Umbrella - ella - ella- eh -eh -eh

8th grade. Life Skills class. Probably the most useless class ever. Except the class in Senior Year where they taught us how to iron a shirt and make guacamole for a beer party to order to prepare us for college.

This particular class was about strength in diversity. Good topic since we were in an international school where kids hailed from all corners of the world. In order to get us interacting, our British teacher called out different countries and asked the kids to stand up when their home country was called. 

Turkey.

India.

Korea.

UK.

Pakistan.

The cheap black chairs were screeching from kids standing up in a hasty attempt at patriotism, a brief moment of solidarity with their motherland, which they have long since abandoned for the metropolis of Hong Kong.

China.

Only one chair was pulled back. And one girl shakily stood up. That was me.

Our teacher looked around the room, dumbfounded. He pointed to nearly half of the class. "Aren't you . . .  aren't you all . . .  Chinese?" The group of black eyes stared back at him. 

A tall boy from the track team, my neighbor who I had had a major crush on since forever, shook his head emphatically. "No. No. We're Hong Kongers. We're not like those Mainland Chinese."

After class, I was surrounded and taunted. "Sisi, you have to pick a side. You're one of us. You were born here. You're lucky. So why did you say that you are Chinese?"

Maybe they did not know, or maybe they did know, but my mom was from Mainland China.

------

Around a month and a half ago, the world watched as tens of thousands of people spilled into the busiest main streets of Hong Kong and demanded universal suffrage where they can freely elect their Chief Executive (equivalent to city mayor) without any pre-selection from the Communist Party which runs the PRC government seated in Beijing.

The protest was started by a group of high school and university students, but when the police used tear gas on them, tens of thousands of Hong Kong citizens joined in a rare moment of solidarity and indignation. A movement was born. The propagandistic China Daily newspaper angrily called it a "bad Color Revolution" that the United States conspired to spark. The Hong Kongers proudly labeled it the "Umbrella Revolution" - a nod to the umbrellas that protesters brought to protect themselves from the tear gas. People were chanting "Our Hong Kong. Ours to Save." and wearing pollution face masks in lieu of gas masks.

There's something powerful in that statement. It is not "Our Hong Kong - because we don't want to be  Chinese." But rather, now it is "Our Hong Kong - because we are willing to fight for our democratic rights."

Magic happens when the young are galvanized enough to take action. Now my generation is increasingly well-versed in the Basic Law, our "mini-constitution" that governs Hong Kong after the handover from China. We are no longer apathetic and only concerned about buying the iPhone 6. We are finally awake and aware.

I cried when I first read about the protests on the news. I was in Greece and felt like my childhood home was calling to me to return and take a stand. I followed all the major news thread about Occupy Central and imagined myself on the streets with my rainbow umbrella.

After six weeks, A. and I finally went to Hong Kong this weekend and walked around the Occupy Central zone. The protesters still have the major highways and roads under hostage, stacking makeshift fences to delineate their territory. Whenever the police have tried to storm in and retake control of the road, more crowds will rally to the cause and push the police back. So that's how Hong Kong is stuck in this uneasy impasse, the police always alert to an opportunity to move in and the students and protesters at large carry on life within the bright tents that line the highway.

The protesters do not show signs of letting up. Many have brought their sofas, clothing racks, and juicers. They erected a study hall with wifi access and wooden tables so students will not fall too far behind their studies. Most leave during the week days to go to school or work and return on the weekends to continue the sit in. Parents bring their children to the tents on the weekends and eat McDonald's together while leaning against a road block.

While the society at large respects the patriotism underlying the cause, not everybody appreciates the inconvenience caused by the protests, cutting off a major traffic artery to the heart of Hong Kong. The taxi drivers grumble at the lower demand for taxis because of traffic and the nearby small shopkeepers also feel the pinch in their business. The local mafia (first time I knew that they existed outside of Jackie Chan movies) even incited a group of anti-protesters to go and tear down the barricades because they couldn't operate in their usual under-the-radar zones with all the students camped there.

I am mixed. Sometimes my chest burns with youthful idealism and hope that somehow all the umbrellas will be enough to bring democracy and solidarity to Hong Kong. Other times, I am worried that this will just deepen the fissure between Hong Kong and Mainland China for a pipe dream of true democracy that logically the PRC Chinese government will never relent to. And if universal suffrage will never happen, then maybe we should just let go and try to mend our fences with Mainland China so we can build a unified country?

. . . What was that line I learned in American politics 101? "Give me freedom or give me death" - Americans always made the pursuit of democracy seem so natural.

Santorini Sunset

Santorini, Greece.

I have been waiting for this moment for a long time. I have waited ever since I sported those round glasses in third grade that Harry Potter hadn't made cool yet (or that he never did). I used to hide under the especially pink blankets, picked by my mom's interior designer friend to match our unfortunately pink and green persian rug, after lights out to read all about the ancient Greeks. The moment mom's worn slippers slapped their way back into her bedroom, seemingly on constant patrol of kids who had snucked out of bed, I pulled out my mini flashlight and scurried under the covers with my latest novel. I shoved the flashlight into my mouth and shone the light on my precious book. Ever so often, I took out the flashlight to gulp down the saliva building up in my mouth. I always told the librarian that I accidentally flicked water onto some of the pages. She bought it.

When I got to college and watched a movie about two old men on their death beds making lists of things they wished they could have done, I made a bucket list too. Item #5 - Walk among ancient ruins of Athens. Sometime in my junior year, I crossed it out and replaced it with Watch a sunset in Santorini. Still in Greece, just a more sophisticated version, that's all. I thought it was one of the most romantic, adult thing to wish for and was slightly mortified to find that this specific item was also on the list of almost every pedestrian Most Stunning Sunsets You MUST See!! travel/ honeymoon magazine column.

Anyhow, I am here now.

Despite the throngs of adoring tourists, the Oia village of Santorini sits untouched. She doesn't dress to impress because she doesn't need to. White washed walls, churches, and cafes are offset by the brilliant hue of royal blue that colors select rooftops, evoking childhood memories of fine China. Everywhere you turn, there's another prime location for a bridal shoot. The well-worn cobblestone foot paths, every creaking door, the occasional surprises of auburn neighborhood walls, the hanging balcony restaurants that serve up ocean fresh octopus and warmly baked moussaka all add to its beauty -  heck, even the dog napping by the rustic turquoise school gate is photogenic.

There is something in the air too. A sense of light airiness rests gently on the cliffs, greatly enhanced by the soft ocean breeze and the almost tangible expectations of the crowd waiting for something magical to happen. This is Santorini after all and it must deliver.

As the orange sun dips slowly, the crowd moves urgently toward the tip of Oia, to the edge where the best sunset views are promised. No more lingering in front of the jewelry boutique that sells handmade crystal pieces. No more posing thoughtfully against a ledge. This is the culminating moment, the one that will grace many instagram accounts.

I hurry in my Grecian leather sandals. A guides me gently along, expertly fielding away those bumping from behind us. Tugging at my navy jumpsuit, I am nervous. What if the sunset isn't what I have always imagined it to be?

And what if it is what I have always imagined it to be? I chased the sun in the last three years and have been fortunate enough to watch it light upon many famed sights. Purple and pink dawn like berry blush in Ankor Wat, Cambodia. Burnt almond sunset in land of the 4000 temples in Bagan, Myanmar. Brilliant specks of every color on the shores of Maldives. Majestic and lonely osage orange on the Masai Mara plains in Kenya. A casual and dark disappearance around the Eiffel Tower in France.

Each sunrise and sunset evoked different emotions in me. Grateful. Peaceful. Lonely. Happy. All beautiful in its own way.

I am nervous because intermingled with the awe and wonder of nature while watching the last few "bucket list" sunsets, I felt that I wanted more. I wanted somebody to share it with. I was always with great friends, family, or "a boy", but I could never shake that feeling. I was afraid that I was getting ungrateful. That I was growing up and getting bored of sunsets.

But I shuffle onwards, because I am still curious about the sunset of Oia and because I am pushed forward by the crowd.

But the crowds! The travel magazines never warn you about the pesky crowd who also wants a slice of your bucket list moment, especially when everybody seems to be taller than you, barricading against any hopeful glimpses on tip toe with the wall of smartphones and tablets. The hum of the tourists crescendoes as the sun slips ever lower in the sky. I resign myself to watch through the screens, with the single solace that I will be watching through a high res iPad screen.

A looks around and drops his cotopaxi backpack. Without waiting for my ladylike protests, he hoists me onto his shoulders, heads above the tourists. And there I sit and watch as the sun kisses the horizons, casting a lingering splay of soft coral and plum glow. The crowd, hushed for a brief moment, breaks out in a spontaneous cheer and claps for the appreciation of beauty that unites us all on the tip of that cliff.

And then I feel -

Fulfilled.

I stay sitting on his shoulders and playing with his familiar sandy hair for an extra moment as the waves glisten with the day's last remaining rays below.

A Provincial Province

Before I flew out of Shanghai, A asked me to do one thing for him. Please don't laugh at the Fujianese - everybody on my mission did. I smirked at his bizarre request and then took off.

My boss and I just landed in Fujian, a coastal province where people were known for being provincial, and breathed in the overwhelming humidity. The local taxi driver was playing the perennial favorite Chinese game of "Guess where the foreigner's from." Meanwhile, I was trying not to mimic his feminine quacking accent that was so stereotypical Fujian. As we drove away from the airport, the driver started tapping his steering wheel, perplexed that it was so hard to guess my boss' nationality.

My boss

Hmm. You don't look like us. 

Are you Japanese? But your Mandarin is so good. 

Oh wait, you're darker. Indian?

I know! You must be German. 

No, wait! You can't be - your arm hair is too long.

My boss was a standard six foot three American complete with five every day polos that he rotated.

--

Fujian is also known for its food.

A said that it was Fujian seafood that taught him to appreciate all other Chinese food.

After a late night dinner at a local stall, I finally gained more appreciation for Panda Express. Everything I was eating was just so . . . ugly.

These fish look like retired bull dogs who have given up on life.

 Worms writhing wearily in the water. 

Fish breathing thing.

 Surprising texture of chicken cartilage - crunchy yet chewy.

Durian. Gooey texture with pungent smell. 

A little like eating your own throw up. With chopsticks.

My colleague brought it back to our hotel room

 and I stayed up all night gagging.

Mini lobsters in chili oil. The messiest ever.

Definitely not a first date dish.