Category Archives: Travel

Costa Rica was amazing. Unreal. Best trip of my life.

Hiking, rappelling, horseback riding, white-water rafting, zip lining, roasting under the sun, wading in the warm waters, laughing nonstop at the hilariousness of my friends — it’d be impossible to document it all.

So I’ll simply leave you this:

And this:

Pura Vida.

Matt and I took a superquick trip to San Diego this weekend as we really felt the need to go somewhere, anywhere. We don’t do too many things together that involve planning or spending or traveling beyond Crenshaw Blvd., so these 24 hours away from the laptops next to our pillows were a real treat. Our stay was lovely and you can read all about it here.

When I was living in Arizona, people would tell me that I’m so L.A. and I’d be like, huh? I’ve never even lived in L.A. (just in a pleasant boring suburb) and then they’d be like, okay then, you’re so Orange County. And I never knew what that meant because it’s not like I surf or carry designer purses or ever got into Laguna Beach. So maybe it was because I say “like” a lot, which I’m actively trying cut back on — really, it’s one of the things on my self-improvement list. But I don’t think that was what made me OC. I was confused. I mean, I guess it worked. I always knew I walked too slowly to live in New York, dressed too trendy to live in Portland, drove too timidly to live in L.A., loved Asian food too much to live in most of middle America and didn’t hate Republicans enough to live in San Francisco. So maybe.

This weekend, while driving back from San Diego, we made a stop at the Rainbow factory store in San Clemente. I haven’t worn a pair of Rainbows since I lost mine a few years ago. Slipping my feet into them again brought back so many memories of college and the good ‘ol OC. My heart flip-flopped. (Get it?)

I remember when people would wear these things everywhere: to the food court, to class, to South Coast, to Malarky’s (every girl knew she’d end up drunk on the beach at some point; high heels just wouldn’t do). I loved the cool-without-trying vibe they gave off. For guys, the more destructed your Rainbows were, the cooler you were. Like OMG, your soles are so worn down that your heels can touch the ground? That’s hot. I myself strolled miles in these eco-friendly, multiple-layer sandals. Rainbows became a durable symbol of my OC life.

My coworker recently moved from New York and was lamenting SoCal’s laidback fashion scene.

“Flip flops are hideous,” she said. “I just can’t get into them.”

“You have to,” I replied.

“I know,” she said sadly.

Visiting the Rainbow store made me think that I’m more OC than I thought. I can’t wait to start living in my new Rainbows — once they stop hurting like a bitch.

(See more photos here.)

We’re back. My suitcase still reeks of Taiwan. Giant inhale … ahhhhhhh.

As we arrived home the other day, Alice and Randall greeted us at LAX. They found it amusing that they, two people who consider Taiwan to be a second home, were there to pick up us, two of the most un-Chinese Chinese people on the planet. They were particularly entertained by our many stories of how we navigated stumbled our way through the big city without knowing any Mandarin (this involved a lot of pointing, blank stares and flipping through the flash cards Alice had her students assemble for us). But we did it. And it was amazing.

Taipei isn’t touristy like Shanghai and Beijing, but that’s what I loved about this trip. We weren’t on a strict schedule of stopping here and there, visiting this temple and that pagoda. Instead, we let the streets enchant (and frighten) us with their raw sights, sounds, tastes and smells. On most of the days, the only things guiding us were our heightened sense of adventure and some recommendations from friends pasted into the notes section of Matt’s BlackBerry.

As foreigners, we were most excited about the night markets. They’re like giant street fairs, only instead of vendors selling friendship bracelets and angel food cake, they lure you in with uncommon edibles like Pig Intestines On A Stick. There’s also plenty of yummy stuff for more sheltered palettes (like mine) such as beef noodle soup, oyster omelets, juicy dumplings and fried chicken cutlets the size of your face (served in a paper bag for just over a buck). I’m certain that my heaven will have a night market like those in Taiwan. Pure bliss.

I’ll admit it was rather frustrating not knowing the language, especially since I look Chinese. I kept wishing my parents had sent me to Chinese school when I was a kid (even though I’m sure I would have protested) or that I would have thought to study abroad there in college. Matt and I were talking about what life would be like if we were part of two cultures like most of our friends. We’d gain a certain richness in our backgrounds, but I wonder if we’d lose something too. You know, we were the only ones at karaoke night who knew the words to the Beach Boys songs (my parents had their car radios permanently set on K -Earth 101). There’s something in being all-American. It’s part of who I am. But it would also be nice to have a second country. And if I were able to choose one, I’d probably choose Taiwan.

But, of course, that’s not happening. Here’s proof.

The reason why we were in Taiwan was to attend Matt’s brother’s wedding reception. This was the seating chart:

So sad.

Hi! I’m at the airport! Posting from a blackberry! For the first time ever! It’s really not that exciting. I’m rather delirious. Say something. Anything. I’ll think you’re funny. I’m going to Taiwan. But first I am going to sleep. This week has been crazy. Craaaazy. Cra-to-the-z. Catch you later.

P.S. Thanks for the comments. You make me happy.

I’m back from NorCal and despite having to grunt “Go away” to my mother who is at this very moment nagging me to clean my room (I guess that’s in the fine print of my free rent deal), I couldn’t be happier to be home. The wedding was super sweet and I’m glad I was able to celebrate with Matt’s family, but dude, traveling two weekends in a row is rough.

I despise air travel. It’s second on my Transportation Hate List, after driving. I had a pretty ridiculous experience on Friday night, when after waiting in a gazillion-person security line at LAX, I had to get to my gate, like, now. There I was, standing in my socks behind six or so people at the metal detector. I needed to take action. Frantically, I shifted my way to the front.

“Excuse me, is there any way I can step in front of you? My flight’s in, like, 10 minutes,” I ask politely.

“Well, my flight’s in 5 minutes!” a man in line blurts out.

“Mine too!” another yells.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, not sure of what I should do.

“Just go!” the people command.

After running through the airport with my shoes halfway on my feet, I finally arrive at my gate only to discover that my flight is delayed. Hooray for Southwest!

………. Of course, on rare occasions, the airport can be a fun place, too. About to head home, Matt and I are standing on the moving walkway at Oakland airport. We spot some girl running toward us with her shoes and luggage in hand. She’s obviously freaked out, but we don’t think much of it. We move to close to the rail to let her through.

About 10 seconds later, we hear a scream.

“Nooooooooooooooo! Did it leave? OH MY GOD, THEY CLOSED THE DOOR!”

The girl had just missed it. The plane is still in sight, but loading area is empty.

“Why? Why? WHYYYYYYYYYYYY?” she yells.

She starts banging on the windows and waving at the plane. The jetway begins to shrink in. “STOP! STOP!” she yells, flailing her arms in hope of catching the pilot’s attention.

Everyone around is staring, a few people snickering. Matt tries to keep walking, but I won’t budge. This is too awesome, I say. What a psycho!

Some official opens the door and she begs him to let her in. He takes a look at her patheticness and then says something on his walkie talkie. A few seconds later, the jetway extends toward the plane and he walks through the door. The girl goes back to pounding on the window.

By now, Matt and I have plopped down on chairs to catch all the action. I’m completely entranced.

“I would never act like that,” I assure him. “I might cry, but I’d never make a big scene.”

“Unless you’re in China and they’re about to kill all the Americans,” he says.

“Uh, right,” I shrug.

Finally, the official opens the door and lets the sad girl through. Teary-faced, she smiles. There’s no applause or anything. Pretty anticlimactic, I must say.

“Wow, she got on,” I murmur. “I guess being crazy really works.”

A guy sitting with his girlfriend laughs, shakes his head and goes back to reading his magazine.

I know this post is ironic and I probably will be that girl someday. And when that day comes, you should laugh at me. I’ll definitely deserve it.

I promised I would expand on my fabulous trip to New York, but since I’m still on East Coast time (don’t you just hate when people say that?), here’s one quick bedtime story.

It was Saturday night and the girls and I were ready to take on the city. I had just spent hours deciding whether to go with the more practical ensemble (turtleneck, skinny jeans and flats — hey, we were only going to bars and I have a great fear of temperatures below 60) or buck up and put on something half presentable. After my friends were like, helloooo, we’re in NEW YORK, I finally gave in and slipped into a silky dress and heels (and double leggings, of course). RowR. 

Stepping out onto the bustling sidewalk, I was pleasantly surprised. The weather was bearable and we were looking hot. This is my Sex and the City moment, I thought. We’re in New York! I totally fit in! Just then, as I tried to maneuver my way through the crowds, I felt stuck. Literally. My heel. Was stuck. My other heel. Was stuck too. Both heels were stuck. I couldn’t move. I looked down and realized I had stepped into a grate. I tried to kick one heel out, but my bare foot just swept into the open air. This was bad. As I watched my friends walk a few steps ahead of me, oblivious to my sudden crisis, I did the only thing I could think of. I screamed for help.  

They laughed, shook their heads and saved me, of course. But from then on, my New York bubble had bursted. I’m no Carrie Bradshaw. I’m just an awkward girl from Torrance. Who probably should have stuck with the flats.