#when i was younger like mid elementary i used to go to this dance place

[1-800-i-ship-it]

32: What words upset me the most

warning this kinda turned into a rant im sorry about that ajklsdf dont read on if u dont want to read about my salt 

er hm i dont really have specific words, but probably guilt tripping or passive aggressiveness, i really hate that stuff (if its like sarcastic or whatever then its fine but yea just would prefer not to) also straight up lying to me to take advantage of me or manipulation (ive gotten better at steering clear of these things than before but yea) 

some other pet peeves are when people say “no offense but _________” which to me is pointless because how am i supposed to respond to something like “no offense but heres something offensive but since i’ve said no offense u cant really say anything back to me now ok cool bye” i’d rather just have u say whatever it is without the “no offense” part, also i havent had to deal with this in a while but when someone says “hope ur happy now” snidely after giving in or whatever (i guess this falls into passive aggressiveness) its also quite annoying

dont even get me started on parents who want to talk to me bc i seem successful and just want to weed out information etc so they can can take advantage of my experience or whatever, that stuff is annoying as hell (honestly, accusing someone of being good at something? and then asking how theyre good at it in a salty tone? bullshit) and ive gotten good at dodging questions; i know when ur being genuine or not :) (if u actually need help and are genuine, i am happy to help! but if ur just here to leech off me, bye!) and i also know when ur just hounding me on my standardized test scores & extracurriculars :) and i also know when you only talk to me bc it seems like im doing well and want to leech info and when you ignore me later bc u think ur better than me now and dont need me anymore :) 

pro tip: just compliment them and their children and say theyre doing well + some bs about working hard to be successful and they will be fine, laugh awkwardly, and then end the convo while dunking on capitalistic tendencies in ur head 

pro tip #2 for classmates who constantly take advantage of you: when it gets to a certain point, im serious, just keep saying you dont know–who cares if they think u’ve become dumb that was honestly never any of their business anyways. and if someone isnt pulling their weight in a group project let the teacher know and if the teacher doesnt care, assign people tasks and keep in mind the goal is to get them to do work–might damper ur pride but sometimes that just how it is. but for other things please remember to protect yourself and DONT let yourself get sucked into cheating scandals or whatnot bc someone wont be friends with you if u dont help them with x and y (aka do all the work for them), thats complete and utter bullshit and means they arent real friends to you, please go find other friends and dont tell yourself u have to put up with them bc u dont have anyone else. if u need a friend and cant find one u can come talk to me instead 

on another note when someone tells me they are disappointed in me that really hurts too :^) but thats different 

so yea thats about it im sorry this became a full blown rant oops 

[problematicfavesareproblematic]

Our First Defeat

Chapter 1: You’ve Cut Me to the Bone

Uh, oh- guess what time it is? That’s right chicks, dicks, and everyone in betwix(t)....

It’s ‘another series that should’ve just been a straightforward one shot’ time!!!!

This is probably going to be at least a four parter, so buckle up buttercups.

Warnings: Smut, infidelity, oral, cum play, longing, ANGST, Lewis being a shitty husband to Katherine, run-on sentences, feels, probably OOC Nixy-poo, childhood f2l mention, mentions of prom sex so underage I guess(?), potty words, rich people parties, reader is tipsy when they boink but so is Nix and it’s pre-established desire so idk man

Special thanks to @sunsetmando​ for being my constant idea sounding board and cheerleader and to @liebgotttme​ and @mrsalwayswrite​ for their unfalteringly supportive praise despite my constant self-inflicted shit talking!

Title and chapter names will come from the first defeat by noah gundereson

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Say what you wanted to about Doris and Stan Nixon, but they sure threw one hell of a party.

 Waiters in sharp suits, sparkling crystal glasses filled with golden champagne, marble floors polished to a near reflective shine- nothing but the very best for the engagement party for Mrs. Nixon’s baby boy.

If your heart hadn’t already become calloused from heartbreak, you probably would burst into tears.

You’d known the Nixons all of your life, and with Nixon being a year and a half your senior and his younger sister being three years your junior, the three of you had little choice to become anything other than close. Even when Lewis had grown old enough to get sick of girls and their games of dress up and make-believe, you and he still managed to get along.

 You were both the oldest children in your families, and for a while you had also attended the same advanced reading course offered by your private elementary school’s librarian. Your shared love of books had bonded you nearly as much as your shared birth orders, and it wasn’t uncommon for your parents to find you both nose deep in one of your father’s large tomes of mythology.

 It surprised no one that the two of you became close as you got older. 

What did strike both of your families as odd was just how close you two stayed- especially when you both started attending your respective boy’s and girl’s boarding schools. You’d been each other’s penpals, school dance dates, and summer trip companions.

 After your Junior prom, you’d lost your virginities to each other after polishing off two bottles of lethally strong port wine. Nixon, sex-drunk and just plain old drunk-drunk, had insisted that he’d done ‘other things’ with girls- that he wasn’t really a virgin but he’d yet to actually do the act. 

As if he was worried that you’d make fun of him.

 As if you’d think less of him for it.

 Of course, things had changed once college came around.

He became busy with his studies, and you had thrown yourself into attaining your nursing credentials. He’d gotten a fair share of girlfriends and you’d had a few relationships of your own.

 When your families would get together for holidays and birthdays, the two of you would inevitably sneak off and fuck until one of you decided that someone was going to notice your absences.

 Then, after rejoining everyone else for an appropriately deemed amount of time, you’d rush off again to repeat the cycle. Sex with Lewis was everything you’d been told you shouldn't want- hard and desperate and just left of dirty but God did you love it. You loved the way your bodies fit together, the way his breath felt on your neck as he held onto you so tightly that you thought he might leave bruises. The way he kissed you as if he were drinking the air from your lungs, like he needed your lips in order to breathe, to live.

 More than anything, you loved the ease that existed between you two- the way you both helped the other redress and how he would take your face in his hands and call you sweet things as he gave you languid kisses before giving you a wicked grin and guiding you both back to the party.

 It wasn’t ideal, and more often than not you’d feel hollow again after a few days, but your trysts with Lew were the closest thing you had to a consistent relationship.

 When Pearl Harbor happened, you’d made the decision to enlist as a field nurse. Nixon had begun to attend an Officer’s school, so you’d already started to resign yourself to the fact that this fling of yours could never be anything more than just that, a fling. Apparently he had, too.

 You’d felt like you had been punched in the stomach when you heard about Katherine.

 He hadn’t even told you that he was seriously seeing someone, let alone considering marrying anyone.

It had hurt more than you wanted to admit.

How you managed to keep a straight face when his mother proudly told you and your mother about the engagement, you’ll never know.

 All you did know was that he’d made a choice, and it wasn’t you.

And you had to get over it.

 Even so, it had still taken both your mother and your father to convince you to come to this party tonight. Your brother and sister had been allowed to stay home- they were still considered too young to attend such frivolous events. 

Lucky bastards.

 But you’d let your mother dress you in a velvet gown of indigo-violet decorated with rhinestones across the bodice and sleeves, allowed your younger sister to braid your hair in a halo around your head (despite your mother’s plea for you to wear it in a more fashionable and mature style) and even gotten a grumble of a compliment from your sulking teenage brother and greeted the Nixon’s with the same amount of warmth you always had.

 If nothing else, finishing school had taught you well when it came to hiding your true feelings.

 Katherine was the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen, her hair shiny and her skin perfect and her body curvy and tight in all the right places. Her sky blue dress draped across her form perfectly, as if it had been made for her.

Her hands were graceful and delicate- the perfect canvas for the huge diamond ring Nix had bestowed upon her.

 To make matters worse? You liked her.

She was smart and well-spoken, with a habit of interrupting someone mid-sentence but that wasn’t enough to make you dislike her.

 “Lew’s sung your praises for years,” Katherine had smiled smally after you’d introduced yourself to her. “it’s wonderful to finally put a face to the name….”

“It’s all lies, most likely,” you assured with a grin, a sudden realization hitting you. “Speaking of Little Lew—”

Katherine rolls her eyes and offers a conspiratory whisper.

“Pretty sure he’s stress smoking somewhere upstairs. I’ve been trying to get him to quit—”

You snort at that. “Then you are far braver than most, and you have my respect.”

 You look over your shoulder, frowning as you took in the scene.

Turning back to Katherine, you give her a nod.

“I’ll hurry him along,” you murmur softly. “Drag him down by the ear if I’ve got to—”

“Consider my respect earned in kind, then.”

Sharing a smile, you politely excuse yourself and slip away up the stairs.

 You had a feeling that you knew exactly where Nix was hiding.

~

The formal library was dark wood and warm leather, with deep seats and cigar smoke stained books that sat on shelves so high that even the tallest man needed to utilize the built-in ladder to reach the top.

As children, you and Lewis had spent countless hours reading of far-away lands and exotic adventures, darting back and forth between whatever book you’d decided on and the grand globe by the window to trace your fingers over countries neither of you would probably ever actually visit.

This room held your sweetest memories, as well as some of your racier ones.

 Finding Lewis in here was only fitting.

 He looked unbearably handsome- sat on the windowsill with the wind fluttering his hair across his forehead while the moon lit up his profile and made him look like some exquisite marble statue.

The cigarette between his lips reminded you of all the times he’d smoke after fucking you, the way he’d exhale the smoke into your parted lips before kissing you so deeply your toes would curl.

 “I could get used to this,” he’d said, after one of your last trysts.

“What, smoking yourself to death in your dad’s library?”

He’d shot you a glare before attacking your neck with kisses that left you giggling from how they tickled your skin.

“No, Smartass,” Lewis said as he nudged your nose with his, a lazy smile clear on his face when he lifted his head away from you enough to meet your eyes. “This, with you. Not having to rush off before your mom comes looking for you. It’s nice….”

 That felt like a lifetime ago.

 “If you frown at the moon any longer,” you call out, smirking at the way he startles before realizing it’s just you. “You’re gonna get a wrinkle before all the wedding photos.”

 He shoots you a look, shaking his head before turning to stub out the cigarette in the silver ashtray.

“Not even gonna lull me into a false sense of security before giving me shit, huh?”

With a practiced ease, he gently slides the window back into place and locks it, fanning the lingering wafts of smoke from around his face before turning to fully face you.

 A familiar smile crosses his face that has you rolling your eyes.

“Well, I’ve gotta get all I can out of my system- now that you’ve gone and replaced me.”

 With another withering look, Lew comes up and kisses your cheek before wrapping an arm around your shoulders and another around your waist to lower you into a dipped hug.

 “Hey now,” he grumbles into the shell of your ear, his breath tickling your neck and causing you to shiver. “I think you’re underestimating your talents if you think anyone can fling smartass comments my way better than you- oh!”

 Twisting you back up so you’re both standing, he pushes the door to the library closed to get to the bookshelf behind it. 

 With curiosity, you watch him pull a book from the shelf and present it to you with a flourish.

“A gift for you, my lady.”

 Rolling your eyes, you take the book in your hands and peer at the cover.

 You recognize the title immediately as a Poirot mystery, a grin breaking across your lips as you realize it’s one of your favorites- a collection of short stories featuring the Belgian detective and Captain Hastings.

 As you open the book, you suck in a breath when you see the scrawl of Agatha Christie’s signature across the title page, and upon further inspection, you realize it’s a first edition.

 “Holy shit, Lew…” you whisper, running your fingertip across the indents in the paper her heavy-handed scrawl. ��Where’d this come from? How’d you know….?”

 Looking up at Lewis again, you are slightly embarrassed by the amused expression on his face, deciding to look back down rather than acknowledge how clearly he was watching your reaction.

 “Well,” he begins, stepping behind you to squeeze your shoulders. “It came from a bookshop, believe it or not—”

 “Lewis—”

 “And as for the how….Blanche told me in one of her letters.”

 That gives you pause again- the reminder that you and he hadn’t written anything to each other in quite some time.

 Clearing your throat, you set the book down on one of the desks and bring a hand up to rest over one of his. “That’s very…..thank you.”

 You feel him press a quick peck to the crown on your head, something you were fine with until you left the pressure of his lips lingering there.

 “I hope, uh…hoped you’d also take it as a sort of, er- peace offering, of sorts….”

 You feel your shoulders tense at that. The blood in your veins suddenly feels cold and dead.

You’d hoped he wouldn’t do anything like this- wouldn’t bring any of this up.

 “I’m sure I don't know what you’re talking about—”

“Yes you do.”

 Sucking in a sharp breath through your nose, you turn around to face him. 

 “There’s nothing to offer peace for,” it’s taking more effort than you like to keep your voice even. “What you do with your life is none of my business.”

 “It doesn’t change the fact that you should’ve heard about it from me,” he says quietly, and as his breath fans across your face you can pick up the sweet bite of whiskey beneath the smell of cigarette smoke. “That was….I should’ve been the one to tell you—”

 “I don’t see why you felt you had to.” You give him a tight smile, working hard to keep yourself from scowling. “It’s not like we made any promises to each other….which I thought was the whole appeal of me, if I’m being honest.”

 Lewis brings his hands up to brush against your jaw, the unexpectedly soft touch making you shudder before you can stop yourself

 “You’ve got to have known that I’ve been in love with you since we were kids, Y/N—”

 “Don’t say that,” you hiss under your breath, biting the insides of your lip and shaking your head. “That’s unfair, you can’t do this- it’s wildly unfair to Katherine, it’s not fair to me—”

 Lewis scoffed at that, a rueful smirk twisting his face as he let his eyes trail down your face.

 “‘Unfair’....what’s unfair is asking me to go down there and pretend like everything’s hunky-dory when you’re here, looking like everything I’ve ever wanted in my goddamned life and expecting me to act like I wasn’t wishing you were on my arm instead—”

 “Jesus Christ, Lewis, that’s enough—” you cross your arms across your chest as you step back out of his touch and turn to look at the wall of books. “What’s the matter with you? I’ve always known you could be an asshole, but this is cruel, even for you—”

 “How am I being an asshole?” he snaps, taking your shoulders and turning you back to face him, his frown deep and imploring. “Because I’m being honest? Huh? ‘Cause I’m telling you the truth—?”

 “Because you’re telling me the truth now!” you say venomously, letting your own face morph into a scowl. “Tonight, the fucking night where we’re all here to celebrate you and Katherine getting married! You can’t just expect me to not respect that—”

 “What if I told you I didn’t even want to marry her—?”

“Lower your voice!”

 You don’t realize how close you’ve gotten to each other until you accidentally scuff your toes against the side of his polished shoe, something that shocks you out of your anger like a cold splash of water.

 His cheeks are rosy with both drink and frustration, and you’re pretty sure that your face is flushed as well. Closing your eyes, you sigh and hang your head.

 “If you didn’t want this,” you say a bit more calmly. “Then why did you ask her in the first place?”

 You startle slightly at the feeling of him taking your hand, opening your eyes to watch him bring it to his clean-shaven cheek and hold it there. His eyes look tired, sad almost.

 “Because I’m being shipped out soon,” he sighs heavily, twisting his head enough to press a kiss to your palm as the air whooshes out of your lungs in a pained sigh. “Because it’s what’s expected of me.”

Meeting your hesitant gaze, he offers a sad little smile and a shrug.

“Because it couldn’t be you, I didn’t really care who it was—” 

 Quickly, you take back control of the hand he’s holding and put your fingertips gently over his lips, your throat feeling tight at the admission.

“Don’t,” you whisper shakily. “Don’t finish that sentence….”

 Taking your hand again, he moves it away from his mouth.

 “Why not?” he says back just as quietly, eyes scanning your face. “Am I being an asshole?”

 You shake your head, chest tightening as you take in his confession. “You’re breaking my heart all over again.”

 He nods, his jaw clenching as he studies you. “I keep doing that, don’t I?”

 When you don’t show any sign of amusement at his comment, he encourages you to wrap an arm around his neck as he pulls you into another borderline inappropriate embrace. A hug that was better suited for two lovers rather than two friends grieving a future that was entirely hypothetical.

 His lips press to the side of your throat, inhaling the smell of your skin deeply and slowly.

“I don’t mean to,” he whispers, splaying his large hand across the small of your back. “I really want you to know that.”

 You stay silent, focusing all of your energy into not crying.

 Even if he had asked you to marry him, you would’ve had to say no.

Married women were unwelcome in all branches of military nursing- and you had worked too hard to ever consider giving that dream up.

Not even for Lewis Nixon….although you probably would’ve thought about it harder.

 “I sometimes wish we’d never kissed,” you say with emotion in your voice, letting him hold you even closer at your hushed admission. “I wish I didn’t care about you, then we wouldn’t have to be like this…”

 “I don’t,” he mumbled against your skin. “I wouldn’t take any of this back- even if I could.”

 You shake your head sadly as you bring your other arm around his shoulders to more fully embrace him.

“That’s because you’re a masochist almost as much as you are a sadist—”

 He groans at that, taking his face from your neck to press his cheek against yours.

“I knew getting you those Freud books was a mistake….”

 This time you allow yourself to sigh a laugh. “Only because they seem to hit the nail on the head when it comes to explaining why you are how you are.”

 “An asshole?”

 “Yeah, Lew.” you gently break free of his embrace and smooth your hands down the front of his tuxedo- straightening his bowtie on the way. “Now you’re getting it.”

 He looks as if he’s going to say something else, but you force a smile on your face and shake your head.

“C’mon, Mr. Nixon,” you say with a nod. “Your public awaits you. Best not keep them waiting.”

 “Y/N—” He calls as you turn on your heel and walk to open the door.

 “I’ll see you down there, Lewis.”

 With that admonishing reminder, you open the door and hurry to find the restroom in order to collect yourself.

Dinner was going to be hell.

~

Of course, Doris sat you beside where Lewis was seated in the middle of the table- Katherine on his left and you on his right.

 “Surrounded by his favorite girls,” Mrs. Nixon had cooed, standing behind Lewis’s chair and squeezing his shoulders excitedly. “What a lucky man you are….”

 They had only just served the soup and already you wanted to crawl out of your skin.

The only things that saved you were wine and the endless stream of one-sided conversation from Katherine’s young cousin Marcus, who sat to your right.

 He couldn’t have been more than sixteen- eyes wide and battle-hungry as he prattled on about the training courses he planned on enrolling in so that he could go to Japan and take revenge for the lives lost during Pearl Harbor. It served as a good distraction from the feeling of Lew’s eyes on your profile, silently begging you to turn and look at him.

 You didn’t give in.

 Marcus’s heart was in the right place, and it wasn’t his fault that you were trying to drown your distress in the sea of white wine you were creating inside of your belly. 

But you had the feeling that if you had to listen to any more talk of what his brother had told him about the Navy and how prestigious their ships were, you were going to smack your head against the table until you passed out.

 The only person who seemed to pick up on your distress was Lewis, and right now you were pretty committed to ignoring his attempts of conversation- hoping that by doing so you were strong-arming him into actually talking to Katherine, who was being so charming and well mannered that you felt like you were suffocating.

 As you brought your fourth glass of wine to your lips, Lew decided to speak rather than just look.

 “Think maybe you should slow down, Y/N?” Lewis says it quietly enough that only you and Katherine can hear him, and when you turn to face him you catch the sight of the other woman suppressing a chuckle into her glass of sparkling water. 

A drop of resentment stains your previously high regard for her- her slight amusement being amplified to condescension in your current bitter state.

 “Don’t worry ‘bout me, Little Lewie,” you say with a light slur in your voice- one that only those who truly knew you would be able to detect. 

As a child, you’d had a slight speech impediment that you’d grown out of with proper training and practice. It was only when you were overly tired or when you drank that it slipped back into your speech.

You could feel that now, its presence heavy on your tongue.

“Just gettin’ it outta my system while I’ve still got the chance……”

 When you're able to find his eyes with your own, you see the concern shining in them and suddenly feel like you want to cry. 

 You can’t help but think that this could’ve been yours- your engagement party, your future.

You’d say that the ring on Katherine’s finger could’ve been yours as well, but if you were being honest you found it too gaudy and flashy for your taste.

Lewis probably would’ve known that, too….would’ve chosen something significantly smaller and much more simple to present to you while down on one knee.

 But he’s not mine, should’ve stopped thinking of him as mine a long time ago.

 Without another word to him you slid your chair back from the table and stood, nodding appreciatively to the butler who instantly appeared to scoot the chair back into place.

Your mother, who was sitting closer to the door, gave you a worried look as you made to walk past her, silently asking if you were alright.

 With a smile that didn’t reach your eyes, you gently placed your hand on her shoulder in false reassurement that you were just fine. You mouth the word ‘bathroom’, as you passed her and exited the dining room.

 How you managed not to run up the staircase in search of somewhere you could let your mask of contentment fall away, you have no idea.

But you did. Your finishing school teachers would’ve been proud.

 Rushing through the library you knew better than the back of your hand, you quickly found the small, slightly hidden room behind a sculpture that held all the wealth of paper and writing supplies.

 The door barely shuts behind you before you suck in a shaking breath, face hot with tears you were refusing to shed. Each exhale sounds as if it’s being punched out of you, hands reaching out into the dark to feel for the wall so you can find the small footstool to sit upon.

 You were right, you couldn’t do this.

 It was too much, despite how desperately you’d tried to callous over the raw part of your heart that still ached for him. Resting your head in your hands, you try to slow your breathing, to muffle to sobs begging to be freed from your chest.

 The sound of the door clicking open has you shooting to your feet in surprise, the wine in your blood making itself known as you teeter slightly and you have to brace your hand against the wall to steady yourself.

The snap of the light being turned on makes you squint at the sudden brightness, the sight of Lewis breathing heavily as he leans against the door to close it behind him making your heart race even faster.

 “You shouldn’t-” you have to sniff quickly before finishing your admonishment. “You really shouldn’t be here, Lewis.” 

 He nods, his Adam's apple jumping in his throat as he swallows, eyes trailing up and down your body. “I know.”

Even as he says it, Lewis starts walking towards you. “I should go….”

 Your own breathing has become deep and heavy, lips parted to accommodate the sudden desperate need for more air in your lungs.

Mind having failed you, you search for the right words to send him away- to tell him that what’s about to happen is wrong and that you’re just making it harder on yourselves in the long run.

But all you can think as he reaches you, his hands coming up to hold your face with an unmistaken intention, is that you are going to explode if he doesn’t kiss you right now.

 Lucky for you, his thoughts seem to be similarly inclined.

 He kisses you so hard that you think your lips will bruise, his hands pulling your face so desperately close that his eyelashes tickle your cheeks as his eyes squeeze shut.

As you moan somewhere deep in your throat, Lewis opens his mouth to swallow the sound. His hair is soft in your hands, your fingers fisting and pulling at it until he makes a groan of his own.

 You allow yourself to rise up on your toes to make his head tilt back slightly, gasping into his lips when he suddenly uses his grip on your face to pull your mouth back from his.

He licks his bottom lip, whispering your name so you open your eyes and look at him with a heavy-lidded gaze.

 “I-I don’t want to go without one more….” he seems to be at a loss for words, which for Lewis Nixon is truly unusual. But you think you can read his frustrated silence.

Your eyes search his dark ones, uncurling your fists from his roots to bring your thumbs to his forehead and smooth the concerned furrow in his brow.

 “Okay,” you whisper, coming down off of your toes to brush your nose against his. “Then do it.”

 As if your words were a racing gun’s shot, Lewis hungrily kisses you again- backing you up against the wall and clutching at you with carnal desperation.

You lose yourself in his fervor, scratching your nails down the back of his neck just shy of leaving a mark and moving to loosen his bowtie.

 He catches your hands and pins them beside your head, squeezing them in a silent request to keep them there. You nod into the kiss, gasping for breath when he tears his mouth from yours and drops to his knees before you.

Looking down your body at him, you pant lewdly as you watch his hands disappear beneath the skirt of your dress and hurriedly pull your underpants down around your ankles. 

 The only patience he shows is in his careful assistance of helping your step out of them, but then he is immediately returning to his pilgrimage to the warm place between your thighs- bunching the deep violet-blue fabric in one fist while his other hand encourages your thigh up and over his shoulder.

He kisses you down there just as thoroughly as he had your mouth, licking the hot petals greedily to part the way to your clit before attacking it noisily and skillfully. Your head makes a dull sound as it lolls back to hit the wall, your hips surging forward at the gentle and unintentional scrape of his teeth against the soft flesh.

In an apologetic motion, the hand holding your dress beside your waist rubbing its thumb soothingly across your side. 

You allow one of your hands to drop from beside your head to rest over his, your sigh of forgiveness getting lost in a breathy keen of pleasure.

 “Shit,” you sigh, bowing your head forward to watch him look up at you from between your legs. “Jesus Christ, Lewis!”

 Rather than take his mouth from you to reply, he elects to moan into your sex, the vibration striking somewhere deep inside of you that has your thighs quaking. Your eyes drift closed as he continues to suckle on you, the sound of him inhaling sharply through his nose making you feel dizzy with heady desire.

It had been almost a year since he’d last gone down on you- only because that was the last time you were afforded enough time for such foreplay. 

 And he’d only gotten better at it.

 With careful yet distracted motions, he maneuvers the hand covering his so you are now holding your skirt up and out of the way for him. You open your eyes at the same moment you feel his fingers curl inside of you, an airy mewl slipping past your lips before you can stop it.

 “I’m gonna cum,” you mumble stupidly down at him, finally bringing your other hand down to fist in his hair again as you begin to see the white-hot orgasm creeping into the sides of your vision. “Too soon….I’m sorry, it’s too soon—!”

 His intentional humming around your bud paired with the cruelly perfect crook of his fingers sends your careening over the precipice of pleasure.

Your body shakes and your hips buck uncontrollably as he refuses to relent his near fervent milking of your orgasm.

 You keep expecting him to stop, to pull away from you and start to seek his own release. 

But he just doesn’t stop.

 “What’re you doing?” you ask brokenly, keening into another moan as he slips one more finger inside of you. “Get up here and—ohhh!”

 “Again, “ you hear him grunt into you with a near frantic tone. “Give me one more….”

 You’re absolutely lost as he ushers you into another orgasm, mouth feeling dry from the open mouth panting you’ve had to resort to in order to remain lucid.

 “I need you,” you whimper pathetically, your eyes open and unseeing as you gasp for breath in a vain attempt at cooling the fire burning in your body. “Please, I need you inside me….please, Lewis!”

 It feels like he’s only just unsealed his lips from your sex when suddenly his tongue is in your mouth and his hand is cupped around the back of your head, kissing you languidly as your thrumming ears pick up on the soft sounds of fabric being untucked and trousers being shoved open and down.

 Before you can manage to find the coordination to bring your hands down to help him free his cock, you feel him bringing the same thigh that had been over his shoulder up to hook around his hip.

 With a familiarity that aches in both your heart and your core, you wrap your arm around his shoulders and nod into the kiss, just as you had that first time in your dorm room after the night of your Junior prom.

After one more soft peck, Lewis sheaths himself fully inside of you.

 Your face twists at the abrupt fullness that stretches your sex to the sweet-stinging point that you ache for more often than you liked to admit, eyes flashing open in euphoric alarm as the man you’d loved since you were fifteen fucked into you with a punishing pace.

 Apparently, he was just as desperate for you as you had been for him.

 It’s now he who is making desperate noises that have to be muffled, his face buried into the slope where your shoulder meets your neck. 

At some point, he’s managed to undo the button at the top of the back of your dress, nosing the fabric around your collarbones open so he can latch his lips to the flesh at the curve of your shoulder- worrying at the skin with tongue, teeth, and lips.

 If you were in a teasing mood, you’d accuse him of having an oral fixation. 

Lewis would make another comment about how much he regretted giving you the books by Sigmund Freud. 

You’d try to offer some witty retort, only to be cut off by him pinching at your clit and biting at your lip.

 It was so easy, everything with him just felt so good and comfortable and warmly familiar.

 As if he can hear your thoughts, he presses his temple to yours so his lips are at your ear.

 “It should be you,” he nearly whines. “I’ve only ever wanted you—”

 The sob that bursts past your lips is so bitter and childish that even Lewis seems to notice through his haze, pulling his head back in time to catch sight of the tears rolling down your cheeks.

 “I’m sorry,” he grunts as he kisses the tears off of your skin. “I love you and I’m sorry.”

 Just as your first moan had been, your first deep sob is captured by his mouth. Your lips are salty and you can feel from his shaking lips that he’s struggling to keep his own upset at bay.

 The hand that was holding your thigh wraps around it to press a thumb against your clit, and you can’t stop the stream of babbling that follows the movement.

 You can’t shut up about how much you love him and how angry you are with him and how badly you wished things were different.

 “I know,” he mumbles to each admonishment and devotion you utter, his voice becoming tight as you intentionally squeeze down on him with everything that you’d got. “I know, I know, Please love me anyway, I know.”

 It’s the sound of Lewis coming undone that sends you into your second orgasm, holding on for dear life as he brokenly thrusts into you a few more times before yanking himself away to spill himself onto the wall beside you- bracing his arm there as you blindly reach down to stroke him as well.

 You both stand there, breathing as if you’d both just sprinted across the fields behind his house.

 Using the wall as a support, you turn to face him and press your forehead to his sweaty temple, the hand of the arm against the wall moving to rest atop your head as he shudders and stills in your hand.

“Good,” you breathlessly praise him as you gently release his cock. “So fucking good….”

 As you bring your hand to your mouth to suck it clean, Lewis curses lowly as his eyes follow the movement, like you’ve hurt him somehow.

Before you can reach your hand down to get more, Nix grabs your wrist and holds it in the air.

 “Don’t you dare,” he whooshes out with an exhale, turning his head to kiss you deeply enough that you know he can taste himself. “I’m gonna fucking cum again if you do shit like that…”

 You give him a small smile, pecking a quicker kiss on his lips.

“Didn’t think you’d be open to letting me lick it from you directly.”

 His wicked smile is lazy, wrapping his arm around your waist as you make to push yourself away and twisting your bodies so he’s now the one leaning against the wall with you pressed against him.

 ‘Not yet,” he pleads into the crook of your neck. “Please, not just yet.”

 And, because you’re a terrible and weak person, you stay.

 When his fingers start to undo the buttons holding your dress together in the back, you shake your head.

 “One more,” he murmurs as your dress starts to fall loose around your shoulders. “Just once more….”

 Despite knowing how much you’re going to hate yourself for doing so, you nod and lower your arms so your dress pools around your feet.

 “Okay,” you whisper. “Just once more.” ~ ~ ~ (HELLO I LOVE YOU AND SORRY FOR ANOTHER SERIES WHEN I HAVE ONLY EVER ACTUALLY FINISHED ONE BUT THIS IS WHO I AM AND IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT THEN I AGREE WITH YOU, TBH)

Taglist: @mrseasycompany​ @itswormtrain​ @mrsalwayswrite​ @happyveday​ @sunsetmando​ @ricksmorty​ @liebgotttme​

also let me know if you want to be added to le taglist bc i am a silly lily who will forget unless i’m constantly reminded

also also here’s the dress i used for reference bc what are outfits

[fy-enhypen]

“The stage is my happy place” - Sunoo

SUNOO kept on dancing to the music playing in the studio. But once the photoshoot began, he buckled down and began to focus. When I asked him how he could focus so quickly, he replied: “I just went with the flow.” The 17-year-old boy with a happy face had a deep soul that occasionally flowed like the ocean tide. Yesterday (December 4), you filmed an episode of KBS Music Bank. It was your first appearance on a music show - how did you feel?

SUNOO: I have a sister who is three years older than me, and when we were young, we would have music shows on TV, and we sang and danced together. That’s when I started dreaming of becoming a singer. So I couldn’t believe I was actually going to go on a music show. I was nervous, but I was excited more.

What about being on television intrigued you when you were young?

SUNOO: The people who were singing and dancing on the colorful stage looked really happy. I thought, “Wow, I want to be like them.” “I want to be on that stage.” I think I was born with that dream. (laughs) My sister always watched music shows with me, but she never wanted to become a celebrity.

So was it your dream to become a singer since you were little?

SUNOO: Yes. I sang pretty well when I was in elementary school. (laughs) I memorized songs really fast, too. So I heard that my teachers would talk to my mom about putting me on music shows or TV programs. But then, when I was in 7th grade, I gave up my dream because I hit puberty, and my voice started cracking. Even when I sang, it wasn’t as exciting or fun as before. But when I got to 8th grade, an entertainment agency offered me a chance to audition. I didn’t get in, though, because my voice was still cracking, but they suggested that I audition again a year later. They knew that’s what I wanted. A year went by, and they really called me back. I started going to different auditions from then on and tried this and that, and that’s how I ended up here.

You must get a special feeling when you see yourself on TV.

SUNOO: I thought I had a “cute face,” but when I saw my photos, I was surprised because my eyes looked longer than I thought, and they looked cold. When I see myself on TV, I notice many things that I haven’t before.

You are famous for having an “expressive face.” Have you been practicing these expressions since you were younger?

SUNOO: I think it’s because I grew up watching all kinds of music shows. I’m very emotional too. I would cry when I see someone crying in a movie or drama, and I would tear up when I listen to sad music. When my friend cries, my heart sinks too. (laughs) Our facial expressions reveal our personality. So I think they just come naturally for me.

SUNOO: People saw me as a “high-spirited” kid with lots of talent. My middle school hosted a choir competition every year, and I was always the first one to sign up because I loved dancing and singing. Sometimes I danced in the hallway because I liked getting attention, and my friends would go, “What’s up with you?” (laughs) My parents didn’t want me to go all-in on becoming a celebrity when I’m still a student. So I focused on my studies, and I got a perfect score on the math test for the first time in 8th grade. The questions were relatively easy, but there weren’t that many students who got everything right! (laughs) But then I started losing interest in my studies because I couldn’t follow my dream. So in 9th grade, I quit cram schools and did what I wanted to do instead. In high school, I was an ordinary student who liked watching K-pop music videos. I was also a member of the dance club, and my friends and I sometimes did each others’ hair for fun.

I saw you doing the members’ hair quite often.

SUNOO: From when I was young, I braided my sister’s hair and bought a hair iron to do her hair. There was even a time when I dreamed of becoming a hairdresser. I think I was influenced by my mom and sister because I saw them knitting and cross-stitching very often. I also played with stickers and did a lot of coloring and paper folding since childhood. The reason I’m interested in scents is also because of my sister. I saw her buying and wearing perfume, and that got me interested. I like light and refreshing scents, like the scent of lemon. Now that I think about it, I think I’ve always been interested in beauty. (laughs)

SUNGHOON didn’t seem very enthusiastic about the hair you did for him at the DEBUT SHOW. (laughs)

SUNOO: (laughs) Maybe it’s because I’m more used to styling long hair or bobbed hair. I did my sister’s hair a lot, but I didn’t do mine that often. I started doing my hair in middle school. I had a female friend who had short hair, so I would do her hair, and I would do my male friends’ hair too. So I did all sorts of hair, like short hair and long hair, and I think I’ve learned a lot in high school.

On I-LAND, you said to SUNGHOON, “I want to be friends with you too.” Well, have you two gotten closer now?

SUNOO: I can say this with absolute confidence. (laughs) We’ve gotten really close. We were awkward at first, but the more I get to know him, the more we have in common than we thought, and I play jokes on him a lot too. I’m quite sure he thinks I’m cute. So I often think to myself, “Am I really that cute?”. (laughs)

Does NI-KI still sleep on your bed these days? (laughs)

SUNOO: Yes. It was awkward having someone sleep next to me at first because I’ve always slept by myself. But NI-KI always asks me with confidence, “You’re sleeping next to me, right?” (laughs), so we kept sleeping side by side. But these days, I feel a bit lonely when I sleep alone. I guess I’ve gotten used to it. (laughs)

On I-LAND, I noticed how you took good care of the other trainees.

SUNOO: I think it’s because I like people. I like being around people more than being alone, and I’m interested in other people, too. When someone looks a bit down, I get concerned and think, “Is something wrong?” You know those friends who don’t give you any practical advice but are there for you and cry with you going, “Oh, no”? (laughs) Well, that’s me.

JAY once described you as “a friend who does things for him without ever complaining.”

SUNOO: Maybe it’s because my attitude changed while I was practicing as a trainee. My sister also told me, “You were so immature, but you seem to have grown up these days.” (laughs) When I first started practicing, I would often hear people say that I am not good because it hadn’t been that long since I became a trainee. I wasn’t feeling well at the time too. But I didn’t want to give up, and I was quite depressed. But I kept going because whenever I struggled, my mom told me, “This is what you love doing, and I know you want to do this. So don’t give up, and I hope you don’t have any regrets.” I guess I’ve become more mature over time. In the past, I wasn’t able to stick to one thing for a long time. I would get tired of it and quit. But now I tell myself, “let’s keep going.” I think I’ve become a more positive and patient person.

When you were first eliminated on I-LAND, I remember how you graciously accepted it and how composed you were in the video log series “-note,” when the staff gave you negative feedback.

SUNOO: You can’t change what has already happened. So I try to accept the feedback for a better future and think, “let’s do better next time.” I used to have a lot of regrets. If I give you an example of food, I used to starve myself to eat more at a buffet. But when I got there, I would get full so fast and regret it. (laughs) Every time I did that, my mom told me, “Why do you always regret everything? Whenever you say things like that, it will affect the people listening to you, and it’s not good for you either.” So I stopped saying those things and learned how to accept reality.

You eventually learned the worm move you had trouble with at the beginning of I-LAND,, and on V LIVE, you mentioned that you were sick while performing “Save ME” as a vocal unit. How did you get through it?

SUNOO: I was able to do it because I kept thinking about why I decided to do this in the first place. I thought, “I’ve already come this far, so how can I give up?” If I become weak, everything I’ve done would become a waste of time, and I didn’t know what I would do if I didn’t do this. I was sick, but I couldn’t think of anything else other than getting my job done. So I did it. You can’t quit, can you? I thought, if I’m going to do this, I might as well try harder.

The day after your debut was announced, you said, “I’ll always remind myself of why I chose this job and become a good artist.” on “-note.”

SUNOO: I thought that’s the kind of mindset I should have to live a happy life. When I was younger, I loved dancing and singing along to music on TV, and that’s why I chose this job. I kept challenging myself because I thought I’d be happy and have no regrets if I chose this path. It can be hard sometimes, but if I keep going, thinking about the happiness I got from it, I think I’ll be able to enjoy my job more and do this for a long time.

I was impressed with how calm you looked wearing the wire harness to film the debut trailer.

SUNOO: Oh, I was really scared, actually. (laughs) I was more afraid of heights than I thought. It was also my first time wearing the wire harness. I had to let my hands go and flip over in mid air. Honestly, my hands wouldn’t budge at first. But then I saw all the staff who were there for the filming, and it occurred to me, that if I don’t let my hands go, I might delay the schedule. So I made up my mind to just get it over with, and fortunately, it worked out well. And if you think about it, not everyone gets to film a scene wearing a wire harness. So I thought I should put more effort into it.

Can you share some of the memorable moments from when you were preparing for the debut album?

SUNOO: In “Given-Taken,” there is a choreography where I dance with SUNGHOON and JUNGWON while singing, “That light burned me.” At first, I wasn’t given the center position. The parts get finalized after all the members try out different positions. The three of us practiced the choreography after our parts were confirmed, but it wasn’t easy because of the difference in our energy and style. And because SUNGHOON and JUNGWON trained longer than I did, I had to make up for my shortcomings. It was hard at first, but we practiced over and over again and got it right in the end.

Your deep voice sounds attractive in that part.

SUNOO: HEESEUNG’s part was all about gently starting off the song, and in my part that came right after, the key was to signal the change of mood. The producer emphasized that it needed to be intense. So I tried to get rid of my usual soft tone and sing with as much power as possible when we were recording. And the deep voice was what we got in the end. (laughs) It was relatively easier to record songs like “Flicker” and “10 months.” But there were particular details to the other songs so I had to practice more to produce that exact feel.

After a lengthy preparation period, you finally met ENGENE online through the DEBUT SHOW.

SUNOO: It felt like I was meeting ENGENE in person. That’s how thrilled I was. I felt like my hard work was finally paying off with all the love coming from our fans, and I teared up thinking about everything I’ve been through. I was so thankful, and I really wish I could meet them in person. I took part in choir competitions and a dance club when I was younger, so I know exactly what it feels like when you perform in front of the audience. I was happy, but I felt the absence of our fans.

What is the first thing you want to do when you meet your fans in person?

SUNOO: I think I’m going to ask them how they became interested in me and how they’ve come to like me. (laughs)

I noticed how you looked for the fans’ reactions and responded to them quite often on V LIVE. Can you share some of the memorable responses or comments you got from your fans?

SUNOO: I remember the handwritten letter I got from a fan while filming I-LAND. It said something along the lines of, “You must be having a hard time, although you don’t show it on screen. I hope you don’t force yourself to look cheerful. I just hope you’ll be happy doing what you love.” When I read the letter, I felt that the people who are interested in me and think about me know everything about me. I was really grateful.

YWhat does the stage mean to you?

SUNOO: The place I always wanted to be on and dreamed of. Whenever I’m on stage, I feel extremely happy. Oh, I’m not sure how to put this into words. On the DEBUT SHOW, I felt the endorphins running through my body when we performed “Let Me In (20 CUBE).” Of course, it would be best if we could perform while hearing the cheers from our fans, but the situation these days just doesn’t allow it......

So the stage holds a special place in your heart.

SUNOO: Yes.

[supercasey]

Nomad of Nowhere Modern Twins AU Camping Shenanigans

I did this because I have fucking writer’s block and my new medication for my depression/anxiety is making me feel a bit sucky as I get used to it, so here, have some antics that I may or may not try writing/drawing sometime.

I’m gonna set this camping trip when Hunter and Skout are in high school (both 15) and Melinda is still in elementary school (9).

For context, Benjamin and Annabeth are absolutely nature enthusiasts- I mean, they built their own fucking house for crying out loud!- so camping trips aren’t all that out of place for them, but this time they insist that their oldest kids bring their friends from school along! (Last time they brought some of Melinda’s friends, they accidentally started a fire, and no one wants to relive that shit.)

Skout brings Toth, who’s nervous AF to meet Skout’s parents (she knows they’re pretty damn accepting and in a polyam relationship, but I doubt anyone’s all that excited to meet their significant other’s folks), while Hunter brings the Three Amigos, which of course includes Null, who he only just started dating in secret.

While Ben and Anna are really freaking hyped for the trip, Adrian is a bit less excited, as he fucking loathes outdoor activities of any kind (the family has countless pictures of them all together after a hike, and Adrian always looks close to passing out in them), but he’s excited to meet his kids’ friends!

The whole group road trips to a nice forest that they can camp in, but due to the size of their crew, they split into two vans: Benjamin, Annabeth, Skout, Toth, and Melinda are in one van, with Adrian, Hunter, Null, Santi, and Jethro are in the other.

The road trip is a fucking MESS; Ben and Anna keep arguing over directions (despite Skout offering her phone for GPS, also Ben can’t drive at all but Anna drives like a maniac), so they get lost for several hours.

In the meantime, Adrian’s van is loud AF, since the Three Amigos are a pretty rowdy bunch, and Hunter convinced his dad to let him choose the music, which is just Lemon Demon at top volume for several hours straight. Adrian is in hell and it’s Touch-Tone Telephone on repeat.

Thankfully, once they get to the campsite, things are looking up... except that Don Paragon’s family has their giant ass RV parked directly next to the family’s campsite, and Don brought Red Manuel along because his parents told him to bring a friend from school. Needless to say, none of the teens are happy to see each other outside of school.

Santi and Jethro almost get fucking lost in the woods at some point, but they end up finding a really nice little unpolluted lake to swim in when they do. They run and grab Hunter and Null to go swimming, and it’s fun until Don shows up and bitches about how since his family is wealthier, it’s his and (I guess) Red’s private lake to swim in (it isn’t), and how if they don’t leave he’ll call the cops on them (he wouldn’t).

During this rant, Toth and Skout finally catch up to the boys, and seeing Don Paragon doing his usual BS, Toth simply picks him up and tosses him into the lake, getting his fancy bathrobe and slippers soaked.

Don goes OFF, but gets cut off when Skout, who’s stronger than she looks, picks up Red and tosses him in on top of Don. Everyone laughs (even Red, though he’s smart enough to hide it), before continuing with their swim (though Don still bitches the whole time).

Meantime, the parents aren’t doing much better. Ben and Anna start engaging in a sort of “Parent Contest” with Don Paragon’s folks, trying to insist that they’re cooler parents/have better kids.

Ben vs Don’s Dad is a lot more hostile/direct, while Anna vs Don’s Mom is a lot more passive aggressive and soccer mom-like.

Ben: “Oh, yer son’s got straight A’s? Well mine can fuckin’ backflip ‘n clap at the same damn time! How ya like dat, Michael!?”

Anna: “Aw, Karen, your son is such a sweet boy! :) Remember the time he made Hunter cry, so Skout threw him off a jungle gym? :)) They grow up so fast! :)))”

Meanwhile, Adrian and the Paragon family’s butler shoot the shit over some beers and ignore their companions’ bullshit.

Despite all of the arguing earlier, Don’s folks are convinced that Hunter and Don are best friends for some reason, so they insist on doing a huge family cookout, which everyone else begrudgingly agrees to, if only because Ben is excited about eating free “rich people food” (which Adrian reminds him isn’t all that better than middle class food, but whatever).

In short; El Rey (Adrian’s dog) eats a bunch of raw hotdogs and pukes them up in Anna’s purse, Skout and Toth almost kiss but Hunter accidentally ruins it by playing his guitar right next to them, Melinda keeps sneaking punches at Don when no one’s looking because that bitch made her big bro cry a lot when he was younger, Ben accidentally sets his poncho on fire, and Null, Santi, and Jethro all get food poisoning from Adrian’s under-cooked hamburgers.

At one point, Nomad (Hunter’s cat) runs off after hearing a loud bang from the woods. At this point, it’s really late at night, and Nomad is a black cat, so no one can find him. Hunter goes into hysterics, as Nomad is his closest friend/therapy cat, so after all the parents go to bed, the teens agree to put aside their differences and go to find Nomad.

Don, of course, makes it about himself and insists he’ll find the cat first, and when he does, he expects Hunter (he makes a mean joke about Skout needing to do it for him) to give him a sincere thank you, and then an apology for his family’s horrid behavior towards him! With that, he storms off, Red Manuel hot on his heels but looking a bit... frustrated? How very weird.

Hunter is so freaked out, he just starts running through the woods looking for Nomad, but luckily for him, Melinda can keep up with him. She’s trying to get him to go back to the campsite, as he’s too worked up to be looking for Nomad, and after trying and failing to talk him into listening to her, Melinda simply sits down and fake-sobs, saying she’s scared. Snapped out of it by big brother instincts, Hunter picks her up and takes her back to camp to wait with her until someone finds Nomad.

Seeing as the Three Amigos are as sick as El Rey was earlier (oh dear god, did Anna flip about the puke in her purse), it’s up to Skout, Toth, Don, and Red to find Nomad.

Toth and Skout use the time to talk in privacy, discussing future plans and how this trip has gone. Skout is embarrassed, worried that Toth hated this trip/hates her family, while Toth is convinced she made a bad impression on Skout’s parents. It’s a bit awkward, but they manage to convey their worries to each other and have them reassured away.

During this moment, they end up in a nice little clearing with dandelions sprouting everywhere. Skout laughs, and says something about how although she thinks the Dandy Lion mascot at school is dumb, she’s always loved dandelions. Toth, in response, plucks the largest one and braids it into Skout’s hair.

Skout’s Honor finally gets their fucking kiss, since up until now it’s kept almost happening, but due to public embarrassment/awkwardness, they’ve held back. Now though, away from everyone, they get enough privacy to have their first ever kiss.

Of course, it doesn’t last long before Red Manuel pokes his head through the trees and asks what tf they’re doing. Both girls go scarlet, insisting it was nothing, while Red simply cackles.

Toth goes to punch him in the jaw, but stops mid-swing when Red, in a panic, holds up Nomad to stop her.

Both Toth and Skout are baffled, surprised that Red managed to catch Nomad. Toth, who’s never much liked Red, asks why tf he’s not trying to use Nomad as leverage over them, or better yet, why didn’t he give Nomad to Don so he could use the cat to bully Hunter some more.

For the first time ever, Red seems genuinely upset with Don, and vents to the couple that Don Paragon’s been an asshole to him the entire trip, and only brought him along to make himself look good in front of his parents. He goes on to say that Don ordered him not to talk in front of his folks, and although Red hated the very idea, he agreed because it was better than staying at home with his mom all summer.

Skout grows concerned immediately, and tries to ask about Red’s mom, but he clams up, insisting that Skout just take her brother’s dumb cat (who seems to really like Red) because he doesn’t want to listen to Hunter freak out anymore.

After Hunter is finally reunited with Nomad, he’s absolutely ecstatic, hugging his cat while dancing around with joy. Once Skout tells him that Red Manuel found Nomad, Hunter doesn’t hesitate to run and hug him. Red obviously enjoys the affection, but he tries to play it off nonetheless.

Don eventually finds out that Nomad was found, and freaks tf out about how he was supposed to find him, and that he was supposed to get an apology, dammit!

Toth fucking snaps, telling Don straight up that he’s a piece of shit and should just be happy that Nomad got found, to which Don says pointblank that he wishes Nomad had gotten eaten by a bear, if only so he could see that “R-slur mute’s” face when he found the cat’s remains. Hunter starts crying, horrified by the mental imagery, while Don laughs at him, calling Hunter a pussyboy for crying. Red Manuel, in his rage at his so-called friend’s terrible behavior, punches Don in the dick.

Don is Surprised Pikachu Face(TM), because what tf is Red doing? He’s supposed to be Don’s little yes-man! Tbh, everyone is shocked, and Red finally loses his shit, shouting that Don is an awful fucking friend, and that he resents even knowing him.

((Me? Craving a future Red Manuel Redemption Arc(TM) almost as much as Season 2 of NoN? It’s more likely than you think.))

By now, the parents start waking up, and Don’s dad asks his son what’s going on. Smirking, and with his back turned to his father, Don says that Red is going to be going home with Hunter’s family, as he believes he’s about to strand Red in the wilderness as payback.

Red is freaked out, and makes to beg for Don’s forgiveness, when Skout outright confirms that yes, Red is coming with them, because Red is their friend!

Don is shocked again, but his parents just shrug and tell everyone to go back to bed. Adrian and Ben (the only ones who woke up, because Anna’s a heavy sleeper) are confused, but when Skout tells them that Red needs a ride later, they just shrug and say something like “Eh, what’s one more fucking kid?”

Red is nervous as fuck the next morning, still reeling over what he said to Don, but everyone (even the Three Amigos, who are all still pretty sick) assure him that he did the right thing.

Ben, Anna, and Adrian agree to pack up a bit early that morning, on account of the Paragon family terrorizing them, the Three Amigos getting sick, and almost losing Nomad. However, to make up for the short and crazy trip, they offer to host a slumber party at their house for all the teens, which everyone is on-board with.

Red’s a bit hesitant to agree, and says they can just drop him off near his place and he can leave them be, but Ben, sensing the kid’s anxiety, assures him that he’s welcome to stay with them for the night. After Skout tells him the same thing (with Hunter nodding in agreement), Red agrees, and has an awesome time with everyone!

At the start of the next school year (sophomore year/10th grade), Red Manuel goes back to hanging out with Don Paragon, but he’s noticeably less mean to the twins, and even gets caught helping Hunter pick up his books a few times when Don knocks them out of his hands in the hall.

Sorry, this kinda ended up as more of an “I love Red Manuel, or at least, my characterization of him” rant, but oh well, I hope y’all like my dumb rambling anyways!

[rowanfoster]

{ odeya rush ♔ twenty-three ♔ she/her } well, well, well if it isn’t rowan foster running around peach hollow. legend has it, she comes from tangerine towers and has lived here her entire life. if you’re wondering what she’s been up to, i hear she’s a make up artist / freelance musician for a living. she has been known to be impulsive yet insightful. a word of advice to her, always look over your shoulder. you never know who is watching.

why yes, it is i, admin kim, with another character that should’ve been kept in the drafts of my mind. if you’ve not met daysia or serenity, here’s a lil low down on me. i’m 26, i use she/her pronouns, and live on the east coast. i thrive on writing angst and my animal crossing villagers being happy. also caffeine. i luv chris klemens. most likely to have a mental breakdown on twitter. meet rowan! trigger warnings for mental illness, bipolar disorder specifically, and inpatient treatment

have a playlist and a pinterest board dedicated to her

rowan celeste foster was born may 27th, 1996. she’s the oldest of two, a baby sister coming to the scene in 1999.

her family is extremely close. they’ve been in peach hollow their whole lives. she grew up in a crowded house on blueberry boulevard, crammed in with her mother, father, sister, maternal grandmother and maternal grandfather. rowan never knew peace or privacy growing up – it just wasn’t possible with that many people which has really contributed to her somewhat isolated adulthood

her mother is a charge nurse at peach hollow general, working on the emergency room floor. her father is a retired car salesman. her grandparents moved into the house when her sister was born in order to help take care of the girls while their parents worked full time. rowan is especially grateful for their care, because she feels like she’d be a little more sour had she been raised by absent parents.

growing up, she shared a room with her younger sister. they told each other everything because they had no choice not to. they both developed an interest in make up and music at very young ages, but rowan particularly took to those things while maci took more interest in sports. when rowan was gifted her first ukulele at age 6, maci got her first basketball. they are polar opposites, but maci was the only person rowan really confided in as a child and an adolescent.

she’d always been rather moody. tantrums and fits were nearly unavoidable. her self esteem lacked before she even had a chance to develop any confidence. she was always the try hard, the girl who stood out because she was just a little different, the emotional one, the one the other kids didn’t want to mess with, not because she’d fight back, but because she would absolutely lose it. there were countless times where rowan ended up in the guidance counselor’s office, waiting on her grandmother to show up and bring her home. that was the beginning of their problems.

her mental health really started to decline in her mid teenage years. she spent hours upon hours in her room, writing songs, playing guitar, practicing make up looks – she’d go days without sleeping and snap at anyone who crossed her path. she got into screaming matches with everyone in the house, only to find herself crying in her bed for the next few days. she started missing days at a time from school, while her artistry thrive, the rest of her crumbled. her grades, all of it.

eventually, this resulted in her parents yanking her out of peach hollow high and putting her in counseling, which lead her to a psychiatrist and a diagnosis of bipolar disorder at the age of 17. while it made sense, she dreaded taking the medications. they numbed everything. her writing suffered, and while her moods weren’t swinging from the trees anymore, she feared that this empty feeling was worse.

she finished her high school diploma in homeschooling with her grandmother while maci went on to thrive in school. the attention shifted to her, and rowan couldn’t really blame them. she turned 18 and started performing in clubs, bars, and anywhere she could get in. ps her voice is a mix of bishop briggs & mary lambert. the thrill of performing to small crowds sucked her in. she began to gain an even smaller following on social media, mainly the locals following her. every once in a while she’ll book a show in atlanta and she’ll make the long drive just to sing in front of a bit of a larger crowd. she’ll gain a few followers from those shows, but this still isn’t her main source of income.

most of her money comes from the make up artistry she does through pop of peach. she doesn’t go in every day, but when someone has an event scheduled or needs their make up done for a dance or something, she’s there. she tries to spread things out bc she’s always late lmao and finds it hard to stick to a schedule

she was doing so well for a few years, even moved out of her parents’ house and into an apartment at the towers. that’s where she really found herself, made some real friends and built relationships that were good for her. however, she missed a few doctor’s appointments and was discharged from her psychiatrist’s office. she went off meds, and for a few weeks it was fine. when she ran out of meds, the next few weeks were okay as well. it was when every single drop of medication had drained from her body that things got bad.

rowan was missing appointments she scheduled at pop of peach. she was spending far too much time out at nights, giving in to alcohol for the most part. she tried not to touch any drugs, but drinking became a nightly thing. she’d perform, then spend the rest of the night partying with whoever she could find at the venue.

one night in atlanta after a particularly shaky performance, rowan found herself in a dark place and simply went into the women’s bathroom to calm down, but police say they found her laying flat on the ground, refusing to respond to anyone. she vaguely remembers the end of the manic episode, but it did land her in the emergency room for a change in mental status.

much to her chagrin, they admitted her overnight before transporting her to skyland trail, a mental health facility in atlanta. she spend about two and a half months there getting medications regulated and learning new coping mechanisms. she was discharged about two weeks ago and finally made it back to peach hollow and her apartment.

she’d lead everyone other than her family and maybe one or two other people that she was away on a musician’s retreat, but really, was in inpatient treatment.

she’s currently working full time as a make up artist at pop of peach and performing when she can, but doesn’t really go outside of peach hollow

fun facts & personality

rowan despises small talk. conversations about the weather or political climate don’t stimulate her and she gets snarky pretty easily. it isn’t that she wants to come off rude or unapproachable, but nine times out of ten, small talk is fake and she feels as though she doesn’t have the time or energy to indulge in it. ask her about the sky or some shit. she won’t shut up

she has a tendency to overshare,  aside from what’s been going on in the past few months. her lips are sealed tight about that. however, she’s open to talking about her mental health and is a big advocate for erasing the stigma. this makes rowan a very good listener and a huge supportive presence for anyone struggling. she’s the mom friend, and no matter what time of day or night, if someone says they need an ear, she’ll go to them. she knows what it’s like to be alone.

despite her past and her demons, rowan finds a way to put on a smile. it might often be snarky or sarcastic, but rarely is it insincere. she’s an empath and feels everything so very deeply, but can easily put it away when necessarily.

her apartment is her safe haven. she rarely has company. it isn’t really her thing. she prefers to go to other people’s places. she has her record collection proudly displayed on her living room wall, all the plants you can imagine, incense burning whenever she’s home, and a scottish fold munchkin cat named loonette after her favorite childhood tv show, the big comfy couch. she has hopes to get another cat named molly to match. you know, because we’re all clowns !

she takes great pride in her instagram. it sounds superficial, but often times, rowan will post a good picture and then link to her next show in hopes that somebody will come based on that. while she does have a passion for make up and a second instagram for it, ultimately, she’d like for there to come a time where she can live solely on the money she makes through music

catch her driving her old ass ford focus blaring 00s alternative, mainly fuckin paramore bc she’s heart eyes for hayley williams

wanted connections if ya made it this far!!!!

childhood friends – those who she’s known since elementary school. they’ve most likely watched her go through her many trials and tribulations in class. these could be acquaintances, close friends, or even a ride or die or two.

bullies – people who fucked with her through school. it’s essential that they’re on bad terms currently, but perhaps an enemy turned friend or romantic could be fun??

group therapy pal – this would be super fun and might entail the person finding out about her secret…. msg me for deets

exes – there will be a couple of these, gender does not matter. i’d like to find one that she was dating when she went into treatment and maybe hasn’t seen/spoken to them since they’ve been back, first love, high school sweetheart?? omg possibilities are endless

flirtationship – self explanatory, gender doesn’t matter she’s pan

any other ideas literally lmk!! thanks for reading ♥

[selinavizari]

A Night Out With The Girls Becomes Much More

Content: PG-13, Kissing, Flirty, SFW

Word Count:  2172

This wintry night was buzzing with energy. Usually, my body tenses to expect the cold winds but not tonight. My outfit was inappropriate for this season but I didn’t care. This look had been sitting in my closet for weeks begging me to take her out for a spin. It was an all black ensemble. Leather biker jacket and leggings. The long sleeved cotton crop top revealed my mid drift. My Doc Martens secured my feet so I could dance the night away with ease. This week has been mind-numbing and I needed to blow off some steam.

My girlfriends and I met up at my apartment to get prepared for tonight’s activities. Ana and Simone are the best friends a girl can ask for. We’ve known each other since freshmen year in high school. In our group chat, we all needed an escape from our 9 to 5 hellhole. We aided each other to make sure that our trio were serving looks to kill. When we had decided that appearances were flawless - the pre game session commenced. I turned on my favorite nostalgic playlist. The air had the sweet blends of hair product and body sprays. There was a slight smoky aroma because of Ana’s flat iron. Laughter erupted after we shared a joke after another reminiscing on the good old days. I almost forgot that we had plans to go to that new club in the city. I turned down the speakers. They quieted down and offered me their full attention. “Let’s order this uber before it starts getting expensive.” Simone nodded, “You right. Can’t wait to check out this spot!” 

Once inside the Uber, I realized that I was quite tipsy. My cheeks flushed and I couldn’t stop giggling at my friend’s antics. This night was off to a fabulous start. When we arrived, I noticed there was a long line from the entry. I frowned at the thought that we'll be standing outside longer than I cared to but that didn’t bring me down from my high. We stood huddled around each other and tried to make the best of it. We even made friends with folks on the line with us. I wrapped my arms around myself when the wind began to pick up. This crop top was beginning to feel like a bad idea and I could feel myself sobering up. When we were at the front of the line, the bouncer took a quick look at us and nodded his head towards the entrance. It was him giving us the green light to get our freezing asses inside. “Wooo!” I cried out. “Finally!” We hurried inside and grinned at each other.  Warmth returned to my body as I rubbed my hands together. This establishment was massive. Their were two bars with a dance floor in the middle. The floor was translucent and brilliant LED lights flashed in sync with the music the DJ had on rotation. The sea of people were all gyrating against each other. The multi colored lights illuminated their bouncing silhouettes making them appear ethereal. We strutted our way to the bar and ordered margaritas. A few rounds later...in the very corner of my eye… I thought I spotted Taron a few seats away from me. I look down into my my empty glass and shook my head. My finger pressed against the salt that trailed around the rim of glass. No way. Nope. That can’t be him. It has to be the alcohol. My curiosity peaked. I had to be sure. At the moment, Ana and Simone were busy debating each other about whether “size matters or not”. I leaned toward the bar to look over once again. We locked eyes. He smiled right at me. My eyes widen. Yikes. I jolted right back to hide behind the person who sat next to me. I became hyper aware of my appearance. My posture straightened up and I fussed with my hair. Then I started to adjust the collar in my leather jacket. I can’t believe he caught me staring at him. The girls notice my sudden change in demeanor. Ana asked, “You okay?” I blurted out without catching my breath, “I’m fine. Everything is fine. Why would I not be fine? I’m going to order another drink. Hey barkeep! Can I get long island iced tea?” I was jittery all over and focused on observing the bartender working his magic. Ana looked back at Simone and shrugged. “When you’re ready to tell me what’s going on I’m right here.” She chided. I love tapped her on the chin. “I’m good. Feeling good. Looking good. This place rocks. Annnnddd there's my drink!” I shimmied my shoulders as the bartender placed the iced tea right in front of me. I wanted to tell them who I saw but I didn’t want to draw any attention towards him. That could ruin his own night out. We chatted further while we sipped our tasty mixed drinks. The liquid courage flowed through my bloodstream. The leather jacket was becoming a nuisance. I yanked it off. I grabbed my friends by the wrists and we paraded our way to the dance floor. I found an open area and we started to rock our bodies to this infectious rhythm. I shut my eyes and lost myself in the music. I twirled around and flipped my hair. Sweat was forming on my forehead and back. My stress was melting away and it was exhilarating. I broke into a frenzy and moved with even more vigor. This DJ was on fire! I felt a hand tap my shoulder that broke my trance. Taron. A crooked smirk on his face. He leaned in to whisper in my ear. “May I dance with you?” I nodded my head coyly and he leaned in even closer. He placed his hands on my hips and followed my lead. My heart was pounding. Was this happening? I felt the soft texture of his t-shirt graze against my exposed lower back. I knew I was swaying apprehensively. Nervousness took over. Taron leaned into my ear again and whispered, “You don’t have to slow down for me. I can keep up.” I picked up the pace and he grinded right along with me. Ana and Simone took notice and gave me a not-so-subtle thumbs up. I chuckled, rolled my eyes and waved them off. We continued to let our bodies speak to each other. The friction between my slick smooth leggings and his denim jeans was thrilling. It made me wonder what’s underneath those jeans. I decided to take things a little further. I bent over and turned backed to looked at his reaction. He was completely focused on gyrating against me and bit his lip. He pulled me back up so we could be closer and wrapped his powerful arm around my waist without missing a beat. His strength startled me. I turned around so that we were eye to eye. My arms were around his neck and his face brushed past my own - a slight stubble. “Can I buy you a drink? I can take you to the VIP section if that’s alright with you?” I could barely make out what he said over the booming speakers. “Ummm…” I turned back to see if my friends were close by. They weren’t. Oh boy. “I’d love to.” His hand trailed down my arm and held my hand. “I’ll lead the way.” We zig-zagged through the dense waves of party people. As soon we made our exit from the dancefloor we met a spiral staircase that was guarded by a burly bouncer. He stood like a statue unfazed by us walking right past him. Taron released my hand and I placed it on the railing. The music began to fade away and I could hear my steps tapping on the metal staircase. When we arrived to this deluxe area, I noticed that he lighting was dim and the air was much cooler. He placed his hand on my back and  gestured towards the seating, “Right here. These look quite comfy.” I sunk into this oversized maroon velvet loveseat. “This is quite nice.” I caressed the lush material. “Is there anything particular you’d like to drink?” “Yes, a margarita would be fantastic. Did you notice me staring at you?” My shyness melted away and I  held eye contact. We both chuckled. “Yes, I did. I got the feeling that you recognized me and then I thought you were going to tell your friends. That didn’t happen. You just hid away and then the next moment... I see you dancing your ass off having a blast. Do you always dance like that…?” I blushed and had a brief flashback of us grinding away. “It depends on who I’m with…” I smiled and rolled my eyes. “That pretty smile is telling me that I might be the right kind of guy....” His eyes drifted away and flagged down a waiter. “Can we get two margaritas, sir?” So formal. How adorable is that? He looks back toward me with his hands resting on his knees. “Were those girls giving you the thumbs up your friends?” “Yes, they are. I’m going to text them so they know I’m still here.” “Of course, I don’t want your friends to think I stole you!” He grinned. I pulled out my phone and sent Simone a brief text, “In VIP with hot guy. Will give details soon.” As soon as I hit send, I let out a deep breath and returned my attention back to Taron. Our gazes met. He had a pleasant smile on his face and those probing eyes were studying me. I cocked my head, “What’s on your mind?” “Sorry, I’m captivated by you... Where are you from?” We went back and forth talking about our hometowns. His eyes lit up and the eagerness rose in his voice when he recalled his younger years. He began telling me about his first time acting. I even told him about the silly plays that I participated in elementary school. That tickled him. I laid back into my seat and concentrated on how melodic his accent was. The animated hand gestures emphasized every crescendo of his narration. A natural storyteller. He wrapped up his anecdote and took a deep breath, “I’m sorry. I'm talking too much.” “It’s okay. I love listening to you speak. It’s like music to my ears.” “Is it? That’s nice of you to say.” He blushed. “Thank you for bringing me up here.” I surveyed my eyes around the lavish lounge. “You didn’t have to... the bar would have been fine with me.” “Oh stop it. It’s much too loud down their. I wanted to make sure we could have a little privacy. Also, it’s pretty nice up here.”“You are so right. I deserve nice things.” I responded in my finest elite voice. He reached over to hold my hand and placed a soft kiss on it. “Of course you do.” My heart fluttered. I took a deep sip of my drink. The warmth of his hands was disarming. I glanced down at my own hand thinking about the softness of his lips. It left this invisible imprint that I wanted to feel forever. “You’re so sweet.” I barely let out. “There's enough room over there for the both of us...Do you mind if I sit with you?” “Y-y-es. Plenty of room here…” I scooted over. Taron stood up from his seat and made his way toward me. I watched him intently and I placed my drink on the glass table. That hand was moist from the condensation and I wiped my hand on the love seat arm. He sat back and reached his arm over. “...Here we are.” “Yes, we are...” I exhaled.  My hand rested on his lap and my eyes stayed there. This was different from being on the dance floor. This was intimate. “Did you enjoy your drink?” 

“It was quite delicious.” Our voices became hushed. I felt as if the club was completely empty. Him and I. His cologne was intoxicating and my eyes trailed upwards from his arm… to his neck and jawline... to stare at those lips. He raised his hand and I felt his fingers adjust the hair from my eyes. He murmured, “Can I kiss you?” His question broke me out my trance. “Hell yes.” Our lips locked. It started off sweet and innocent. I kicked it up a notch and massaged my tongue on his. He pulled me closer. I felt his hands up and down my back. We were in throes of passion. The patrons there were definitely watching and I pulled back. I noticed a woman with a shocked expression whisper to her friend. We couldn’t stop grinning at each other. He reached his arm around my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “Do you want to continue this session at my place?” “Hell yes.”  

Part 2? O_O 

[memorylang]

Meeting My Mongol Host Family | #40 | July 2020

As the second of my summer 2019 throwback trilogy, this time I detail experiences in rural Mongolia. As with my first summer throwback, these events took place in between summer adventures I’d shared last year. You can dive straight into the new stuff or read the past stories here: first weeks in Mongolia, comparisons to previous travels in Asia, my 22nd birthday and a trip to the capital and day-in-the-life moments. 

Ceremonial Greetings for Foreigners in Mongolia

By my second week of June 2019, I've moved in with a Mongolian host family. We live in northern-central Mongolia’s Номгон /Nomgon/, a tiny town, home to only 2200 people. The town sits on one side of a two-lane paved road linking provinces. Across the road stands a fairly lone mountain, also named Номгон. Women aren’t to climb it, which is common for more sacred mountains. A large expanse of idyllic alternating crop fields spread between the road and the mountain, which has a Soviet train track before it. 

Besides the picturesque fields, rails and peak visible in the distance, my town’s main feature is its box-shaped two-story school building. I think Soviets built it when they partially developed this area in the 1970s, but it’s painted lime green now. My fellow few Peace Corps Trainees in this town and I spend most of our days at school. 

I spend extra time around our school, too, since my host parents work there. In fact, I first met them at school. When my fellow Trainees and I first arrived, we experienced ceremonial greetings with our host parents. 

The sunny Saturday, June 8, my training cluster mates and I disembark our compact yellow bus to a small concrete area in front of the school. Here we find identically costumed children of all ages performing in unison for us. Mongolian families stand around the perimeter, watching. As our Resource Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) would explain to us, Mongolian events always begin first with a series of song and dance performances.

The children dress in bright-colored traditional outfits. During one performance, a group in yellow with cyan play traditional stringed instruments. In another performance, dancers in seemingly pink with white for girls and green with white for boys perform moves reminiscent of traditional activities in Mongolia’s nomadic culture. After the performances, we hear a welcome speech from the school director (Mongolia’s equivalent of a principal). Then we follow inside our Resource PCV and a Mongolian we’ll later learn is one of our teachers. 

My peers and I take seats at desk benches around the left edge of the room, with wide windows to our backs. Before us sit little bowls of candies and ааруул /ahh-roll/, lightly sweetened dairy-based nibbles. We’d learned just days before  within Peace Corps culture sessions that these are common treats with Mongolian hospitality. 

One by one, my peers and I get called to the front of a classroom for individual ceremonies introducing us to our host parents. Many host parents are young, around their mid-30s, which often sets us Trainees only about 10 to 15 years apart from them. My host folks are a tad older, though. 

I step up to the front and greet mine. They’re in their late 40s, though their skin looks more worn than I'd have expected. They present me with a long blue scarf of possible silk (called a хадаг /hah-dahg/), along with a bowl of fermented mare’s milk. The sour mare’s milk is called айраг /ai-rahg/, with its ‘ai’ part sounding like ‘apple.’ 

Anyway, I’m a klutz, so I spill the айраг on the хадаг. Thankfully, my host parents are humorous, kind and loving. They forgive my blunder, we get a photo, and I seat again. Afterward, outside, we heave my luggage from the Peace Corps bus to their car. On a bumpy ride in under five minutes, my host mom swerves between potholes to reach my host family’s tiny house. 

My Mongol Host Family, June 2019

Peace Corps counties vary in how they arrange housing and training. In Peace Corps Mongolia, we stay with a host family for three months in a rural part of the country before transferring to our two-year site, which is either rural slightly urban. There we live alone during our service. Some Trainees spend their host family summer in a Mongolian ger, others get a room in a house, and still others get a sort of shack on a host family’s property. I got a living room that had a lockable door, which makes it count as a Peace Corps room. My bed was a long couch. This is quite normal and lovely. 

Although in English, I’d be the host son of my host family, in Mongolian, I’m the American son of my Монгол /Mongol/ family. So I’ll just call my host parents my Mongol parents instead. Dad translates to “аав” /ahhv/ while Mom is “ээж” /ehhj/. 

My Mongol аав /ahhv/ is rather thin and shorter than me. He works as the local school's жижүүр /jee-JURE/. Translated as "steward," his job crosses between watchman, desk attendant and handyman. I see him some mornings on my way past his simple desk while walking to my language classroom. 

My Mongol ээж /ehhj/ is a much stronger and bigger person than my Mongol аав. She teaches elementary school students. She's one of the few people in town to own a vehicle, so on rainy days she sometimes drives me to school, letting me skip my five-minute walk. 

Like many vehicles in Mongolia, though, this one’s a fairly compact one from Korea. Opposite of America, the driver's seat is on the right side of the car. Despite this difference, drivers in Mongolia still drive on their roads’ right sides. Again, this is fairly common. 

Besides my host parents, I also have host siblings. Younger siblings, regardless of gender, translate to “дүү” /dew/ in Mongolian. We also call both our younger host cousins and other younger children we address, “дүү” /dew/. To identify genders, we use Mongolian’s equivalent of “male дүү” and “female дүү.” Neat! 

Anyway, within my host family, I have a rebellious 20-year-old male дүү and a mysterious 17-year-old female дүү. The teenage sister darts from sight my first weekend here. But, with Google Translate’s help, my college-aged brother explains she’s really shy. I hope she’ll open up. I also have a Mongol cousin I assume is somewhere between 11 and 12 years old. This дүү is energetic like me and ostensibly fearless, so he takes me on adventures before his return the city, mid-summer. 

Rad Culture Quirks, June 2019

My energetic дүү came to greet my Peace Corps neighbor and me on our walk home from our first day of school. Along the way, my дүү kept making this neck slit motion with his finger, all excited. I felt perplexed. 

Moments after I get home, I learn my host family’s brought a live goat or lamb to be cooked this evening for the ceremonial meal. Those intestines sure take getting used to, but I persevere. I later learn from my local teachers that my host family felt ecstatic that I tried everything! 

As weeks go by, my cohort peers and I get used to seeing the occasional animal skulls and severed hooves in the dirt our walks around town. I find these less exciting than the time we saw, from our Peace Corps bus windows, a herder in the grassy hills guide animals by offroading a Prius. Usually, we’ll see herders riding motorcycles or simply horses when they’re not on foot. Mere days before, an American Peace Corps Mongolia staff member warned us we’d witness Mongolians with a Prius do things we’d never seen. 

Anyway, the bus rides were just for transit between cities. For much of our training, we stick to our towns. 

In town, among the first features I notice is the abundance of teeny brownish birds that hop about then move like a cloud. My host mom calls them something like ‘bolchimer.’ But, Googling “бөлчимэр шуувууд” gets me nowhere. Perhaps they’re Eurasian wrens. I often see them during mornings while praying my rosaries. 

My host family and local teachers really respect my time for spiritual practices. These help center me amid changing conditions. Often, when locals ask what I do in my free time, I say I pray and journal. Indeed, I often keep a rosary on me during the day. My host family started assuming if I was alone in my room, I was probably praying. That felt nice. 

A Chinese-American in Mongolia

After Mongolians learn a bit about me, they tend to regard me as an Asian-American, who just happens to speak Chinese, to have been to China and to have family there. 

I notice a slight disconnect about me being ethnically Chinese. Evidently, I don’t look too obviously one ethnicity or another. I later read that Mongolians had traditionally held nationality solely in terms of the father’s side. In that sense, I’d be entirely American. 

I also share photos from an album I’ve filled of my American and Chinese families, close friends, student life and travels. Every photo including a friend who’s female and Asian, they take her to be my girlfriend. Alas, I’m not that special. 

To avoid possibly problematic situations, though, I only discuss my ethnicity, religion and politics when locals ask. (They really want Andrew Yang to win the election.) That said, since I mention I’m Catholic, some Mongolians would me ask about Biblical stories, usually from a literary standpoint. I’m happy to oblige. Though, I'm often more curious about Mongolian practices, such as the respecting of stone pile shrines I see atop mountains. I love learning from locals.

At last, I’ve a few stories to share from host family life and the countryside! Hopefully, you get some laughs and clearer ideas of how I spent my summer with limited internet. It felt quite memorable! Prepare for the outdoors. 

The Boy on His Horse, June 2019

Before I left the States, my thesis mentor said Mongols are very resourceful and resilient. Peace Corps staff told us, as Volunteers, we must be likewise. 

On the last day of June, my host family had taken me on a weekend trip to the countryside, where they introduced me to family friends who live in white dome-shaped gers (yurts) as herders. As we drove to leave, though, our car got stuck in the marshy mud. We tried using a large, firm log we found to push the car up. That broke the branch, but I found it a worthy effort. 

After a while, my host parents sent me and my teenage sister to wait elsewhere while they spent the remaining sunlight to haul their car out with help from strong locals. 

Nearing the third hour since we got stuck, my host sister and I were walking back across the marshes near sunset. As we walked, a younger Mongolia boy on his horse was chatting with my дүү. His family had been helping ours dig out the car. 

I didn’t understand most of their conversation until the boy on his horse asked where I'm from. My host sister and I replied America. He seemed surprised I spoke Mongolian, so I said my usual qualifier, "жоохон жоохон" /jaaw-hawn/ (only a little). 

Then then boy asked my host sister whether I was something like, "Хятад-Америк хүн" /Hyatad-Amerik hoon/. I hadn’t heard this phrase before. It seemed to me something like “Chinese-American.” 

My дүү shook her head and replied she didn't know. I felt confused. For three weeks, we’d known each other. Shouldn’t she know? I wondered, maybe she was just covering for me. After all, many Mongolians despise Chinese people. Peace Corps generally advises us not to bring up being Chinese. But, my day felt long, and I didn’t feel like hiding. 

So I smiled to the boy and replied, "Тийм" /teem/, I am. 

And the boy on his horse didn’t seem too surprised. I felt relieved. A local had for the first time recognized my mixed ancestry on sight—And no harm came. 

During late July, my Mongol ээж /ehhj/ would explain to me that her relatives had lived in China (the Inner Mongolia region, I believe). That day, we shared stories about our families’ lives in Mongolia’s neighbor nation. I had a great host family. 

How to Bathe Without Running Water, Summer 2019

By late June and into July, I've grown used to bathing with my түмпэн /tomb-pen/ (washbasin). Here are the steps.

First, my host family or I start by boiling water with the electric kettle in the kitchen/dining area. We take one of many identical plastic stools and set my түмпэн basin on top. I’m usually set-up on the linoleum hallway floor serving as our house’s entryway. From here, I fill my түмпэн /tomb-pen/ basin with three or four pans of cold water from our family's barrel we cart refills into each week. 

By the time I’ve finished filling my түмпэн /tomb-pen/ with cold water, I've usually set my orange bar of soap, yellow shampoo bottle and blue hand towel beside me, on top of my host family’s semi-automatic washing machine. They used to have me practice outdoors, but nowadays they have me wash inside. 

Next, I take the water kettle off its heater and pour about three-fourths of its contents into my түмпэн. This cuts the cold water, making it go from frigid to warm. Then I retrieve a little cold water from the barrel for my rinse pan and pour in boiled water from the kettle to make the rinse pan warm, too. 

Next, bathing! I take off my shirt and glasses, bend down to dip my hair in the water to soak it, and cup water to splash over my arms. I lean over my түмпэн the whole time. Next, I squirt shampoo between my fingers, rub that around my hair, behind my ears and all around my neck. Then, I take the bar of soap between my hands and lather that down and up my back, up and down my arms, plus across my chest and my face. Afterward, I take my rinse pan and pour the warm water over me before drying off with my little towel. I used to be very bad at rinsing all the shampoo out. 

Shirt and glasses back on, I remove my түмпэн basin from the seat, set the basin on the ground, then I sit in the seat. Up next, I set my legs one-at-a-time into the түмпэн. I soak, lather, rinse and repeat. This part reminds me of Catholic Holy Week services when we wash each other's feet. I dry off again, dump out my түмпэн in the yard, move my cleaning things back to my room, then I’m done! The cycle repeats about three times a week. 

Capital Adventures, July 2019

During my cohort’s train trip to the capital around my birthday, I experience my second encounter with someone who suspects I’m Chinese. 

While aboard the overnight train, I was wearing my Chinese cultural shirt with the 漢 Hàn character on it, from my summer before in China. My Peace Corps peers and I were walking down the car to reach our beds. A child seemed surprised when my fellow Trainees explained I'm American, not Chinese—Neat experience. 

Unrelated to ancestry, I also enjoyed borrowing a few books from Peace Corps Mongolia’s lending library. These help me learn more about Mongolia’s vast geography. The one region I didn’t look into was a more urban place that I figured wasn’t on the table for our potential assignments. 

Besides borrowing books, I also got to hug Peace Corps staff again! That’s always a pleasure. I really missed hugs. Later that month, we celebrated with a cake to commemorate July birthdays like mine! 

And lastly from the capital adventure, my peers and I explored a Tibetan Buddhist monastery. Its iconography looked a bit too gory and sensual for me. Later with my host family in July, I saw a Buddhist statue in Дархан /Darhan/, the nearest major city, and found that one tamer. 

All things considered, my first capital adventures went well! 

Language Oasis, July 2019

Long before I felt integrated into the rural community where I trained and taught during the summer, I hadn’t realized how starved I’d felt from not speaking Chinese. Here’s a wholesome story. 

Since I came to Mongolia being originally considered for Peace Corps China, I spoke Chinese. But I worried—I heard many Mongolians dislike Chinese people. I’d probably few opportunities to speak the language. So, I focused strictly on trying to figure out Mongolian. 

At one of many dusks during July, my second month in Mongolia, I was playing volleyball with my primary and secondary students on our basketball court, while my host sister talked to her friends. We usually saw the same kids every night. But this night was different. 

One of my high school students, who speaks the best English, approached me with someone new. My student said her friend studies in Darkhan, which was why the girl hasn’t attended lessons I teach with my fellow Peace Corps Trainees. But, her friend studies Chinese. 

I had the most unbelievable conversation! 

I suddenly spoke Chinese again, with my student’s friend. But, I juggled Chinese with occasional Mongolian words, since they were top-of-mind the past two months. Then, when my student would speak, I responded to her in English. To the young children gathering around, I spoke Mongolian. (They asked if I was speaking Japanese, haha.) Wow! 

As for what we talked about, the Chinese-learning friend asked what I thought of Mongolia and the children. Mongolians usually ask me these. But, her Chinese skills surpassed many Mongolians' English. I felt relieved to speak my truest joys to a Mongolian who understood my words. I love feeling understood. 

The sun fell fast, for time flew. My host sister approached, handing back my language notebook and jacket, signaling time to head home. My student and her friend left with an elated trilingual farewell. 

I hadn’t seen those students since the summer. But, I never forgot their kindness. 

When Peace Corps Mongolia staff requested we Trainees write our placement preferences, I declared my interest in interest in using my Chinese skills, too, to serve Mongolians. The joy I felt being able to engage with that half of myself, I realized, could profoundly sustain me. 

Chinese Food and Mongolia, July 2019

Fake news tends to circulate Mongolian media about Chinese poisoning food and products sent to Mongolia. While there’s possibly truth to some claims, many feel reminiscent of fake stories spread across Facebook in the U.S. about Russia. Still, some moments in Mongolia reminded me of China with twists. 

My host family had taken me to Darhan to visit one of their friends and have delicious homemade soup dumplings with them. Then, they left me alone for a while. I noticed on the toothpicks label Chinese characters of my Chinese family's home province 湖南省。But, when I mentioned it, the Mongolians around me insisted it was Korean or Japanese. That felt weird. 

On a brighter note, sometimes simply the way I eat carries more Chinese tendencies than I once thought. For example, my Mongolian host family usually asks me to mix my food when I have a plate of many things. But since my Chinese studies abroad, I’ve usually kept things separate, as Chinese tend to. Mongolians also seem pretty surprised whenever I order hot water at restaurants, rather than either tea or cold water. Hot water, again, is more a Chinese thing. 

Mongolians even use the Western standard of forks and knives. They have sliced bread, in addition to rice and noodles. When Mongolians taught me the Mongolian word for chopsticks, they added that these are used by Chinese, Japanese and Korean people, not Mongols. 

The cultural quirks aren't problems for me, just observations. I figure most of these had Soviet influences. Food notions were among my last reflections about China during my 2019 summer in Mongolia’s countryside. 

Trials of Nature’s Commode, Summer 2019

This last story’s more for the gag, but it’s a Peace Corps staple experience. Welcome to the outhouse, among the first of many Peace Corps challenges. Luckily, I'd never lost a shoe or a phone like some people!  

Let’s zoom back to the morning. I’ve risen from the couch in my host family’s locked living room where I sleep. Unlocking my door and unlatching our house’s wooden front door, I’ve stepped outside into the pre-dawn morn. Thankfully, I've avoided the guard dog and crossed the yard to the outhouse. 

Most days, I simply knock on the outhouse’s metal door first. Then I open it to let the birds shoot out. (They used to spook me the first few times.) Then I enter. It's a long, long way down. At night, I cannot see the bottom. Over this towering chasm is but a plank. There is no chair. I stand aboard the plank while closing the door. The door doesn't lock, of course. If it's windy, I balance holding the door closed by its handle. It's only blown open once, but luckily no one was near!

Then I, as one would expect, remove the undergarments, assume a proper squat and try to take care of business. Thighs aching, I then rise from the business, toss my waste paper in a bucket to my left, return my undergarments, shove open the door (which often gets jammed), then I begin the journey back to the house, avoiding the dog and sometimes geese. Inside, I use our water dispenser to wash my hands—again, since we lack running water. But, it’s all doable. 

This routine gets complicated on mornings after rain, since the outhouse gets bugs crawling around. One morning, I saw both a daddy-long-legs and a centipede! At least the door stays closed better after rain since the frame’s made of wood. 

Of course, there are exceptions. Many Mongolian yards lack doors to the outhouses. Some places lack outhouses entirely. In those cases, we just use sand in the woods. Privacy is overrated, maybe. Just cover your tracks, and you're fine. Good times. 

Coming Soon: Language Today and August Throwback!

Woohoo! You made it through the wild times. 

I have one more summer 2019 throwback story queued, featuring host family farewells and Peace Corps Mongolia Swear-In experiences. Prior to these, I’ll catch you up on another round of how I’m faring amid COVID-19 in the States. I’m pleased to announce an exciting project! 

Till then, August 9 marks the birthday of my late mother. I’ll be reflecting as usual. Take care, friend!

If you’d like more from last summer starting out in Mongolia, see these:

Summer’s Peace Corps Training Months 1 through 3 | May, June, July, August

My First Days in Peace Corps Mongolia | #37 | June 2020

Refresh Abroad as Student and Teacher | #1 | June 2019

Meeting My Mongol Host Family | #40 | July 2020

Horses and Global Adventures | #2 | July 2019

22nd Birthday! Наадам, City and Countryside | #3 | July 2019

Typical Day in the Training Life | #4 | August 2019

Farewells for 2019 Summer’s End | #41 | August 2020

As always, you can read from me here at DanielLang.me :)

[workingontravel]

I live in between these places, emotionally

You can read a Swedish translation of the text here. I first met Elizabeth Ward at the festival ImPulsTanz in 2012. I vaguely remember being part of a conversation in which she said she had been living in a suitcase for years. Whenever I met her again after that, in different places around Europe, I kept thinking about her statement – what it meant for her to live in a suitcase and how she got to that state of being. With this project, I finally got a chance to ask her about that and about other things that concern travelling and work. These are some of the answers she gave me. Elizabeth Ward: I had stopped flying in the mid-nineties because it was so polluting. I’m in my forties now, but I grew up with discussions about transportation, justice and environmental sustainability in Elementary School. I grew up in a part of the US that had been countryside, in the South outside Atlanta. In the eighties, when my parents moved there, the whole metro area had 300,000 people. Now it has five million. It was a kind of urban development that could make a thirteen-year old go: “This is really bad.” You could just watch the way they were ploughing down forest and building these sprawling, stretching suburbs. Where my parents live, there are no buses. This is a legacy from a white supremacist legislator in the sixties, and a community that wanted to keep areas segregated even if the federal government told them they couldn’t. So, their way of doing that was through transportation. I remember a teacher said – with pride – that Atlanta hoped to be the LA of the South East: the same kind of vast urban landscape where you have to have a car to move. Then, on the news you heard about the smog in LA and the traffic jams. All these people feeling entitled to developing a city in this way, having these huge cars… I somehow connected flying to it. I’ve forgotten the exact comparison, but I read something, like, every time a jet plane goes off it’s the equivalent of travelling by car from San Francisco to Buenos Aires. So, I started to always take the bus or train.

The ironic thing is that I fly all the time now. It changed around 2002. I was living on the West Coast. I really liked my life, but I felt flying was a necessary evil if wanted to work with dance on a deeper level. People would come back from Europe saying things like, “You know, artists there, they don’t even have a second job!” Because of this, I knew that I would move, first to New York and then to Europe. Which is funny, because I hadn’t even been to Europe. So, this whole thing is about more than travelling for me, it’s about immigrating. When I moved to New York, me and the choreographer DD Dorvillier did a bunch of projects together. She had funding, good funding for being in the US. But she didn’t have the type of funding where she could rent a studio every day for four weeks and hire me for rehearsing all that time, so that I could cover my rent. She did have enough money that she could fly me to France. I could sublet my room, and we could work for a week or two, and I could get some amount of money that felt good, but it didn’t have to cover my rent. So, the two of us were living in New York City, but rehearsing at PAF (Performing Arts Forum) in St Erme. Some others from the New York dance field were doing similar things. You had to get creative to make working conditions if you lived there. One thing that could mean was leaving.

That thing about living in a suitcase is true. I was in Vienna performing in 2008 when I found out that my roommates and I had been evicted from our apartment in Brooklyn. We didn’t live in a rent-controlled building, and we were basically pushed out because the area was becoming more gentrified. That summer, the family above us moved out, and two NYU students moved in. They paid double, and the landlords realised they could get that. We were six people in our flat, but that raise was still too much for us. I just never got an apartment in New York again after that. And I didn’t have a base for at least four years. I crossed the ocean fairly often to get a stamp in my visa so that I could continue to be a tourist in Europe. If I needed a place to go in between projects, I’d go to PAF. And I was always carrying stuff around. There’s this balance between having all you need and not having anything so that you don’t have to carry it. I was always feeling like I failed in both directions.

I’m a nomadic-minded person. I moved a few times in my childhood, and also as a kid I was travelling a lot to see family. There’s something about moving that I just enjoy. I like how your understanding of things can shift when you realise that in different parts of the world, people do it differently. Simple things, like you don’t have to have a shower curtain. What I don’t like so much with travelling is living somewhere, creating a community, and then letting it all go, leaving for somewhere else and restarting it all again. When it comes to friendships, some stay with me but the majority just disappear. Not for lack of care, it’s just impossible. I get to meet so many people. That’s great, but when I’m always on the move it can get to a point where it’s oversaturated, like during the years in the suitcase. It’s a social sprawl, where sometimes I don’t even remember people later. For example, I ran into someone who was asking me a bunch of questions and I was trying really hard to place her, and she was like, “Oh, we cooked that dinner together at PAF!” That rang a bell but it felt really not cool to not remember. At one point, I was invited to a two-year project with a guarantee of money in Austria. That allowed me to finally get an artist visa, and it really changed my travelling patterns. I got a base in Vienna, didn’t have to carry stuff around, and stopped going to PAF. It just didn’t make sense to go there when I had a desk and a bed of my own.

I have continued travelling quite a bit, though. This year to Sweden, Belgium, Brussels, Romania, USA… I’m very happy for the international work. But something funny is that when I lived in a suitcase, I would have tried to find a place to stay in, for example Sweden, in between rehearsals. You know, a month or two: a short-time apartment or staying on someone’s couch. But now, the cost of living is too high compared to going back to Vienna. And I don’t want to stay on someone else’s couch now. It just makes more sense to come back in between. This weekend, I was away for just three days to work. So, in a way I travel more back and forth now than before. At first, I didn’t find airports relaxing. The closed environment is draining. It’s stressful to go through security. And flying dries out my skin. I’m neurotic about it, always drinking a lot of water. If I’m flying long distance, I always have an aisle seat so that I can chug water and pee as much as I want without having to disturb someone. I always have a moisturiser with me. For a while I had as a ritual to go to the duty free and look for the most expensive, fancy French moisturiser and put it on before boarding. Then ten years ago, I met a meditation teacher who told me airports are great places to practise because you encounter so many people that you don’t have any relationship to. Something is also intrinsically anxiety-producing in going through security and being taken up into the air and all this stuff. So, airports have become an interesting place to work on anxiety for me. They’re also interesting because they are this transit place, always kind of the same, wherever you go. Airports have their own culture. People go to sleep on the floor, take off their shoes. I saw a woman with a trolley full of suitcases that she couldn’t fit in through the bathroom door. So, she just let it outside, with her phone on top, in the main hallway. It’s like because she went through security, she had this idea that she was safe. Or like, people brushing their teeth in the common bathroom. These are things that you’re probably not going to see the same people do in a restaurant or in a public place.

Just the other day, I had a conversation about transportation and the environment with a friend who works at TanzQuartier in Vienna. She said programmers are starting to politically discuss the practice of just going wherever to see the opening of a show. And another friend told me she turned down the opportunity to go and play in Russia because she was thinking of flying and what it means. And now you are asking me about it. Five years ago, that wouldn’t even be a question. But the last couple of months, people have started talking about it. And it’s funny, because these things were always in the back of my mind. It’s interesting to be confronted with it now. It doesn’t feel so strong anymore. If I were invited to Russia to perform, I would probably say yes, even though I’ve been there before: for the pleasure of touring, showing my work to a new audience, getting out of my bubble.

You know, to take that step to do what I wanted when I was younger, I had to let the worry recede. Nowadays, I feel I have to travel by plane. Also to the US, still. I don’t want to just cut things with friends and family. I feel I live in between these places, emotionally.

It’s not about hanging on to everyone or everything. Now, when I go back to New York, for example, I contact less and less people. If you’re filling your schedule, you’re not leaving it open to what is coming up in that moment. And sometimes when I go back to a place, I’m too exhausted to open up past stories. This wouldn't happen with a best friend, but sometimes even if I like someone and think I want to meet that person again, I realise that I don't even let them know when I’m in their city. I still wish them well, but it can feel exhausting to open all those stories again.

It’s interesting what friendships stay, how they’re maintained. Of my old friends I’m mostly in touch with a friend from Portland who now lives in Italy. With some friendships, it also doesn’t matter how long it takes. I met a friend that I hadn’t seen in fifteen years. It felt like no time had passed. It’s sometimes a question of how one can reach out to each other, what technique is accessible. One friend from Paraguay I didn’t see in ten years. She kept on reaching out occasionally, but I didn’t hear from her in a year. Then suddenly, she sent me a photo of her farm via Whatsapp. Now she does that every week or two. That way of being social, via photos, is fairly new, I think. Our way of touring is also fairly new. An older idea of a tour would be that you have five cities lined up and you do things one city at the time. But the last years, if you get a show you get it whenever. And then you just pop back and forth. That’s the way Ryanair and other low-price companies have influenced the contemporary dance scene. It made this kind of popping around possible. The flight is so cheap that it stays the option. We try to maximise everything. I like to travel by train, though, if I can afford the ticket and have the time. Most of the time when I travel for work, I don’t have that time.

We don’t know what the future will look like. But I think we can never go back. We can only go somewhere where we haven’t been before.

[aas218guanhuir-blog]

Blog #4 - Family Migration Stories

Family migration stories are started by my eldest aunt as early as the 70s, I recall. In the mid to the late seventies, my aunt sought the opportunity of moving to San Francisco, the U.S. At the time, I didn’t know much about Canton but the only thing I know is the technology has yet been advanced yet, and it was the words from my mother who told me several times in the 90s. Maybe I think that’s the reason, my aunt who was fresh out of college at the time wanted to seek opportunities and establish a better life in a different country. As she foresaw the goodies in the U.S., she applied for immigration. By far in my knowledge, she was influenced by the other people she knew who came to San Francisco, she then applied and later successfully made it to the U.S. Hence my family’s immigration story comes. My aunt has successfully established her life in the U.S. as well as gotten U.S. citizenship. She spent hard work here in the U.S., then to marriage, and applying for her sibling’s immigration to the U.S. Which in the end, after an average ten years of wait, her younger siblings, we, are here today. Gratified.

About my family, my mother’s side as a whole, immigration application has already begun even before I landed on earth. As a little kid, really young about 3 or was 5 years old, I heard about moving out of the country from my mom. Though I was skeptical, it ended up being the truth. At that time, my aunt was in the U.S., established her stable life and met her husband. Back then, she came back to China to my house after the birth of my cousin, 5, for a visit and photographed a picture. What I see from the picture today is my first young cousin at the age I was being skeptical about going to the Gam Saan, San Francisco. I recall life was fine when I was little in the 90s, my parents’ living was considered stable and my grandmother was young too. My childhood was happy as well, however, I felt like it has ended by the age of nine and a half when I moved to the U.S. It was because of the new life I have to adapt to, school, the English language I have to learn and getting rid of my childish behaviors. It has eliminated the fun and I had to work on myself.

So in San Francisco, U.S., the first place I remember we first went to was Chinatown. My uncle took us there to see our community. Since I was little, I still felt like Chinatown was Americanized until I met my teenage years and learned more about Chinese culture. Then, finally, I could relate like lion dance, lunar new year, moon festivals, etc. I remember we’ve spent significant time in Chinatown when we first came here, my parents looked for jobs at the job assistance center while I had school in an elementary school called the Chinese Education Center. Getting back to the point, I couldn’t say my family’s situation was fine since my parents have struggled to look for jobs, employment was relatively hard at that time. My process of getting into an elementary school was long, too, which took up to three months. I felt like I’ve had a life-experiencing Summer at the three months. Besides my family, the other fellow siblings of my aunt have branched out in the U.S. too even though they have had also struggled for employment. Today, we still made it here. Despite the truth, as I grew older along with my parents, we managed to live through the harsh reality. From who I was to who I am today, I would say I’m a totally new person in the U.S. here. I feel proud to be making here. In the end, all thanks go to my eldest aunt.

- Tony Ruan

[wefiveguys-blog]

Blog #4 - Family Migration Stories

Family migration stories are started by my eldest aunt as early as the 90s, I recall. In the mid to the late eighties, my aunt sought the opportunity of moving to San Francisco, the U.S. At the time, I didn’t know much about Canton, China but the only thing I know was the technology has yet been advanced yet, and it was the words from my mother who told me several times in the 90s. Maybe I think that's the reason, my aunt who was fresh out of college at the time wanted to seek opportunities and establish a better life in a different country. As she foresaw the goodness in the U.S., she applied for immigration. By far in my knowledge, she was influenced by the other people she knew who came to San Francisco, she then applied and later successfully made it to the U.S. Hence my family’s immigration story comes. My aunt has successfully established her life in the U.S. as well as gotten U.S. citizenship. She spent hard work here in the U.S., later to marry, and then applying for her sibling's immigration to the U.S. More about my aunt, she hasn’t experienced financial issues when she used to live with her other four siblings, she has gotten a proper education in the family in China as well. I guess life for her in China wasn’t any bad back then, too. Except for my grandmother’s generation, who have lived through the second world war and the Japanese colonization in China. Luckily they weren’t significantly affected by violence. In the end, after an average of ten years of wait, her younger siblings which are my family, as well as my younger cousin’s families, are here today. Gratified. 

About my family, specifically my mother’s side, immigration application has already begun even before I landed on earth. As a little kid, really young when I was about 3 or 5 years old, I heard about moving out of the country from my mom. I honestly thought it was not true and been skeptical, however, it ended up being the truth years after. At that time, my aunt who was in the U.S. has already established her stable life and met her husband. Back then, she came back to China to my house after the birth of my cousin, 5, for a visit and photographed a picture. What I see from the picture today is my first young cousin at the age I was being skeptical about going to Gam Saan, San Francisco. I recall life was fine when I was little in the late 90s, my parents’ living was considered stable and my grandmother was young too. My childhood was happy as well, however, I felt like it has ended by the age of nine and a half when I moved to the U.S. It was because of the new life I have to adapt to, school, the English language I have to learn and getting rid of my childish behaviors. It has eliminated the fun and I had to work on myself.

So in San Francisco, U.S., the first place I remember we first went to was Chinatown. My uncle took us there to see our community the day after we arrived the U.S. Since I was little, I still felt like Chinatown was Americanized until I met my teenage years and learned more about Chinese culture. Then, finally, I could relate like lion dance, lunar new year, moon festivals, etc. I remember we’ve spent significant time in Chinatown when we first came here, my parents looked for jobs at the job assistance center while I had school in an elementary school called the Chinese Education Center. At that time, I couldn’t say my family’s situation was fine since my parents have struggled to look for jobs, employment was relatively hard at that time. My process of getting into an elementary school was long, too, which took up to three months. I felt like I’ve had a life-experiencing Summer for three months. Besides my family, the other fellow siblings of my aunt have branched out in the U.S. too even though they have had also struggled for employment in the first place. Today, we still made our stable living here. I admit life is difficult especially leaving home behind and start a new living in a foreign country. There’s a certain burden. Despite the truth, as I grew older along with my parents, we managed to live through the harsh reality. From who I was to who I am today, I would say I’m a totally new person in the U.S. here. I feel proud to be making a living and creating a new identity in the U.S. In the end, all thanks go to my eldest aunt who have applied for us immigrating to the U.S. I’m also glad that my aunt has caught such a great opportunity to move out of the country to pursue a new life.

- Tony Ruan

[sudsybear]

Allergies

Because I quit SubDeb, I suddenly had more free time. No Sunday afternoon meetings, no mandatory attendance at club events, instead I developed other friendships. A year ahead of me in school, Anna also refused to participate in Sub Deb. Our mothers were on the Life Squad together, and our fathers worked for the same company, carpooling on occasion. For a time, our parents were all involved in the local community theater group. Anna and I were thrown together so often growing up that by the time we were in high school, we were friends in our own right. So, while Julie and Valli and Erin were busy with Sub Deb Club, Anna drew me into her world and her friends. We did girl stuff together when other friends were busy.

 She pulled me into her own high school clique. Like any group of high school friends, “membership” in the group was fluid; we were spread over several classes, one to three years apart. Interests varied and conflicting family and social obligations changed the weekly gatherings. Even so, we were all close friends, running together, having fun, alternately antagonizing and protecting one another.

 Ross was friends with Anna and Heather. Victor and Heather dated and I was friends with Heather and Cynthia, Valli and Cynthia were friends, both were friends with Jenny, with whom David shared a unique friendship. Cynthia lived just a few houses up from Victor and Igor. It’s all muddled and very confusing, and however it came about, I got to know Victor and his younger brother Igor. Another chain of friendship links led from Victor to Igor to Christopher to David and hence to me. Trust me, we were all intertwined and interconnected, we were quite clannish. The gang of us spent a lot of time together; we all knew each other’s kitchens and phone numbers.

 Anna announced, “Let’s meet at my house,” word got around, and we knew the place to meet. Anna’s home was a then-contemporary mid-60’s two-story colonial on a cul-de-sac at the top of a long residential street. Older homes (20s, 30s, and 40s) flanked the street at the bottom of the hill, and as you gained altitude, lot sizes got smaller while houses got bigger and younger. We sat in the living room of her parents’ home, and laughed and talked, the television tuned to MTV or the radio playing. Her parents might be in the kitchen or family room, close by but not intrusive. Our discussions ran the usual teenage gamut, gossip, music, clothing, and what to do later that same evening.

 We worried about the typical Midwestern suburban teenage problems - who was going to the pizza parlor before the football game on Friday night, who would we sit with in the stands, where would we go after the game. Who was going to walk to Corral together. Who was dating whom? We knew each other’s class schedules, phone numbers, kitchens, and bedrooms. We gossiped and giggled with each other, teased and defended each other, and offered advice, solicited or not. Along with a dozen other friends in our group, we all spent time together and I allowed myself to be dragged into outings and events, and got to know the boys better – David, Ross, Greg, Victor and Igor. There were others.

 One night David and Christopher diagrammed the myriad relationships using circles and triangles and color-coded arrows on a sheet of paper. Who was dating who, who used to date and were no longer speaking, who graduated but was still around and involved with the rest of us however tangentially. And who were only peripherally connected, mostly busy with other activities and different friends. Word got out about the diagram, and people worried about where they were drawn, what arrows pointed to whom. The whole incident caused quite a ruckus and the diagram was secreted away - never seen again.

 Overall, we enjoyed spending time with each other in the dynamics of group dating. I liked some but not all the boys and wasn’t particularly exclusive. They were mostly fun to be with. And yet, at some point during the evening Ross and I left the house together. For Ross, allergies kicked in and he couldn’t tolerate being in the house anymore. Anna’s family dog was a large white Samoyed. (I know that’s redundant for those who know Samoyeds - what Samoyed isn’t large and white?) Ross was extremely allergic. I was either tired of the tears and teenage histrionics, or the loud music, or both, and needed a breath of quiet and fresh air. So, we left. Just walked away together.

 I tugged on his arm, “Come on, Ross, let’s get your head clear. You’re miserable.” And he followed along willingly.

 They were comfortable walks. We were companionable and supportive. Ross needed to clear his head, I could not tolerate the petty jealousies the girls had for each other over the boys and needed to remove myself from the situation. My patience with girls crying, “She stole my boyfriend,” was limited. I had even less patience for the, “She was mean to me,” comments. So Ross and I left. Just walked away.

 We ambled (perambulated perhaps?) along the sidewalk up and down the hill – long enough for his head to clear and for me to work off nervous energy. We talked about Greg and Valli (each of our best friends were dating each other), Anna, what he and Shari did together. We gossiped about other families we knew. We walked, ran, and laughed. We skipped along the sidewalk like elementary schoolers, enjoying the feeling – step-hop, step-hop, step-hop. Other times we danced in the starlight, spinning around and falling to the ground. He’d hock a loogie, spit, and I’d do the same, making him laugh. We laughed together – oh how we laughed! Sometimes, we found a comfortable spot to sit in a neighbor’s front lawn, or leaned against a known vehicle parked on the street, and talked for a while; places we dreamed of going, movies we enjoyed, whether or not the football team was winning or losing, which teachers we liked or didn’t. By the time we got back to Anna’s I could cope with the histrionics (which either escalated in our absence or calmed down and dissipated) and he could breathe again for a while.

 But Ross was two years older – already a junior while I was a young freshman. We weren’t interested in dating – never crossed my mind anyway. Sure, Ross was “cute” - tall, lanky, dirty blonde hair, smile lines accenting his lean face. His hazel eyes changed color with mood or what he was wearing. But I wasn’t ready for “older boys”. Instead he and Shari went steady, later he dated Sara, another friend of Anna’s. Instead, ours was an acquaintanceship – we never called each other on the phone, nor were ever in each other’s house, never passed notes in school. We saw each other within the context of “the group” and served on Corral Board together, but on different committees. He ran on the boys’ track team with Greg, Valli and I ran together with the girls. We shared seats on the bus and cheered each other on.

 The following school year, Ross’ senior year, my sophomore year, David and I played at romance. He and I became close friends within the clique. We were all so entangled I don’t remember who he knew or how he was connected to whomever. What I do know is that I spent my sophomore year solidifying friendships, especially with David. We were pals. We had fun together. We laughed, we danced, and we played. We thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. Our academic worlds did not compete, our social world was cozy and comfortable, and our teenage hormones complemented each other extremely well. He and I spent so much time together that friends finally goaded us into publicly conceding that we were “going out”.

 David is 5’6” in his Nikes. Lean and compact, you can’t call him wiry, but certainly he’s all muscle. More like a badger than a weasel. And why not? He rode his bicycle all over Wyoming for his paper route, and rode his skateboard down all the hills before that. Puberty hit, and while he didn’t gain much in height, he grew a beard immediately. He shaved it as a favor for his mother for his senior photo, but grew it back within a week. He wore his soft dark brown hair short and spiky along with his straight brown beard he kept close to his face. He keeps secrets behind his brown eyes. He has an ageless face; at age sixteen he could have passed for twenty-five and at thirty-five, even with a receding hairline he could still pass for twenty-five. Like me, David is a “youngest.” His older sisters were in school with my older brothers and without ever discussing it, we knew each other’s only child/youngest child position and the effect on our personalities – young, but old at the same time.

 David and I were friends first and foremost and I went along with him and his buddies, Christopher, Victor and Igor, and others when they were out and about. One Saturday afternoon the boys dragged me to the arcade. Some teenagers in the 1980s played video games on separate consoles hooked up to the family room television – Atari, Commodore. But these guys blew their money playing games at the arcade – PacMan, Donkey Kong, Asteroids, Space Invaders…we could blow $15 in 15 minutes.

 (Personally, I prefer the romance of pinball; a real ball with flippers controlled by springs. My grandfather was a pinball fiend in his day, playing at the lunch counter near the courthouse where he practiced law. My affinity for the real game of skill was inborn. Unfortunately, pinball games have gone high tech. These days pinball machines have computer chips controlling the flippers, the bumpers, and tallying the score. They’re all electronic digital crap controlled by a programmer long since dead of a drug overdose.)

 If the group didn’t meet at Anna’s, we gathered at Victor and Igor’s, goofing off in the basement until everyone arrived and we could leave together for our destination. Victor and Igor and Alex are brothers. The product of a Russian mother and Central American father, Victor was 6’ tall, white blonde with blue eyes and had that teenager slenderness that you might call wiry. He had a wild energy and a streak of vengeance that got him in trouble more than once. His “little” brother Igor was 6’4”, with dark hair, brown eyes. He was lanky, and not yet comfortable with his height. Igor had heart surgery as a child and the scar ran from his sternum around to his back. You noticed a slight deformity only when we swam together at the public swimming pool, but he was just Igor, so who cared? And Alex did his best to keep up with his older siblings. Just enough younger than Victor and Igor, he got into more trouble than he should have, and after his freshman year, was sent to a military academy for his high school years.

 The Morenos lived a couple of blocks over from my house. Like ours, their house was built in the 1920s and had relatively few remodel jobs over the years. The basement was dry, but unfinished. Someone put in a row of fluorescent lights along the ceiling. The furnace room and laundry area were walled off separately and a curtain hung in front of the lone extra toilet next to the washtub. It had been furnished of sorts with a musty rug over the concrete floor and an old couch. An old 1960s coffee table held our drinks and current projects. Victor and Igor and pals played Dungeons and Dragons amidst the cobwebs and must. Igor was enthusiastic about his Society for Creative Anachronism and made chain mail in his spare time. Sure, the basement was grungy, but the grunge meant we didn’t have to worry about feet on the furniture or much of anything else either. We had fun down there, listening to music, planning our weekend escapades, gossiping, chastising and teasing each other.

 As a group we caravanned with Victor and Igor and other friends in the “Grenade” (an old Ford Grenada – two-door, olive green with black vinyl interior) to play Frisbee golf. Yet another night a bunch of us decided we needed to see the new mural, Cincinnatus. The artist Richard Haas, recently completed his trompe l'oeil masterpiece on the side of the downtown Kroger headquarters in celebration of the company centennial. We weren’t quite sure where it was, so we spent an inordinate amount of time cruising one-way streets until we finally found it.

 There was a growing interest in teenage suburban male pyrotechnics. Victor, Igor, David, Moj and Christopher had been enthusiastic about burning gasoline, lighter fluid, kerosene, and paraffin wax. David built model rockets, and played with the rocket engines. Together they built an “apparatus” involving paraffin wax, water and gasoline (?) and set it off in the Moreno’s back yard. We’re lucky no one was ever seriously injured. Sometimes I’d be around, but when the testosterone levels got to be too high, I got outta there and found my girlfriends.

 After our adventures, or to end them, we drove to Skyline, one of several local chili parlor chains. The menu consists of two items, Cincinnati chili and cheese coneys; anything else on the menu is just a variation of those two items. The restaurant we frequented was located at the corner of Clifton and Ludlow Avenues, on the far end of Fraternity Row near the University of Cincinnati campus. It stayed open until 3 or 4 a.m. on weekends, and after the movie, party, or Corral event we often drove down to the eatery to satisfy our hunger pangs. We drove too fast down the hill to get there, under the highway overpass, across the railroad tracks and then we drove too fast up the hill to get there. We parked in the small parking lot and walked around the building to go inside. David ordered a five-way and medium root beer. I ordered a 4-way/bean and a large Coke. Whomever was with us ordered their own, and we laughed and giggled and flirted until our food arrived. Once sated, and finally getting tired, we drove too fast to get home, coasting down the steep narrow curves on the one side and racing back up the wide roadway on the other side.

b�� B

[outsidespaceblog]

Eating in Vietnam | A Travel Companion

By Antonio Perez

I’ve stood at the entrance to a Vietnamese kitchen and been told that Vietnamese kitchens are cleaned but once a year. With a laugh I was then beckoned inside. I have, in my notebook, the name for a Vietnamese herbal medicine that will, and I’m quoting an authority here, “Line your gut so the bad bacteria doesn’t get absorbed but everything else flows out.” In other words, I’ve had to imagine the chemical workings of an anal luge while eating crispy, fried pork bits served at room temperature. I’ve consumed so much pureed fruit with condensed milk that I’ve needed to skip dinner, but then had dinner anyways. I’ve sipped ultra-sweet nước mía from plastic cups that crumple when touched, and I’ve done this while watching chickens with slit throats dance until death on a sidewalk. I’ve eaten banh mi from vendors on bicycles, street corners, trains, and boats. I’ve tasted pork pate so fatly decadent that it induced sleep.

I now know that Vietnam is a country where no street food is consumed without worry, no fart is without risk, and where you become grateful for the ubiquity of the spray hose bidet and the perpetual humidity that softens toilet paper into a quilt.

I’ve eaten seafood grilled in an alley, sipped broth made from clam juice, lemongrass, and water and declared it the finest thing I’ve ever tasted. I’ve argued, many times, about why dragon fruit is a waste of stomach space. I’ve grown corpulent eating soup, and become laxative from excess passion fruit juice. I’ve tickled live cuttle fish until they glitter then eaten them thirty minutes later. Underripe fruit, I’ve learned, can be used as a vegetable, and vegetables can be turned into dessert. A sweet smoothie that people like, apparently, is a mix of flavorless gelatin molded to resemble seaweed, overcooked legumes, and slightly sweet coconut milk. I’ve eaten more banana cultivars than I’ve ever eaten, and during this time learned how to peel a rambutan so the fruit stays propped in its hairy shell like a soft boiled egg in a cup.

I’ve worried constantly about the location and/or existence of refrigeration, and I’ve tried, many times, to catch flies that are the size of jumbo jelly beans. I’ve argued with toothless ladies about how many donuts I actually want (their tendency is to quadruple your original order and then charge triple), and have been in awe of frail looking women who heft magnum fruit loads on the fulcrum of their shoulders like nimble Olympians. I have wondered how it’s possible to end up with soup after ordering by pointing to a picture of a grilled pork dish.

I’ve learned that a meal in Vietnam displays the country’s poetry, poverty, and richness. It’s a country that has utilized seemingly all of its acreage to feed itself: it’s carved up its hills, flooded its flat plains, laid netting into its rivers and seas. I’ve seen the night sea’s horizon lined with boats alight with green, almost neon, to lure the squids and fish that will be the next day’s market offerings. I’ve walked under trees that are bountiful with the green, pearl rounds of coconuts and the jagged, tumorous shapes of durian and jack fruits. I’ve shared roads with roosters and chickens that strut, even in dense, urban places, picking at the refuse that’s everywhere. I’ve decided that nowhere is every aspect of a food’s production and consumption more on display: from its growth to its transportation, bartering and sale, preparation and ingestion, all are in front of you, block after block.

Before Vietnam, I met Leonie. She’s no gourmand and is content with simple dishes. Nutella on toast is her favorite breakfast food. That or muesli. Or pancakes. She has a mild obsession with Cadbury’s “Crunchie” chocolate, which is unique to Australia and New Zealand as far as I know. It’s milk chocolate mixed with solid  lumps of cavity-creating honeycomb toffee. Kiwis call it “Hokey Pokey.” That I wanted my focus in Vietnam to be almost entirely food related might have come as a shock to her considering how we met.

Photo by Hiep Nguyen on Unsplash

Flashback to Raglan, New Zealand.

I sat at a communal dining table. Sitting across from me was a young looking blonde girl. Applying the vaguest of recollections here, she ate a meat and potato dish. My dinner consisted of two smashed avocados with salt. I know because she later admitted judging me for it. She’d arrived in Raglan, alone, earlier that day. She was the older sister to a rather tall specimen of a German girl who I’d seen lurking in the hostel library for a few days. This younger sister didn’t say much of anything to anyone, just looked like a bit of an overgrown elementary school drop out, equally shy in conversation, who haunted dark rooms. Leonie, personality wise at least, was the opposite. Physically she was splendidly blonde, daringly pretty, a more realistic St. Paulie’s girl with a perpetually youthful face. She was uncomplaining and possessed a cheerfulness evident when she was being pulverized by waves while surfing or while performing gymnastics with a German boy on the hostel lawn.

Our bonding took place over the next few days. I learned she and her sister owned a car they planned to drive north to Auckland on the same date I needed to get there. I guaranteed myself a seat through a mix of politicking the sister and bribing both of them with Cadbury. (I’ve written before about how friendships are made or broken over reliable transportation.) When Leonie dropped me off in Auckland, I said good bye and figured that was that. Two days later though, I was with the sisters again to explore the city, feeling a bit like a geriatric creeper since I was the eldest by seven years. The next day Leonie provided the necessary female opinion for some wardrobe additions, and when she dropped me off at Auckland’s international airport, I said good bye and figured that was that.

Of course, we ended up staying in touch.

It’s worth inserting an interlude to explain one unusual characteristic of the backpacking lifestyle. The one I’m referring to is the ease with which travelers end up pairing with other travelers, even ones they’ve just met. Backpacking condenses time. What would be months or years of courtship or bonding in the non-backpacking world compacts to hours or days. Part of this owes to the loneliness of solo travel. No matter how much a solo backpacker relishes the solitary road, for every affirming moment alone there is one when they wish they could turn to see someone sharing it with them. Many once in a lifetime experiences are shouldered by one’s lonesome, so there’s comfort knowing another person holds part of the experience as well. The remaining part owes to a backpacker’s transience. Beholden to no one, committed to nothing, backpackers can commit to any plan with ease. And, what’s more, backpackers commit. I’m thinking back to New York City, where people date or befriend by gerrymandering: hell no is the uptown boy that requires a three subway transfer to get to; fuck no is the DUMBO girl while you live Upper West; the girl in Hoboken doesn’t even warrant consideration. A plausible backpacker conversation is: “Hey, where are you? I’m going to Thailand next month, want to join?” “Cool! Doing Great Ocean Road atm, make it three weeks?” “Done. See you in Bangkok.” This is how backpackers find themselves in situations that an outsider would consider foolish, if not crazy. This is how I ended up traveling with a French girl who spoke no English, or wound up canoeing down a river with an eighteen year old Dutch guy.

Anyway, what I’m getting at is Leonie wanted one last trip before attending medical school, and I needed to leave Australia in order to apply for a visa. That’s how we ended up greeting each other with a hug outside Tan Son Nhat International Airport’s terminal. Mid-hug, the first thing I said was, “Did you leave your bag unattended?”

Photo by Jack Young on Unsplash

Most restaurants had closed by the time we arrived in Ho Chi Minh City (calling it Saigon from here on out, since it’s shorter and that’s what it’s residents call it.) We wandered until we found an open place with patrons. The restaurant we settled on, like most, was both inside and outside. Vietnam businesses don’t necessarily have demarcations: the city—its citizenry, its traffic—simply spills into them, laces through their patios, stuffs their interiors. Two groups sat drinking the warm suds of near empty beer glasses, the plates of picked fish and chicken carcasses were nearby in stacks. We were the only foreigners and had a seat outside on petite chairs that were more like square step stools. We delighted in making the Dong to Euro/USD conversion to determine we’d spent 80 cents a piece for our Tiger beers. The pail of ice that our waitress brought went untouched; we stuck to sanitary considerations like this for about twelve more hours. Soon, no stall served food or ice questionable enough for us to refuse it.

Ordering failed. Our waitress was all giggles trying to communicate with us before calling someone whose English wasn’t much better to assist her. She delighted so much in our differentness that anything we said put her into stitches. This wound up happening a bit throughout the trip, but this particular waitress had such a giggling fit that she teetered from our table and stood at spying distance, laughing whenever we made eye contact with her.

We spent the next three days sightseeing. Saigon isn’t keen on air conditioning, so we kept cool ducking into one of the city’s innumerable cafes, plopping under a fan, and drinking dirt cheap fruit juice. The summer temperature and humidity combo is north of 90 F with humidity between 90-100%. Yet the city acts as an ice plunge in the way it arrests your consciousness and shocks your senses: all during a moment you smell kerosene, exhaust, cigarettes, butchered offal, anise, ginger, broth. The smells don’t amalgamate, they inherit their own locus, yet to experience them is to sense them simultaneously. Buildings are inward pushing propositions, hundreds of bundled telephone wires cut up the sky, scooters and cars utilize sidewalks as if they’re passing lanes. The city is a 3D animatronic, and at the end of each day you feel as if your still being alive is a providential gift. Yet the vibrancy is capable of stopping with a snap. When rain comes in—which it does daily and heavy—movement abates. Sidewalk walkers crouch under awnings and motorbike riders pull over and wait out the squall or else cover themselves with ponchos. The city isn’t quieted though, it’s overlaid with wet static. And food—cooking and eating—is everywhere.

It seemed to me that most storefronts, every corner, and every other sidewalk panel was dedicated to the preparation, sale, or consumption of food. There was no limit to what an enterprising Vietnamese cook could do with the limited space they had. A man with nothing save for a gas burner, stock pot, knife, and wood chopping block, prepared on his sidewalk corner a stew of intestines that he ladled into plastic to-go bags. A woman on a bicycle laden with jars filled with opaque liquids, jellies, and tapioca pearls picked from each to concoct a beverage for whatever patron had hailed her. Money in hand, she’d pedal off.

By day three I’d convinced Leonie to hire a food tour guide with me. She’s not a particularly picky eater, seafood is about the only thing she won’t touch, but she’ll grant an exception if there’s enough butter. She agreed, and this is how we came to meet Vu.

Vu is an economist turned professional Saigon foodie. After a job loss he bent a life long obsession with Vietnamese street food into a tour company that caters to tourists. If you’re reading this for travel advice, which I don’t know why you would, because this is mostly an echo chamber for myself, the company’s name is Saigon Street Eats.

Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash

We spent the night on motorbike exploring labyrinthian complexes of back streets and alleys and sampling copious amounts of food: conch grilled then served in a downy butter sauce, scallops still on their scorching shells sprinkled with roasted peanuts and cooled with a splash of chili vinegar, pressed-to-order sugar cane juice with kumquat, bone-in poached chicken with rice noodles and slivered banana blossoms all tossed with a briny vinegar. The highlight was an alley seafood restaurant. Banquet seating extended into the street from separate rooms, each packed to the gills with drunk and chummy youths. Cooking was done in the street: an engineered cooking platform had on it six, round canisters stuffed with charcoal that seared the bits of cockle and crab laid on the grill tops above. By evening end I begged off Vu’s suggestion that we get banh mi to go.

I asked Vu whether I was crazy: whether most of Saigon’s stores and sidewalks were, in fact, utilized for food production. He chuckled. The food industry, he explained, is a rudimentary safety net. Since poverty is chronic, and Vietnam’s social security and welfare systems are too paltry to alleviate it, a person out of work generally has no other means of earning. The surest path towards meagre income is to buy a burner, portable gas canister, and some pots and dishes and start making meals. The success of these sort of endeavors has been dependent on two disparate realities: the first is the demographic and living changes that makes cooking for one’s self much rarer. Decades ago every age group and income level cooked. A woman’s worth, to some extent, depended on her cooking skills, and she couldn’t put a husband on lock without being able to prepare a fine meal for the suitor and his family. Then, with Vietnam’s mild economic growth, mainly in Saigon, came increases in real estate prices with small, barely tag-along wage hikes. Infrastructure and housing units lagged in keeping up with the city’s 2-5% a year population growth. People, especially younger people, were forced into cramped living situations, often sharing a bedroom with four or more people. Longer work hours and commute times became the norm. The result—less time cooking, more eating out. The second reality is Vietnam’s relationship with the ingredients that make the food. Freshness is paramount. The cornucopia of herbs and chilis put along side the most basic of pho dishes has never been inside a refrigerator. Even meat never drops in temperature after slaughter: at morning markets butchers hack into whole hog carcasses, the carved loins are left out on cutting boards or hung on iron hooks, and, when bought, tossed into plastic bags where they stay until cooked. The refrigerator itself is like a person non grata. Shopping then, by necessity, is a daily chore that people can’t meet.

“So you need to be careful when choosing a place to eat,” Vu explained. He stationed us in front of an older man seated at the helm of three iron woks. “You look at the work station to determine if it is clean, and you see how the man works to see whether he cooks his food fresh. That is why you see so much cooking out in the street, because Vietnamese people will not eat at a place where they do not think the food is being made fresh for them.” The man dipped the edge of his stir fry spoon into a container with oil and splashed a bit into each hot wok. He added batter, and as its edges crisped he whirled into its center a filling of mince and shrimps and mushrooms. When he folded each crepe looking thing into a half moon, he filled the newly half-vacant space with shrimps, onions, and mince that I realized would be the filling for the next set so he’d waste no time.

Sitting, Vu broke off a piece of the entree—in Vietnamese called banh xeo—and rolled it up in a leaf of lettuce after stuffing it with chilis and Thai basil. He dipped it in a rosy vinegar. “In my village we had food scarcity because of the Communist regime’s allotment practices, so we grew up on chili that was too hot because it warded off people who’d come to steal it from us. So I say my mother made us cry through her food because she put in so much chili. But that chili is the emotion of cooking. Vietnamese food must always have balance. There is bitterness, there is sourness, there is the pain from heat, but there is also sweet. This is the goal of Vietnamese food: to have all the emotions of life in one bite.”

Photo by Hiep Nguyen on Unsplash

Follow Antonio’s travels and writing on his website.

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[comfsy]

Eating in Vietnam | A Travel Companion

By Antonio Perez

I’ve stood at the entrance to a Vietnamese kitchen and been told that Vietnamese kitchens are cleaned but once a year. With a laugh I was then beckoned inside. I have, in my notebook, the name for a Vietnamese herbal medicine that will, and I’m quoting an authority here, “Line your gut so the bad bacteria doesn’t get absorbed but everything else flows out.” In other words, I’ve had to imagine the chemical workings of an anal luge while eating crispy, fried pork bits served at room temperature. I’ve consumed so much pureed fruit with condensed milk that I’ve needed to skip dinner, but then had dinner anyways. I’ve sipped ultra-sweet nước mía from plastic cups that crumple when touched, and I’ve done this while watching chickens with slit throats dance until death on a sidewalk. I’ve eaten banh mi from vendors on bicycles, street corners, trains, and boats. I’ve tasted pork pate so fatly decadent that it induced sleep.

I now know that Vietnam is a country where no street food is consumed without worry, no fart is without risk, and where you become grateful for the ubiquity of the spray hose bidet and the perpetual humidity that softens toilet paper into a quilt.

I’ve eaten seafood grilled in an alley, sipped broth made from clam juice, lemongrass, and water and declared it the finest thing I’ve ever tasted. I’ve argued, many times, about why dragon fruit is a waste of stomach space. I’ve grown corpulent eating soup, and become laxative from excess passion fruit juice. I’ve tickled live cuttle fish until they glitter then eaten them thirty minutes later. Underripe fruit, I’ve learned, can be used as a vegetable, and vegetables can be turned into dessert. A sweet smoothie that people like, apparently, is a mix of flavorless gelatin molded to resemble seaweed, overcooked legumes, and slightly sweet coconut milk. I’ve eaten more banana cultivars than I’ve ever eaten, and during this time learned how to peel a rambutan so the fruit stays propped in its hairy shell like a soft boiled egg in a cup.

I’ve worried constantly about the location and/or existence of refrigeration, and I’ve tried, many times, to catch flies that are the size of jumbo jelly beans. I’ve argued with toothless ladies about how many donuts I actually want (their tendency is to quadruple your original order and then charge triple), and have been in awe of frail looking women who heft magnum fruit loads on the fulcrum of their shoulders like nimble Olympians. I have wondered how it’s possible to end up with soup after ordering by pointing to a picture of a grilled pork dish.

I’ve learned that a meal in Vietnam displays the country’s poetry, poverty, and richness. It’s a country that has utilized seemingly all of its acreage to feed itself: it’s carved up its hills, flooded its flat plains, laid netting into its rivers and seas. I’ve seen the night sea’s horizon lined with boats alight with green, almost neon, to lure the squids and fish that will be the next day’s market offerings. I’ve walked under trees that are bountiful with the green, pearl rounds of coconuts and the jagged, tumorous shapes of durian and jack fruits. I’ve shared roads with roosters and chickens that strut, even in dense, urban places, picking at the refuse that’s everywhere. I’ve decided that nowhere is every aspect of a food’s production and consumption more on display: from its growth to its transportation, bartering and sale, preparation and ingestion, all are in front of you, block after block.

Before Vietnam, I met Leonie. She’s no gourmand and is content with simple dishes. Nutella on toast is her favorite breakfast food. That or muesli. Or pancakes. She has a mild obsession with Cadbury’s “Crunchie” chocolate, which is unique to Australia and New Zealand as far as I know. It’s milk chocolate mixed with solid  lumps of cavity-creating honeycomb toffee. Kiwis call it “Hokey Pokey.” That I wanted my focus in Vietnam to be almost entirely food related might have come as a shock to her considering how we met.

Photo by Hiep Nguyen on Unsplash

Flashback to Raglan, New Zealand.

I sat at a communal dining table. Sitting across from me was a young looking blonde girl. Applying the vaguest of recollections here, she ate a meat and potato dish. My dinner consisted of two smashed avocados with salt. I know because she later admitted judging me for it. She’d arrived in Raglan, alone, earlier that day. She was the older sister to a rather tall specimen of a German girl who I’d seen lurking in the hostel library for a few days. This younger sister didn’t say much of anything to anyone, just looked like a bit of an overgrown elementary school drop out, equally shy in conversation, who haunted dark rooms. Leonie, personality wise at least, was the opposite. Physically she was splendidly blonde, daringly pretty, a more realistic St. Paulie’s girl with a perpetually youthful face. She was uncomplaining and possessed a cheerfulness evident when she was being pulverized by waves while surfing or while performing gymnastics with a German boy on the hostel lawn.

Our bonding took place over the next few days. I learned she and her sister owned a car they planned to drive north to Auckland on the same date I needed to get there. I guaranteed myself a seat through a mix of politicking the sister and bribing both of them with Cadbury. (I’ve written before about how friendships are made or broken over reliable transportation.) When Leonie dropped me off in Auckland, I said good bye and figured that was that. Two days later though, I was with the sisters again to explore the city, feeling a bit like a geriatric creeper since I was the eldest by seven years. The next day Leonie provided the necessary female opinion for some wardrobe additions, and when she dropped me off at Auckland’s international airport, I said good bye and figured that was that.

Of course, we ended up staying in touch.

It’s worth inserting an interlude to explain one unusual characteristic of the backpacking lifestyle. The one I’m referring to is the ease with which travelers end up pairing with other travelers, even ones they’ve just met. Backpacking condenses time. What would be months or years of courtship or bonding in the non-backpacking world compacts to hours or days. Part of this owes to the loneliness of solo travel. No matter how much a solo backpacker relishes the solitary road, for every affirming moment alone there is one when they wish they could turn to see someone sharing it with them. Many once in a lifetime experiences are shouldered by one’s lonesome, so there’s comfort knowing another person holds part of the experience as well. The remaining part owes to a backpacker’s transience. Beholden to no one, committed to nothing, backpackers can commit to any plan with ease. And, what’s more, backpackers commit. I’m thinking back to New York City, where people date or befriend by gerrymandering: hell no is the uptown boy that requires a three subway transfer to get to; fuck no is the DUMBO girl while you live Upper West; the girl in Hoboken doesn’t even warrant consideration. A plausible backpacker conversation is: “Hey, where are you? I’m going to Thailand next month, want to join?” “Cool! Doing Great Ocean Road atm, make it three weeks?” “Done. See you in Bangkok.” This is how backpackers find themselves in situations that an outsider would consider foolish, if not crazy. This is how I ended up traveling with a French girl who spoke no English, or wound up canoeing down a river with an eighteen year old Dutch guy.

Anyway, what I’m getting at is Leonie wanted one last trip before attending medical school, and I needed to leave Australia in order to apply for a visa. That’s how we ended up greeting each other with a hug outside Tan Son Nhat International Airport’s terminal. Mid-hug, the first thing I said was, “Did you leave your bag unattended?”

Photo by Jack Young on Unsplash

Most restaurants had closed by the time we arrived in Ho Chi Minh City (calling it Saigon from here on out, since it’s shorter and that’s what it’s residents call it.) We wandered until we found an open place with patrons. The restaurant we settled on, like most, was both inside and outside. Vietnam businesses don’t necessarily have demarcations: the city—its citizenry, its traffic—simply spills into them, laces through their patios, stuffs their interiors. Two groups sat drinking the warm suds of near empty beer glasses, the plates of picked fish and chicken carcasses were nearby in stacks. We were the only foreigners and had a seat outside on petite chairs that were more like square step stools. We delighted in making the Dong to Euro/USD conversion to determine we’d spent 80 cents a piece for our Tiger beers. The pail of ice that our waitress brought went untouched; we stuck to sanitary considerations like this for about twelve more hours. Soon, no stall served food or ice questionable enough for us to refuse it.

Ordering failed. Our waitress was all giggles trying to communicate with us before calling someone whose English wasn’t much better to assist her. She delighted so much in our differentness that anything we said put her into stitches. This wound up happening a bit throughout the trip, but this particular waitress had such a giggling fit that she teetered from our table and stood at spying distance, laughing whenever we made eye contact with her.

We spent the next three days sightseeing. Saigon isn’t keen on air conditioning, so we kept cool ducking into one of the city’s innumerable cafes, plopping under a fan, and drinking dirt cheap fruit juice. The summer temperature and humidity combo is north of 90 F with humidity between 90-100%. Yet the city acts as an ice plunge in the way it arrests your consciousness and shocks your senses: all during a moment you smell kerosene, exhaust, cigarettes, butchered offal, anise, ginger, broth. The smells don’t amalgamate, they inherit their own locus, yet to experience them is to sense them simultaneously. Buildings are inward pushing propositions, hundreds of bundled telephone wires cut up the sky, scooters and cars utilize sidewalks as if they’re passing lanes. The city is a 3D animatronic, and at the end of each day you feel as if your still being alive is a providential gift. Yet the vibrancy is capable of stopping with a snap. When rain comes in—which it does daily and heavy—movement abates. Sidewalk walkers crouch under awnings and motorbike riders pull over and wait out the squall or else cover themselves with ponchos. The city isn’t quieted though, it’s overlaid with wet static. And food—cooking and eating—is everywhere.

It seemed to me that most storefronts, every corner, and every other sidewalk panel was dedicated to the preparation, sale, or consumption of food. There was no limit to what an enterprising Vietnamese cook could do with the limited space they had. A man with nothing save for a gas burner, stock pot, knife, and wood chopping block, prepared on his sidewalk corner a stew of intestines that he ladled into plastic to-go bags. A woman on a bicycle laden with jars filled with opaque liquids, jellies, and tapioca pearls picked from each to concoct a beverage for whatever patron had hailed her. Money in hand, she’d pedal off.

By day three I’d convinced Leonie to hire a food tour guide with me. She’s not a particularly picky eater, seafood is about the only thing she won’t touch, but she’ll grant an exception if there’s enough butter. She agreed, and this is how we came to meet Vu.

Vu is an economist turned professional Saigon foodie. After a job loss he bent a life long obsession with Vietnamese street food into a tour company that caters to tourists. If you’re reading this for travel advice, which I don’t know why you would, because this is mostly an echo chamber for myself, the company’s name is Saigon Street Eats.

Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash

We spent the night on motorbike exploring labyrinthian complexes of back streets and alleys and sampling copious amounts of food: conch grilled then served in a downy butter sauce, scallops still on their scorching shells sprinkled with roasted peanuts and cooled with a splash of chili vinegar, pressed-to-order sugar cane juice with kumquat, bone-in poached chicken with rice noodles and slivered banana blossoms all tossed with a briny vinegar. The highlight was an alley seafood restaurant. Banquet seating extended into the street from separate rooms, each packed to the gills with drunk and chummy youths. Cooking was done in the street: an engineered cooking platform had on it six, round canisters stuffed with charcoal that seared the bits of cockle and crab laid on the grill tops above. By evening end I begged off Vu’s suggestion that we get banh mi to go.

I asked Vu whether I was crazy: whether most of Saigon’s stores and sidewalks were, in fact, utilized for food production. He chuckled. The food industry, he explained, is a rudimentary safety net. Since poverty is chronic, and Vietnam’s social security and welfare systems are too paltry to alleviate it, a person out of work generally has no other means of earning. The surest path towards meagre income is to buy a burner, portable gas canister, and some pots and dishes and start making meals. The success of these sort of endeavors has been dependent on two disparate realities: the first is the demographic and living changes that makes cooking for one’s self much rarer. Decades ago every age group and income level cooked. A woman’s worth, to some extent, depended on her cooking skills, and she couldn’t put a husband on lock without being able to prepare a fine meal for the suitor and his family. Then, with Vietnam’s mild economic growth, mainly in Saigon, came increases in real estate prices with small, barely tag-along wage hikes. Infrastructure and housing units lagged in keeping up with the city’s 2-5% a year population growth. People, especially younger people, were forced into cramped living situations, often sharing a bedroom with four or more people. Longer work hours and commute times became the norm. The result—less time cooking, more eating out. The second reality is Vietnam’s relationship with the ingredients that make the food. Freshness is paramount. The cornucopia of herbs and chilis put along side the most basic of pho dishes has never been inside a refrigerator. Even meat never drops in temperature after slaughter: at morning markets butchers hack into whole hog carcasses, the carved loins are left out on cutting boards or hung on iron hooks, and, when bought, tossed into plastic bags where they stay until cooked. The refrigerator itself is like a person non grata. Shopping then, by necessity, is a daily chore that people can’t meet.

“So you need to be careful when choosing a place to eat,” Vu explained. He stationed us in front of an older man seated at the helm of three iron woks. “You look at the work station to determine if it is clean, and you see how the man works to see whether he cooks his food fresh. That is why you see so much cooking out in the street, because Vietnamese people will not eat at a place where they do not think the food is being made fresh for them.” The man dipped the edge of his stir fry spoon into a container with oil and splashed a bit into each hot wok. He added batter, and as its edges crisped he whirled into its center a filling of mince and shrimps and mushrooms. When he folded each crepe looking thing into a half moon, he filled the newly half-vacant space with shrimps, onions, and mince that I realized would be the filling for the next set so he’d waste no time.

Sitting, Vu broke off a piece of the entree—in Vietnamese called banh xeo—and rolled it up in a leaf of lettuce after stuffing it with chilis and Thai basil. He dipped it in a rosy vinegar. “In my village we had food scarcity because of the Communist regime’s allotment practices, so we grew up on chili that was too hot because it warded off people who’d come to steal it from us. So I say my mother made us cry through her food because she put in so much chili. But that chili is the emotion of cooking. Vietnamese food must always have balance. There is bitterness, there is sourness, there is the pain from heat, but there is also sweet. This is the goal of Vietnamese food: to have all the emotions of life in one bite.”

Photo by Hiep Nguyen on Unsplash

Follow Antonio’s travels and writing on his website.

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[rowanfoster]

{ haley lu richardson ♔ twenty-three ♔ she/her } well, well, well if it isn’t rowan foster running around peach hollow. legend has it, she comes from tangerine towers and has lived here her entire life. if you’re wondering what she’s been up to, i hear she’s a make up artist / freelance musician for a living. she has been known to be impulsive yet insightful. a word of advice to her, always look over your shoulder. you never know who is watching.

why yes, it is i, admin kim, with another character that should’ve been kept in the drafts of my mind. if you’ve not met daysia or serenity, here’s a lil low down on me. i’m 26, i use she/her pronouns, and live on the east coast. i thrive on writing angst and my animal crossing villagers being happy. also caffeine. i luv chris klemens. most likely to have a mental breakdown on twitter. meet rowan! trigger warnings for mental illness, bipolar disorder specifically, and inpatient treatment

have a playlist and a pinterest board dedicated to her

rowan celeste foster was born may 27th, 1996. she’s the oldest of two, a baby sister coming to the scene in 1999.

her family is extremely close. they’ve been in peach hollow their whole lives. she grew up in a crowded house on blueberry boulevard, crammed in with her mother, father, sister, maternal grandmother and maternal grandfather. rowan never knew peace or privacy growing up – it just wasn’t possible with that many people which has really contributed to her somewhat isolated adulthood

her mother is a charge nurse at peach hollow general, working on the emergency room floor. her father is a retired car salesman. her grandparents moved into the house when her sister was born in order to help take care of the girls while their parents worked full time. rowan is especially grateful for their care, because she feels like she’d be a little more sour had she been raised by absent parents.

growing up, she shared a room with her younger sister. they told each other everything because they had no choice not to. they both developed an interest in make up and music at very young ages, but rowan particularly took to those things while maci took more interest in sports. when rowan was gifted her first ukulele at age 6, maci got her first basketball. they are polar opposites, but maci was the only person rowan really confided in as a child and an adolescent.

she’d always been rather moody. tantrums and fits were nearly unavoidable. her self esteem lacked before she even had a chance to develop any confidence. she was always the try hard, the girl who stood out because she was just a little different, the emotional one, the one the other kids didn’t want to mess with, not because she’d fight back, but because she would absolutely lose it. there were countless times where rowan ended up in the guidance counselor’s office, waiting on her grandmother to show up and bring her home. that was the beginning of their problems.

her mental health really started to decline in her mid teenage years. she spent hours upon hours in her room, writing songs, playing guitar, practicing make up looks – she’d go days without sleeping and snap at anyone who crossed her path. she got into screaming matches with everyone in the house, only to find herself crying in her bed for the next few days. she started missing days at a time from school, while her artistry thrive, the rest of her crumbled. her grades, all of it.

eventually, this resulted in her parents yanking her out of peach hollow high and putting her in counseling, which lead her to a psychiatrist and a diagnosis of bipolar disorder at the age of 17. while it made sense, she dreaded taking the medications. they numbed everything. her writing suffered, and while her moods weren’t swinging from the trees anymore, she feared that this empty feeling was worse.

she finished her high school diploma in homeschooling with her grandmother while maci went on to thrive in school. the attention shifted to her, and rowan couldn’t really blame them. she turned 18 and started performing in clubs, bars, and anywhere she could get in. ps her voice is a mix of bishop briggs & mary lambert. the thrill of performing to small crowds sucked her in. she began to gain an even smaller following on social media, mainly the locals following her. every once in a while she’ll book a show in atlanta and she’ll make the long drive just to sing in front of a bit of a larger crowd. she’ll gain a few followers from those shows, but this still isn’t her main source of income.

most of her money comes from the make up artistry she does through pop of peach. she doesn’t go in every day, but when someone has an event scheduled or needs their make up done for a dance or something, she’s there. she tries to spread things out bc she’s always late lmao and finds it hard to stick to a schedule

she was doing so well for a few years, even moved out of her parents’ house and into an apartment at the towers. that’s where she really found herself, made some real friends and built relationships that were good for her. however, she missed a few doctor’s appointments and was discharged from her psychiatrist’s office. she went off meds, and for a few weeks it was fine. when she ran out of meds, the next few weeks were okay as well. it was when every single drop of medication had drained from her body that things got bad.

rowan was missing appointments she scheduled at pop of peach. she was spending far too much time out at nights, giving in to alcohol for the most part. she tried not to touch any drugs, but drinking became a nightly thing. she’d perform, then spend the rest of the night partying with whoever she could find at the venue.

one night in atlanta after a particularly shaky performance, rowan found herself in a dark place and simply went into the women’s bathroom to calm down, but police say they found her laying flat on the ground, refusing to respond to anyone. she vaguely remembers the end of the manic episode, but it did land her in the emergency room for a change in mental status.

much to her chagrin, they admitted her overnight before transporting her to skyland trail, a mental health facility in atlanta. she spend about two and a half months there getting medications regulated and learning new coping mechanisms. she was discharged about two weeks ago and finally made it back to peach hollow and her apartment.

she’d lead everyone other than her family and maybe one or two other people that she was away on a musician’s retreat, but really, was in inpatient treatment.

she’s currently working full time as a make up artist at pop of peach and performing when she can, but doesn’t really go outside of peach hollow

fun facts & personality

rowan despises small talk. conversations about the weather or political climate don’t stimulate her and she gets snarky pretty easily. it isn’t that she wants to come off rude or unapproachable, but nine times out of ten, small talk is fake and she feels as though she doesn’t have the time or energy to indulge in it. ask her about the sky or some shit. she won’t shut up

she has a tendency to overshare,  aside from what’s been going on in the past few months. her lips are sealed tight about that. however, she’s open to talking about her mental health and is a big advocate for erasing the stigma. this makes rowan a very good listener and a huge supportive presence for anyone struggling. she’s the mom friend, and no matter what time of day or night, if someone says they need an ear, she’ll go to them. she knows what it’s like to be alone.

despite her past and her demons, rowan finds a way to put on a smile. it might often be snarky or sarcastic, but rarely is it insincere. she’s an empath and feels everything so very deeply, but can easily put it away when necessarily.

her apartment is her safe haven. she rarely has company. it isn’t really her thing. she prefers to go to other people’s places. she has her record collection proudly displayed on her living room wall, all the plants you can imagine, incense burning whenever she’s home, and a scottish fold munchkin cat named loonette after her favorite childhood tv show, the big comfy couch. she has hopes to get another cat named molly to match. you know, because we’re all clowns !

she takes great pride in her instagram. it sounds superficial, but often times, rowan will post a good picture and then link to her next show in hopes that somebody will come based on that. while she does have a passion for make up and a second instagram for it, ultimately, she’d like for there to come a time where she can live solely on the money she makes through music

catch her driving her old ass ford focus blaring 00s alternative, mainly fuckin paramore bc she’s heart eyes for hayley williams

wanted connections if ya made it this far!!!!

childhood friends – those who she’s known since elementary school. they’ve most likely watched her go through her many trials and tribulations in class. these could be acquaintances, close friends, or even a ride or die or two.

bullies – people who fucked with her through school. it’s essential that they’re on bad terms currently, but perhaps an enemy turned friend or romantic could be fun??

group therapy pal – this would be super fun and might entail the person finding out about her secret…. msg me for deets

exes – there will be a couple of these, gender does not matter. i’d like to find one that she was dating when she went into treatment and maybe hasn’t seen/spoken to them since they’ve been back, first love, high school sweetheart?? omg possibilities are endless

flirtationship – self explanatory, gender doesn’t matter she’s pan

any other ideas literally lmk!! thanks for reading ♥