where to begin

It's been so long since I've actually written any of the thoughts crossing my mind that I don't know where to start. How do I even go about doing this thoroughly?

Where I left off...I was still in Jakarta at my aunt's house. After that, I spent 3 days in Jogja being a tourist and visiting various Buddhist/Hindu temples. I also watched a show about Ramayana that I really enjoyed, and I ate lots of hella CHEAP & DELICIOUS local food. If you know me, you know I love the cheap & delicious. SIGH, we had dinner for six for twelve dollars. And it was SOO yummyyyy...okay, my mouth is watering. And my mom hasn't gone to Costco to re-stock our house yet, so all I've eaten so far is crackers from the plane. No more talk of food.

After Jogja, we returned to my aunt's house to re-pack for the weekend at my grandma's house. A 2-hour drive away, it's in a city called Bandung, and is infested with mosquitoes. My bug bite count probably quadrupled thanks to Bandung.

The first thing I do whenever I get to my grandma's house is look at the photos on the walls. There are tons of them, pictures of me and my cousins and my aunts and uncles at various ages. The most recent one of me is actually from when I was like 12 probably...this must change. But there are pictures of me at three dressed up in snow gear in Ohio, and pictures of me and my grandpa and grandma and cousins at Disneyland when I was six...times I don't really remember, but times I'm glad that my grandma is documenting. There's also a relatively recent family portrait; but sadly my family is absent. I felt like it was kind of mirroring the current situation: just a visit, 3 weeks of peeking into the family life that my cousins live every day. The people in that portrait welcome us with smiles and open arms but soon enough we always turn away.

There's also an 8x10 of my grandfather, who passed away when I was about ten or eleven. His face looks so serious but I've seen pictures where he's holding my sister and he's laughing and it looks like it comes so easily. I see some resemblance in my mother and aunts when I look at his picture, and I think about all the old stories that my mom used to tell of him, like how he didn't get to finish his education, and instead had to work hard to help support his family. And how he burned his one pair of socks while trying to let them dry...hahah. But when it comes down to it, I don't really remember this man, and it frustrates me. I feel like I have no right to miss him, but I guess I just wish he were around (or I were around more) for us to try and be friends. My one memory of him is probably from when I was eight or nine. He was smoking outside, looking pensive and reserved as usual, and my mom nudged me to go outside and tell him to stop smoking. I was a little reluctant to do so, I think at that age I was a little intimidated by him, and ashamed of my sad grasp on the language. But I tiptoed outside and stood next to him, and looked at him and asked in broken Indonesian, "please don't smoke, ok?" I remember him smiling quietly and putting out his cigarette...but that's pretty much all I have. Maybe one more memory of him retrieving a ball that my cousin and I lost...but for the most part, I know him only from stories and recollections.

I tried harder to get to know my grandma for this reason. She's an excellent chef, better at English than my grandpa was (I think) and still a rather active and very generous woman. I just liked being around her because I feel like she glues our family together. Everyone looks to her with such respect and gratitude and in turn, she takes care of everyone very well.

Just being in my grandma's house feels kind of like a time machine. It startled me when I realized that that was the exact house my mother grew up in. I was looking at old photographs and saw the same clocks and cabinets, the same set up...it was pretty crazy. I visualized my mom watching horror movies alone at night and then tiptoeing to her room fearfully...and then retraced her footsteps as I went to bed. I sat around the same dining table that my mom and her siblings and parents had breakfast and lunch and dinner around for countless years, walked around the same house that my mom's brother lived in for his tragically short life. The uncle I'll never know, aside from seeing his youthful face in old pictures. I can't really describe how I feel when I'm at my grandma's house, but it feels like being home, and it's one of my favorite places in the world.

Another thing about Bandung -- it's one of those towns where everyone knows everyone. Or it used to be that kind of town, at least. I met a tofu vendor who used to sell tofu to my mom when she was my age and younger, and I visited the doctor around the corner that my mom used to see...and went to the apothecary to pick up cough medicine, the same apothecary my grandma used to send my mom to pick up prescriptions. The owners still remembered her and invited her in and started a long conversation, in a trademark of Indonesian hospitality. It was pretty crazy realizing how much of my mom's history took place in that town.

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