Travelogues

13 thoughts on “Travelogues”

1. I remember the moment I saw the Acropolis in Athens for the first time.

   It was tall, huge and intricate.

   I was in awe. How did the Greeks managed to build such a huge monument back in those days with no modern equipment that we have nowadays? How did they manage to build those beautiful sculptures with such intricate details? I could not wrap my head around it.

   As I stood there, looking at the Acropolis, I started imaging how patiently the Greeks build the whole Acropolis. It took them a whole 9 years, of carrying the marble up and down the mountain. I am still in awe every time I think about the Acropolis, and it is definitely one of my most favourite places that I have been to.

2. A plastic jar of gummy bears slowly drained through the trip, tied together by a pink bow. I bite their heads off, quick and clean – French Revolution style. Their syrup sticks my teeth together, leaving behind phantoms of their sugar trails on the bed of my molars.

   It’s the first bed I’ve ever slept in alone, resting at the foot of the queen-sized bed we paid for. I brought back gifts and souvenirs for my bed for that one week I resided in its comforting arms. I brought back cat plushies to rest by its head and soft blankets to warm its foot. I had sweet dreams of roses and chocolate pancakes in the morning.

   Breakfast by the window sill, framed by creeping vines bedazzled in sparks of sunlight. We’re served platters after platters of cheeses I can’t name and colorful berries that burst on the canvas of my tongue. A river of yolk from the sunny-side-up egg runs down the bank of my ceramic white plate. The sun is warm on my face and the food is warm in my stomach. Life is good.

   I savor the ancient architecture through the lens of my instant camera. Castles reaching for the mountains, corridors lit by candlelight swaying in the breeze, and porches leading to bright yellow “under construction” signs. The scenes slowly paint themselves across the palm-sized films, and the Paris wind breathes color into them when I wave the films at the sky.

   The snails tasted like…snails. The restaurant owner omitted the fact that white wine was used to cook the dish, or maybe he just thought it was an unnecessary detail. In the city of love and champagne, maybe it’d be considered rude to mention which dishes have alcohol in them. Nonetheless, when we left the dimly lit restaurant hidden under damp wooden boards, the alcohol sneaks into my bloodstream and paints streaks of heat across my cheeks. I walk in circles for the rest of the day.

3. I spent the summer grieving but I found no solace for it. Korea is my motherland, but it was one that did not want this child. It was a summer of the hottest days I’d ever known, of great rains and thunder, of long nights and a great quiet that stretched through me.

   I stood there on the university steps, where she stood, wondering if she would’ve been proud. The heat makes me rotten inside, and I wonder if she can see it, wherever she is. I speak her language now, but it’s no use now that she’s gone. The air is thick and warm, and I can hardly breathe against it. The pear trees are shaking, the wind blowing through them fast and frenzied. The storm clouds are gathering. I wonder if the people that pass by can see the open wound I carry. Whatever I was looking for, it’s not here.

   Long days studying stretch into longer nights on the streets, in the clubs, at the bars. We eat tender pork belly, wash it down with fresh garlic, kimchi, and beer. We cheer, play games, and dance until it’s morning again. All the people do here is work, study, and drink. We follow suit. I grow more and more tired each day, but there is always something we haven’t done yet, something that we have to do before we leave. The best part of my night is the walk home, where I lose myself to my music and the dark blue sky, where the stray cats follow me home and I am finally alone.

   The joy is sharp here, and it cuts into me. Smiling faces everywhere, that look like my own. A foreign feeling made familiar. Rainbow flags waving, rainbow paint on faces, hands that reach for me. The heat is still unbearable, but for now my happiness will shield me from it. On the edges of the periphery, I see protesters shouting about sinners, hell, and all that is damned. They fade away into obscurity next to the colors of Pride, unable to compete with the wave of thousands descending upon Seoul Plaza. I grasp my sister’s hand—we allow the wave to swallow us, and we don’t come up for air.

4. You are Denielle? Yes.

   Six fresh grads pile into a black van. The first views of the city are through heavily-tinted windows, hazy landscapes of farmland and water and city. Derick and Juan are meeting for the first time, are exchanging notes about who they know and from where. Each of their hands are wrapped in another’s. From shotgun Javo spits facts about Vietnam’s rapid development, about how it puts the Philippines’ to shame, and Marco humors him. Derick’s hand moves to emphasize a point, lets mine slip, leaves it limp. Then takes it back in his, cups it, rubs it warm.

   You are Denielle? Yes.

   It’s ten minutes past call-time, and Thinh is obviously pissed. Where are your friends? They’ll be here soon. Five fresh grads eventually find their way down, and the apartment is locked and the tour van on the road by 8am. There is a temple that drowns sound, an immigrant oak, a corpse denied burial. Thinh leaves us at the opera house, happy with his tips, and we set off in search of sticky-sweet ca phe nau, echo wonder at the taste. Then wander, saltwater pooling in our clavicles, pink spreading across our chests. Humid takes on new meaning in this country, air turned conductive by vapor, the atmosphere deadened, weighted, but crackling. We learn how those who didn’t reach the shelters in time were reduced to smoke. We see the eternal grey flames of Dien Bien Phu. When we exit the gallery the sun has set, and we are tentative, looking both ways before we cross, ears pricked against the traffic rush, reaching out, sometimes, for each other’s hands. Sweaty. Warm.

   You are Denielle? Yes.

   Reservation for six, and soon we are blinking back tears, soups a mess of black and orange little red flakes, reaching for water. Somehow Juan and I have made ours taste like tinola, sour and pungent, but the others have achieved the perfect pho, thick and spherical down their throats. Today is a day for food, and this country is a country for food, and the itinerary is a glorified food trip: fatty grilled pork and rice vermicelli with fish sauce-soup, flakey fish in lime-vinegar, and of course, Banh Mi. Javo named the group chat Banh Mi with the Boys, all those months ago, and we yell obediently for the picture, sandwiches proudly exhibited, some already half-gone. The rain falls light and cool on our skin, mixes hopefully with the dust, retreats reluctantly from the now-impermeable sheen of oil and sweat. Tonight is a night for the boys, so Hannah and I go for massages, muscles made elastic by the heat of their hands.

   You are Denielle? Yes.

   But I go by Dea. My interview is longer than expected, and our stomachs are clamoring by the time we set out for food, but the temple intrigues us. Glowing muted red and jutting out into the lake, we are stranded at our detour when it starts to rain. Marco lost my umbrella and we have no coats, so he and I sit under the awning’s orange, flickering light and try to press against the walls. We wonder how the others are doing. We talk about America, and going back, and wanting to go back but not, and how home is home but also home isn’t. By the time the rain stops we are drenched, anyway, and shivering, but we stay until a particularly aggressive gurgle sets us off laughing. Already the roadside vendors are setting their stalls back up, and it’s a simple matter of follow our noses. Cold tea, day-old crusts. The searing steam of a much-needed shower. Hours later, when the others stumble home: a flushed cheek, a trembling hand.

   You are Denielle? Yes.

   But the spelling is wrong, so I correct the nth form. Derick sits across from me, eyebrows furrowed, hands blurring to write his code like I imagine a spider’s would fly assembling its web. The café is filling in time for the dinner rush, and the sky is the color of warnings. Later that night the air feels so heavy breathing becomes exercise, but whenever he ignites it is my lungs set aflame. This time when it is over there is nothing left to save. This time when it is over I am left alone at midnight by a lake, and the sky has washed its hands of me. The world is emptied, a void of crisp black, lapping at the edges of a lake that somehow I know constitutes its center. I feel my way to the cold, swim into its heart. Then let myself float, hands open, gazing through the darkness for the plane that will bring him home.

   You are Denielle? Yes.
   Thank you for treating my home with respect. You are welcome to stay with us when you come again to Hanoi. She waves, a shadow in shadows, and the car speeds away. Outside the night is a soft, echoing blue.

   You are Denielle? Yes.
   Here are your tickets. Hannah and I amble slowly across the palace grounds. That Ho Chi Minh was once Saigon feels impossible, and yet it was. The bus ride south was a long one, with many stops, and Juan collapses on the first bench we pass. The two of us sit, watching him, on the swings. Hannah wonders how the others are settling in back home, if they wish they had stayed on for the rest of Vietnam. I look at my feet, dig my sandals into the ground. Juan answers, something about time and weeks and work, and I push against the earth, lean my body back, pull my legs close to my seat. Hannah and Juan fade into static, and I focus on the rhythm, my body shiftin back and forth with the swing, glasses falling onto the grass behind me. Then the world is a protective shell, the air a haze of bluish light pressing cool against my skin, dancing with my hair. The swing flies back and forth, back and forth, higher and higher, threatening to launch me at the sky. But my hands are firm, are curled, tightly, into themselves. I stay grounded.

   You are Denielle? Yes.

5. It’s 8pm and the house is buzzing with muted activity. Accompanied by the crisp sounds of cracking sunflower seeds and occasional quiet conversation, the TV runs faintly in the background. Upstairs, only the zipping and unzipping of suitcases can be heard as the luggage is placed on the scale a second time. And then a third, maybe even fourth, before the zipper zips for the last time.

   It’s nearly 10pm and their car is hurtling down the highway. They’re reminiscing about life, about how much they’ll miss her after tonight. Even though there is nonstop chattering, the air is filled with unsaid words. From the driver’s seat, her father reaches behind and pats her head in the same manner as years ago, from when she was the age that ran around begging to be picked up and spun around. Sitting shotgun, her mother warmly recounts stories of mischievous endeavors and mishaps, bringing back memories of a time before her budding individuality was scared into hiding by the realities of growing up. In the backseat, she can’t keep her eyes peeled from the window. They rove over the dark night sky, gazing at the stars and the twinkling lights that illuminate from houses in the horizon. Their car flashes past fields of black angus cattle dotted between rows and rows of telephone poles. The Great Salt Lake shimmers in the moonlight. Soon, she thinks, this will all be a distant memory. The rest of the car ride is comfortably silent.

   It’s midnight and the plane is on the runway. A quick announcement blares overhead before the plane takes off with a jolt. She’s going off to college, yet the only thing on her mind are the I-love-you’s that should have been said, the hugs that could have been given, and the mistakes that needed to be forgiven. She watches as the once tall and imposing mountains retreat and become smaller before her very eyes, as if suddenly shy and demure. Leaving home is never easy, but she didn’t expect it to be so hard to do alone.

6. December 23rd I sat in the hotel lobby bouncing in the wicker chair. The ocean side view was remarkable. Pinks and purples painted the sky, complimenting the looming volcanoes that peppered the waterline. The seagulls soared in the sky, dancing with the the soft breeze of the ocean. Later that evening we settled into our hotel room, and headed to the beach. I held my flip flops in my hand, and took a breathe in as I stepped onto the sand. Like a soft warm blanket, my toes dug into the sand as I took off towards the water. Hawaiian melodies played from the restaurant in the hotel lobby, and local surfers caught the sunset waves.

   The next day we went for a drive around the island. Maui, a place of culture, history and beauty. We stopped at a community hiking path, where we were emerged into the brush. No mosquitos swarming me as I walked, what a relief. At the top of the hill you could hear the crashing off water on rocks. The waterfall was near. The trees cleared and my jaw dropped. What a sight. A rainbow weaving in between the water. Chickens roamed the brush, and butterflies flew around us. A double rainbow in the sky.

   December 24th. Christmas eve. We posed in our Hawaiian dresses and shirts in front of the tall Christmas tree. Mele Kalikimaka played in the lobby full of smiling couples and families. At dinner we sat by the water, the waiters dressed in leis and santa shirts. I looked at the stars that dotted the sky, then back to the water. Shadowed figures jumped in an out of the water. Dolphins. Swimming into the night. The island was magical.

7. By 6:30 in the evening, the sun was no longer high enough in the sky to keep an Atlantic chill at bay. It hovered above the horizon, casting brilliant orange and gold onto the water, the sand, the faces of the few left on the beach. Sand was cold between toes, and the breeze carried a promise of goosebumps. The beach gently sloped down to the calm, close shoreline; there were no shells nor smooth pebbles to collect along the ebb and flow of the tide. Deposits of black in the sand become more apparent upon closer inspection, and the sand felt particularly cold in these spots.

   Lone seagulls exaggerated a walking gait as they traversed the sand, while others stood passively along the shoreline with closed eyes and one leg tucked into themselves. Small biting flies bothered remaining mothers on the shore, too slow for the children running to and from a beach blanket and the water. Low, sloping dunes grew long fronds of green that provided cover over invisible crickets, practicing for their dusk drone. Small spiders sped in different directions as they’re disrupted and disturbed, quickly disappearing behind divots and dips left from footfalls. The movement of these animals is negligible, never noticed unless keenly observed. A waning moon posits itself over the tallest of the beach grass, solitary and separated from the dim heavenly bodies beginning to show themselves high in the sky.

   Across from the dunes was a vast sea. To the right, a lone lighthouse at the end of a distant breakwater. Behind, a deep blue background with twinkling stars and a faraway blinking bridge. The scene is deserted. To the left, the shoreline continued to curve into houses lining the water and turbines even farther. They turned slowly, wavering in the sunset as the remaining light refracted and altered vision. A lone sailboat floated a few hundred feet away from the shore, almost still on the calm water. Wading into the shallows came with the unknown of horseshoe crabs sliding around feet and between ankles; far more merciful than palm sized crabs, constantly on guard, hardly disguised in the translucent, barren water. Wading further revealed nonexistent depth under the surface. Ten, twenty, thirty feet from the shore resulted in knees hardly feeling more than a splash.

   From standing to kneeling in the water eventually led to a full submersion into the ocean. There was no option except to float prone, lest return to standing in 14 inches of water. Idle hands reached down to feel the ground beneath, slowly propelling the body as they were dragged through the thick silt. Breathing became slower and deeper to stay afloat, and hands rose to the surface, limp and suspended between surface and seabed. Bodily warmth fought a losing battle against the bite of the ocean. Eyes closed, but not for long; creeping fear resulted in quick checks to the shore to gauge distance. A fiery, distant cloud moved to obstruct a red sun, scattering short rays of light across the horizon. Nothing but the stars and sky were in view.

8. Fast, chatter, snacking.
   Momma and I can talk for hours. Good thing this drive has 8 of them. We talk endlessly switching topics so quickly you never know when one stops and another begins. Some have said being in a car that long with someone can be draining. I find it depends on the person you are with. Learning to drive requires someone you feel safe with, luckily having mastered all the Park City roads, I needed a change. 40 hours of practice driving before getting my license and this will be 16 of them. I wasn’t prepared for the drive to be 8 hours at 85mph on flat barren land that looks like it needs 20 years of good rain. The car is slowly feeling stale with hot breath and uncomfortable positions.

   Dry, deserted, flat.
   Some would say it’s boring. While I don’t disagree with that declaration, the drive from Park City, Utah to Pray, Montana can be so interesting. Specifically, as we watch the elk, antelope, and bears from the safety and excitement of the car. Yellowstone adds about 2-3 hours depending on routes to take. I focus more on the people being stupid out of their cars and way too close. You get close enough to these enormous animals without needing to go pet one. That’s just an injury waiting to happen.

   After Yellowstone, we drive through the little towns above the Yellowstone River. Momma switches back into the driver’s seat as she knows this place better than I do. Cramped and numb we fall out of the car into the hotel. We begin noticing things as we go into our room that disgusts us, but we disregard them until we leave. The hotel is musty, I can feel the eyes of old men on me as I walk around, especially at the pool. We settle down for the night and momma tells me all the plans for the coming days and where we will eat and visit the new house.

   Fast, dry, rocks.
   We turn off the highway onto this dry lot and I look at my momma like she’s crazy. She explains the gates and where one stops and the next is our property. We drive down this gravel road-like thing that turns out to be our driveway. We get down to a barn that clearly needs a repainting and some TLC. I continue to think she’s lost it as the green paint looks like it belongs in a picture of Oklahoma. She sees this man walking towards the car and explains he’s the realtor.

   Tours, rocks, smells.
   This old lady has so many animals. I understand she rescues them, but I don’t think she can truly take care of them like she needs. The main house is mostly fine, creaky on every floorboard and you can hear the wind like you’re in a hurricane. The guest house is a different story altogether. We walk up these narrow stairs and THE smell wafts down towards us. The realtor looks at us and says “This is where she has her ‘special needs’ animals.” We walk in and I’m horrified, so many dogs, scratching, barely moving, looking so sickly.

   We leave the houses and begin the fun tour, the tour of the property. We join the realtor in his mini truck. We drive around the property and we prep to go to the point. Living on the Yellowstone means we have a waterfront property. We go down and see how much work the land needs. It hasn’t had water in years. She has donkeys on the property that can’t graze because there’s no place for that. I can’t imagine her having rescue horses here. It’s mindboggling what that property could look like with love, care, and environmental help.

9. The inside of the Honda Civic rattles with the bass, your sister’s metalcore shattering the speakers, producing a crackling version of the song the artist intended to produce. You’re in the front seat, covering your right side with a flannel so the sun from the window doesn’t leave your legs unevenly tan, but you’re slowly overheating anyway. The wind pushes its way into your makeshift anti-sunburn setup through the perpetually open windows, making it hard to hold the flannel still. The breeze is welcome, though– the alternative is the broken AC that is almost as effective as the heating, and if you get tired of the music, you can lean your head out the window and feel the wind erase all sound. Once you pull into the gravel driveway, you can finally throw open the door, gratefully stretch your legs, and explore. Past a wooden statue of a scared-looking bear that is appropriately reacting to your sister’s attempt at parking, you find a staircase that leads to a patio and a blue door with a rustic (and rusting) mailbox, authentic from the 1920’s, according to the text.

   Inside, every single possible surface is made of wood, leather, or plaid patterns, and every corner where there could be something hunting-themed, there is. Small statues of moose and deer coat the tables, the bookshelves, the window sills. A deer head watches from the far wall as you take off your shoes. Somehow, despite the decor, it all comes off as charming, rather than concerning. The energy of stereotypical Maine. An impossibly steep staircase lives in the back right corner, and you have to hold almost all your weight with your hands on the railing to not feel your stomach swoop as you crawl up to the attic. Your sister, the same one who drove, beelines to the tiny blue cushion, adorned with little boats, in the very back of the room. You and your other sister are too tired to argue, and honestly, her bed barely looks big enough to stretch out your legs all the way, let alone sleep as twisted and contorted as you do. A product of childhood gymnastics, maybe. You accept your fate of sharing a bed (setting the thought of “why couldn’t Mom and Dad have had just me?” aside), and drop onto the mattress. The linen bed sheets, fluffy and just scratchy enough, are a comforting gray-blue that remings you of the ocean on a stormy day. Apt, considering that from the raw wood-framed window you can see the beginnings of rain forming over the lake.

   The next morning, you convince your family to go out to watch the sunrise. You’re not quite sure where that came from– you hate getting up early, especially when you have to wrangle others to do the same, forfeiting the peace of being awake when no one else is. You do it anyway. The fog is settled over the lake, sleeping. Mosquitos make unwelcome guests, and you are resoundingly glad most of your skin is covered, initially meant to keep the Maine morning chill at bay, but you’ll never fault a dual purpose. As they land, small ripples appear on the surface of the water. The sunrise shines pink, purple, orange, and the gilded light illuminates the tops of the trees. As you head inside, the coffee machine beeps, and your frozen hands thaw as the coffee slowly warms the cool ceramic. You get your moment of morning calm as your sisters slowly drift back to sleep.

10. Bushels of dead plants blur through the speeding car window. Dead jojobas face down to the earth, begging for a taste of water after the summer drought. Trees of all assortments – yet all leafless – come to visibility as the truck passes them. Mesquites and Palo Verdes stretch out onto the road that leads to the Mexican border, waving “Goodbye! Safe Travels!” but inside that brown, Chevrolet truck, silence fills the air.

    No music plays, no one speaks to one another, and no cool air refreshes the scorching heat of the Arizona desert. Gazing out to the window, chin perched on my hand’s palm, I view the saguaros. They face each other with a sense of longing. Their long arms extend as if to embrace the other but face the consequence of their defense mechanism: spines. I think about the state law and how one can be heavily fined or detained if one harms a saguaro.

    The fresh wax of crayons crumbles in my young hands and down onto the long-forgotten letter that spells out “Hope you feel better Nana!” A girl holding her Nana’s hand is depicted in the card. As the car approaches the Mexican-American border, clicks of seatbelts resonate through the car as everyone hurriedly buckles up to avoid punishment from legal authorities. After a few greetings and head nods with the border patrol, the car passes through the maze-like streets of Nogales, Sonora.

    People fill the streets selling assortments of treats and souvenirs. Women walk with babies hanging from their backs while others carry sticks with bracelets that hang from the tips. Sunburnt men roam the street and pour soapy water over car windows, covering it with bubbles and then wiping it away with a rag in hopes of getting some extra change to feed their families that week.

    We drive past the crowd of people after exchanging American dollars for Mexican pesos and continue our adventure. The vibrant sunset covers the sky with hues of purple, pink, orange, and yellow. Yet, the car remains silent and tension builds. From a distance the landscape becomes a murky gray, then a muted blue, then a navy blue. Silhouettes of saguaros remain as faded shadows in Arizona and mountains now beaming from the ground rise high into the sky.

    Lights emerge from behind a large mountain and a city comes into view. The windows are rolled down and hot air blows my overgrown bangs to the side. Bustling local businesses serve crowds of laughing people. Smoke fills the streets with the sweet smell of carne asada and vendors yell “Eat! Eat! Our tacos are delicious” to passersby cars in Spanish.

    After a few turns on streets with condiment-sounding names, a large, dimly lit building takes over the view. An ambulance screeches past and into the building, unloading a patient with great speed. It was only 11:30 p.m. and we traveled for five hours.

    We step out of the overcrowded car and into a pool of hot, humid air. My father, with downturned eyebrows, his eyes glistening under the light, steps out last and rushes into the building to see his nine other siblings who waited outside with a look of concern.

    Another ambulance rushes by my side and all my 11-year-old ears could hear was a screaming man in pain and a crying wife being ushered into the hospital, with his red-stained pants and missing left leg.

    Yet, my family remained undisturbed in their own little bubble that oozed stress as they waited for surgery results regarding the elder woman everyone loved. Car seats might become our beds for the night, we think. The rough pavement pricks on my legs, cousins scratch their itchy heads, and bugs dance around the dim, flickering light that illuminates the dark depths of the night.

    I stare, confused at the trees that swayed with the little bit of wind there was, and wonder, how long will I be away from home?

11. People. As far as my eye could see, all I spotted were people, or to be more specific, the heads of human beings. Blondes, brunettes, gingers, almost every hair color was represented in the airport crowds.
    The wait had been excruciatingly long. The line at the TSA checks was now in a serpentine shape, covering the entire floor. Tempers and emotions were high. Everyone had places to be and no one wanted to be in this line for any longer than they needed to be. I, for one, was one “claiming their flight was about to leave to get to the front of the line” passenger away from throwing a tantrum on the airport floor, just like the baby ahead of me. She sat on the floor, her beautiful brown pigtails waving in the air, as she thumped her tiny fists on the floor. This baby had given up not that long ago in airport standard time. In reality, her wailing had started 45 minutes ago. To be honest, the student from Harvard 2 people behind me, and the one from Northeastern behind him, along with me, related to the baby.
    The tall, young blonde man adjacent to me was definitely a musician. He had the plug-in wire earphones (Not Airpods, like others from his generation), and kept listening to random voice notes on his phone, humming along and tapping his fingers against his phone and then randomly stopping. My guess? He was trying to figure out instrumentations for his next track, coming soon to a streaming platform of your choice.
    The man right behind me, however, was getting on my nerves. He was going to Chicago on the same flight as me (Judge me for it, but I peeked at his boarding pass). He was also assigned the seat right next to mine. He kept texting people, with his ringer on full volume, and clicking pictures. He also kept talking to his friends on the phone loudly. I think he might be meeting them for a vacation in Chicago. But the most irritating thing he did was nudge me forward every time the line moved. Or randomly pick up a piece of my blonde highlights and twirl it around his finger. What a weird man, can he not see I’m busy people-watching?
    All these people have stories. We’re all pieces of a puzzle and traveling to our destination to complete our respective stories. As I reach the front of the line, I hear the TSA officers telling people to remove their electronics from their bags. Oh, almost there. That’s when the annoying man behind me, also known as my boyfriend, holds my hand to stop me. Remember when I said he was annoying, this is an example. He asks, “Did you create stories for all these people while we were in line, again?” He knows me too well. I look ahead and see people. So many people. Going to so many different places. With so many different stories.

12. Sun,
    Birds singing,
    The rustling trees,
    And Christian music.
    On the bright orange couch, observing my abuela while she watches her Jesus channel on her rocking chair.
    My mom, outside, checking if the clothes have dried.
    I try to pay attention, but I do not feel him…. Well not yet at least.

    Coffee.
    The most important meal of the day. We drink it after every meal.
    We are at a cafe on a mountain, overlooking the lago de ilopango, having coffee right after lunch. My aunt picked my mother, father and I for lunch because it was her day off. My father decided to drive, and my aunt was the navigator, but she’s the worst navigator because she just says “here” or “there” as if they are directions. We took two wrong turns, but eventually we made it and had lunch. After lunch, she decided that we should go to the mountain and drink coffee. So, we hopped into the car, I connected my phone to the speaker I carry with me at all times and played banda… which they dislike. After 40 minutes of twists and turns, we made it to the cafe and found the perfect table. Not too sunny but not in the shade, a nice breeze but not windy, and with a 180 view of my beautiful country.

    Sun,
    Salt,
    Fish, and sweat.
    We can’t go swimming until 2:00pm, so we decided to stop by our favorite seafood restaurant. We get a table for 10 and everyone orders their favorite plate and drinks. As we stuff ourselves, everyone is talking over each other and laughing. Two hours pass and we are all so stuffed that we could fall asleep right there.

13. Green is, undeniably, a more pleasant sight than grey. Perhaps to the greedy industrialist, or the unsocialized and lonely, the grey of smoke, cities, and roads holds more promise than the greens of trees and grasses. But the color is stark, unfeeling, always inching closer to the beautiful things that surround it despite human attempts to scribble over the sky in seas of grey. But green is resilient, and it survives.

    The reservoir is blocked off – a yellow gate bars the entrance, meant only to be accessed by government workers in yellow trucks testing the ebbing water for dangers the rest of us remain blissfully ignorant of, in drinking water seldom used. But the gate barely tries to do its job; at only waist height and clear margins at the sides, it reluctantly but willfully allows us to pass.

    The path opens up to a natural amphitheater, a gently sloping ledge turning into a miniature black diamond along the way. The semicircle, set below in front of the water and the trees, is ripe for activity, the ghosts of raucous dogs and theatre swimming over the yellowing grass. I danced on that ledge once; I still have the photographs. I hid the sun with my physical form, putting myself into silhouette while a ring of light brightened the tall, bending trees.

    These trees see and hear everything, their branches stretched up and out like cracks against the blue sky, streaked with grey from time and worry. The wind rustles their leaves, like a stranger creeping up from behind. The highways scream, begging for the attention of the masses, the drivers, the people in their roadside apartments. The trees pay them no mind; they make a path for me, bending towards the center, a path built for friends, lovers, family, but strange for a solo traveler. They think little of it; they have seen so much from me in so many seasons. The resilient green persists, a refuge from the grey screaming itself hoarse in every direction. I look up as I walk, wanting to see everything above and nothing forward, nothing but the sky and the leaves and the trees, branches raised to applaud.