A week till China. My immense luggage, the size of a small child’s coffin, looks like it vomited its stomach about my room (merg . . . mixed metaphor). In other words, I’m very unpacked. I’m not a whatever kind of person, but motivation for packing doesn’t kick in till a few days before leaving, no matter how special the trip. I have a packing list somewhere, probably buried in the gaping beast mouth that is my suitcase. In any doubt, I’m certain I can buy imitation Crest and Old Spice in China for cheap.
Today I had a nightmarish dream that occurred during the day time (which would make it therefore a daymare) that I arrived in Hong Kong. It looked like the inside of a European train station with a high ceiling, metal beams, and glass. The inside was chaos with booths and crowds of people. I remember buying a lot of food, visiting one booth and then another, thinking to myself, “Don’t know when I’ll be eating next.” Suddenly Rachel M. appeared and we decided to go get free samples of brownies from a vender who was selling baked goods from the trunk of his white van with the kind of doors that swing out left and right, not up and down. We got the free brownies, but then out of obligation perhaps we each bought an M&M cookie. He was selling $11 cakes, but I had already spent $7 at Andrew’s surprise birthday party last night, such was my reasoning. The vendor, who was African American, showed us a picture of his daughter and shared some heartfelt story about her that I can’t recall now. Rachel and I left, pushing through pleasant foliage of a dense, green forest. Rachel was Rhema at this point and the daughter of the vendor, who was tagging along, turned into a butterfly. Rhema took out her camera that makes that “bleeeng” noise when you turn it on and asked me to take pictures of her and the monarch. The scene turned and I talked to a co-worker, who doesn’t exist in reality, about how we should stop wasting our lives away at the party scene. Then I tried to convince her that underage drinking should be strictly observed. Then I was watching the second episode of the second season of LOST on my bed. At the end of the episode, I knew nothing more about the man in the hatch and I debated whether or not to watch the next episode. It was 2:30am, however, according to my laptop, which would make it 11:30pm Hawaii time (never have changed it from CA time). So, I shut my laptop and climbed down an eight-foot ladder from my bed, which apparently was bunked.
I wake up and the room is dark but not completely. I look over to my left. Chara’s gone and I think, “She must have gone running early. The sun hasn’t even risen.” But in fact it was 6:30 in the evening, and I was groggier than I had been when falling asleep journaling about possible roommates scenarios I could possibly encounter in China (this is what one does rather than pack). Pascha comes up to tell me something, and I realize it’s evening not morning.
I eat dinner with the family which mainly consisted of Dad’s pulverized soybeans/protein-rich guacamole and homemade tortilla chips. The seven of us spend a good long hour at the table after our plates our cleaned, talking loudly over each other. There never seemed to be less than three loud and dramatic conversations going on at once. Chara raises her hand to speak, attempting to get her antedote in, as Dad and Rhema jabber and laugh about how antisocial, people-hostile Dad has made us. Pascha, unable to compete for attention, makes faces across the table, causing me to laugh. Who does she remind me of? All of us. Nike puckering out her lips as Mom tells us to see how her profile has changed since she’s gotten her braces. Mom blending up ice and mushing Dad’s haupia over it, saying it tastes like tapioca, although it probably taste like watering coconut gelatin with the consistency of barf. Rhema and I arguing over who’s more arrogant after Dad says, “There she (me) goes again, speaking from her perch.” The whole party breaking up when Mom whips out her calendar, trying to find a date for the BBQ we want to have with our relatives before I leave.
Gosh, I’m going to miss these nights around the round table. I’m going to miss my dad’s cooking, my family’s inability to have quaint conversations, elbows on the table, doing the dishes after a meal, reading to my sisters and discussing how Piggy’s split brains must have looked, talking with Chara about our day and eating mustaches, Rhema’s “sugarless” cookies with playdoh-flavored icing, hula smoothie bowls, quizzing Pascha on her reading of Jonah, sushi at Ala Monoa, jellyfish at Kailua Beach, chocolate samples at Shirakiya, cheap ice cream at Safeway, Italian Job, racewalk tag by the stream, rollerblading with Pascha at King Intermediate, hiking to the Pill Boxes at sunrise, and the never-ending supply of pineapple, spinach, and tofu in the refrigerator.
So much to look forward to and so many good times to remember. Life is rich, and these memories are important things to pack. Fortunately for me, reminiscing takes very little motivation.
