepreneurs, and fixies, maybe. 

(Sidenote: Honestly, I wouldn’t recognize a fixie if it’d smacked me in the face.)

So a little bit of background - this week, a world famous ethics professor is staying at my place… (I learned about this because in SF’s start-up scene, everyone has a 1 or 2 degree of separation with everyone else. Nancy, my guest, is apparently the mom of the bff of my bff’s bf. I know, a lot of B’s and F’s… work it out carefully my dear reader.) Aaaanyway, I feel really honored I guess! Even though it’s not like she’s picking my place because I’m more qualified in certain aspects than other airbnb hosts - but in my mind, I’m fantasizing that she saw the photos of my place and recognized a  kindred spirit based on my decor. Wow, now that I’ve wrote that down, in English, on a blogpost, it sounds really retarded…  anyway, end of sidenote.)

And so, after another 6 hour clean-fest in my apartment, I called for a cab to take me to Alamo Square. The first cab came within 10 minutes - a true miracle if one knows anything about SF Cab system. I dragged my suitcase down, only to see the cabbie pull away from my curb. I was too slow. To make things worse, I had agreed to go to a concert with June, and here I am, in a concert-appropriate skirt with an inappropriate slit, with my beat-up orange suitcase - the SF wind blowing at me angrily, and no cab in sight. (Is this how prostitutes feel like after turning tricks? Let’s never find out.)

Of course, this is a fairly typical aspect of SF life.  When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade; when SF Cabs ditches you, you just call for another one and hope your week of good karma pays off somehow.  Luckily, the Offices of Karmic Retribution is clearly having issues, because another cab came within minutes. Alamo Square, here I come! woooooooooo! 

There’s a feeling of excitement whenever I embark on one of these Airbnb trips. Will the place be nice? will it be quirky? who will I meet? Will I have to spend time hanging out with the host? Or will I be a ghost presence in the house, quiet and peculiar behind a stranger’s door.

After having lived in almost a dozen Airbnb places, I’ve learned that it’s only reasonable to expect nothing and everything. Photos can be deceptive, and normally for $40/nt the beds are lumpy - but beyond that, whether an experience will be delightful or demeaning, depends on one’s attitude.

At 6:50, a cabbie drops me off on the corner of Hayes and Steiner, steps away from the famed “Painted Ladies” of San Fran - you may know these as the Full House houses. I walked to my home for the weekend - and was greeted by a lanky guy, Colin, in his mid-20’s. I apologized for being late (again!), and he was pretty friendly about everything. Without much pomp and circumstance, he showed me to a room - a cozy, dimly lit simple space - there’s a bed, an IKEA Lack in the corner, and a night stand. Two lamps in the room provides 4 levels of light. Oh, and a full length mirror. It’s amazing how such a simple provision makes a huge difference in the comfort of a house-guest. I dropped off my luggage on the lack, and heard Justin (the other housemate) call my name. “I just want to give you the wireless password.” OBVIOUSLY! I didn’t even think about that. I met Justin - who’s just…this, effortless and kind of impossibly good looking guy. Anyway, Justin and I chatted for a couple of minutes about our mutual friends who work at AirBnB, and next thing I know I’m on the network. 

“Well, since you seem to be very good at making yourself home, feel free to make yourself home” was last thing that I heard Justin say to me.  I crashed briefly into Daniel’s bed, and pure bliss happened.

Daniel has a Tempurpedic mattress topper. Ladies and gents, game over. I will never leave this bed. I want to marry this thing. Compared to this my mattress feels like a lumpy futon. Why hasn’t everyone ever told me that tempurpedic mattress toppers is basically heaven on earth? WHY HAVE I BEEN KEPT IN THE DARK ABOUT THIS??? I feel like I’ve been duped my entire life.

That is my welcoming homecoming to Alamo Square. 

While in Mexico, it dawned on me that upon landing at SFO I will have to go directly to an AirBnB. My poor traveling soul. I had 72 hours to find a cheap-ish AirBnB to make arbitrage work. So the frantic search began - all the units in the city are rented out or declined me. (despite my outstanding reviews, mind you.) As a last resort, I gave in and decided to head over to East Bay. Ugh. EAST BAY!

(To those readers who do not live in the Bay Area, a note: People in the East Bay will always try to sell you on how lively and affordable East Bay is. They’re almost always lying, usually to themselves. Those of us in the city, at least, I myself, consider East Bay an acceptable place to live only if the last apartment in the Tenderloin or Bayview has rejected your application. I’ve done my time in Berkeley back in the summer of 2003 - the summer I split a studio with my friend Eileen, in an attempt to “find myself”  - what I found was the following:

It takes an hour to get into the city. Because it just does.

East bay blocks are horrendously long.

Most Berkeley students are studying up to be accountants. Rest of them are protesting something, or stuck in Soda Hall.

Anyway, East Bay - I’m 32 now and looking for temporary housing in East Bay - this is how you know for sure that you have NOT made it. But first things first, I need to find a place to live. The great search begins. My usual trick is to figure out what my budget is - (usually about 35 - 40 percent of the daily rate of my place)

But I digress… So right now, for this trip. the whole thing needs to come out under 400. Being that it’s so late in the game, I realized that this Airbitrage adventures is bringing me to….East Bay! “It’s just a quick BART ride away, how daunting could this be?” I thought to myself. 

And so… after spending an hour at SFO going through customs, I embarked on trekk to Richmond from SFO. I almost got on the wrong one and headed straight for Milbrae. Luckily, as I was giving another woman instructions on how to use BART, I came to realize that I’m in fact on the wrong platform.  The ride took well over an hour. I thought that post 9pm BART rides would be pretty light - i was wrong, I didn’t get a seat to myself at all! In fact, some bitchy woman specifically made me move my carryon bag from the seat next to me so she can sit down. #firstworldproblems

Around 10, I arrived at El Cerrito Plaza. In my mind, all East Bay BART stations are just temporary holding cells for would-be mugging victims. So as soon as I got off the train, I was on full alert and quickly made a beeline to the first taxi that I saw. Of course, no one in Oakland sees it fit to take credit card for their driving services. So my cab driver took me to a liquor store, where I withdrew some money, and, still convinced that I’m gonna get mugged, ran back into the cab. 2 minutes later, I found myself in a lovely neighborhood, on a a very quiet residential street, peppered with little houses complete with gardens and manicured lawns. 

Looks like I won’t be involved in a drive by anytime soon. :) 

I entered the house, and greeted immediately by what looks like Gepettos workshop. There’s hardly any “real” furniture in the front foyer, just colorful rugs, one atop another, canvases, frames, and found objects - rocks, unicef flags. There’s a bikes and a surf board leaning against a random pile to the right of the living room. The Hippy greeted me in the form of Chas, a petite man in his late 60’s, At the door greeting me is a petit man in his 60’s with white whiskers and a warm smile - Chas, as it turns out.

I dragged my oversized suitcase into the room I rented. It’s small but tidy. A cheesy southwest themed room, with a framed poster of Pollock No. 8  hanging on the wall. A futon with clean linens has been made for me.  I feel like I’ve returned to my parents’ house. Nothing is fancy, but everything was practical and exuded warmth. 

While I settled in, Chaz offered me some tea (“It’s non-caffeinated…”) and for the first time in days - it feels just like a homecoming. I perched at the bar stool, relaxed as I sipped tea, and got to know another human being without much agenda. Chaz retired 3 years ago and moved from Martinez to Richmond Annex, within walking distance to Pacific East Mall and a natural produce store. In his spare time, he works on his paintings in his workshop, goes tango dancing, and helps out at his son’s start-up - a new YC company named Ark.com. He showed me the place in and out - his bedroom is at one end of his house, and mine is in the front, next to his studio. 

We chatted for about 30 minutes and I was pretty tired, so I yawned and sighed my way through the “here’s my bathroom” schpill, that is, until Chas said - “you can take a bath if you like, I saved some water for you.”  I looked into his oversized bathtub - sure enough, there’s some water in there. I think it’s clean. I’m not certain.

I think this is sort of creepy - but Chas has otherwise been super hospitable and sweet so far. I’m too tired to overanalyze this right now, so I bid Chaz goodnight, and sank into my futon. Soon, I fell asleep, and memories of Mexico replayed itself in my dreams. 

The last time I had traveled outside USA was when I went on a cruise, on the way back through US Customs, I of course had misplaced my passport to the bottom of my luggage and the guy declared my passport as lost.  Since then I’ve called the passport guys and the man on the phone said that in fact, no one had ever reported the passport as lost. So basically I have Shroedinger’s Passport - i.e. I have no idea if my passport is valid or not.  And so it is with such dread that I embarked on this trip to Mexico. I was so afraid that after all this work, they’re going to scan my passport and tell me that it is, in fact, invalid, and June and Jesse will have to head to Puerto Vallarta without me. Awkwardness will ensue. and it will become public and official knowledge that I am, in fact, THAT irresponsible. 

Dread, and fatigued with a slight sense of accomplishment - I’ve managed to clean all aspects of my apartment for an incoming AirBnB guest. No a simple feat. Plus I packed a giant suitcase to last me through Mexico and at least another week after that in San Francisco.  

I held my breath as the gate agent checked me in. No weird beeping, and no puzzled looks. and less than 30 seconds of facetime with the gate agent later, my suitcase is checked, and my boarding pass is held between the pages of my passport. It is officially ON.

—

I was please to find my window seat nested in a row of rather slim women. These people are deep in conversation, no doubt on an Eat Pray Love Expedition. Am I on one too? I wondered as I sank into the tiny sardine cell that is my window seat and awkwardly sought out a nook to rest my head. Surprisingly, I found one. Children around me are crying and shouting over things, I want the cacophony to stop, but there’s nothing I can do. So I shut my eyes. Then a sudden wall of sleep slammed into me.  Dreamlessly, and motionless, I checked out for a consciousness.

When I came to, the custom form was being passed around.  My fellow travelers and I scrambled around to find pens. In our search for a writing instrument, we started to chat. I quickly slipped into my token extrovert warm personality - by the end of the remaining 2 hour trip, I’ve shared with these ladies my secret world of AirBnB, Vayable, Apartment Therapy, and gave them a lesson in iPhone camera usage. I didn’t tell them about Instagrams. Baby Steps. I didn’t want to overwhelm them!

—

I don’t know what I was expecting. I’ve never been to Mexico. Strange, considering that I’ve lived in Texas and California for a total of 12 years now in total. Lucky me, that my first non-China overseas trip is to a resort city where every major service caters to English speaking tourists, that I’m sherpa’ed by the most fearless girl I know - June Lin, who did the right thing and took Spanish in high school. (I’ve only just met Jesse, my other travel companion for the week, but already I can tell he’s the personification of calm and collected. I’m under the impression that if a Tsunami were to roll in *right*now, Jesse would no doubt calm both of us down and magically arrange an instant airlift for us to safety. I’m exaggerating of course, but he seems pretty capable.)

So Puerto Vallara, we’re here. The custom line presents us with a button, if upon hitting the botton the light goes red, then the custom men will go through your belongings and  do a thorough search. If it goes green, then you pass through, unchecked. June, Jesse and I all passed with flying green colors. Though this is out of our control, we seem to take this in pride. 

Now, we turn our attention to the matter of money. June took out 100 pesos. I told her that apparently the cabride to our place will take 250 at least. Yet as I took out 500 myself, I wondered if I’m blowing my savings in one ATM withdraw. After all,  I can’t remember the last time I held 500 units of currency in my hand. (Okay, Canada compared to this was like paying with groupons.) 

—

Luis probably the 6th or 7th cabbie to approach us after we got off from the plane. Some how his lack of aggressiveness really charmed us. “A ride to Costa Sur? Si Si, 260?” “Okay!” The three of us herp derped to the curb, and he said to us, more emphatic than before - “Wait here, Okay?” “Okay…” “Wait here, wait here….yeah… wait. Wait here, don’t go, I get my car.” Where would we go? Why is he so insecure? 

(of course, as soon as Luis left, we were approached by, like, 4 cabbies. We have someone, we said, remaining loyal to the promise we’ve made Luis.) 

Soon enough, our ride appeared and we started our journey from to this elusive beach house. The first 20 minutes of the trip, I wondered if we’ve simply arrived at LA or something. The weather felt familiar - a bright sheen of sun covered concrete verything. But after we moved away from the freeway, paved roads gave way to narrow cobblestoned paths, each turn taking us down a bumpier path than before. I began to smell the sea - that briny, salty smell carried on the flirty sea breezes wafting in from the narrow alleys.  As we made our ways through the city blocks, I catch glimpse of the embarcadero - a beach bum here, a statue there. Especially thrilling is the sight of the sea horse statue - I’d read somewhere that the sea horse is the symbol of Puerto Vallarta. Vacation is definitely on.  A mere 35 minutes after getting into the cab, we are here, at Condominio Solomar, a smallish apartment, in the shadow of Costa Sur, a much bigger resort (a HoJo, as it were.)

Jesus, our property manager came out and greeted us, taking my suitcase down 3 flights of brick staircase with ease. We’re told that Mary’s friend Pam is waiting for us in the unit 14. We awkwarded squeezed into the tiny elevator and went down stairs to our unit, and punched the entry code - there’s a swirling buzz, and the door unlocks. I twisted open the door. “Hellooooooo!!”  someone warmly shouts. It is Pam, one of Mary’s past tenant, and now friend - who is just doing her the favor of showing us the place while she’s out. The slim woman talked for quite a bit, telling us that it’s a wonderful unit, and that we shouldn’t have any problems. I don’t actually remember what she said - since I was distracted by the amazing location of the place. 

We are one seated balcony away from the ocean. The horizon is in plain view, as is the setting sun. A cool breeze blows through the sheer white curtains. The waves rushes into the crashed onto the rocky beach, spilling a thousand shades of blue onto the pebbles and boulders. Seabirds lazily dashed from here to there, swooping down occasionally for amusement. 

Pam finally left after concluding her babble, leaving the three of us alone with the breathtaking view. The rest of the place is humble: a couple of beds, a futon, and a couch. The entire place has ceramic tiled floors, with some pebbles laced through.  I opted for the smaller bedroom with the queen sized bed, It doesn’t have a direct view to the ocean, but i’m also not really in the mood to fight for the large bedroom, especially since I think it means whoever sleeps there may have to end up sharing the room with a future futon. Something tells me that if anyone will be sharing rooms, it will probably be Jesse and June. Why else would a grown man go on a trip 2000 miles from home, beckoned by a woman he’s met up for drinks only twice before? It didn’t seem like rocket science to me. 

We quickly unpacked, and changed. Time for dinner. 

Mary, our informative host has recommended No way Jose - a restaurant in downtown puerto vallarta.  We got on a taxie and again made our way to old town Vallarta.  There we had guacamole, pica de gallo, and a plate of food that looks like the sea just barfed. It’s like a rendition of that disney song Under Da Sea, except all the musical sea animals are on my plate, and instead of playing music, they’re dead, and looking tasty. (and they were.) There was some familiar sounding sauce on there, but it just tasted like tequila infused butter sauce. I’ve never met a butter sauce I didn’t like…so this was great. The bill was a little expensive though, came out to a stiff $1300 pesos. I ended up walking around the block 3 or 4 times to find a peso atm - since No Way José only took cash. The first one I found only gave out Dollars. the second one, located in an Oxxo - the mexican version of 7-11, was broken. Finally, the third one had real mexican money. When I made my way back to the No Way Jose, I was kind of a sweaty mess. So of course, the host rewarded us with a shot of tequila.

The local limes are amazing - the bite of sweet’n’sour was perfect. 

We meandered around Old Town, like strangers. and a trip around the block later, June had to use the bathroom. While I waited, I can’t help falling in love with the dim parlor in which Jesse and I waited. The flickering candles lazily lit up the wood shelves that they were resting on. Everywhere I see, an Instagram waiting to be constructed.

—

We headed back to our beach house after dinner - our taxi ride was a bumpy exhilarating 5 minutes. After many turns, we made it to the beach house. The three of us zipped over to the front porch, and there it was, a giant blanket of night,ocean, and stars. The waves crashed onto our back porch, and retreated with regularity. 

I started to whistle a song I’ve never heard before, as I looked at the stars and listened to the ocean. 

Dear Reader, I’m writing from the beautiful resort town of Puerto Vallarta. My friend and I decided that we needed a get away vacation a couple of weeks ago - just a quick one. Taking advantage of the abundant flight deals, applying vouchers, and pooling our resources, somehow we found ourselves in a beach house, staring face to face with the Pacific Ocean. 

I’ll blog later, but first, a walk along the beach. :) 

I had to part ways with a beautiful boy today. Sometimes we take on short and sweet songs, even knowing that it would be a brief duet. That knowledge doesn’t diminish the beauty of the tune, nor takes away from the fun we have while we’re immersed in the magic of the moment by moment.

So goodbye to you my beautiful friend, i’ll miss our time in your magic treehouse, in my tiny urban pied-a-terre. our twinkly lights. our silly puns. your kisses, infused with kindness and easiness. your gorgeous head of grecian curls. your mellow voice. that incredible hipster-adonis bod…I already want to drunk dial you and beg you back to my bed….

I guess I’ll just have to secretly watch and rewatch the youtube video of the duet of you and that ridiculously talented dog, and wonder at the secret to why you’re so damn cool. 

A rainy day, like today, when I used to keep the 9-5, would be an utter nightmare. 

But right now I’m “in-between gigs” - the start-up marketing gig didn’t quite work out, and so, I’m back here at the drawing board, drawing, and doubting myself. On a drizzly day like this, it seems obvious that one should look up from the scribbles, and simply appreciate the sight and sound of precipitation. So I do, and it feels amazing. The whole world slows to a crawl and the coffee shop feels dry and welcoming. The rain outside casts a fresh coat of clean onto everything. 

I am sitting here at Arlequin, listening to Danse Macabre by Saint-Saens, enjoying my overpriced cup of mocha. There’s a controlled intensity to this tune, matching the unrelenting pace of the rain - contrasting perfectly with the slow frustration that is building as I nomadically discover the next project I’m to embark on.

Rain seems like an old-fashioned weather phenomenon, designed for a much slower pace of life. It is no wonder that I hated it before. But now that I don’t have much obligations, it feels wonderful. It’s like a spa day for the parched earth beneath our feet, and our spirits. The grind will have to wait. I’ll be back.

If you ask any good friend of mine, they will tell you that I’m a good cook - it’s something I truly take pride in. Give me a stove, some basic utensils, and $20, and I will give your tastebuds an unforgettable ride. But baking - forget it. I can’t deal with the entire baking process - the creeping mess, the sifted fly-aways, the scattered measuring spoons, the lukewarm yeasty blobs….ugh! Can’t. Deal.

But now that I’m home quite a bit, and being naturally drawn to the hearth arts, I find myself experimenting in the kitchen quite a bit. I found a book on baking by Nigella Lawson at a garage sale the other day. She makes everything sound and look so fabulous, for a second there I thought that I too could be a domestic goddess, powered by PG&E.

And so on Wednesday night, on the eve of another AirBnB-motivated eviction, I bravely broke out the handmixer, the sieve, the apron, dug up my adorable madeline mold, baking sheets, and set to work on a Nigella recipe.

I’ll give you one thing, Nigella does a good job turning otherwise trivial baking details into relatively easy prose. I love that she takes to recipes with a no-fuss approach. It’s just sifting people, not rocket science. Matthias helped me with the recipe, and I’m reminded of how much I hate having people in the kitchen when I create. Matthias was very result oriented, I was much more interested in the dawdling involved in the baking process. Somehow, being result oriented made the process feel rushed, and wrecked my enjoyment at the terse and drawn out mixing. 

In any case as I’m blogging about this, I’m finding myself becoming disproportionately angry with M for ruining my enjoyment of the process. Possibly because I only had 48 hours to enjoy my lovely apartment before I have to rent it out again.  

That’s the problem with baking - there’s so much downtime involved, usually in the form of “waiting” - but not purely waiting - it’s waiting, checking, pre-heating, mentally tallying up the ingredients you’re still missing. And during this waiting, questions bubble up: should I start another batch? should I clean now or scrub everything later, should I wait in the kitchen, or wait by the tv? how did I mess up setting the timer? how many minutes should I subtract from the instructed time to make up for the timer mishap? Why can’t recipes give out the ingredient by weight (grams) instead of by measuring devices (cups and table-/teaspoons), was that a big or mall pinch of salt? was I to use cold or melted butter? can I use vegetable oil instead of melted hydrogenated vegetable oil? Are my eggs large enough? should I bring them back to room temperature? are they whipped enough? or did I whip them too much? 

No, baking isn’t a lot of work - nevertheless by the time I’m done making 12 madeleine cookies, I find that I couldn’t dig any deeper for a second batch, even though I did not quite hit the mark on this batch (not enough sugar). Also, Nigella’s recipe stated that it should make 48, my batter yielded 12.

But they were still delicious. It’s hard to dust something in confectioners sugar and dip them in chocolate and have them taste bad. 

I just deleted over 100+ people with whom I’d accidentally connected with over a badly executed LinkedIn button push. I gotta say, going through my LinkedIn connection has been pretty weird. On the one hand, I’m obviously going through a career change now, and it’s really great to review the people who have touched me professionally in the past. On the other hand, I feel really bad for de-linking with people I don’t recognize - it’s entirely possible that this is not just someone whom I’ve connected with momentarily, and i had just for some reason forgotten who they are? I tried to error on the side maintaining too many connections instead of being way too draconian in my slashing and burning, to make up for that, I’ve disconnected from most ex’s or bad okcupid dates that had gone…you know, no fucking where. That was both depressing as well as satisfying. (there was this one moment where I found out that one weird guy i dated is now an engineer at Google - good for him - now he can be a drone in the company that feeds their drones well. ) 

What else - oh yeah - it’s lovely that all of the coworker who worked in advertising all look hot. American Advertising Industry, I hope the booze and botox never stops flowing. Here’s to you. 

Damn you LinkedIn, can’t believe you’re making me going through this.

This xmas I’m finding myself living a in a monastery of luxury up on a hill in San Francisco. A friend of mine left for Latin America and asked me to housesit his google-mansion. and thus, I find myself waking up to this gorgeous view each and every morning for the next 3 weeks. How lucky am I!

(I had rented out my own place on AirBnB - lurve that new’conomy!)

I’ve spent the last four days generally lounging around this space and enjoying this borrowed lifestyle, in a borrowed house, and on temporary income. I feel as if I’m trespassing in someone else’s backyard, feasting on their fruit of labour. It’s not an inappropriate metaphor for my general life I suppose. In a way, my life feels like it’s not mine right now. I feel a lot of guilt but it’s more than that - more like a feeling of inferiority - like, why don’t I have this lifestyle? I’m smart and capable, why can’t I have all of this? Envy - maybe that’s the feeling. 

This is perhaps a teachable moment: unearned luxury is more or less an albatross.

Today I woke up, and decided that I should embrace this lucky vacation I’m on. in a world removed from my own, perhaps I can gain insights at this perch above my usual station. 

(On a tangential note - I’m noticing that when I’m staying in my 305sqft, I tend to think of the entire city as “MINE” - and now that I’m in this house-mansion, i tend to think of what’s inside the house as “mine” and what’s out there as something outside of myself. I no longer have ownership over this city.)