the other side of the Atlantic
London, the lush coral bleed of a sunrise thirty-two thousand feet above ground spilling through the crack of your window seat on this one-way flight. Packing for this is how you learnt that five bags on the baggage carousel can represent a lifetime.
The weekend you move into your flat, you spent all day cleaning that you forgot to eat, which is how you found yourself in the hot dog stall at Ikea Greenwich at 6.30pm, a giant among all the children clutching their parents’ hands, fumbling with change that you couldn’t properly count for just yet. Frustrated, you empty all of the coins onto your palm and hold them up to the cashier like an offering, trying to make a joke about having just moved. There you go, love, she says, and picks out £1.75. Later, while waiting in line for the delivery van to come along, you get into a conversation with the guy who’s organizing the delivery requests; he asks, are you new? and you laugh. 72hours-new, my friend. You both end up exchanging an American dollar note for a £1 coin, as ‘souvenirs’. When the van driver comes along and you finish hauling your things into the car, he waves you both down and yells across the pristine wood floors, take care of her, she’s new!. You lean out of the window and raise an imaginary toast, the rings on your fingers flickering in the post-sunset light. Here’s to another chapter.
There are two and a half seasons in a day. There are office workers packing into and spilling out of pubs on balmy Friday evenings, their idle chatter a soundtrack to the start of yet another weekend; empty pint glasses standing at attention in a street corner amid the remnants of a broken wine bottle, the concrete stained a deep grey in blotches — a blush gone rogue.
London is. Having to remember to tap your card at the turnstile again as you exit a tube station. Once, maybe a week in, your muscle memory walked you up the escalators and right into the turnstile, the sharp smack of metal on ankle bone jolting you back into this place - or, I suppose I should say - home, now. You reach for your Metrocard out of habit and pull out a teal green contactless in its place, its pristine surface still showing no signs of card machine teeth, shiny with the promise of what this city could be for you. If you let it.
And so you try. You get the Spotify notification that Arizona - the band, not the state - is playing at a club off Charing Cross Road and you get a ticket and go, alone. You realize that Bon Iver, Leon Bridges, Mumford & Sons, AND The Tallest Man on Earth are all playing at this day festival at Victoria Park, and instead of trying to corral the two friends you have outside of work in London to come along you say, fuck it. So you show up on day one alone, and on day two with a complete stranger that you’ve met off the internet (note - not a dating app..!). And you have a blast both days, regardless.
London is. Being taken to Drake’s sold-out show at the O2 with someone unexpected.
London is also accidentally making friends with someone who works at Formula 1, who gets you a pin from the F1000 race in Shanghai, whom you show around Brick Lane where you try to convince him - albeit unsuccessfully - to get his first denim jacket.
It is leaving work late and finding joy in practicing your faux British accent with the security desk, trading Americanisms with your coworkers, getting invited to go on a rowdy night out in Shoreditch and coming to the pleasant realization - in the sweaty, bass-filled basement of Old Street Records - that you never forgot the lyrics to Mr Brightside.
Nothing lasts forever. But if it can last longer than you can love it, that should be enough.
through the looking glass
2018 // a litany
early in the year I flew to London for work for the first time and basically got the sweetest, sweetest welcome from my friends on the other side of the pond. How lucky I am to partner with people that I love so much. And then I flew home for the first time in nearly two years, slept in my childhood bed with my feet dangling off the edges, stuffed myself with as many fish balls one could humanly eat in a single sitting, fell asleep to my parents’ snores feeling like I was five all over again. April in Vegas was a Zedd show at a nightclub, three days of talks, and too many late nights.
Summer was London again and then Colorado — in summary: late work nights bridging two timelines, too many gin&tonics; multiple hikes, sitting on boulders with the sun kissing my bare arms, walking barefoot in glacier runoff and freezing my toes off. July was 100% apartment moving-induced stress and nothing else. On a sticky summer evening in August I showed up for my birthday reservation and found out that I’d be sitting next to Aziz Ansari in a wine bar. September was spent eating my weight in seafood in Japan, spending time with family again — a rarity in these recent years given that all four of us span three countries and two continents. This was also the month I drunk straight gin in the basement of Le Poisson Rouge by complete accident one night — on an empty stomach nonetheless — and lived to tell the tale.
In October I bought a blonde wig for Halloween and nearly gave my mom an aneurysm. That was also the month I got a full week’s worth of music recs and slowly discovered my soft spot for moody rock/ r&b playlists on late nights. Now, onto November: most people spent thanksgiving weekend eating turkey and I spent it onstage doing my first public poetry reading; the lights were too bright and my voice definitely wavered through the first ten seconds of it but heck, here’s to one off the bucket list, finally.
2018 rounds off with one last trip to London - this time tagged with some crazy huge decisions to make - and then a personal vacation to France. France isn’t perfect but I love it anyway and am so, so, happy I got to go again. Paris seems very much the same - but I’m not who I was 4 years ago - and so in some ways this trip has felt very different, for reasons that I’m honestly glad for. here’s to 2018: a year where I gave my all, grew a little, reconnected with some old friends, and still held the hands of the ones I’ve always loved. what a long year.
there are no seatbelts for this
you will fly. often. sometimes without choice. most times alone. you will learn to read your body like a thermometer, to breathe time like a language, to fold your limbs inward like a human paper crane on long nights across the oceans - crammed into a window seat between the stars and a man sitting in seat 20E that's snoring just a touch too loudly. you make your bed in between time zones, and never really fall asleep.
twenty-one, studying abroad, you will find yourself in a café in brixton, staring through glass windows at the butcher shop across the street and fiddling with an oyster card that's 0.45p too shy of a tube ride home. your nail polish is peeling at the edges and there are tiny, ragged mauve islands in the middle of your nails. the barista asks you if you're just visiting. you swallow the last bit of your earl grey and find yourself wondering what does it mean to visit a place if you're not even sure where you're from, but these are words that dissolve in the back of your throat, so you merely nod, yes. visiting. there are sweeter things to go with his tea.
through all your years in this city you will sleep with Home Depot boxes folded, pressed, tucked like prayers into the tiny alcove between door and wall. the front flaps are miniature maps of all the places you've lived: Goddard Hall, 3rd floor. Broome Street, 8th floor. then 7th. and back up to 8th. Paris. Stuyvesant Town. Brooklyn. your initials written over and over like a litany. each year the markers bleed differently, but the hymn stays the same. please. let me stay.
to have and to hold
for my roommates past- if i ever stole a thesaurus the first thing i'd do would be to look for synonyms of you four. i say this a lot, to all of you, but i am honestly so so so glad we met.
for Sara- my first friend in America, really, and the one person who taught me how to pronounce "tortilla" properly in the chips aisle of Kmart at 10pm on a stupidly chilly September night, thank you for all of freshman and sophomore year.
for Lauren and Ami- it is such a terrible cliché to fall in love in Paris, because that just seems so blindingly obvious, isn't it. but that's honestly how i feel about us, our silly asian trio of 7 Rue Albert de l'Apparent sitting around the rickety dining table with its polished wood, the french sun spilling itself across our living room floor, talking and laughing in a patois of chinese, japanese, korean, french. i will always run out of ways to say, je t'aime, always.
and finally, for Nikky- who saw the worst and the best of me through senior year, for the long nights and the wine, for putting up with Thesis Wen even after i wallpapered our living room with my statistical results, thank you. so much.
my Berlin friends- especially Fay, Nat, Jade, and David, ich liebe dich. it is probably the only phrase i can properly enunciate in German, but that doesn't make it any less true.
the Singaporeans i've met at Penn, Chicago, NYU, (and that one DC kid..)- one thousand thanks for putting up with my annual (persistent) cravings for hokkien mee. a million more for having me as your adopted countryman. you guys are the sweetest.
my Model UN team- it takes a lot for me to regard Stern UC (of all places at NYU...!) as a second home. here's to four years of literal sweat and tears, maybe a thousand nights of arguing over systems, and exactly 3.5 days each year of yelling myself hoarse. it was once a high school dream of mine to be able to do Model UN, and regardless of how many damned times you guys drive me to the brink of combustion- i am so happy to have all of you. for my mentors- Harini, Jonathan, Cathy, Victoria; and my standout peers- Arnav, Luiza, Victoria, Anna et al, thank you for believing in me even when i almost stopped myself.
my thesis friends- so proud of us. no other words.
and, my favorite brooklynite- thank you for you. the Q train may run southeast across the brooklyn bridge, but if my body were a compass its true north will most probably be prospect park. i am so glad you exist.
finally, for papa- who holds the burdens i cannot. for mama- who makes the sacrifices so we don't have to. thank you for letting me traverse this whole crazy, crazy journey from that day in december when i first moved to singapore alone, till that wednesday when i graduated college at yankee stadium in new york. and for may- stay tender. please. there are some battles i fight so you don't have to. i love you all so much. such a tiny family. such a big hug, across oceans, continents, timezones. even on long nights i never feel alone.
one last one, for grandpa- nineteen years later, and i miss you still. at yankee stadium, at radio city- i whispered a prayer for the both of us. wherever you are i hope you saw me graduate, and i hope i made you proud.
