Have you ever tried to trace rain droplets as they dance by?

Happenstance childhood pass times of mine include putting black olives on each of my fingers and eating them one by one. Like sitting around with my finger on the record button waiting to record a song from my favorite band on the radio with a tape. Like trying to follow the rain droplets as they hit the window on fast freeways. One of the reasons why I abhor driving is because I enjoy being a passenger. 

I get to see so much more. And for the conveniences of my happenstance childhood pass times I rather enjoy the long bus rides. As evidenced from my previous blog posts I am not having a good time transitioning back to Vietnam. I don't think its homesickness necessarily. I feel it is a helplessness that I can control but don't feel like it. It also has something to do with the energy that is surrounding me. 

I was reminded of one of my happenstance childhood pass times as I stared out the window of the big orange bus that I take for 5 hours at least once a month here in Vietnam.

Long Xuyen --> Saigon

Saigon --> Long Xuyen

5 hours at least once a month in Vietnam.

I go to the bus station in Long Xuyen which is a 3 minute walk from where I live. I avoid eye contact with xe om drivers as they ask me if I need a ride. No you twit, I'm at the bus station. I think to myself that, but never say anything. I should be nicer.

I get there approximately 10 - 15 minutes before. I get my ticket from the ticket counter 90, 000 vnd ($4.50 USD) At one point a woman working there recognized me and my name. Why are you going this time Kim? For fun I reply. She smiles and wishes me a good trip. Sadly, I don't recall her face so I won't know if I saw her again. There is something about hegemony, that when are not really a part of it, especially language wise its hard to remember.

From there it is a 30 minute ride to the ferry. Sometimes the wait to get on the ferry can be up to 30 minutes, which drags on for what seems like forever. If there is no wait, then it takes about 15 minutes to cross the ferry. I pretend to sleep so I don't have to get off the bus, since its a "rule" for passengers to get off the bus and onto the ferry by foot. I guess, for our safety. Disregarding my safety and facing the possibility of drowning, I delight in staying in the bus. A small win. Then I proceed to look out my window at the people on the ferry. Little kids jumping from the side into the muddy unclear waters of the Mekong Delta as if no water born diseases exist. Only fun did. That was the only thing on their mind.

Unlike them, that is never the only thing on my mind.

Children, women and men of all sorts, from the small child who sells lottery tickets who doesn't know further than the boundaries of Long Xuyen, but knows more about the hustle than I could ever know to the woman who is trying to raise her two kids on selling fruits and cigarettes from a small basket. I find them fearfully resilient. For them to be positioned where they are, but to be able to somehow make the most of it, I find ever so strong. A strength that I fear. But I suppose its about survival more than anything and when you gotta survive you do what you have to do. Survival for me comes easier and I recognize this.

Unlike them, that is never the thing on my mind.

Before my bus got on the ferry I watched the droplets. They were not from rain but from the fact that the temperature of the air conditioning in the bus contrasted greatly from the humidity outside. I was really cold. The droplets reminded me of times where I chased rain droplets in the U.S. since going really fast on freeways during the rain resulted in the droplets hitting the window at a really high speed and therefore causing them to dance. I always tried to trace them as if it would result in something. It never did, they just danced in this repetitive cycle. New ones came in. Old ones out. Transient.

This past weekend I made the trip emptily. I didn't know why I was going but felt the need to get out of Long Xuyen, since I knew I was going to feel lonely. Might as well feel lonely in a big city than a small town. I thought to myself. Bad choice. Of course I get a splitting headache from feeling useless and hopeless. Sitting in a very pretty cafe I was unhappy with where I was. Why I was there. Purposeless. All the work that I had to do. Unmotivated. Even talking to a people I felt so emotionless, I knew it came across as so. Everything that I had to get done didn't mean anything to me. Moot if you will. Moot is a word I learned in 9th grade.

Moot: Having no practical significance, typically because the subject is too uncertain to allow a decision.

Right now its gotten to the point where music isn't hitting me the same. And that's a bad bad sign in Kim Dam's book. However, Fleet Foxes's self titled album is keeping me hopeful and afloat and does tracing rain drops even if they don't dance by. Even if they don't dance by. Still. 


Comparisons are my weakness. I do it alot. Where I compare my life to others. And then get sad over it. That they are living a "better" life. But I gotta really kick myself and remind myself that all these thoughts are arbitrary. I am only seeing what they allow me to see. I only compare what I see. The good. Which is why I'm trying to better relate my stories and what I see in my life. Regardless of where I am. At least once a month I travel somewhere. It doesn't hit me that I've traveled to 8 different countries in the last 1.5 years of my life and more cities, provinces, villages, v.v.  than I can count.

Time to refocus. Time to focus on the positive. Time to not let myself down. Time to get out of this unhealthy rut. Time to not be sick and exhausted all the time. Time to feel. Time to find the roots of things again. Time to do me. Time to get things down with passion. Time.

It's just time.

Timing.

About time.

I spend Sundays mostly wading.

A knock and a wail wakes me up this Sunday and similar to other Sundays I wake up tired from the week. But there is something about Sundays that bring ends together. For the last few months I've spent my Sundays being lazy and not doing much, but Sundays were always about that for me. While on a plane early this morning I flip through the newspapers to (excitingly) find a cartoon section (!!!!!!!!!!!!). Boxes entertained my eyes, as Garfield, Calvin & Hobbes (never really liked that one) bounced from one square to another, making some statement on the goodness of donuts or childhood nostalgia.

Maybe this is where my creativity came from, or at least one of them. Comics in the Sunday newspaper. On days I spent lazily. On Sunday mornings my parents would go buy the Sunday Los Angeles Times, not to read articles or be updated on the recent current events of whatever the press likes to mention that week, but for the coupons. In goes $1.50 into the newspaper stand, and as always and penny pinching they take three newspapers. Three because that was the limit of how many coupons can be used on one item at the grocery store (back in the day) and with double coupon ability my mom was the best and smartest shopper I knew. She somehow was able to turn $67.87 turn into $3.45. The women behind her were amazed and probably grumpy from staying in line so long. The machine probably out-beeped its days worth too. She was smart. She searched for the unsuspecting teenager cashier who never looked carefully at coupons. Maybe something about moving to a foreign country with very little resources allowed this coupon-money-saving-talent grow or maybe it was innate. But as whiney American wannabe kids, we wined and made it hard for my mom. 

Why do we have to shop for so long...

Man, are you done?

Noooooo, I don't want to stay in line!

and complains galore as any two little kids who probably spend more time in grocery stores not buying things than kids who steal things.

I knew my grocery stores in Ontario and Chino, CA, maybe in Covina, San Dimas and West Covina too. I knew which one had free food samples, which ones had reduced price chicken after 5 pm, which one were most crowded and popular, which ones looked old and remodeled, which ones had the newest carts, which ones had the nicest managers or the dumbest clerks, I knew them all.

The pile of newspapers drops in the car seat or on the dinner table, and instantly my brother and I rip them apart. We each grab for different things that we like to read. So with three sets we are able to each have a copy. If we woke up late our parents would get to the coupons at first then leave the rest for my brother and I to search through. My brother was rather systematic in the way he took out his favorite sections of the Los Angeles Times. Always neat. Mostly they were the electronic store ads. He read them in a certain order and always put it back neatly into the recycle bin as if no one had touched it.

I cannot clearly recount my own process but I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted the cartoon section, not the lame section with women who complain about their weight cartoons, cartoons with soldiers or the kiddie section with lame crossroad puzzles. I quickly skimmed the front to get through all the "political" cartoons really quickly because I didn't get it. Then the second page was the classics with the peanuts gangs. Then with the third being the charm it was my favorite page with all the "modern" cartoon strips, with non-sequitor and the likes. Then I read the Calendar for stupid celebrity gossip, their small section on cartoons, Ask Marilyn, and possibly an article or two if I found it interesting. Then onto the New York Times magazine to glaze over pretty photos of rich people's houses. Then now onto the colorful ads of each store in town from circuit city to best buy to target to see if there was anything that I can pretend to want to buy. And MAYBE just MAYBE I would actually read the newspaper but that was hardly ever the case.

My Sunday mornings would end with a full recycle bin and cut coupons scattered across the dining table and the rest was spend hoping that school wouldn't have to start. I enjoy routine. Or maybe I just miss it.

On Sundays my mind wanders from the weeks events. It's going to be Monday again, what happened? Time falls faster than I can catch it sometimes. Sometimes I don't catch it at all. 

wandering

wondering if I get my exploratory nature from my parents. Looking back on their roadtrips, they took me and my brother along too. And their need to see every national park in America was quite mother fucking awesome.

My parents for many years lugged my little brother Jeffrey and I around America and Canada. Our most frequented trip was to Canada. Driving up to Canada was a three day adventure in my dad's red nissan truck. It had a hood cover on the back bed, and my dad would literally place a full size mattress in the back bed (probably illegal) for my brother to sleep on during the long hours on the road. When I look back, how lovingly thoughtful that is. I just recall crawling through the window in the back, and falling onto the many pillows and blankets in the back. I remember sleeping back there, rolling around and playing as the scenes of West Coast floated by, and getting excited when my dad hit the breaks too hard cos that would send me and my brother flying in all different directions. Adult chit chatter was present, but easily ignored. We were kids, we were not scared nor paranoid. Responsibility escaped us. I think Jeff and I played games or something to pass by the hours of driving. Then we would stop by hotels and my mom and dad would sneak us in so they wouldn't have to pay extra. I remember I'd love continental breakfast.

It would be very different from the breakfast I'd usually have at home. The cereal selection was to die for  endless supply of fruit loops, frosted flakes, and my not so favorite honey oats, all for free? Not to mention toast, jams of all sorts, and my favorite, honey. I recall on these trips, being grumpy. And also being frustrated that I didn't have the coolest clothes compared to other tourists. We were always dressed to impress or out of place I felt like. An Asian American family taking in the landscapes of America. We didn't have the proper hiking clothes or gear like other "American" families did. I think I felt embarrassed too. As I look back, our presence driving on the road, visiting national parks, seeing the fabric and nature of what America has to offer, would not be possible without a series of misfortunate events my parents had to go through. Many in their lifetime would never be able to see what we saw and do to what we did. I was lucky.

I treasure it very much. Man how fucking AWESOME it is to have been to Zion National Park, Yellowstone Park, Vancouver, Victoria, Angel National Park, Oregon, Washington, etc. etc. etc. I believe my collection of maps is somewhere hidden in my drawers, as my tendency to hoard items from the past has gotten to a new level with my new current adventures in Asia in the last few years.

I would get really really excited when we finally made it to our destination. I LOVED downtowns of any place, because you knew. You knew you hit down towns when all of a sudden the blurred scenery of green tall trees, scattered deer, windy roads, and busy bark ended. Then the city landscapes hit you.

I remember staying in this one city. It was a small city and I don't remember why I was there. It was rainy and cold, but all I remember is the pizza hut there. I would forward to the pizza hut every night because I think we were there for three or four days. Or maybe to a mind of a child it felt like forever. Routine was welcome in every place I went. In fact I think I was in search of it. This time routine was found in the form of a Pizza Hut. I would get a mini-pizza and it would come with a toy, a ruler, I still have it.

I remember one time my parents took advantage of a flight to Buffalo, New York. We then rented a car and drove everywhere. I remember thinking that renting a car was really damn awesome cos we were in a different car. Simple as is.

We drove to Canada, Quebec and Montreal, although I recall those cities being beautiful, with an air of black dizzy city lights combined with frigid tall buildings and clean floors I experienced outright racism in one of those cities that tainted my experience of going to a coffee shop and getting a coffee drink.

My mom would never really let us go out to eat at restaurants and buy coffee drinks let alone slushees back home. Only on these vacations would my mom slip a little. I remember getting the best chocolate drinks ever from my uncle in Toronto. He had missing toes. My brother and I were mystified at his missing toes and their old people smell house. Their mattresses were weary and clung to us, soft like beaten clay, and bumpy like molded cheese. But I loved that family because every morning my uncle would bring Jeff and I a cup of chocolate each and a muffin. Maybe this is where my love for chocolate muffins in the morning comes from. This was very different from my breakfast back home.

Hot chocolate. maybe that's why I like it so much. because it reminds me of the cold mornings where i would wake up next to my parents and brother and go downstairs to get that amazing cup of hot chocolate. A small gesture given to me by family members that I didn't know how to speak to. I only met them once. But I miss them. I miss those mornings, and this is all I could remember of Toronto, Canada.  The cup of hot chocolate, the muffin, and my dad speaking to a sister like I've never seen before and have yet to see since. I concluded that she was his favorite sister. I'm not sure why I thought that. But I still think it to this day.

We made our way up to Rhode Island I think, and maybe even Maine. I remember looking at leaves. I'm not sure if this is a combination of recollections of my older self, and younger self, but the leaves were as beautiful as they should be, like they say in the story books.

We made it to D.C., Maryland...I was grumpy and had big purple glasses. I felt ugly. I also had these strange dresses my mom bought from Pic & Save. I didn't like them because they were from Pic & Save. I also wore them with these plastic white boots. I hated those white boots, but I thought they would mask my uncool dresses. My mom dressed me at the time. I miss those dresses. I miss my big purple mickey mouse glasses. I think I had pimples at the time too.

We hit a cow during one of these trips. Hands down scary and strange all at once. My parents could of died, but they didn't that night. My dad is one of the best drivers in the world.

Somewhere along those lines, my brother and I grew up. Somewhere along the leaves, we grew bored of Canada, Oregon, Utah, and all those states. We grew up and became preoccupied with other matters. In fact, I was always preoccupied with other matters even during those trips, my insecurities, etc. Maybe I grew up and became more conscious but my brother and I noticed our parents arguing a lot more. Maybe as a kid our imaginations were taking over and we didn't care about the adult bickering. Or maybe I was fast asleep in the back of my dad's truck. But their fight for the last 20 or so years has always been the same.

Mom gives directions or instructions. Dad gets mad because he doesn't want to hear it. Mom remains silent. Dad gets grumpy and rants for a while, and tells Mom that he will stop the car to let her drive. Mom remains silent. Dad keeps driving.  About 10 minutes or so later dad will ask Mom for the next directions or instructions. And Mom would have an "I told you so moment."

Repeat. For the next two decade or so. Daddy has never stopped the car to let Mama drive.

Our last real roadtrip was to Santa Cruz, Mystery Spot. I think that was my idea. It was a bit of a heartbreak, but it was fun. Brother listening to his headphones the whole time. The above mentioned fight occurring. Me realizing that our days as little kids traveling with our parents may not be the same ever again. I believe I was 19ish at the time. I was heartbroken. I had grown up.

And now my life lays ahead of me. It's up to me what I want to do. The choices I make, its mine to make. No more being grumpy really. Little kid grumpy. No more mom selected dresses that I'm forced to wear. No more laying in the back of the truck on the bed Daddy made for the kids to sleep. No more hiding under blankets from the ferry ticketing booth so Daddy didn't need to pay for us.

I will still get excited for hot chocolate and slushees though. I will always remember the blurring trees because sometimes that is all I would see for hours at a time. The maps flying everywhere in the car. The  missing the exit arguing. The brown signs of national forests. The excitement I would get whenever my mom let me have a treat of a slushee or eating out at a restaurant. That I cannot forget.