CULTURAL!

So there's a Chinatown in Houston, and Mom and Kyle (my little brother) and I go there occasionally to get our oriental fix. We really miss the Asian food we used to eat all the time in California, with our Asian family... the vegetables, the cookies, the pastries, the dumplings, and all kinds of stuff that are delicious but that I don't know the names of. Where we lived in California was freakin' Asianland, so all the food we loved was right there. I never realized how much I took it for granted until years after I moved to Texas.

When we go to Chinatown, we immediately go to the Chinese bakery to buy different types of bread I love and some coffee cake stuff. Then we walk to a Chinese restaurant where Mom orders all her favorite foods and I scarf down my bread and whatever Mom hasn't eaten. Then we head to the grocery store where Mom buys dumplings and other food that don't matter because I only have eyes for the cookies/crackers I've loved as a child. We load everything up, and then full and happy, we drive back home.

I'll never forget the first time I went to Chinatown. I had the bright idea to play a game called "Count The Asians" and Kyle enthusiastically (a little too much so) joined in. I even had my phone out, keeping track of the numbers on the notepad. Because believe it or not, there are a lot of Asians in Chinatown.

I think I gave up after 70 or so Asians. Kyle bravely continued until close to 200.

 Last time Mom and I went a couple of weeks ago while Kyle was at school. Oh man, he was upset! He wanted to come with us so badly... haha, sucker!!! I mean, just kidding Kyle, we'll bring you back something. (We did--while wandering around a store, Mom found a clock with Snoopy in hockey gear and bought it for Kyle's next birthday.)

So we arrived in Chinatown, and head through our usual parking lot. I was looking out the passenger window, looking out at all the stores and the dog on the parking lot and the Tapioca House and--wait,  a dog? I did a double take, but at that point we had completely passed it.

"DID YOU SEE THAT?" I said to Mom.

"See what?" she asked, mystified.

"That dog!"

"What dog?"

"Mooooooooooooooooooooom, can you turn around? Look at it!"

 So she turned around in the parking lot and drove back the way we came. I'm sure I was pretty inconspicuous, the way my face was pressed up against the glass. And then... yes! We saw---

You know how when dog owners need to run inside a store, they'll usually leave their dogs in the car with the window cracked for air? This owner must have looked at them with haughty derision and decided "Not me!" Instead, they had left their dog outside in the REAL air. Seriously, the dog was just chillin' there on the parking lot next to the car. Don't worry, the dog was on a leash... the problem was, the rest of the leash was locked in the trunk.

HUH?? I'm really hoping the owner didn't just drive off without putting the dog back inside the car. But it's Chinatown, dogs aren't expected to be treated well there.

(I reserve every right to make fun of Asians since I am very much one. That's what I like about being multiple ethnicities... I get to make fun of all kinds of things.)

Mom saw the dog this time, and burst out laughing. We stopped right in front of it, I cranked the window down, and very subtly took a picture.

You know what I like about my mom? Not only did she stop to let me take a picture, but she dug around her purse for her phone, handed it to me, and told me to take a picture on that too.

Anyways, we went through our usual ritual of going to the bakery. The funny thing is, my mom has known the old woman who is always at the counter for years. Every time we walk in, the woman jabbers away in Chinese to my mom about how pretty she thinks I am, and what a great relationship Mom and I must have. It's kind of embarassing, but she's a nice lady.

We continued on our journey to the Chinese restaurant. We sat down, Mom orders her usual ten plates of food while I unwrap my bread and begin my blissful eating. Mom and I chatted about different things, the waiter came and went, food started disappearing as quickly as they came.

Halfway through the meal, my attention was drawn towards the music playing overhead. Huh, it sounded strangely familiar... I hadn't heard this song in forever, what was it? I strained my brain, trying to remember. Suddenly the woman in the song started singing and I immediately realized what song was playing. Simultaneously, as I recognized it, I choked on my food. Mom looked at me quizzically as I burst into laughter, probably spraying food everywhere.

The song was "My Humps" by the Black Eyed Peas. For the uncultured out there, it's PRETTY inappropriate and it's all about a woman's.... figure. I've never been a fan; in fact, I question how this song came into existence in the first place.

Honestly, it was absolutely hilarious to me that half the people in the restaurant probably didn't know enough English to understand the lyrics.

What made it better was when the waiter came over, looked at me (practically crying at this point), frowned, and asked Mom in Chinese what was so funny.

She shrugged and responded, "I don't know, I think it's the song."

Only in Chinatown... well, I'm very much sure this would happen in Nicaragua too.

For those that miss

I feel that all of my recent blogs have been so serious. I keep meaning to write something light-hearted, but honestly, it keeps sliding out of my head! Plus I don't think anything can compete with the series of "for Jules" posts, about strange things witnessed in Nicaragua.

Unfortunately for anyone who might be hoping for something comical, you're at the wrong post. However, I have an idea for my next post inspired by a visit to Chinatown in Houston recently. I'll try to write that tomorrow, or even tonight if I write this one quickly enough.

Not too long ago, I was browsing on Facebook. One of my Facebook friends is in New York (she is from Texas too), for college I believe. She wrote on her most recent status, "I want to go home." Very simple, very straightforward, yet containing so much emotion. And the more I think about it, the more my heart goes out to her.

It feels like I've spent my whole life missing people. Growing up, I lived in California but flew back and forth to Texas to visit family. That's how I met the church I'm a part of now, and how I met many close friends. And it was hard, having wonderful friends and family in two different states that I loved. I will always remember how frustrated I often was, and how much I wished it was possible for everyone I loved to be in one place.

That was bad, but it got so much worse in Nicaragua. It's one thing to miss some people all the time while simultaneously being in the company of other people that you've missed too. But it's a rude awakening to suddenly be in a foreign country, away from everyone. That doubles the size of people you miss, and the amount of pain, the amount of missing.

"We miss you so much," the Kolbs and I were told all the time. While it's great to hear, it's also a melancholy thing. Everyone only missed a few people--we missed everyone.

A. A. Milne, the author of Winnie the Pooh, writes “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” Yeah, inspiring. It makes you feel better when you think of it that way. But you have still said goodbye to them, and it still hurts regardless.

And so it kind of does something deep inside of me, thinking about my friend who wants to go home. The feeling is all too familiar. It's painful, when you're gone and sitting there wondering what everyone is doing and what they are talking about and what inside jokes and memories are being made and what good times are you missing out on and are they thinking about you at all. It's incredibly painful, especially if you have nothing going on at your end. Every Sunday morning, I'd look at the time and think about what people at church were doing. I'd do the same on Wednesday evenings, when youth group always occurs. I'd think, "Oh, worship will be going on there. I wonder who's playing. Now they'll be doing ministry time, now they'll be playing games, now they'll be doing a sermon, now..."

It gets easier as you get to know more people around you and begin to gain a busier schedule. It's no less painful, just easier to bear.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to have a mourning pity party here. This post was completely spontaneous and in fact, I didn't even realize I had all of this inside of me until I sat down to write. It's just... soothing to write it down. To record it.

I began counting down the days on the calendar until my flight home. By that, I mean I started counting just a few weeks into my almost three month stay. Preston and Carrie noticed, and when I was asked about it, I explained that it was somehow comforting to pinpoint a number of days.

One day, Carrie sat down and asked me, "Are you happy here? Because you're counting down the days."

I looked at her, bewildered. "I'm not counting down the days until I leave. I'm counting down until I get to see everyone again."

And man, I was diligent about that. We didn't have a calendar until two months into my stay, so I made my own calendar at the back of my journal. I'd write down what happened each day, little reminders, and faithfully crossed out each day before going to sleep. I counted the days backwards so I knew how many days were left.

Sometime in August, I was told about a youth event that was going on at church the day I was meant to fly back to Texas. It started Friday evening on September 23rd, lasted all night, and went on until Saturday evening the next day. I was scheduled to fly in at about noon, Saturday September 24th.

I got a brilliant idea. I would show up Saturday afternoon and surprise everyone! Chris Nelson, one of the youth leaders who had informed me of the event, became my accomplice. I explained my plan to him and he promised to send information about the schedule so that I'd know when to arrive. He didn't tell anyone else, and I didn't either except for Tammy (to make sure it was alright) and Jessica Knox (she asked if I was going and I wasn't going to lie). Actually, I take that back. While I told hardly anyone in Texas, I told just about every Nicaraguan who could understand English about my plan. I was just a little excited.

God bless my parents, they were so understanding. I was hesitant to ask my dad and stepmom, because I didn't want to deprive them from family time. It took a while to gain the courage to ask permission for my plan. Wonderfully, they said yes. I almost fell over with the laptop when I heard their agreement to my selfishness. Then came the matter of how I was going to get to the church and back. "Should I drive myself over there?" I asked Aunnie (my stepmom).

"We'll all go together," she replied.

Somehow, things became more bearable after confirming the plan. I was so excited to go through with it that I made a point of telling a lot of people how sorry I was that my flight was that day, and that I couldn't make it to the event. Sure, there was a little guilt after they expressed their disappointment, but... they'd see.

Whenever things got hard, I'd think about the upcoming reunion and my spirits would lift. I often lay on my air mattress at night and imagined what it would be like, walking through the doors unexpectedly. I imagined a brief moment of shocked silence, and then yelling and the flurry of bodies hurling themselves at me for a hug. It was such a sweet daydream.

I'm going to get to the point and fastforward to that moment. Fresh from Nicaragua, with newly red hair, a beach tan, and a shirt that advertised the Managua Vineyard Church, I leaped from the car and marched through the church doors where everyone was inside the Fellowship Hall, playing games. I walked right in, and stopped, looking around with a broad grin at all these people that I had missed.

It was just how I'd imagined. The moment of silence, the silence being broken by friends bellowing my name. The image of friends running at me, and the sensation of being knocked around, held, and ultimately dog-piled. That entire afternoon and evening was amazing. Being back with everyone, knowing how loved and missed I had been, was priceless. Even now, the memory makes me smile and feel warm inside. I wouldn't trade it for anything. Hell, I'd go back to a foreign country again, gladly, since I know how great the reunions are upon the return.

So yeah, missing hurts. Going to new places is always tough. There's always people to miss, and to leave behind. But there are always people to meet, and there are always people everywhere to make you feel lucky to have such hard goodbyes to. And after all, no one said it was easy to be loved.