When I was 8 years old, my mom put me on a plane in jakarta so that I could fly to spend a few days with my dad in Hong Kong. A stewardess for singapore airlines, the picture of perfection in her silk dress, wrought with metallic embroidered flowers and her hair slicked back in a neat, but somehow mystical knot, ushered me to my seat. We would be making a stop in Singapore where I would change planes, but this stewardess would be with me the whole time. I remember being excited, but I also distinctly remember not feeling that there was anything unusual about my journey. She gave me a pack of cookies. I couldn’t read the label. We got off the plane in Singapore and dashed through the immaculate airport and I quickly ate a bowl of wonton soup and we were off again.
My father met me in Hong Kong. This island was not like Java or Sumatra of Bali. Hong Kong is cold, the air is dense. Hong Kong is gray. Jakarta is brown. The gondola ride up the side of Mt. Victoria is a voyage in a glass submarine, floating through the depths of fog. The deck on top of our hotel has no railings but is surrounded by glass. I don’t like looking over the edge, to see the street below, I have to press my face against the glass. Feet back on the ground, we descend into a restaurant. Our path takes us around a koi pond. A koi pond in a basement felt magical, as if we were in a mythic den and would meet an eccentric crime lord. Crime lords always wear too many rings and obsessively stroke the cat they’re holding in my imagination.
We order Peking Duck. There are few things on earth as delicious as the sticky sauced duck on fluffy pancakes with crunchy green scallions.
The legendary night market is a blur of sparkling lights.
We’re on our way home.
Jakarta always smells like burning plastic and people and exhaust and earth. Most cities don’t smell like earth. Dirt, yes, but not what was there before the city. Ancient.
That journey, not the one from Texas to Indonesia
or from Florida to Texas
or from Delaware to Florida
the one from Jakarta to Hong Kong is the one that made me broken.
If I wasn’t broken I could sit still. If I wasn’t broken I wouldn’t be so comfortable traveling solo. If I wasn’t broken I would be able to sustain a friendship. I am broken, always a breath away from hermitic insanity. Bracing to watch reality drip through my grasp.
This is a trek through my memories and a few of my musings, by putting these stories into the universe I’m hoping to prove to myself that I’m not alone.
Two people are responsible for pushing me to this. Miley Cyrus and John Green.
Miley Cyrus published a memoir and I refuse to accept that her life is more memoir worthy, even if she made a butt-ton of money living it. John Green writes manic pixie dream girl characters (no, I didn’t invent this name for Zooey Deschanel) who sweep his male protagonists from the clutches of mediocrity. I love his books and connect with his characters, but want to show that a girl can be fabulous, insane, ordinary, and not save a damn soul.
Even with my exciting life, awesome hair, and sizable ego, I often daydream of someone whisking me away to the greener grass. This probably won’t happen, doesn’t need to happen. One of my goals in writing about my life is to show myself that I have it good, and if I’m bored, I should just get up and do something.
I can’t imagine this account remaining particularly chronological. This isn’t an autobiography, but a blog. Future generations (because the chronicles of Sarah will be required reading in the 6th grade in 2078) won’t have the attention span for long form literature, this generation complains about songs that are longer than three minutes and shamelessly brag about not liking reading.
... two white opals, two white opals...
My neighbors haven’t complained about my music yet, thank god. How was that? Feigned ADHD is unsettling, no? However, I did manage to insert a pretentious reference to the music I’m currently listening to.
The more important question: where do I go from here? What does it take to invite the good people of the internet into one’s universe?
