The funny thing about owning a house on the opposite side of the world is that they still want to hand over the keys to show that you have taken possession. Legally, you own a house once all the paperwork is signed and filed. That can be done anywhere in the world. The passing of keys is purely symbolic. Everyone changes the locks when they buy a new house anyway. I could sign everything myself, but I had to designate a proxy when it came time to getting the key. That was actually pretty easy.
Joanne, my high school boyfriend's mother, went to the house and gave me a full report. She was always in my corner during the bout between my parents and me, and even more outraged when she learned that they stole my grandfather's house. She knew me when I was supposed to inherit that house, so she knows how much I could have used it at the time.
I was surprised to learn that the house is in good shape. I suppose I should not be. If their goal was to sell it, my parents would never let it fall apart. Joanne checked the fireplaces, ran hot water through the faucets, turned on the light switches, and charged her phone in several different outlets. She said everything is in working order. The electricity, gas, and water are still turned on, which is odd since no one has lived in that house since 2006, as far as I know. Our best guess is that everything was turned on while my parents worked on renovating the place. Joanne thinks I should keep everything on so the house will be easier to sell. I think that the longer it is on the market, the more I have to pay bills for an empty house. Maybe she should have some people over for dinner and really test out the place, but I doubt she would want to. She kept telling me how clean everything is, and would worry about doing anything to make it look less attractive to potential buyers.
My grandparents' house was built in 1929, which is both a positive and a negative. The attention to detail is unlike anything you would find in a house made after the 1940s. All the mouldings, arches, woodwork, and brass would be seen as too expensive or too ostentatious today. The fireplaces and some of the doors are definitely more ornate than houses made since the Great Depression. The original exterior windows were all replaced decades ago with glass and panes more appropriate for Minnesota winters, but many of the Art Nouveau mirrors and interior glass remain. I am told that some of those mirrors are more valuable than any mirror really needs to be. Why my parents never sold them, I may never know. With the right staging, the house could easily attract buyers.
Until they look at the details. There are none of the open floor plans today's buyers want. Most of the rooms are completely separate. A few are not ideal to anyone who gets claustrophobic. Too many of the walls have wallpaper that any new owner is guaranteed to remove. One of the bathrooms looks like Art Nouveau and Art Deco got in a fight, and both lost. Some of the carpeting needed to be replaced decades ago. While the bedrooms have huge double doors, the bathroom doors are tiny. The mudroom has plenty of space for coats and boots, but no place to hook up a washer and dryer. The entire side entrance is spotless, though I suppose not much snow and mud get tracked in if no one has lived there since 2006. The original garage can hold two or three modern cars, or maybe two SUVs, but it is not connected to the house. That means walking in the snow or rain to get to your car. Fortunately, my grandparents built an attached garage not long after they moved in. The addition looks natural to me because that is the way I have always known it, but it is also smaller than what people want today.
The exterior of the house was recently cleaned top to tail by commercial pressure washers. Obviously, I can't say anything about how it looks up close. In pictures, it looks brand new, which is where it matters most. Anyone thinking about buying the house is going to be drawn in by looking at real estate pictures. All those ninety-year-old bricks and quoins look like they just came out of the brick factory, or wherever bricks come from. If I had not spent my childhood in that house, I would assume it was less than five years old.
Professional gardeners have been taking care of the front and backyard, and have done an excellent job. What Joanne showed me could be in one of those house and garden magazines. It looks fancier than anything my grandmother would have approved of, but it will look good on real estate brochures. Indoors, the walls and floors are as clean as only an empty house can be. Someone painted recently and polished the hardwood floors. The Persian rugs in the living room and dining room are not only still there, they look spotless. I am genuinely surprised my parents never sold those rugs. I can only see photographs, but they appear in excellent condition. My grandmother's office looks exactly like it did when she lived there, except there is no furniture and the bookcases are empty. That room looks naked without books, most of which were my grandmother's. She was a serious reader and worked for Simon & Schuster as a children's book illustrator back when they owned the Little Golden Books. Her collection included more than a few first editions that were probably worth some money. In all likelihood, my parents threw those books away a long time ago.
Some of the bathroom fixtures are new while some are original, or at least original to what my grandparents had. I will need to check, but I am pretty sure none of the plumbing is truly original. I know the entire HVAC system is far newer than 1929. I don't know what they did in 1929. I doubt they had central air conditioning. Two of the bathtubs have been converted into shower/bathtub combos. I'm reasonably sure the house had no showers when it was built. My grandparents only had one. We always took baths when we spent the night, which I always liked. At my parents' house, showers had to be quick. At my grandparents' house, I could sit and soak.
Most of the upstairs carpet could use some work. Joanne says a good shampoo will do. I think some of it might have to be replaced. The carpet in the master bedroom looks amazing. I really can't tell if it is the same as what my grandparents had or if it is new. I had forgotten how enormous my grandmother's closet was. It is more than a walk-in. That closet is large enough to be an apartment bedroom. It is also carpeted, of course. Thankfully, there is no carpet on the first floor. A little polish takes care of the wood and tiles, and a few rugs here and there fill it out. The basement carpet has to go. It is clean and in good shape, and the ugliest carpet known to man. The best thing about that basement was always my grandfather's music room. Since all of that equipment is long gone, it looks like any finished basement now. They put up walls and remodeled the basement to such an extent that it is unrecognizable.
Somewhere along the line, my parents put in new kitchen appliances, which is great news for me. The oven is top of the line and looks brand new. The subzero refrigerator and dishwasher are maybe a few years old. They added an island in the kitchen, which is odd because it already had one. They did not replace it. They put in a second island, which just looks out of place. The kitchen is not big enough for two islands, and the second one eats into the dining room. There is no kitchen sink, for some reason. Maybe that was the next thing they were going to replace. I have to assume they had some kind of island plan that involved a sink or two. The washer and dryer in the laundry room are relatively new looking.
One thing that really steamed my broccoli when Joanne showed me pictures was the swimming pool. My grandparents never had one because the house is on a lake. A private pool is safer and more controlled, but you can do a lot more on a lake. They thought a swimming pool would be redundant when they were so close to a large body of water. But they did put in an in-ground spa/hot tub after they retired.
I spent my entire childhood begging my parents for a swimming pool. Their house was not at all on a lake, or even a pond you could swim in back in the days when the algae levels were low enough. Their neighborhood has far fewer swimming pools than it could, making any house with one more attractive. Someone once told me that most people did not have pools, even though almost every backyard was large enough for one, because there are so many lakes and ponds all over the place. I never really bought that excuse. It was Minnesota, so the nearest recreational lake was less than two miles away, but a swimming pool would have been the greatest thing I could imagine when I was a child. I was an excellent swimmer. Even my brother, with two left feet and all thumbs, could keep afloat. Safety was not an issue. Their only objection was that it was too expensive. When I was younger, I had no idea how much anything cost. When I got a little older, I thought they could afford it. The fact that they eventually put in a swimming pool at my grandparents' house kind of supports my theory. The real issue was probably maintenance. Not taking care of a pool is infinitely easier than taking care of one. The only greater insult to seeing that pool at my grandparents' house would be if they had another daughter and paid for all of her dance and music lessons.
The new swimming pool is smaller than what I would have done. On the one hand, there is plenty of room to put a larger pool farther away from the house where there is more open space. On the other hand, they put it right next to the spa and a detached structure that looks like a pool house. To me, it looks like they screwed up. To someone who never saw the house before, it probably looks completely natural. The pool matches the spa, as if they were both built at the same time. The landscaping around the pool is alien to me, but was obviously done by professionals who knew how to take advantage of the gentle slope heading toward the lake. When I get past my white hot rage, I can admit that the entire installation was well done.
The detached pool house was never a pool house, at least for the eight decades before there was a swimming pool. My grandfather called it the BBQ pit. It is almost the size of the original garage and was obviously designed and built with the house. No one knows its original purpose. It faces away from the road. Driving around the house to park inside it would be horribly inconvenient, while the original garage is the first obvious place to park as soon as you turn in from the street. It was most likely never meant to house cars. Plus, it has a fireplace. One theory is that it used to be a small horse stable, but it only has three walls and there is no evidence that the open side ever had any doors. Leaving a horse that exposed in the winter would be criminal. It was most likely meant to be a place to sit and look at the lake, though there are currently trees blocking the view. The house's back patio has a direct line of sight and is closer to the water. Whatever it was meant to be, the open space was ideal for grilling without suffocating, so my grandfather used it for any outdoor cooking. Now that there is a swimming pool, it looks like it was always meant to be a pool house.
If the house were almost anywhere else, I would worry about selling it to developers who would cut up the backyard and divide it into subdivisions, where the dreamer or the misfit is alone. Today, the lake is where the upwardly mobile of Minneapolis go to get away from the hustle and bustle of the big city. Or the tiny town of less than half a million people. When I was young, I thought Minneapolis was large. Now, I think anything under five million people is a village. Regional differences aside, the last thing anyone wants to do is make the properties on the lake smaller. If anything, people want to go bigger.
After the resorts and hotels of the late 19th century went out of style, people came in and bought all the land around the lake that used to be owned by companies and robber barons. Some built grand mansions, while most, like the people who built my grandparents' house, aimed smaller. For whatever reason, the plots of land stayed the same size. This house is not nearly big enough to be a hotel. Maybe a B&B. But the lot used to hold a hotel. You could easily build two or three more houses on the land, as long as you do not need an upwardly mobile lakeside mansion, and you really enjoy cutting down trees.
My grandfather bought the house when interest in the area was probably at its lowest point since the Mdewakanton tribe was forced out. At the time, people were building cottages and small houses in the area. No one wanted the larger plots of land that required more upkeep. What he paid for the house could buy a new car today. It was not until the 1980s that everyone rediscovered the lake. Ever since then, houses have been getting bigger and the prices of everything have gone up. Today, it is a seller's market. Despite few of the modern conveniences people want, I should be able to sell it quickly. If not, paying for the gardeners, pool cleaners, utilities, insurance, and taxes will destroy me.
Showing posts with label sweet home Minnesota. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sweet home Minnesota. Show all posts
Monday, May 23, 2022
Saturday, April 16, 2022
Little Orphan Hailey
“Are you going to the funeral?” Joanne asked me over the phone.
“What funeral?” I replied.
This was how I learned that both of my parents died this week; from a casual phone call to my high school boyfriend's mother. We talk on the phone all the time. This time, we had something different to talk about. She assumed that someone else had already told me. Anyone else who could have, probably also assumed the same thing.
My parents were driving home from church on Tuesday when either they hit a semi tractor trailer or it hit them. Either way, their car lost. The strange part is that no big rig trucks should be driving on the small roads between their church and their house. But I don't know all the details. Maybe they went to a restaurant for dinner before going home or were on a larger street for any number of reasons.
What I know is that my father died on impact. My mother was taken to Fairview Southdale Hospital, which is usually ranked in the top 5% of Minnesota hospitals. I have no doubt that she got the best possible care. She died on Wednesday. I am not the least bit surprised that she hung on longer than he did. She was always more stubborn. He probably saw the truck, opened his arms wide and said, “Jesus, here I come.” She probably saw the truck and said, “Oh, hell no. Not today.”
I rarely talk about my parents. Mostly because they were horrible people. My mother always told me that if I did not have anything nice to say, I should not say anything at all, even though she had plenty of negativity to spread about others. I took her advice when it came to talking about her. They were horrible from my point of view. I'm sure most at their church thought they were the salt of the earth, and there was a good deal of grief and prayer when word came down about the truck joust. Especially since it happened right before Easter. Regardless of how I feel about my parents, I have some empathy for the congregation in that regard. I have no doubt they will all put on their Sunday best and carry on, but Easter is supposed to be about celebrating resurrection from the dead, not mourning real people who actually died. It's funny how subjective life is. While I think, if there was a Hell, my parents would now be roasting on a spit, other people who never had to live with them might think they should be canonized as saints.
On a strictly personal note, I'm not sure how I feel about the whole thing. I did not jump up and down with joy when I heard that both of my parents ate it. I did not cry either. I am not particularly bothered, and that bothers me a little. You are supposed to feel something when your parents take a dirt nap; sad, happy, angry, shocked, or anything, really. I feel indifferent. Hearing about their deaths was like hearing about an old celebrity whose work I never paid attention to who died long after they stopped doing whatever made them famous. They were 67 and 61, not as old as anyone really needs to be when they die, but far from spring chickens.
I have an older brother. Though he and I never really had a falling out, our relationship was collateral damage in the war with my parents. He was forced to take a side and, probably wisely, he chose them. They could offer a roof over his head, food in his stomach, clothes on his back, and a college education that lead to a fulfilling future. All I could be to him was a sister.
I have not spoken to my parents or my brother since I was 16. Nothing is going to change with my parents, especially now. I probably always knew that, but there was a time or two when I thought that maybe we could put our differences aside, if not in some dramatic TV moment, at least in a temporary truce. My last drop of hope evaporated after I was in my own collision with a big rig truck. I was in Beijing, so obviously they were never going to visit, but there was not so much as a phone call or even a single emoji text message. I know they heard about it. I know people who know them, so even though there was no bilateral communication, they were given occasional intelligence. When told that their daughter was fighting against the gaping maw of death, they remained silent. I was already dead to them. Their death forever closes the door to any possible reconciliation. But that door was locked, sealed shut, barricaded, and walled up a long time ago.
The biggest unknown in this equation is my brother. Now that our parents are no longer an issue, can we be siblings again? But he is not the one who told me about them. He has been out from under their thumb and living his own life for well over a decade. He could have easily called me in Beijing, or any number of times, without fear of financial repercussions. They could have, and likely would have, been disappointed in him for contacting me. They could not affect his livelihood.
I found out about my parents from my high school boyfriend's mother. That sounds strange, but I speak to her far more often than anyone to whom I am actually related. We will call the mother Joanne, because that may or may not be her name. Joanne feels more like a mother to me than anyone else. She was always more of a mother to me in high school than my actual biological mother.
There is also the issue of the funeral. I could go. Now might not be the best time to travel to the United States, and I could really do without all the TSA bullshit at American airports, but the people who stamp passports would have to let me in. Getting time off work is easy, especially when someone dies. It is illegal in this country for an employer to interfere with a relative's funeral, parents especially. But I have no desire to go to the funeral, and I would not be able to say anything. You have to say nice things at someone's funeral. I can't think of anything nice, aside from, “They never murdered us in our sleep, so that's something.” I doubt that would go over well. There is no real reason to go.
I said goodbye to them a long time ago. It was more like go fuck yourselves than goodbye, but the results were the same.
They would not want me there anyway.
“What funeral?” I replied.
This was how I learned that both of my parents died this week; from a casual phone call to my high school boyfriend's mother. We talk on the phone all the time. This time, we had something different to talk about. She assumed that someone else had already told me. Anyone else who could have, probably also assumed the same thing.
My parents were driving home from church on Tuesday when either they hit a semi tractor trailer or it hit them. Either way, their car lost. The strange part is that no big rig trucks should be driving on the small roads between their church and their house. But I don't know all the details. Maybe they went to a restaurant for dinner before going home or were on a larger street for any number of reasons.
What I know is that my father died on impact. My mother was taken to Fairview Southdale Hospital, which is usually ranked in the top 5% of Minnesota hospitals. I have no doubt that she got the best possible care. She died on Wednesday. I am not the least bit surprised that she hung on longer than he did. She was always more stubborn. He probably saw the truck, opened his arms wide and said, “Jesus, here I come.” She probably saw the truck and said, “Oh, hell no. Not today.”
I rarely talk about my parents. Mostly because they were horrible people. My mother always told me that if I did not have anything nice to say, I should not say anything at all, even though she had plenty of negativity to spread about others. I took her advice when it came to talking about her. They were horrible from my point of view. I'm sure most at their church thought they were the salt of the earth, and there was a good deal of grief and prayer when word came down about the truck joust. Especially since it happened right before Easter. Regardless of how I feel about my parents, I have some empathy for the congregation in that regard. I have no doubt they will all put on their Sunday best and carry on, but Easter is supposed to be about celebrating resurrection from the dead, not mourning real people who actually died. It's funny how subjective life is. While I think, if there was a Hell, my parents would now be roasting on a spit, other people who never had to live with them might think they should be canonized as saints.
On a strictly personal note, I'm not sure how I feel about the whole thing. I did not jump up and down with joy when I heard that both of my parents ate it. I did not cry either. I am not particularly bothered, and that bothers me a little. You are supposed to feel something when your parents take a dirt nap; sad, happy, angry, shocked, or anything, really. I feel indifferent. Hearing about their deaths was like hearing about an old celebrity whose work I never paid attention to who died long after they stopped doing whatever made them famous. They were 67 and 61, not as old as anyone really needs to be when they die, but far from spring chickens.
I have an older brother. Though he and I never really had a falling out, our relationship was collateral damage in the war with my parents. He was forced to take a side and, probably wisely, he chose them. They could offer a roof over his head, food in his stomach, clothes on his back, and a college education that lead to a fulfilling future. All I could be to him was a sister.
I have not spoken to my parents or my brother since I was 16. Nothing is going to change with my parents, especially now. I probably always knew that, but there was a time or two when I thought that maybe we could put our differences aside, if not in some dramatic TV moment, at least in a temporary truce. My last drop of hope evaporated after I was in my own collision with a big rig truck. I was in Beijing, so obviously they were never going to visit, but there was not so much as a phone call or even a single emoji text message. I know they heard about it. I know people who know them, so even though there was no bilateral communication, they were given occasional intelligence. When told that their daughter was fighting against the gaping maw of death, they remained silent. I was already dead to them. Their death forever closes the door to any possible reconciliation. But that door was locked, sealed shut, barricaded, and walled up a long time ago.
The biggest unknown in this equation is my brother. Now that our parents are no longer an issue, can we be siblings again? But he is not the one who told me about them. He has been out from under their thumb and living his own life for well over a decade. He could have easily called me in Beijing, or any number of times, without fear of financial repercussions. They could have, and likely would have, been disappointed in him for contacting me. They could not affect his livelihood.
I found out about my parents from my high school boyfriend's mother. That sounds strange, but I speak to her far more often than anyone to whom I am actually related. We will call the mother Joanne, because that may or may not be her name. Joanne feels more like a mother to me than anyone else. She was always more of a mother to me in high school than my actual biological mother.
There is also the issue of the funeral. I could go. Now might not be the best time to travel to the United States, and I could really do without all the TSA bullshit at American airports, but the people who stamp passports would have to let me in. Getting time off work is easy, especially when someone dies. It is illegal in this country for an employer to interfere with a relative's funeral, parents especially. But I have no desire to go to the funeral, and I would not be able to say anything. You have to say nice things at someone's funeral. I can't think of anything nice, aside from, “They never murdered us in our sleep, so that's something.” I doubt that would go over well. There is no real reason to go.
I said goodbye to them a long time ago. It was more like go fuck yourselves than goodbye, but the results were the same.
They would not want me there anyway.
Friday, August 31, 2018
High School Reunion
7. Fried Green Tomatoes on Lyndale Avenue
Sunday was a day for old friends who never see each other to paint the town and remember what it was like to have a spare day to do whatever we wanted. It was also a great day to be out and about. The thunderstorms that ended the week cleared to sunny skies all weekend. It was still summer, so everyone thought it was hot and humid, but this was the coolest day of my trip and it was well under 50% humidity, which is drier than Hong Kong ever gets.
Not everyone had the same schedule. I saw a lot of old friends that day, but not all in the same place at the same time. I had to take my morning run alone because it was too early for everyone else. Especially after the late night.
Minneapolis is a great place for a morning run. Infinitely better than Hong Kong. There are pedestrian and bike paths all over the place. I chose the Midtown Greenway, a former train line that has been converted into a walking/biking path. Since it used to be train tracks, it is separate from the street traffic, making it a safer place to run. In a bigger city, it could also be a more dangerous place, since it is separate from the streets. There are stretches of corridor where you are surrounded by walls of trees and bushes. In Minneapolis, something like that is perfectly safe. In some cities, that's just asking for trouble. On a summer morning, all those trees are more than welcome. There is not much of a view in the train tunnels, but there are long stretches near houses and parks. Most of the path cuts through residential neighborhoods, from Chelsea's house to the Mississippi River.
I had breakfast with two of my old friends, Megan and Kimberly. Megan brought her husband, whom I met at the reunion. Kimberly brought her 6-year-old daughter. We went to French Meadow, which is a nice little café for breakfast or brunch. They are big on farm fresh organic produce and have their own bakery. Back in my day, there was only one location, but they have since expanded around the city. I can't say if that is going to hurt the quality since I have only been to the original restaurant.
Megan had other things to do, so I said goodbye to her at breakfast, but Kimberly and her daughter were more than ready to get moving. We rode bikes along the Mississippi with Shelton and her girlfriend and one of our few male high school friends, Jacob, and his wife. I'm probably going to mention a few names, but remembering them is not required. There will be no pop quiz later. If the names all seem very WASP, there is probably a reason for that. My school was something like 90% white middle class Christian. In the Midwest. We grew up in the smallest of bubbles.
Chelsea did not go with us on the bike ride, which was convenient since I could borrow her bike. The Midtown Greenway is a great place to ride a bike, but the view is a lot better along the river. You can safely ride from one end of town to the other, unless you have a 6-year-old with you. That made it a more leisurely stroll.
Jacob and his wife stuck around for lunch, but I had to say goodbye to Kimberly and her daughter. I would see Shelton later that night. Chelsea joined us for lunch, as did Austin, Jacob's best friend in high school, and his wife. We all went to Victor's 1959, a nice little Cuban restaurant between Lake Harriet and Lake Calhoun. There is no Cuban food in Hong Kong, as far as I know. And this little hole in the wall is as authentic as it gets, as far as I know.
Jacob and Austin had other plans, while Chelsea and I went back to her house. You don't want to go run a marathon after a Cuban meal, so we thought a little down time might be nice. We had dinner plans later, but our afternoon was wide open. Liza and Taylor came to Chelsea's house early because they wanted to see me. Who could blame them? Liza and Taylor were inseparable in high school, and we used to call them Taylor and Liza until someone figured out their names were Liz and Taylor. It sounds crazy that no one thought about it right away, but we probably had a dozen Taylors in school, of both genders, and there were a few famous Eliza actresses at the time. They are both married now and not as joined at the hip as they used to be, but they left their husbands at home. It was interesting to watch them revert to their old dynamic without the newer people in their lives. Erin and her husband were also joining us for dinner, so they showed up early.
In high school, if this group of people had access to a house with a swimming pool and no parents, it would have turned into a party. As adults, we all sat around and talked. This afternoon was the opposite of wild and crazy.
With husbands, there were almost a dozen of us at dinner. Everyone who was at Chelsea's house went to Hell's Kitchen, a restaurant downtown that goes out of its way to let people know it has no affiliation with Gordon Ramsay whatsoever. We met Kayla and Alyssa, another best friend duo, and Kayla's husband. Shelton and her girlfriend made a return appearance. I knew I was going to see people I had not seen in a long time before I flew to Minnesota, but I never really thought about all of the new husbands, wives, girlfriends and children I would meet. There were almost as many new faces as old.
Five blocks away from the restaurant was First Avenue, arguably the most famous live music venue in Minneapolis. Sometimes they have the biggest acts. Sometimes it is up and comers. Sometimes the band on stage will never be heard from again. I have never heard of the band we saw that night, and can't remember their name just now, but they were not bad. The crowd liked them, but that certainly does not mean a record company will. And if you don't have a record company and its marketing department in your corner, you are never going to be a superstar. Hopefully, this band is more interested in playing music than being celebrities because they did not sound anything like the autotune pop idols the record companies are pushing these days.
Most of us said goodbye out on the corner of 7th St and First Ave. No one knows when we will all see each other again. A few of us went back to Chelsea's house. Chelsea has a swimming pool at her disposal every day, so she is not all that impressed, but it was a hot summer night and most of us lived nowhere near clean pools.
No one planned it, but we had an all girls pool party that night. Kayla's husband went home after First Avenue, but she and Alyssa came with us to Chelsea's house, as did Shelton and her girlfriend. There was a little bit of alcohol served that night, both at the club and at Chelsea's house, but nothing happened that a teenage boy might dream about. I suppose that depends on the boy. There was a fair amount of partial nudity, mostly because swimming with clothes on is stupid and because none of us, other than Chelsea, had bathing suits at her house. But there was no wild, all girl orgy. Sorry, fellas.
Not everyone had the same schedule. I saw a lot of old friends that day, but not all in the same place at the same time. I had to take my morning run alone because it was too early for everyone else. Especially after the late night.
Minneapolis is a great place for a morning run. Infinitely better than Hong Kong. There are pedestrian and bike paths all over the place. I chose the Midtown Greenway, a former train line that has been converted into a walking/biking path. Since it used to be train tracks, it is separate from the street traffic, making it a safer place to run. In a bigger city, it could also be a more dangerous place, since it is separate from the streets. There are stretches of corridor where you are surrounded by walls of trees and bushes. In Minneapolis, something like that is perfectly safe. In some cities, that's just asking for trouble. On a summer morning, all those trees are more than welcome. There is not much of a view in the train tunnels, but there are long stretches near houses and parks. Most of the path cuts through residential neighborhoods, from Chelsea's house to the Mississippi River.
I had breakfast with two of my old friends, Megan and Kimberly. Megan brought her husband, whom I met at the reunion. Kimberly brought her 6-year-old daughter. We went to French Meadow, which is a nice little café for breakfast or brunch. They are big on farm fresh organic produce and have their own bakery. Back in my day, there was only one location, but they have since expanded around the city. I can't say if that is going to hurt the quality since I have only been to the original restaurant.
Megan had other things to do, so I said goodbye to her at breakfast, but Kimberly and her daughter were more than ready to get moving. We rode bikes along the Mississippi with Shelton and her girlfriend and one of our few male high school friends, Jacob, and his wife. I'm probably going to mention a few names, but remembering them is not required. There will be no pop quiz later. If the names all seem very WASP, there is probably a reason for that. My school was something like 90% white middle class Christian. In the Midwest. We grew up in the smallest of bubbles.
Chelsea did not go with us on the bike ride, which was convenient since I could borrow her bike. The Midtown Greenway is a great place to ride a bike, but the view is a lot better along the river. You can safely ride from one end of town to the other, unless you have a 6-year-old with you. That made it a more leisurely stroll.
Jacob and his wife stuck around for lunch, but I had to say goodbye to Kimberly and her daughter. I would see Shelton later that night. Chelsea joined us for lunch, as did Austin, Jacob's best friend in high school, and his wife. We all went to Victor's 1959, a nice little Cuban restaurant between Lake Harriet and Lake Calhoun. There is no Cuban food in Hong Kong, as far as I know. And this little hole in the wall is as authentic as it gets, as far as I know.
Jacob and Austin had other plans, while Chelsea and I went back to her house. You don't want to go run a marathon after a Cuban meal, so we thought a little down time might be nice. We had dinner plans later, but our afternoon was wide open. Liza and Taylor came to Chelsea's house early because they wanted to see me. Who could blame them? Liza and Taylor were inseparable in high school, and we used to call them Taylor and Liza until someone figured out their names were Liz and Taylor. It sounds crazy that no one thought about it right away, but we probably had a dozen Taylors in school, of both genders, and there were a few famous Eliza actresses at the time. They are both married now and not as joined at the hip as they used to be, but they left their husbands at home. It was interesting to watch them revert to their old dynamic without the newer people in their lives. Erin and her husband were also joining us for dinner, so they showed up early.
In high school, if this group of people had access to a house with a swimming pool and no parents, it would have turned into a party. As adults, we all sat around and talked. This afternoon was the opposite of wild and crazy.
With husbands, there were almost a dozen of us at dinner. Everyone who was at Chelsea's house went to Hell's Kitchen, a restaurant downtown that goes out of its way to let people know it has no affiliation with Gordon Ramsay whatsoever. We met Kayla and Alyssa, another best friend duo, and Kayla's husband. Shelton and her girlfriend made a return appearance. I knew I was going to see people I had not seen in a long time before I flew to Minnesota, but I never really thought about all of the new husbands, wives, girlfriends and children I would meet. There were almost as many new faces as old.
Five blocks away from the restaurant was First Avenue, arguably the most famous live music venue in Minneapolis. Sometimes they have the biggest acts. Sometimes it is up and comers. Sometimes the band on stage will never be heard from again. I have never heard of the band we saw that night, and can't remember their name just now, but they were not bad. The crowd liked them, but that certainly does not mean a record company will. And if you don't have a record company and its marketing department in your corner, you are never going to be a superstar. Hopefully, this band is more interested in playing music than being celebrities because they did not sound anything like the autotune pop idols the record companies are pushing these days.
Most of us said goodbye out on the corner of 7th St and First Ave. No one knows when we will all see each other again. A few of us went back to Chelsea's house. Chelsea has a swimming pool at her disposal every day, so she is not all that impressed, but it was a hot summer night and most of us lived nowhere near clean pools.
No one planned it, but we had an all girls pool party that night. Kayla's husband went home after First Avenue, but she and Alyssa came with us to Chelsea's house, as did Shelton and her girlfriend. There was a little bit of alcohol served that night, both at the club and at Chelsea's house, but nothing happened that a teenage boy might dream about. I suppose that depends on the boy. There was a fair amount of partial nudity, mostly because swimming with clothes on is stupid and because none of us, other than Chelsea, had bathing suits at her house. But there was no wild, all girl orgy. Sorry, fellas.
Saturday, August 25, 2018
High School Reunion
6. Shiny Happy People
As the main party started to die down, some of us made our way to a very nice suite at the hotel. In high school, I would have been suspicious. What were their intentions? Why does it have to be a hotel room? Why can't we all hang out in a public, open space? Why did someone who lives ten miles away book a hotel room?
But things change when you get older. Almost everyone in that suite was in a long term relationship. Some of those partners were there. There was more than enough alcohol flowing freely that night, but no one was passed out drunk, at least not that I knew about. We all either learned how to hold our liquor since high school or we learned a little self control.
This was not a cheap party motel for teenagers. This was a recently redecorated high rise suite with great views at a downtown hotel for professionals. The bed looked comfortable, but no one did anything other than sit on it. Most of us kept to the living room, while a few people spilled out into the little office room.
The conversation was more interesting after hours. In the ballroom, there was a lot of small talk and getting reacquainted. In the suite, everyone was more relaxed and natural. I learned a lot about Chelsea's quest to find true love. She was relatively shy at the reunion, but in a smaller room with fewer people, her story of being a confused teenager to rebellious college student to confident adult was not as private as I would have expected. She is nowhere near the closet, and after living in China for a while, I was relieved that my fellow Minnesotans were not the least bit judgmental when it came to her romantic partners.
Back in the main reunion hall, one of my old friends said she was a composite artist, also known as a police sketch artist. That sounded like an interesting job, until we were all in the suite. Other than how they use computers more than pencils these days, the details were surprisingly mundane. If there is a TV show about sketch artists, they probably chase bad guys in sports cars and jump from building to building while making impossible shots with sharpshooter accuracy. In the real world, she sits in front of a computer and makes portraits out of insufficient information. She is not authorized to carry a gun or chase anyone. She finds the job rewarding but depressing. Most of the time, she works on missing people, including children.
As teenagers, we would have stayed out all night. As adults, we had to wake up the next morning or get back to baby sitters on time. Not me. I had the entire weekend. Everyone else was in their world living their normal life. That suite gradually emptied out until it was obvious that the party was over. Neither Chelsea nor I wanted to be the last to leave, so we left while it was on its death bed, but still had a pulse.
Back at Chelsea's house, she wanted to go swimming. She had a few drinks that night, but was not particularly drunk. I could not in good conscious go to sleep while she was in the pool alone, so I joined her. Night swimming deserves a quiet night. It was a peaceful way to end a hectic day.
But things change when you get older. Almost everyone in that suite was in a long term relationship. Some of those partners were there. There was more than enough alcohol flowing freely that night, but no one was passed out drunk, at least not that I knew about. We all either learned how to hold our liquor since high school or we learned a little self control.
This was not a cheap party motel for teenagers. This was a recently redecorated high rise suite with great views at a downtown hotel for professionals. The bed looked comfortable, but no one did anything other than sit on it. Most of us kept to the living room, while a few people spilled out into the little office room.
The conversation was more interesting after hours. In the ballroom, there was a lot of small talk and getting reacquainted. In the suite, everyone was more relaxed and natural. I learned a lot about Chelsea's quest to find true love. She was relatively shy at the reunion, but in a smaller room with fewer people, her story of being a confused teenager to rebellious college student to confident adult was not as private as I would have expected. She is nowhere near the closet, and after living in China for a while, I was relieved that my fellow Minnesotans were not the least bit judgmental when it came to her romantic partners.
Back in the main reunion hall, one of my old friends said she was a composite artist, also known as a police sketch artist. That sounded like an interesting job, until we were all in the suite. Other than how they use computers more than pencils these days, the details were surprisingly mundane. If there is a TV show about sketch artists, they probably chase bad guys in sports cars and jump from building to building while making impossible shots with sharpshooter accuracy. In the real world, she sits in front of a computer and makes portraits out of insufficient information. She is not authorized to carry a gun or chase anyone. She finds the job rewarding but depressing. Most of the time, she works on missing people, including children.
As teenagers, we would have stayed out all night. As adults, we had to wake up the next morning or get back to baby sitters on time. Not me. I had the entire weekend. Everyone else was in their world living their normal life. That suite gradually emptied out until it was obvious that the party was over. Neither Chelsea nor I wanted to be the last to leave, so we left while it was on its death bed, but still had a pulse.
Back at Chelsea's house, she wanted to go swimming. She had a few drinks that night, but was not particularly drunk. I could not in good conscious go to sleep while she was in the pool alone, so I joined her. Night swimming deserves a quiet night. It was a peaceful way to end a hectic day.
Tuesday, August 7, 2018
High School Reunion
5. Glory Days
In movies, high school reunions are in the school gym or somewhere else on campus. Does anyone really do that? Ours was across town at an expensive hotel on Nicollet Mall, across the street from the Mary Tyler Moore statue. We were in a large event space, maybe too large. I don't know how many people they expected to show up. Our graduating class was somewhere around 600. This room could have held half that. Of course, you are never going to get a 50% attendance rate at a reunion. We had somewhere around 16%, which is supposed to be pretty good.
I never really knew the people on the reunion committee. I think I had a class with one of them in tenth or eleventh grade. They were in the student council/school paper/yearbook circle. I was in the performing arts circle. I don't know why the two did not touch, but when I went to school, they were miles apart. Either way, the committee did a pretty good job. I was expecting tacky paper decorations and some corny theme, but the space looked elegant. Rather than a punch bowl on a folding table, there were a few bartenders serving every kind of drink imaginable. In one of the more terrible Superman movies, someone brings too much potato salad to their reunion. Ours had professional catering and complicated little bite-size snacks. It was more like a debutante ball than suburban high school reunion. But no one dressed for a ball. We were all more casual than our surroundings, made more impressive by the nighttime views of downtown from the 50th floor.
A lot of assumptions were shattered that night. It used to be that people went to reunions to see how much everyone changed. Is she fat now? Is he bald? Who got married and/or divorced? Facebook has changed all of that. Many, if not most, of the people there were in communication with each other online. Facebook friends already saw all the recent pictures of aging, relationship comings and goings, families and jobs. The entire reunion was organized on Facebook, and in a private group, no less. I could not even look at it because I don't have a Facebook account. My initial reaction was that, had they used other media, maybe more people would have known about it. If I had not been told about it outside of social media, I would have never known. Surely, I cannot be the only person who never uses the Facebook. But the turnout was pretty high. Contacting everyone by e-mail and phone would have been far more work, and maybe fewer people would have put in the effort.
Another thing I expected was for everyone to segregate themselves into their old high school cliques. That is what you do in high school. Our entire school had around 2,000 students. Nobody knew that many people. We all decide what clique we should be in and generally stick to those people. At the reunion, we all mingled with old friends, of course, but it looked like everyone was grouping themselves around their Facebook friends. A good example was Chelsea. She would have never spent any time with the science nerds in high school, but at the reunion, her best friend was someone we all expected to grow up and cure cancer or discover some new element.
Like a lot of high school ambitions, that one went nowhere. Most Likely to Cure Cancer now works in a cubicle at some office job. She was never actually voted Most Likely to Cure Cancer. I doubt we had that category. But we all assumed she would become a scientist. Just like we all assumed the quarterback of the football team would join the NFL or that diva who got the best parts in almost every single play, even though I was always the better choice, would become an actor. Neither did. The quarterback played football in college, but then went into business administration. The diva works in a hotel.
Students at our school were always expected to succeed. We had that Most Likely to Succeed category in our yearbook, which is pretty stupid when you think about it. All schools should expect every student to succeed, and ours did, more or less. We were always on every list of top schools in the country. The debate team was ranked in the top 20 in my senior year. Our theater group performed on Broadway. The marching band won field competitions every year I was there. The list of state championships for the athletic teams is ridiculously long. At my old school, 95% of graduates go to college. The national average is around 66%. I looked it up because I figured 95% had to be pretty high.
That kind of pressure can burn out a teenager. Some of our biggest stars just kind of faded away. But more than a few did what everyone expected of them. There were a lot of MBAs at that reunion. Several are getting started in politics and law. A few are professional hockey players. At least one swimmer and one tennis player competed in the Olympics. One of my old friends in the marching band performs with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Others are with the Minnesota Orchestra and New York Pops. But it is not all high brow. One of our trumpet players is in the acid reggae band, Dick Cheney. That might not be the best name for a band. If you do a Google search, they are not the first thing to show up.
Speaking of yearbooks, some people actually brought theirs. For all the things Facebook has changed, it seems yearbooks are immune. I'm sure there are plenty of old pictures scanned and uploaded to that private Facebook group, but physical copies were passed around that night for people to sign and reminisce. I signed a lot of yearbooks in high school. My policy was always to write a little something for anyone who asked, whether I liked them or not, or even knew them. We all knew it was for posterity. But when you are an adult, “Have a cool summer” does not work anymore.
I don't remember the last time I saw any of my old yearbooks. I don't even know where they are or if they still exist. Having never looked at them since high school, it was nice to flip through the pages one last time. The reunion was definitely the best place for that.
Since I was one of the few people not connected online, I had the old style reunion experience where everyone did not know what I was up to lately. I could pretend to be as rich and successful as I wanted. Only three things stood in my way. I was not painfully insecure in high school, so I don't need to show them. I don't like lying if I can avoid it. If it is a life or death situation, a lie might be the most moral thing to do. But deception for personal gain, even something as inconsequential as a high school reunion, is unethical. What really kept me out of fantasyland, however, was that a few people knew what I had been doing since graduation.
Anyone who knew me in school knew that I always wanted to be a dancer. So that was the inevitable first question. Am I a famous ballerina now? Do I travel all over the world dancing in the great concert halls? Have I met Baryshnikov? No, kind of but not really, and no.
I was not designed to be a ballerina. I know the moves and understand the music, but my body was made for lyrical, jazz, tap and various folk dances. I have performed in a few different countries, but not at all the most famous venues with the world's greatest dancers. I have never met Baryshnikov, but I am ready, willing and able. All he has to do is call.
The other questions were just as predictable. No, I'm not married, or divorced. No children. I don't own a house, or even a car. Home ownership seemed to be a big issue at the reunion. Maybe I should have invented a fantasy life.
But there is something about my life that Americans tend to find fascinating. Far more people asked me about Hong Kong than about dancing. I never even think about it, really. Seven million other people live here, and when you add China, that number gets a lot higher. It is not so exotic to a huge chunk of the humans on this planet. Besides, everyone lives somewhere. When you go to high school in Minnesota, most of your classmates stay in the Midwest. A few move to the East Coast. I'm the only one who left the country for any amount of time, at least at the reunion. So I got a small taste of minor celebrity. Not for doing something I have always loved, but for packing my bags and going away.
One person who was not at all impressed by my life in Hong Kong was my former boyfriend. We started dating in high school and broke up four years after we moved to China together. He never really liked Hong Kong and does not see it as exotic at all. To him, it was always crowded, noisy and full of unattractive women. Seeing him at the reunion was inevitable. We were in the same graduating class, and his mother told me he would be there. She also told me that he was married, so meeting his wife was no big surprise. The wife seemed nice enough, and exactly like the kind of woman he should be with, which is very different from me. The older I get, the more I wonder what I was thinking. In high school, everyone told me we were incompatible, but when you are in high school, you never listen. The great thing about eventually coming to my senses is that I felt no jealousy whatsoever when I met his wife. They looked like a happy couple and I am genuinely happy for them. Had I ever married him, we would both be miserable.
My biggest expectation for the reunion was to catch up with old friends. We did, or at least those of us who showed up did. And it was easier than I thought it would be. We all picked up where we left off and probably could have stayed there if not for how far away I live. I suppose I could join Facebook and be “friends” with them, but I don't define friendship as clicking a button under someone's picture.
On the opposite end, I was surprised by how easy it was to get along with old enemies. I never really had any enemies in high school, but there was one girl who did not like me after a lot of drama went down. She definitely picked a side and it was not mine. As teenagers, she thought I was an evil demon sent to lead all the self-righteous into temptation. She actively did whatever she could to destroy my reputation with both students and teachers. Fortunately, my friends thought she was a nutjob and my teachers cared more about grades than gossip. As adults, I was prepared to simply avoid her if she showed up. But when she came to talk to me, she said she admired how I went off into the wide world of adventure. She thought it was brave to move to another country and pursue my dreams. I told her she could easily do the same, anyone can, but she seemed convinced that her unhappy domestic life was her cross to bear. I let that competition go a long time ago, but apparently, I won without ever knowing it.
The reunion committee planned a few activities for that weekend – a baseball game, picnic in the park, three legged race type of things – but some of us decided to do our own thing. Most of them live within two hundred miles of each other. I was the one who was going to be out of the picture for a long time when the weekend was over. That made me popular again. I did not go to my high school reunion as a rich and famous ballerina, but the people who liked me wanted to spend more time with me while they could. That is success.
The great thing about nostalgia is that everyone remembers the good parts and forgets or glosses over the bad. When you are in school, you want to get out, either to college or start your career, or just get out of there. A large chunk of high school is pure tedium. Considering the age range, I'm sure we all went through a lot of emotional and hormonal turbulence. But at the reunion, no one talked about staring at the classroom clock and willing it to move faster. We all talked about the good parts and even some of the embarrassing parts, if we could laugh about them now.
High school is one of the strangest things we all get to experience. It dominates every aspect of our lives for a few years. It might be the last place you can effortlessly make best friends. It is where you learn to be who you are, discover boys or girls or both, break away from your parents and, in many ways, it determines how far you will go for the rest of your life. The best part is that when it is over, it is over forever. You never have to go back. But you can if you want to.
I never really knew the people on the reunion committee. I think I had a class with one of them in tenth or eleventh grade. They were in the student council/school paper/yearbook circle. I was in the performing arts circle. I don't know why the two did not touch, but when I went to school, they were miles apart. Either way, the committee did a pretty good job. I was expecting tacky paper decorations and some corny theme, but the space looked elegant. Rather than a punch bowl on a folding table, there were a few bartenders serving every kind of drink imaginable. In one of the more terrible Superman movies, someone brings too much potato salad to their reunion. Ours had professional catering and complicated little bite-size snacks. It was more like a debutante ball than suburban high school reunion. But no one dressed for a ball. We were all more casual than our surroundings, made more impressive by the nighttime views of downtown from the 50th floor.
A lot of assumptions were shattered that night. It used to be that people went to reunions to see how much everyone changed. Is she fat now? Is he bald? Who got married and/or divorced? Facebook has changed all of that. Many, if not most, of the people there were in communication with each other online. Facebook friends already saw all the recent pictures of aging, relationship comings and goings, families and jobs. The entire reunion was organized on Facebook, and in a private group, no less. I could not even look at it because I don't have a Facebook account. My initial reaction was that, had they used other media, maybe more people would have known about it. If I had not been told about it outside of social media, I would have never known. Surely, I cannot be the only person who never uses the Facebook. But the turnout was pretty high. Contacting everyone by e-mail and phone would have been far more work, and maybe fewer people would have put in the effort.
Another thing I expected was for everyone to segregate themselves into their old high school cliques. That is what you do in high school. Our entire school had around 2,000 students. Nobody knew that many people. We all decide what clique we should be in and generally stick to those people. At the reunion, we all mingled with old friends, of course, but it looked like everyone was grouping themselves around their Facebook friends. A good example was Chelsea. She would have never spent any time with the science nerds in high school, but at the reunion, her best friend was someone we all expected to grow up and cure cancer or discover some new element.
Like a lot of high school ambitions, that one went nowhere. Most Likely to Cure Cancer now works in a cubicle at some office job. She was never actually voted Most Likely to Cure Cancer. I doubt we had that category. But we all assumed she would become a scientist. Just like we all assumed the quarterback of the football team would join the NFL or that diva who got the best parts in almost every single play, even though I was always the better choice, would become an actor. Neither did. The quarterback played football in college, but then went into business administration. The diva works in a hotel.
Students at our school were always expected to succeed. We had that Most Likely to Succeed category in our yearbook, which is pretty stupid when you think about it. All schools should expect every student to succeed, and ours did, more or less. We were always on every list of top schools in the country. The debate team was ranked in the top 20 in my senior year. Our theater group performed on Broadway. The marching band won field competitions every year I was there. The list of state championships for the athletic teams is ridiculously long. At my old school, 95% of graduates go to college. The national average is around 66%. I looked it up because I figured 95% had to be pretty high.
That kind of pressure can burn out a teenager. Some of our biggest stars just kind of faded away. But more than a few did what everyone expected of them. There were a lot of MBAs at that reunion. Several are getting started in politics and law. A few are professional hockey players. At least one swimmer and one tennis player competed in the Olympics. One of my old friends in the marching band performs with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Others are with the Minnesota Orchestra and New York Pops. But it is not all high brow. One of our trumpet players is in the acid reggae band, Dick Cheney. That might not be the best name for a band. If you do a Google search, they are not the first thing to show up.
Speaking of yearbooks, some people actually brought theirs. For all the things Facebook has changed, it seems yearbooks are immune. I'm sure there are plenty of old pictures scanned and uploaded to that private Facebook group, but physical copies were passed around that night for people to sign and reminisce. I signed a lot of yearbooks in high school. My policy was always to write a little something for anyone who asked, whether I liked them or not, or even knew them. We all knew it was for posterity. But when you are an adult, “Have a cool summer” does not work anymore.
I don't remember the last time I saw any of my old yearbooks. I don't even know where they are or if they still exist. Having never looked at them since high school, it was nice to flip through the pages one last time. The reunion was definitely the best place for that.
Since I was one of the few people not connected online, I had the old style reunion experience where everyone did not know what I was up to lately. I could pretend to be as rich and successful as I wanted. Only three things stood in my way. I was not painfully insecure in high school, so I don't need to show them. I don't like lying if I can avoid it. If it is a life or death situation, a lie might be the most moral thing to do. But deception for personal gain, even something as inconsequential as a high school reunion, is unethical. What really kept me out of fantasyland, however, was that a few people knew what I had been doing since graduation.
Anyone who knew me in school knew that I always wanted to be a dancer. So that was the inevitable first question. Am I a famous ballerina now? Do I travel all over the world dancing in the great concert halls? Have I met Baryshnikov? No, kind of but not really, and no.
I was not designed to be a ballerina. I know the moves and understand the music, but my body was made for lyrical, jazz, tap and various folk dances. I have performed in a few different countries, but not at all the most famous venues with the world's greatest dancers. I have never met Baryshnikov, but I am ready, willing and able. All he has to do is call.
The other questions were just as predictable. No, I'm not married, or divorced. No children. I don't own a house, or even a car. Home ownership seemed to be a big issue at the reunion. Maybe I should have invented a fantasy life.
But there is something about my life that Americans tend to find fascinating. Far more people asked me about Hong Kong than about dancing. I never even think about it, really. Seven million other people live here, and when you add China, that number gets a lot higher. It is not so exotic to a huge chunk of the humans on this planet. Besides, everyone lives somewhere. When you go to high school in Minnesota, most of your classmates stay in the Midwest. A few move to the East Coast. I'm the only one who left the country for any amount of time, at least at the reunion. So I got a small taste of minor celebrity. Not for doing something I have always loved, but for packing my bags and going away.
One person who was not at all impressed by my life in Hong Kong was my former boyfriend. We started dating in high school and broke up four years after we moved to China together. He never really liked Hong Kong and does not see it as exotic at all. To him, it was always crowded, noisy and full of unattractive women. Seeing him at the reunion was inevitable. We were in the same graduating class, and his mother told me he would be there. She also told me that he was married, so meeting his wife was no big surprise. The wife seemed nice enough, and exactly like the kind of woman he should be with, which is very different from me. The older I get, the more I wonder what I was thinking. In high school, everyone told me we were incompatible, but when you are in high school, you never listen. The great thing about eventually coming to my senses is that I felt no jealousy whatsoever when I met his wife. They looked like a happy couple and I am genuinely happy for them. Had I ever married him, we would both be miserable.
My biggest expectation for the reunion was to catch up with old friends. We did, or at least those of us who showed up did. And it was easier than I thought it would be. We all picked up where we left off and probably could have stayed there if not for how far away I live. I suppose I could join Facebook and be “friends” with them, but I don't define friendship as clicking a button under someone's picture.
On the opposite end, I was surprised by how easy it was to get along with old enemies. I never really had any enemies in high school, but there was one girl who did not like me after a lot of drama went down. She definitely picked a side and it was not mine. As teenagers, she thought I was an evil demon sent to lead all the self-righteous into temptation. She actively did whatever she could to destroy my reputation with both students and teachers. Fortunately, my friends thought she was a nutjob and my teachers cared more about grades than gossip. As adults, I was prepared to simply avoid her if she showed up. But when she came to talk to me, she said she admired how I went off into the wide world of adventure. She thought it was brave to move to another country and pursue my dreams. I told her she could easily do the same, anyone can, but she seemed convinced that her unhappy domestic life was her cross to bear. I let that competition go a long time ago, but apparently, I won without ever knowing it.
The reunion committee planned a few activities for that weekend – a baseball game, picnic in the park, three legged race type of things – but some of us decided to do our own thing. Most of them live within two hundred miles of each other. I was the one who was going to be out of the picture for a long time when the weekend was over. That made me popular again. I did not go to my high school reunion as a rich and famous ballerina, but the people who liked me wanted to spend more time with me while they could. That is success.
The great thing about nostalgia is that everyone remembers the good parts and forgets or glosses over the bad. When you are in school, you want to get out, either to college or start your career, or just get out of there. A large chunk of high school is pure tedium. Considering the age range, I'm sure we all went through a lot of emotional and hormonal turbulence. But at the reunion, no one talked about staring at the classroom clock and willing it to move faster. We all talked about the good parts and even some of the embarrassing parts, if we could laugh about them now.
High school is one of the strangest things we all get to experience. It dominates every aspect of our lives for a few years. It might be the last place you can effortlessly make best friends. It is where you learn to be who you are, discover boys or girls or both, break away from your parents and, in many ways, it determines how far you will go for the rest of your life. The best part is that when it is over, it is over forever. You never have to go back. But you can if you want to.
Thursday, August 2, 2018
High School Reunion
4. News From Lake Wobegon
Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning. She had the entire day off since it was Saturday. It was also reunion day, so she had a lot of plans for us.
After breakfast, that I made because we both agreed I was a much better cook, we hit the town hard. Summer Saturday mornings mean a trip to the Mill City Farmers Market at the Guthrie Theater. Chelsea is surrounded by fresh produce all the time, and can go to the farmers market any Saturday, but this was the only day for me. Where I live, there is nothing like it. We have plenty of produce markets all year long, but that is like comparing homemade tagliatelle with canned spaghettios. One of those life ironies is that I make 90% of my meals with ingredients that are nowhere near this fresh, while Chelsea has produce picked from the farm that morning, but mostly eats out. The farmers market also had cooking lessons, but we did not have enough time.
The thunderstorms and ominous clouds of Friday were gone. This was a typical sunny and hot summer day. Chelsea and more than a few others complained about the humidity, but it felt pretty mild to me. And it was not especially hot. This Saturday was also the opening of the beer festival, international food truck rally and the tequila & taco festival. There were plenty of arts and crafts fairs, movies in the park and block parties. Things would really start get going after I left. The city does more than enough to keep people active and engaged. Summer is not such a bad time to go to Minneapolis. Then there is the Minnesota state fair. Our state fair is a great state fair, but I missed it. I was too early.
There were a million live performances that night, but that was also reunion time. I would have loved spending the evening at the Cowles Center, Orpheum or State Theatre, but I flew halfway around the world for the reunion, not to see a show.
Chelsea did not want to spend the afternoon running around some lakes or doing anything particularly energetic. She was looking forward to being wide awake at the reunion. So we went to the Minneapolis Institute of Art. Not only does it require no exertion, but it is indoors and air conditioned. We have museums in Hong Kong, but nothing like this. I have nothing against Chinese art, but it does not move me the way Rembrandt, van Gogh, Manet, Gauguin, Matisse and Goya can. Ironically, MIA brags that they have one of the largest Asian art collections in the United States.
Chelsea's house is only a few miles from the museum, so we had enough time to go back and get ready before heading out.
After breakfast, that I made because we both agreed I was a much better cook, we hit the town hard. Summer Saturday mornings mean a trip to the Mill City Farmers Market at the Guthrie Theater. Chelsea is surrounded by fresh produce all the time, and can go to the farmers market any Saturday, but this was the only day for me. Where I live, there is nothing like it. We have plenty of produce markets all year long, but that is like comparing homemade tagliatelle with canned spaghettios. One of those life ironies is that I make 90% of my meals with ingredients that are nowhere near this fresh, while Chelsea has produce picked from the farm that morning, but mostly eats out. The farmers market also had cooking lessons, but we did not have enough time.
The thunderstorms and ominous clouds of Friday were gone. This was a typical sunny and hot summer day. Chelsea and more than a few others complained about the humidity, but it felt pretty mild to me. And it was not especially hot. This Saturday was also the opening of the beer festival, international food truck rally and the tequila & taco festival. There were plenty of arts and crafts fairs, movies in the park and block parties. Things would really start get going after I left. The city does more than enough to keep people active and engaged. Summer is not such a bad time to go to Minneapolis. Then there is the Minnesota state fair. Our state fair is a great state fair, but I missed it. I was too early.
There were a million live performances that night, but that was also reunion time. I would have loved spending the evening at the Cowles Center, Orpheum or State Theatre, but I flew halfway around the world for the reunion, not to see a show.
Chelsea did not want to spend the afternoon running around some lakes or doing anything particularly energetic. She was looking forward to being wide awake at the reunion. So we went to the Minneapolis Institute of Art. Not only does it require no exertion, but it is indoors and air conditioned. We have museums in Hong Kong, but nothing like this. I have nothing against Chinese art, but it does not move me the way Rembrandt, van Gogh, Manet, Gauguin, Matisse and Goya can. Ironically, MIA brags that they have one of the largest Asian art collections in the United States.
Chelsea's house is only a few miles from the museum, so we had enough time to go back and get ready before heading out.
Friday, July 27, 2018
High School Reunion
3. You Can't Go Home Again
Minneapolis is 13 hours behind Hong Kong, during daylight saving time. So 6:00 in Hong Kong is 17:00 the previous day in Minneapolis. I assumed it would take me a day or two to adjust. When I woke up at dawn on Friday morning, it was dinner time in Hong Kong. I don't normally wake up at dinner time, but I have been known to get up at or before the crack of dawn. It looked like I was adjusting immediately. That seemed strange, considering the long day I just had.
Chelsea was just as surprised as I was, and quickly took advantage of the situation. She had to work that day and assumed I would mostly sleep, but if I could take her to work, I could use her car. Bringing all those Chinese documents turned out to be a good thing. Minneapolis has a pretty good transport network, but it is not nearly as expansive as Hong Kong's. The metro goes nowhere near her neighborhood. A car would be useful, if only I could remember to drive on the right side.
There was an entire city and a lifetime of memories to see. I knew where my first stop had to be. I went to my last high school boyfriend's house. That might seem like a strange choice, but his mother was like a mother to me, and I knew he would not be there. I lived in their house at the end of high school and they practically adopted me, which made dating their son a little weird. That's a pretty long story. I probably wrote about it in a book somewhere.*
We had a great morning together. We have kept in touch, so she knew all about everything I have been doing and I knew about what her children were up to. I used to be close to her daughter, but I have not seen her since she was a teenager. She is 23 now and has a job, a boyfriend and lives in Boston. Unfortunately, I would not get to see her on this trip. I would see her brother, my ex-boyfriend, but not this morning. It was just the parents and me. That was the closest thing to a family reunion I was going to get. I had other places to go and we knew we would see each other again that weekend.
I drove around the old neighborhood. I was in town for a high school reunion, so I think I was supposed to. It's in the by-laws. I thought I would drive past my parents' house, just out of curiosity or something else, but I never did. I braced myself for some big cinematic emotional moment, but in the end, I was more indifferent than anything else. I had places to go and that house was out of the way. This might have been the perfect day for driving through childhood. It was a hot summer day, but cloudy. It always looked like it was going to rain. There was a little bit of thunder here and there, which made the soundtrack more dramatic, but it never actually rained. It was also Friday the 13th.
I drove past the old high school. That is required. I should call it the new high school. There was a major $125 million renovation after I left. Today's school looks nothing like where I went. Memory lane was effectively a detour. I'm sure the current students do not fully appreciate it, but the school looks so much better now.
The neighborhood cultural attractions are golf, shopping and outdoor recreation. I don't play golf and I was never a member of any of the clubs. Mall of America is a sight to behold, but I live in Hong Kong, which is essentially a giant shopping mall. Malls don't impress me. What I really wanted to see were the falls.
When I was growing up, it seemed perfectly normal to me that we had waterfalls in the middle of the city. Now, I can appreciate how unusual that is. Minnehaha Park is a wonderful place to walk around or ride a bike. It is maybe a fifth the size of New York's Central Park, but it has everything you need in a park – hiking trails, picnic grounds, athletic fields, historic buildings, ancient geological sites, Minnehaha Falls and the Mississippi River. If size is your thing, Wirth Park is pretty much as big as Central Park and there are hundreds of others, mostly near or around natural lakes. Some national park agency keeps ranking Minneapolis the best park system in the country, for what it's worth.
All that parking around in the middle of July made me hot and tired. As it turned out, I was staying in a house with a swimming pool. One of the great things about Minneapolis, or any small big city, is that outside of a few pockets downtown, you can drive around on a Friday afternoon without ever hitting any traffic. The ten mile drive to Chelsea's house took about 20 minutes. Driving the ten miles from the Kennedy Town MTR station in Hong Kong to the Chai Wan station could easily take an hour or more. That is why they built the MTR.
The swimming pool at Chelsea's house was big enough for a family, and I had it all to myself. Chelsea would be at work for several more hours. The neighbor houses were a respectable distance away and bordered by fences, bushes and trees. The nearest surveillance cameras were probably at the small shopping center two miles away. None of the professionals who maintained the pool and lawn were expected until the next week. Discounting any NSA satellites that might be pointed at the suburbs of Minneapolis, I had about as much privacy as I was ever going to get. With all the clouds, even satellites would not be an issue. The constant overcast might not be swimming weather to most people, but I liked it since I go from lily white to beet red in minutes. So I did the only logical thing I could do. I got as naked as a dolphin and spent a short eternity in the clean, clear water.
By the time Chelsea came home from work, I was dead to the world in her comfortable guest bedroom. The funny thing about adjusting immediately to the time difference was that I did not. As soon as I was out of the pool, showered and dried, I went out like a politician's moral outrage when the cameras turn off. Chelsea had planned to take me out that night and meet some of the old gang again, but when she found me asleep, she let me be. I wanted to go out, but I could not blame her for not waking me up. I would see all of those people at the reunion anyway.
* Living With Livia
The international … seller
Available at all the best bookstores
Chelsea was just as surprised as I was, and quickly took advantage of the situation. She had to work that day and assumed I would mostly sleep, but if I could take her to work, I could use her car. Bringing all those Chinese documents turned out to be a good thing. Minneapolis has a pretty good transport network, but it is not nearly as expansive as Hong Kong's. The metro goes nowhere near her neighborhood. A car would be useful, if only I could remember to drive on the right side.
There was an entire city and a lifetime of memories to see. I knew where my first stop had to be. I went to my last high school boyfriend's house. That might seem like a strange choice, but his mother was like a mother to me, and I knew he would not be there. I lived in their house at the end of high school and they practically adopted me, which made dating their son a little weird. That's a pretty long story. I probably wrote about it in a book somewhere.*
We had a great morning together. We have kept in touch, so she knew all about everything I have been doing and I knew about what her children were up to. I used to be close to her daughter, but I have not seen her since she was a teenager. She is 23 now and has a job, a boyfriend and lives in Boston. Unfortunately, I would not get to see her on this trip. I would see her brother, my ex-boyfriend, but not this morning. It was just the parents and me. That was the closest thing to a family reunion I was going to get. I had other places to go and we knew we would see each other again that weekend.
I drove around the old neighborhood. I was in town for a high school reunion, so I think I was supposed to. It's in the by-laws. I thought I would drive past my parents' house, just out of curiosity or something else, but I never did. I braced myself for some big cinematic emotional moment, but in the end, I was more indifferent than anything else. I had places to go and that house was out of the way. This might have been the perfect day for driving through childhood. It was a hot summer day, but cloudy. It always looked like it was going to rain. There was a little bit of thunder here and there, which made the soundtrack more dramatic, but it never actually rained. It was also Friday the 13th.
I drove past the old high school. That is required. I should call it the new high school. There was a major $125 million renovation after I left. Today's school looks nothing like where I went. Memory lane was effectively a detour. I'm sure the current students do not fully appreciate it, but the school looks so much better now.
The neighborhood cultural attractions are golf, shopping and outdoor recreation. I don't play golf and I was never a member of any of the clubs. Mall of America is a sight to behold, but I live in Hong Kong, which is essentially a giant shopping mall. Malls don't impress me. What I really wanted to see were the falls.
When I was growing up, it seemed perfectly normal to me that we had waterfalls in the middle of the city. Now, I can appreciate how unusual that is. Minnehaha Park is a wonderful place to walk around or ride a bike. It is maybe a fifth the size of New York's Central Park, but it has everything you need in a park – hiking trails, picnic grounds, athletic fields, historic buildings, ancient geological sites, Minnehaha Falls and the Mississippi River. If size is your thing, Wirth Park is pretty much as big as Central Park and there are hundreds of others, mostly near or around natural lakes. Some national park agency keeps ranking Minneapolis the best park system in the country, for what it's worth.
All that parking around in the middle of July made me hot and tired. As it turned out, I was staying in a house with a swimming pool. One of the great things about Minneapolis, or any small big city, is that outside of a few pockets downtown, you can drive around on a Friday afternoon without ever hitting any traffic. The ten mile drive to Chelsea's house took about 20 minutes. Driving the ten miles from the Kennedy Town MTR station in Hong Kong to the Chai Wan station could easily take an hour or more. That is why they built the MTR.
The swimming pool at Chelsea's house was big enough for a family, and I had it all to myself. Chelsea would be at work for several more hours. The neighbor houses were a respectable distance away and bordered by fences, bushes and trees. The nearest surveillance cameras were probably at the small shopping center two miles away. None of the professionals who maintained the pool and lawn were expected until the next week. Discounting any NSA satellites that might be pointed at the suburbs of Minneapolis, I had about as much privacy as I was ever going to get. With all the clouds, even satellites would not be an issue. The constant overcast might not be swimming weather to most people, but I liked it since I go from lily white to beet red in minutes. So I did the only logical thing I could do. I got as naked as a dolphin and spent a short eternity in the clean, clear water.
By the time Chelsea came home from work, I was dead to the world in her comfortable guest bedroom. The funny thing about adjusting immediately to the time difference was that I did not. As soon as I was out of the pool, showered and dried, I went out like a politician's moral outrage when the cameras turn off. Chelsea had planned to take me out that night and meet some of the old gang again, but when she found me asleep, she let me be. I wanted to go out, but I could not blame her for not waking me up. I would see all of those people at the reunion anyway.
* Living With Livia
The international … seller
Available at all the best bookstores
Tuesday, July 24, 2018
High School Reunion
2. Old Friends
I don't know if you are supposed to stay at your parents' house when you go back for a high school reunion, but that was never an option for me. “My room” was most likely converted into something else a long time ago.
My original plan was to stay at one of the high rise hotels downtown. The closer to Nicollet, the better. Then I got an offer I could refuse, but chose not to. An old friend from high school offered to put me up in her house. Something about being in Minneapolis made a house more attractive than a hotel. Looking out a high window and seeing all the other tall buildings, walking out onto a busy shopping street is something I can do every day in Hong Kong. But an honest to goodness detached, single dwelling house with a porch and yard in a quiet neighborhood with wide streets and other houses is something you just don't see around here. That is the way I grew up, so it was only fitting for a visit to my hometown.
When I say Chelsea was a high school friend, that is an exaggeration. We were not especially close. We had a few classes together and waved in passing, but we never shared our darkest insecurities over tater tots or pasties. We started talking again when this whole reunion thing came up, and when I mentioned some of the downtown hotels I was looking at, her Minnesota immediately kicked in and she offered me her house. For a second, I was surprised. That is not the sort of thing we do in Hong Kong. But then my Minnesota kicked in and I realized I would have done the same.
As it turns out, she has a very nice house. It is nowhere near downtown, but it has a porch and yard and sits on a wide suburban street full of houses that don't all look the same. Best of all, it has a swimming pool. My apartment building in Hong Kong has a pool, but public pools in China are disgusting. This was a private pool that is professionally maintained. If her lawn is any indication, I would say professionals come out to her house on a regular basis. As soon as I saw the pool, I was glad this reunion was in summer instead of winter.
Chelsea is obviously doing well for herself. She lives alone in a house large enough for a family, waiting for Miss Right to come along and help her fill it. She is perfectly content to live 15 miles from where we went to high school. She told me she could not imagine living outside of Hennepin County. Even St Paul would be a stretch for her. At the same time, she wanted to hear all about my life on the other side of the world.
When she picked me up from the airport, she offered to take me out for a night on the town. It was dinner time and downtown Minneapolis has more options than outlanders ever imagine. But I had just spent the last 23 hours at airports and on planes. I wanted to see some of the old sights, but I could wait. We stayed in that night. Chelsea warned me that she was a bad cook. That is when I decided to tell her that it would not matter.
I never introduce myself to people with, “Hello. I'm Hailey and I have no sense of taste.” And if I did, most people would look at my clothes. But it seems to come up more often than I would prefer. When you share a meal with someone, whether at a restaurant or homemade, they almost always want to know what you think. I am not going to lie and say something is good, especially after I have been told the cook does a bad job. I think I have reached the point where I know I'm just going to have to tell pretty much everyone sooner or later.
The problem with telling someone you can't taste anything is that they always ask why. Every single time. No one just accepts it and moves on. Then I have to explain that I technically have a sense of taste but have no sense of smell and the two are like salt and pepper. This inevitably leads to a longer conversation. Sometimes I wish Tom Hanks would star in a movie about someone without a sense of smell. Then most people would understand the basics, or at least whatever is explained in the movie. It might not be the most exciting movie to watch, or even very accurate, but at least it would be easier for me. Then again, less than 0.002% of people with autism are anything like Rain Man. Temple Grandin does more for autism every day than that movie will ever do.
The best part about spending the last 23 hours at airports and on planes is that it provides a convenient excuse to avoid long conversations. After describing how senseless I am, I played the exhausted card to get out of explaining why. I could always tell my big sob story later. It would have been rude for Chelsea to push any further at that point, so she made us dinner and I went to sleep.
My original plan was to stay at one of the high rise hotels downtown. The closer to Nicollet, the better. Then I got an offer I could refuse, but chose not to. An old friend from high school offered to put me up in her house. Something about being in Minneapolis made a house more attractive than a hotel. Looking out a high window and seeing all the other tall buildings, walking out onto a busy shopping street is something I can do every day in Hong Kong. But an honest to goodness detached, single dwelling house with a porch and yard in a quiet neighborhood with wide streets and other houses is something you just don't see around here. That is the way I grew up, so it was only fitting for a visit to my hometown.
When I say Chelsea was a high school friend, that is an exaggeration. We were not especially close. We had a few classes together and waved in passing, but we never shared our darkest insecurities over tater tots or pasties. We started talking again when this whole reunion thing came up, and when I mentioned some of the downtown hotels I was looking at, her Minnesota immediately kicked in and she offered me her house. For a second, I was surprised. That is not the sort of thing we do in Hong Kong. But then my Minnesota kicked in and I realized I would have done the same.
As it turns out, she has a very nice house. It is nowhere near downtown, but it has a porch and yard and sits on a wide suburban street full of houses that don't all look the same. Best of all, it has a swimming pool. My apartment building in Hong Kong has a pool, but public pools in China are disgusting. This was a private pool that is professionally maintained. If her lawn is any indication, I would say professionals come out to her house on a regular basis. As soon as I saw the pool, I was glad this reunion was in summer instead of winter.
Chelsea is obviously doing well for herself. She lives alone in a house large enough for a family, waiting for Miss Right to come along and help her fill it. She is perfectly content to live 15 miles from where we went to high school. She told me she could not imagine living outside of Hennepin County. Even St Paul would be a stretch for her. At the same time, she wanted to hear all about my life on the other side of the world.
When she picked me up from the airport, she offered to take me out for a night on the town. It was dinner time and downtown Minneapolis has more options than outlanders ever imagine. But I had just spent the last 23 hours at airports and on planes. I wanted to see some of the old sights, but I could wait. We stayed in that night. Chelsea warned me that she was a bad cook. That is when I decided to tell her that it would not matter.
I never introduce myself to people with, “Hello. I'm Hailey and I have no sense of taste.” And if I did, most people would look at my clothes. But it seems to come up more often than I would prefer. When you share a meal with someone, whether at a restaurant or homemade, they almost always want to know what you think. I am not going to lie and say something is good, especially after I have been told the cook does a bad job. I think I have reached the point where I know I'm just going to have to tell pretty much everyone sooner or later.
The problem with telling someone you can't taste anything is that they always ask why. Every single time. No one just accepts it and moves on. Then I have to explain that I technically have a sense of taste but have no sense of smell and the two are like salt and pepper. This inevitably leads to a longer conversation. Sometimes I wish Tom Hanks would star in a movie about someone without a sense of smell. Then most people would understand the basics, or at least whatever is explained in the movie. It might not be the most exciting movie to watch, or even very accurate, but at least it would be easier for me. Then again, less than 0.002% of people with autism are anything like Rain Man. Temple Grandin does more for autism every day than that movie will ever do.
The best part about spending the last 23 hours at airports and on planes is that it provides a convenient excuse to avoid long conversations. After describing how senseless I am, I played the exhausted card to get out of explaining why. I could always tell my big sob story later. It would have been rude for Chelsea to push any further at that point, so she made us dinner and I went to sleep.
Wednesday, May 16, 2018
High School Reunion
Sooner or later, we all get old. When you are a child, anyone who can drive a car is old. When you are in high school, people who go to class reunions are old.
My high school reunion is in July. Why am I finding out about it so late? It was announced on Facebook. I'm not on Facebook. Someone who is on Facebook told me about it through old fashioned media. I suppose I should be happy that someone eventually realized my name was not on any of the lists.
I don't know if I'm going to go. On the one hand, I had some great friends in high school. On the other hand, those friendships faded over time, as they do. You move on with your life and develop other interests besides school activities and which boys are the cutest. I have not been to a single football game since high school and can't remember the last time I kissed a boy behind the bleachers. I have other priorities these days, as I'm sure do most of my old friends. Moving to Hong Kong was the final nail in a few of those coffins.
I have not been to Minnesota since a summer vacation in 2012. There is no particular reason that it has been so long. I have simply chosen to go to other places. When you live in Hong Kong, it's easier and cheaper to fly around Asia and even Europe. The United States is expensive and far away. I went to Canada two years ago. The two flights to get there took 18 hours, but cost about as much as the first leg of all the flights it would take to get to Minnesota. In about 12 hours, I could fly to Amsterdam or Paris for less. For the price of a ticket from San Francisco to Minneapolis, I could fly to Bali in five hours, Tokyo in four or Bangkok in three.
Then there is airport security. That might be important in this day and age, but the TSA is out of control. I have no idea why Americans put up with it. The illusion of security will never make up for genuine security. Searching an old lady's colostomy bag and groping autistic children does absolutely nothing to make you safer. If anything, it makes you less safe. That time could have been better spent on the one in a millionth person who might actually be suspicious. When I had a job in Tel Aviv, I used to fly to Israel every month or two. That is one country with every right to be paranoid about security, but they are not. Tel Aviv's airport security is the exact opposite of the TSA. They are efficient and highly successful. I would rather go through an Israeli, Indonesian or Thai airport every day than an American airport any day.
I also have a few tiny plates in my head. There are no medical prohibitions against my flying. In fact, I flew home from Beijing long before I was ever medically cleared to jet up into the atmosphere. There is no reason to expect anything in my head will set off the metal detectors. Nothing happened in Beijing. But if I wear a hat at the airport, I will have to take it off. If their security is observant, they will see the scar. Since this is the TSA, they might think I had drugs surgically implanted into my skull. That sounds stupid, but so does the TSA.
If I do go, it will be in July. There is absolutely nothing I can do about that. I suppose it makes sense to have reunions in the summer. That is when most people have some time off. But my last trip to Minnesota was in the summer. I would rather go in the winter. That sounds strange to people who think Minnesota is a frozen wasteland all year, but it is actually a beautiful winter wonderland. Especially if you don't have to live through it every year. We don't have winter in Hong Kong, and the last time I went anywhere with snow was that trip to Canada two years ago. My last trip into the United States was to Los Angeles and San Francisco. Snow was never an option.
My high school reunion is in July. Why am I finding out about it so late? It was announced on Facebook. I'm not on Facebook. Someone who is on Facebook told me about it through old fashioned media. I suppose I should be happy that someone eventually realized my name was not on any of the lists.
I don't know if I'm going to go. On the one hand, I had some great friends in high school. On the other hand, those friendships faded over time, as they do. You move on with your life and develop other interests besides school activities and which boys are the cutest. I have not been to a single football game since high school and can't remember the last time I kissed a boy behind the bleachers. I have other priorities these days, as I'm sure do most of my old friends. Moving to Hong Kong was the final nail in a few of those coffins.
I have not been to Minnesota since a summer vacation in 2012. There is no particular reason that it has been so long. I have simply chosen to go to other places. When you live in Hong Kong, it's easier and cheaper to fly around Asia and even Europe. The United States is expensive and far away. I went to Canada two years ago. The two flights to get there took 18 hours, but cost about as much as the first leg of all the flights it would take to get to Minnesota. In about 12 hours, I could fly to Amsterdam or Paris for less. For the price of a ticket from San Francisco to Minneapolis, I could fly to Bali in five hours, Tokyo in four or Bangkok in three.
Then there is airport security. That might be important in this day and age, but the TSA is out of control. I have no idea why Americans put up with it. The illusion of security will never make up for genuine security. Searching an old lady's colostomy bag and groping autistic children does absolutely nothing to make you safer. If anything, it makes you less safe. That time could have been better spent on the one in a millionth person who might actually be suspicious. When I had a job in Tel Aviv, I used to fly to Israel every month or two. That is one country with every right to be paranoid about security, but they are not. Tel Aviv's airport security is the exact opposite of the TSA. They are efficient and highly successful. I would rather go through an Israeli, Indonesian or Thai airport every day than an American airport any day.
I also have a few tiny plates in my head. There are no medical prohibitions against my flying. In fact, I flew home from Beijing long before I was ever medically cleared to jet up into the atmosphere. There is no reason to expect anything in my head will set off the metal detectors. Nothing happened in Beijing. But if I wear a hat at the airport, I will have to take it off. If their security is observant, they will see the scar. Since this is the TSA, they might think I had drugs surgically implanted into my skull. That sounds stupid, but so does the TSA.
If I do go, it will be in July. There is absolutely nothing I can do about that. I suppose it makes sense to have reunions in the summer. That is when most people have some time off. But my last trip to Minnesota was in the summer. I would rather go in the winter. That sounds strange to people who think Minnesota is a frozen wasteland all year, but it is actually a beautiful winter wonderland. Especially if you don't have to live through it every year. We don't have winter in Hong Kong, and the last time I went anywhere with snow was that trip to Canada two years ago. My last trip into the United States was to Los Angeles and San Francisco. Snow was never an option.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Paisley Hoops
I may not be the biggest Prince fan, but I am from Minneapolis. Prince is to Minneapolis what Frank Sinatra is to Hoboken. You don't have to play his music every day to be proud.
Unlike Sinatra, Prince never went Hollywood. He lived in his hometown for the rest of his life. But Prince sightings on the streets of Minneapolis were rare and legendary. You had a better chance of seeing someone pass up a pronto pup at the state fair. He wore brightly colored clothes and drove a purple motorcycle. He should have been easier to spot.
Despite being an almost mythical figure, Prince was the first major celebrity I ever saw off the clock. It was at the Target Center during the Timberwolves' epic 2004 season. They lost to the Los Angeles Lakers, mostly because of Shaquille O'Neal and Kobe Bryant, but everyone seemed to have a good time. I'm not the biggest basketball fan either. I would rather watch the Vikings lose than watch the Timberwolves lose.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Winter Wonderland
People in Hong Kong have been complaining about the cold all winter. That makes sense since it is usually hot and humid in Hong Kong. This winter seemed colder than the last, but it still stayed around 15 Celsius. That is pretty cold for Hong Kong, where it usually hovers around 32C most of the year, but nothing compared to winters back home.
Minneapolis is usually below freezing from November to March. December to February regularly dip below 10F. That's -12C. It never gets anywhere close to that in Hong Kong. In fact, the lowest I have ever seen Hong Kong would be a typical October back home, around 45F/7C.
This year has been special for the United States. It has been a colder than average winter, but what everyone is talking about is the wind chill. A lot of arctic air has been coming down and freezing people's butts off. I find that funny because we get that every year in Minnesota. Cold air from the arctic hits Alberta and cuts through Minnesota before it warms up and makes its way across the eastern United States. Only this year, it is hitting most of the Midwest and East coast.
By 0F, Alberta clippers knock it down to -15F. That is unnaturally cold for places like New York, but typical winter in Minnesota. People see the -45F in Minnesota with the wind chill and get alarmed, but we are used to it. It does not stay that cold all winter. That's only for a few days. We also build our houses for the cold and have plenty of warm clothes. Cold is only cold when you are not prepared.
If it ever got to -45F in Hong Kong, there would be a state of emergency. A lot of people would die because no one here is prepared for that kind of cold. Hong Kong houses are built for the heat. Winter clothes here are mostly pretty weak, and the boots are a joke. I have never seen a true parka here. People buy big coats that they think look warm but would not help you at all in a blizzard. It makes no difference because it never gets that cold in Hong Kong.
Hongkongers always ask me how I can go outdoors in winter without a coat. The answer is simple. I don't think it's very cold. That does not make me stronger than they are. I'm simply used to much colder weather. I'm still getting used to Hong Kong summers. While everyone else is wearing sweaters at night, I'm boiling in a t-shirt and shorts. It is not even the heat, really. It's the humidity. I have been here three years and I'm still adjusting to the humidity.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Going Home part 4
We’re back in Hong Kong. We had a great time in Minneapolis. We saw most of our friends & family and spent a lot of time getting up to date with the old neighborhood.
The last time we were home, the Metrodome roof had just collapsed again. They spent millions of dollars replacing it, even though the whole place is going to be torn down in a few years. We first left for Hong Kong during a terrible winter when it snowed every day and there was very little sun. While we were back, it was sunny & warm every day, and a little hot from time to time. It’s mostly hot in Hong Kong, but it’s more humidity than heat. Summers in Minneapolis get hotter than anything in Hong Kong. We just don’t have that unbearable humidity.
Nicollet Mall reminded me what a shopping street can be like when people are polite to each other. Hong Kong has more than enough shopping streets, but they’re all overcrowded and full of cheap trinkets, and the people selling the cheap trinkets are usually pretty aggressive when they see white people.
Nicollet Mall is a clean street with friendly people who won’t try to rob you blind. The prices are the same for everyone, no matter what color your skin is. There’s a great farmer’s market during the summer with the freshest produce you’ll see anywhere, and the skyway is the greatest thing in the world when it’s too hot or too cold. Hong Kong has a very limited selection of fresh fruits & vegetables.
It was nice to eat the foods I grew up with. Hong Kong has some great food, but there isn’t much variety outside of Chinese food and Chinese food claiming to be international. The best thing about food in Hong Kong is that it’s dirt cheap. The prices in Minneapolis almost shocked me at first, but the variety and quality more than make up for it.
This was the first time we could legally drink in our hometown and Ryan made full use of the bars and clubs on Hennepin. I don’t care about bars in any country. We’ve been legal in Hong Kong, Rome, Amsterdam and Macau. The novelty has worn off for me.
I missed all my American friends when I was in Hong Kong, and it was great to see everybody. But I found myself missing my Hong Kong friends while I was in Minneapolis.
People talk about culture shock whenever you move to a different country. I guess I experienced some of that when I first went to Hong Kong. It’s a very different culture in every way. There’s also reverse culture shock when you go back to your home country. I didn’t feel that. It’s different, but it was pretty easy to get back into my old habits. I suppose it helps that Minneapolis is the friendliest city in the world.
The last time we were home, the Metrodome roof had just collapsed again. They spent millions of dollars replacing it, even though the whole place is going to be torn down in a few years. We first left for Hong Kong during a terrible winter when it snowed every day and there was very little sun. While we were back, it was sunny & warm every day, and a little hot from time to time. It’s mostly hot in Hong Kong, but it’s more humidity than heat. Summers in Minneapolis get hotter than anything in Hong Kong. We just don’t have that unbearable humidity.
Nicollet Mall reminded me what a shopping street can be like when people are polite to each other. Hong Kong has more than enough shopping streets, but they’re all overcrowded and full of cheap trinkets, and the people selling the cheap trinkets are usually pretty aggressive when they see white people.
Nicollet Mall is a clean street with friendly people who won’t try to rob you blind. The prices are the same for everyone, no matter what color your skin is. There’s a great farmer’s market during the summer with the freshest produce you’ll see anywhere, and the skyway is the greatest thing in the world when it’s too hot or too cold. Hong Kong has a very limited selection of fresh fruits & vegetables.
It was nice to eat the foods I grew up with. Hong Kong has some great food, but there isn’t much variety outside of Chinese food and Chinese food claiming to be international. The best thing about food in Hong Kong is that it’s dirt cheap. The prices in Minneapolis almost shocked me at first, but the variety and quality more than make up for it.
This was the first time we could legally drink in our hometown and Ryan made full use of the bars and clubs on Hennepin. I don’t care about bars in any country. We’ve been legal in Hong Kong, Rome, Amsterdam and Macau. The novelty has worn off for me.
I missed all my American friends when I was in Hong Kong, and it was great to see everybody. But I found myself missing my Hong Kong friends while I was in Minneapolis.
People talk about culture shock whenever you move to a different country. I guess I experienced some of that when I first went to Hong Kong. It’s a very different culture in every way. There’s also reverse culture shock when you go back to your home country. I didn’t feel that. It’s different, but it was pretty easy to get back into my old habits. I suppose it helps that Minneapolis is the friendliest city in the world.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Going Home part 3
We’re leaving tomorrow morning. I’m pretty excited. I’ve been away from Minnesota for 16 months. That’s easily the longest time I’ve ever spent away from home. I’m looking forward to everything.
We’ve flown to a lot of places in this last year and a half. Wherever we go, we always have to wait in the foreigner passport line, and that’s always the longest line. We’re finally going somewhere we can wait in the short line. I like going to new places and seeing new things, but sometimes it’s nice to hand my American passport to American security and have them say “welcome home”.
We’ve flown to a lot of places in this last year and a half. Wherever we go, we always have to wait in the foreigner passport line, and that’s always the longest line. We’re finally going somewhere we can wait in the short line. I like going to new places and seeing new things, but sometimes it’s nice to hand my American passport to American security and have them say “welcome home”.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Going Home part 2
We finally got plane tickets for our trip back home. We’re leaving Hong Kong at 10:25am on Monday and arriving in Detroit at 1:35pm. Then we have 4 hours to sit around and wait for our 2 hour flight to Minneapolis at 5:35pm. The whole thing should take just over 21 hours. It’s pretty much the same thing we did when we first came here – only in reverse.
A flight at 10:25am means they’ll start boarding at 9:30, which means we should be at the airport by 8 – at the latest. To get there by 8 we should leave our apartment no later than 7:15 – it will be more crowded on a Monday morning. To leave at 7:15 I have to wake up at 6am – Ryan can sleep in until 6:30. I’ll be lucky to get him up at 6:45. Ryan likes to stay up late – he’s not a morning person. Sometimes he doesn’t even go to sleep until 6am. He’s really looking forward to this trip so it shouldn’t be too hard for him to wake up in time.
A flight at 10:25am means they’ll start boarding at 9:30, which means we should be at the airport by 8 – at the latest. To get there by 8 we should leave our apartment no later than 7:15 – it will be more crowded on a Monday morning. To leave at 7:15 I have to wake up at 6am – Ryan can sleep in until 6:30. I’ll be lucky to get him up at 6:45. Ryan likes to stay up late – he’s not a morning person. Sometimes he doesn’t even go to sleep until 6am. He’s really looking forward to this trip so it shouldn’t be too hard for him to wake up in time.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Going Home part 1
Ryan & I are going home. Temporarily, at least. We’re taking our first trip back to Minneapolis since we came to Hong Kong. I can’t believe we waited so long. I thought we’d go back to visit all the time, but it just didn’t work out that way.
His parents have invited us to stay at their house, so we’ll save a small fortune on hotels. Not that hotels in Minneapolis are at all expensive compared to Hong Kong. Now we just have to find a good deal on plane tickets. You can go everywhere from Hong Kong airport – everywhere except wherever we want to go. We had the same problem when we went to Rome last year. The closest flights to Minneapolis go to Chicago and Detroit. When we came here over a year ago we went through Detroit. The whole trip took over 20 hours.
I’m looking forward to all the things I’ve missed since I’ve been in Hong Kong – mostly the people and food. I can’t wait to see old friends and eat fresh produce. The fruit in Hong Kong is really not the best. It will be strange to walk down a sidewalk without a thousand other people or go into a grocery store larger than a closet. I think the strangest part will be no Chinese signs anywhere and not a single duck hanging in a window. Or maybe the weather. Summer in Minneapolis is nothing like summer in Hong Kong.
His parents have invited us to stay at their house, so we’ll save a small fortune on hotels. Not that hotels in Minneapolis are at all expensive compared to Hong Kong. Now we just have to find a good deal on plane tickets. You can go everywhere from Hong Kong airport – everywhere except wherever we want to go. We had the same problem when we went to Rome last year. The closest flights to Minneapolis go to Chicago and Detroit. When we came here over a year ago we went through Detroit. The whole trip took over 20 hours.
I’m looking forward to all the things I’ve missed since I’ve been in Hong Kong – mostly the people and food. I can’t wait to see old friends and eat fresh produce. The fruit in Hong Kong is really not the best. It will be strange to walk down a sidewalk without a thousand other people or go into a grocery store larger than a closet. I think the strangest part will be no Chinese signs anywhere and not a single duck hanging in a window. Or maybe the weather. Summer in Minneapolis is nothing like summer in Hong Kong.
Monday, December 13, 2010
18 Inches
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!
We got 18 inches of snow – and believe me, 18 inches is a lot. I know that sounds dirty, but it’s not supposed to be.
We’ve got winds of up to 45 mph.
All flights have been canceled and the roof of the Metrodome collapsed.
When I first started really thinking about living in Hong Kong, I was worried about how hot it gets there. Now I’m thinking that’s a good thing.
It never snows in Hong Kong.
That's not so good
We got 18 inches of snow – and believe me, 18 inches is a lot. I know that sounds dirty, but it’s not supposed to be.
We’ve got winds of up to 45 mph.
All flights have been canceled and the roof of the Metrodome collapsed.
When I first started really thinking about living in Hong Kong, I was worried about how hot it gets there. Now I’m thinking that’s a good thing.
It never snows in Hong Kong.
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