An Open Letter To My Friends Re: This Weekend

Dear Udita, Deborah, and Kara,

It's 3 a.m. and I'm jet-lagged, but I just had the most amazing dream:

I dreamt that I was in the lobby of Hotel Andra in Seattle, waiting for Kara to arrive for my wedding reception that weekend. It was a hot summer's day in Seattle and Kara, I hadn't seen you since 2006! I spotted you as soon as you walked past the window and was there to greet you with a hug when you walked in. You looked so terrific and my heart filled with joy as soon as we spoke: everything was the same. You never cease to light up a room when you walk into it.

After you checked into the hotel, we walked to the Olympic Sculpture Park with John and his mom, Alison, with delicious cups of iced coffee in hand. It was a beautiful day on the Sound, and sail boats were abound on the water, which glittered like crazy. We took silly photos in front of questionable fountains and fake rooftops, and caught up on the classmates from Mount Holyoke we've seen - both in person and on Facebook.

After having a dubious sandwich from Subway, which involved standing in line for much longer than necessary, I got a call from Deborah, my first-year (and sophomore year!) roommate. Remember little Debbie? Our adventures to Friendly's for ice-cream sundaes in her red Camaro? Deborah, I hadn't seen you since you graduated early from MHC in 2005, but you said you were five minutes away from the hotel, so we gathered up our things and started walking back.

The minute I walked into the reception area and saw you, Deborah, I was so excited: you looked and sounded exactly the same. We filled the lobby with our shrieks and laughter, then headed down to Pier 55 to take a ride on the Seattle Great Wheel, where we had amazing views over the Sound, Seattle skyline, and restaurants below.

When we got back to the hotel, we shared an incredibly delicious selection of tapas at Lola, during Happy Hour. Skewers of grilled halloumi, honey-glazed pork, and octopus were brought to our table on sizzling platters, drizzled with a shot of ouzo, which caramelized the onions and made our mouths water. I even enjoyed the ouzo on my arm, after the waitress accidentally poured it down my shirt instead of the plate. Yum.

After dinner, we went back to the suite that John and I were staying and demolished a magnum of wine while listening to all the music we loved at MHC. I got a text from Udita and read it out to you: she was on her way. When she arrived, you thought it'd be a great idea for me to hide and surprise her. I ruined the surprise by leaping out from behind the couch early and letting out some sort of strangled wail, which you proceeded to imitate for the rest of the weekend. You girls are such jokers.

We went out that night to have enormous desserts at The Cheesecake Factory (which none of us had been to since we were in high school, save for Udita, who apparently visits every other week) and ridiculously good cocktails at Clever Bottle, where we did shots with a random medical student named Danny. Kara got into an argument with the taxi driver while the rest of us snickered in the backseat.

The next morning (the day of the reception), you all showed up to my room and surprised me by whisking me away for donuts at Top Pot Doughnuts, a luxe spa trip in downtown Seattle (which included massages and a champagne toast!), and a manicure on the way back. We took awkward selfies in bathroom mirrors and made everyone else in the spa uncomfortable with our hysterical laughter. And we didn't care one bit.

At the reception, Udita gave a beautiful speech that made me cry, and I heard you girls cackling away during dinner, which made my heart sing, because I knew you were there, cracking jokes, having a great time, and that nothing had changed.

It was like a dream come true.

The best part of my dream? It was all real. It just happened this weekend. But I had so much fun and was so deliriously happy, that I had to pinch myself when I got back to this side of the ocean - just to make sure it was real.

I am so lucky to have friends like you. I cried on my way to the airport, at the airport, and on the plane because I missed you so much already. I forgot what it feels like to have a friendship like yours - the kind where I feel at home in, wholly comfortable and totally safe. I forgot what it feels like to laugh honestly - the kind where you wake the next morning with aching sides because you couldn't breathe from laughing so hard. I forgot what it was like to create moments that would provide a lifetime of inside jokes.

Then I realized that most people never experience this kind of friendship, one that is so tightly woven and strong, nothing can shake it - not even years apart, not even years of not communicating regularly, not even distance. And that made me sad. Our friendship is like a secret, like a good recipe that one is reluctant to impart for fear that someone will take it, replicate it, replace it, and make it better. But that secret is ours, and can't be stolen.

My time with you was so precious, it was like a fleeting dream. I could see each moment pass before me, count the seconds, the minutes that ticked along, until I found myself back in the same old place again, in my flat in buzzing London, knowing that you, Udita, were back in Houston, Deborah, back in Madison, and Kara, back in San Diego - our little group dispersed once more, returning back to normal.

Like a child pulled away from the party early, I wondered why seeing each other all the time couldn't be "normal". How many more years will pass before we have our next reunion? But I guess then moments like the ones we had this weekend wouldn't be as precious or as special.

I love you and hope we'll meet again soon. Thank you for making my wedding weekend perfect.

Love,
Jaime

Happy As A Clam

Whenever I visit Washington, I try to eat my weight in seafood and shellfish, because the quality is just so good.

Have I mentioned how much I love clams? In fact, I like any kind of shellfish, with oysters being the exception. It's rare to find clams in the UK (they're called "cockles" here) and when you're do, they're tiny, chewy, and vaguely tasteless.

On Tuesday of our visit, my dad's boss dug fresh saltwater clams from his beachfront home in Shelton for us to enjoy.

In comparison to UK cockles, the clams supplied by my dad's boss were large, succulent, sweet, and tasted of the sea - we washed them down with glasses of crisp Pinot Grigio and filled four large bowls with our discarded shells.

In this photo, my dad is preparing the clams by rinsing them three or four times in the garden. Then, my mom steamed them with some chicken broth, onions, garlic, and white wine. Bellisimo.

It's safe to say that we were all happy as clams that night, with the deck door open and the sun setting over the Pacific Northwest.

Seattle: Life Is But A Dream

Oh, Seattle. Did this (above) really happen? Did I really just spend last week and weekend with three of my best friends from college, laughing so hard until our stomachs ached; visiting Paradise at the base of Mt Rainier with John and his mom; eating freshly dug clams that were so big and sweet, that they tasted of the sea? Did John and I really have the most perfect, sweet, American wedding reception of our dreams that my parents generously organized and hosted? Were we only cutting leftover wedding cake 24-hours ago in Renton at the conclusion of a dim sum brunch extravaganza?

I can't quite believe it. But I do have a scar from where a mosquito bit me (the bite subsequently swelled to great proportions) as I enjoyed a beer on my parents' newly finished, beautiful deck on a deliciously hot, summer's evening with John and his mom. And I also have pale pink nails as a result of having a last-minute $12 manicure with Udita somewhere along 4th Avenue on the day of the reception. Plus, hundreds of photos and videos of our trip, taken as if I had known I'd need these reminders to help prove it wasn't all a glorious dream as I type this from my hot and stuffy NE London flat.

I'll explain more in the next few posts, but until then, enjoy these photos of perfection - taken from the top deck of an Argosy cruise ferry to Tillicum Village on Blake Island.

The Middle Name Game

My friends in the UK often ask if I keep in touch with friends from grade school. I like to tell them this story:

I am nine years old. It is 8 pm. I am at a slumber party.

I am sitting cross-legged on my pink cotton Disney's Cinderella sleeping bag at Katie's house. There are eleven of us in total - I counted. We have just returned from a sweaty rollerskating session at Tiffany's Skating Inn and eaten as much Hawaiian and Pepperoni pizza from Domino's as our little bellies could handle. The Mighty Ducks is in the VCR and popcorn is being made, when a small, but authoritative voice pipes up from the back. "Hey guys, this is boring. I know what we should do - let's play the Middle Name Game!"

A cold sweat breaks over me and the handful of Nerds and Twizzlers I had gluttonously consumed from my party favor pack just ten minutes ago threatens to rise in my throat. "Really?" I say, casually. "Why don't we just watch The Mighty Ducks instead? I love this movie!" I try to say, with bright laughter.

Rachel, the girl who suggested the game, shoots me a death glare. "Don't be lame. It's fun! Okay, okay, Mary," she says, pointing at the brunette next to me. "You go first."

And the girls form a circle from which I am both semi-included but semi-excluded, on the periphery. They squint at Mary and take turns guessing: "Meredith!" No. "Paige!" No. [dramatic pause]

"It's like, so embarrassing," Mary sighs. "Like, a name from olden times."

"ELIZABETH!" they squeal. Mary's face turns red, which signifies the correct answer.

"That's not too bad," one girl says. "You could always shorten it to Lizzy."

I, on the periphery of their circle, am somehow next. I really don't want to play this game.

"Okay, okay, it's your turn," they say and turn to me. They start guessing.

"Elizabeth!" No.

"Rachel!" No.

"Sarah!" No.

After about 5 more half-hearted guesses of fairly typical Anglo/American names, they give up.

"What is it?" snaps Rachel impatiently.

My voice is so small, it comes out in a croaky whisper, which is masked by the TV.

"Chak-mei," I pronounce quietly.

The disbelief is palpable.

"Chuck-WHAT?" someone asks incredulously from the other side of the circle.

"Chak-mei," I say a little louder. "It's my Chinese name," I explain hastily. I see Mary exchanging glances with the girl sitting next to her. I am so embarrassed. More than that, I am humiliated. By my own name.

"That's weird," someone else comments. It remains silent for some time.

"Is that what they call you in China?" Rachel sniggers.

"I'm not from China. My family is from Hong Kong. I was born here. In Puyallup. At Good Samaritan Hospital. Like you," I say, defensively.

"Whatever. Hong Kong, China, Ching, Chang, Chong, Japan, same thing," says Rachel, rolling her eyes. "Let's guess Bethany's middle name next."

As the night goes on, I become more withdrawn; I participate less and less in the fun and games being played, even "Light As a Feather, Stiff as a Board," which I usually like, where a girl lying prone appears to be "levitating" with only the aid of two fingers of each of the party-goers lifting her up.

You know, my parents still display their shock and shake their heads at friends when exclaiming how surprised they were that I went to college on the other side of the country and ended up living halfway across the world from them. "Why, she used to cry at slumber parties! We'd have to go and pick her up at night around 10 or 11! She had such bad separation anxiety," they'd recall.

And yes, for a long time, I too, believed I had severe separation anxiety. I hated being away from my parents and my home, where I was comfortable, even if my friends' houses were just a 10 minute drive away. I'd panic, feel sick, and the parents of whichever child's house I was at would call my mom to come pick me up.

But now as an adult, I look back and realize, that wasn't separation anxiety - that was just me, a child, wanting to escape from a situation that I felt uncomfortable in. Where my identity was constantly being questioned. Where I didn't feel liked because I was different and therefore, didn't feel safe.

Those girls didn't invite me to their parties because they liked me. They invited me because their parents told them to. To be nice. Those same girls scooted their desks away from mine and held their noses when I opened my lunch at school - a bento box lovingly prepared by my mother of whatever delicious Chinese meal she had whipped up the night before (always with rice), kept warm in a thermos lunchbox. I'd take it home, partially, or almost totally uneaten. My mother would admonish me for wasting expensive Chinese barbequed pork that my father had purchased on a rare trip to Seattle. Today, I long for those lunches. Especially when sitting with a growling belly at my work desk.

Were those girls bullies? No. Ignorant? Yes. Should we hold children accountable for being politically correct on the playground? No. Is it important for parents and teachers to educate children about different cultures, races, customs and dispel any stereotypes or prejudices they may hear coming out of their children's mouths so as to not perpetuate said stereotypes and prejudices? A resounding yes.

I hope that, if I have a daughter, she will happily go to slumber parties and play the Middle Name Game and not be embarrassed of whatever first or second name she is given - no matter how unpronounceable it is; that her friends' middle names will vary and have roots in French, Chinese, Indian, Mexican, Malaysian, Nigerian, and plenty of other cultures. That she'll feel safe and strong in her identity as a mixed-race child, and that this will outweigh the ignorance she'll undoubtedly face from society from time to time.

It is only now as an adult, living in Britain, that I play the Middle Name Game with pride and feel as though I belong in my environment. And no, I don't keep in touch with any of those girls.

Photo source

Father's Day

Seven years ago, I was studying for a Master's degree in Renaissance Literature at the University of York. I was fresh out of college, having graduated from Mount Holyoke only five months before the date my Master's studies commenced in England, and truly believed the hype MHC had instilled in me: that I could achieve anything I wanted to, that I was the best, that I would have the greatest graduate school experience ever because MHC had prepared me so well for it.

Well, that turned out to be kind of true and yet also utter bullshit, so when I found myself arriving at York on a campus littered - I mean, replete - with goose droppings, not making any friends despite being three months into the course and having volunteered myself as the president of the Graduate Students' Association, and generally not having a good time whatsoever (read: eating pasta out of a plastic picnic set given to me by John's mom when I moved, watching Family Guy episodes one after another at night and crying into my food), I felt pretty downtrodden.

The academic experience was also proving to be disappointing, as I felt it lacked the structure and leadership I'd gotten so used to at Mount Holyoke, not to mention how readily available our professors were there. Here, my dissertation adviser held a meeting with me on the phone during her train ride down to London. I was thrilled when the literary critic I most admired took up a post at York as a visiting professor and I was assigned to his course, only to discover that he had no interest in teaching students and made time pass during our tutorials by asking us to read Milton's Paradise Lost aloud.

John was working in Paris and the distance felt immense. He made late night journeys into York on the cheap ticket trains whenever he could, arriving at 12:51 a.m. We'd spend a weekend together, I'd cry when he'd have to leave and then feel miserable for a week or so.

Above all, I was lonely. My offers to plan activities with people on my course were rebuffed with polite excuses and, since the majority of them had been undergraduates at York, they already had established cliques and weren't interested in adding new faces.

Anyway, I was clearly unhappy but I didn't want my parents to know. I was also broke and terrified, as it was the first time I'd taken out a loan in my name to pay for the school fees. I remember going on a grocery shopping trip with John when he was over and refusing to buy Cheerios because I felt I couldn't afford them.

I lost about 15 pounds because I was worried about money, about performing well on my course, and also because I was just desperately homesick. My lack of friends, despite all my efforts, added to the stress.

A few months later, an envelope arrived from the US, addressed to me in my dad's familiar, angular, but perfect, architect's scrawl. Puzzled, as it felt like a card but wasn't anywhere near my birthday, I opened it, only to find a blank piece of thick card stock folded in half. Inside, two crisp fifty pound notes (that's "bills" to my fellow Americans!) were carefully sandwiched inside, along with a handwritten message that said, in all caps, "GO BUY YOURSELF A NICE DINNER. DAD".

I burst into tears. It was like a hug, a pat on the back, as if to say, "I know. You're doing fine. You'll get through it." And I did. I had one of the best years of my life that year; I learned a lot about myself and did well on the course, plus secured a temporary position in the fall at Little, Brown, where I started my publishing career, before moving on to Penguin. I eventually did make some great friends, some of whom I'm still in touch with today.

So, sometimes my dad can be aloof, pretend to be clueless, but really, he knows. After all, how could he not? He was the first person to hold me when I was born. And he's looked after me ever since.

Love you, Dad. Thanks for everything.

Note: I should also add that I made two student loan payments during my time at York, only to receive an email shortly before my third payment was due that read, "Thank you. We have received payment of your loan in full." Turns out my dad had decided to pay off my loan for me as he "couldn't stand" to see me pay interest, according to my mom. I still owe him big bucks.

Angloyankophile Takes Over @LondonIsYours

If you haven't already heard, I've been invited to take over the @LondonIsYours Twitter account this week, which I'm really excited about. This account provides the opportunity for one London resident to offer a glimpse into his/her unique perspective on London while sharing/swapping experiences and stories with other Londoners (and non-Londoners too!) as well.

So far, it's been fun and I'm looking forward to the rest of the week. If you have any ideas for topics you'd like me to tweet about, drop me a comment below, or join in on the conversation over on Twitter.

See you there!

Big City Living: The Questions I Get Asked Back Home

Sometimes, my mom's friends will ask me, "So, what's the biggest difference between living in London and Puyallup [city in Washington where I'm from, population c. 38,000]?" And I kind of just want to show them this picture:

This, really. Crowds. Black cabs. Tourists. Lots of tourists. Busy. Hectic. Go, go, go. Bus. Foot. Walk. Trample. Push. Shove. Win.

And then they ask, "What's so good about living in London? Why do you like living there so much?" In those exact words. The mental image of chaotic Oxford Circus during rush hour flashes before me and suddenly, I'm at a loss for words. I think about it for a beat or two, before offering something along the lines of, "Well, there's always something to do." Faltering. "I like the pace of the city?" Question?

I can't really explain why I love London living so much. I'm not even sure I do, but I know I love the view of Southbank from Waterloo bridge on a sunny day as the Thames sparkles like a snaking bracelet, reflecting Westminster and the London Eye; seeing St. Paul during sunset, even on a grey, rainy day as I approach the foot bridge from the Tate Modern; shouting praise from the top tier seats at the Globe after a particularly rousing performance of All's Well That Ends Well; marching down High Holborn on my way in to work, feeling purposeful with a cup of Nero coffee in my hand, thinking, 'this is my life, this is me, this is who I am'; getting on a high speed train from St Pancras to Leicestershire and being thrust into the English countryside in less than an hour; that moment when I place my crisp, white linen napkin across my lap on a date night in Marylebone; lying on my back in a garden in Maida Vale, counting the number of Virgin Atlantic or British Airways planes making their way across the ocean; listening to the third movement from the Shostakovich 5th Symphony on the Overground back to Dalston after a Royal Orchestral Society rehearsal in St. John's Wood; shopping imported Scandinavian fashion on Regent Street with my Qatari-American best friend after a cup of vanilla rooibos tea.

But I can't explain all of this; can't offer it to them in one, simple, straightforward answer. Instead, I fidget and stutter, finding it difficult to describe what it's like to live in one of the most thrilling, cosmopolitan, forward-thinking, culturally diverse, fast-paced cities in the world. I feel like that nine- year-old again, who, when asked where she went on her summer vacation, was met with blank stares and disgusted looks from her classmates upon uttering, "Hong Kong", when everyone else went to Disneyland and Universal Studios, Florida. Or Hawaii.

I'm anticipating a lot of questions this summer, as we head back for our wedding reception in Seattle. I think I'll just answer with, "I don't know." But of course I do.