Addictive Reading

I’ve been recently pondering about what makes certain books “cracktastic”–books that people can’t help read once they start. Books that make some people, literally, into foaming-at-the-mouth fanatics. Is it because of the subject matter? The last time I was at a bookstore, I overheard some ladies raving about some “very steamy” novels. But are all cracktastic novels about sex? Despite the fact that the current zeitgeist is all about erotic novels, I don’t think so. Twilight and The Da Vinci Code are considered cracktastic by many readers, but they are in completely different genres. Are cracktastic books necessarily badly written? Well, no. During Charles Dickens’ lifetime, people were devouring his writing like hot cakes. Are popular books synonymous with cracktastic books? Not necessarily. The Great Gatsby is popular and much loved, but one would hardly call it cracktastic. And on the flip side, I’m sure there are obscure books that are cracktastic for a small subset of readers.

So, it doesn’t particularly matter what the book is about or how it’s written. Or even if anyone else is reading it. But the term “cracktastic” does have a negative connotation, implying that the reading material in question is bad yet addictive. Some people seem to use it as an excuse. That they can’t just help themselves reading it. That if they had the will power, they wouldn’t be reading it. Personally, I find it a bit sad that some people are too embarrassed to admit that they like reading about X or Y without qualifiers.

What does make for a cracktastic book then? I think a cracktastic book pushes a button (or a series of buttons) hard enough and long enough that it engages the lizard brain which swamps whatever objective thoughts we’ve had before. Call it emotion or instinct or gut feeling or curiosity. Whatever it is, it’s a hook that never lets go. Any writer who wishes to share their work probably hopes that their writing has some of this elusive quality. Some work hard to achieve it. Others stumble upon it accidentally. But most will never find it although that doesn’t mean that their books aren’t good. There are a number of authors I enjoy reading (and re-reading) but they just haven’t managed to push that particular button which tips me over the edge from favorite and loyal to absolute obsession.

(What I also want to make clear, though, is that you can never assume that what people read–and especially what sort of supposedly cracktastic stuff they read–defines who they are. Few would consider books heavy in life philosophy to be truly cracktastic. Unless it’s an Ayn Rand doorstopper. It could probably crack someone’s head open if wielded properly.)

“Cracktastic” is a really subjective term. What somebody else considers cracktastic, I may think is mediocre. And vice versa. From my observations, for most people, something becomes cracktastic because it pushes one single button really well. For me, several buttons usually must be pushed at one time or it’s going to be a no-go. It must be written in a style I enjoy, with an emotionally engaging storyline, non-stupid characters, impeccable world building, and exquisite tension which makes me keep turning pages even though it’s already two in the morning. Note that I said usually. Depending on my mood–or just where I am in life–different things push those buttons. For example, I am quite positive that the Harry Potter series would have been cracktastic for me if it had come out when I was younger and less widely read in the fantasy genre. But it came out later when I was already bored with all the stories about wizard schools.

Sure, it might make for a frustrating time if you can’t find anyone else who is as rabid about the same books as you are. But I think it’s a good thing that not everyone finds the same story cracktastic. Otherwise, publishers would only be looking for one thing and there would be only one kind of writer getting published. And while readers lament even now about the lack of diversity in the literary marketplace, it would be even worse if there was just one formula for making a hit book.

Those Last Thoughts

What do I not want to think about in my last seconds of life?* A lot of things, obviously. I wouldn’t want to waste my last seconds thinking about inconsequential things like whether or not I’ve turned off the stove or errands that I’ve left unfinished. I wouldn’t want to waste that time thinking about regrets or things that I’ve never had the chance to do. You know, trivial stuff in the whole scheme of things.

Then again, it’s human nature to wish that our lives aren’t trivial. That we have more meaning beyond the seemingly small random events which make up the bulk of our lives. In hindsight, we can assign meanings and influences to what has happened to us. And we can speak about it as a narrative. Usually when someone asks us to tell them about ourselves, we are able to shape our past into a story that we find interesting. We have control over the details, filtering out anything we might deem irrelevant.

But those last seconds are out of our hands. And I think that’s why it may seem unsettling. The implicit lack of control may be one of the reasons why we even have preferences for what we want to think about in those last seconds. Because in those last seconds, any thought could cross the mind. If the thought is about something inconsequential or about things not done, one’s end fizzles into a non sequitur. If it was the ending of a book, it would be a wall-banger because it doesn’t make sense in the context of the story. For storytellers, that would be unacceptable. The end should involve some kind of grand, profound statement. An insight. A koan. Or at least something that is related to what is happening at that moment.

However, this is reality. And real life isn’t a neat outline with all the causes and effects mapped out. The saying that fact can be stranger than fiction is true. Characters in fiction must be “believable”–in other words, their actions must flow logically from what was established about them in the narrative. Real people, on the other hand, can behave randomly and irrationally. I could act randomly and irrationally. And who’s to say what thoughts will logically float into my consciousness at any time, let alone in those last seconds?

Let’s step back a bit, though, and perhaps ponder if there is a more fundamental question than asking what sort of thoughts I would want or not want to have in my last moments. I think a critical question is, does it really matter what I think–whether it’s trivial or profound? My instinctive answer to that question is no. Or at least it doesn’t matter in my case. Unless I somehow get a case of verbal diarrhea on my deathbed (or that somehow in the near future, someone develops technology to upload everyone’s thoughts for all to see–like Twitter with a neural interface), no one is going to really know what I will be thinking. And after I’m gone, I wouldn’t be here to care about what I thought anyway, would I?

*Written for a writing group prompt.

Mid-Month Meanderings

Update on Camp NaNoWriMo progress: I am behind. Extremely behind. By 20,000 words. So I’m going to have to really kick it up a notch for this second half of the month. As to whether or not I’ll be able to reach the 50k goal–maybe. But I have other things that have more priority at the moment, like preparing for the ASM general meeting next month.

And speaking of ASM, sure it’s kind of stressful if you’re going to be presenting anything there, but it’s fun, too. If you’re a microbiologist or want to become one, I highly recommend attending the conference at least once. And even if you’re not, there are plenty of interesting talks. (I saw that they had a cool workshop for do-it-yourself whole genome analysis, but it’s already sold out.) Most of the talks can get pretty technical, though, so you might get lost if you’ve never taken any biology courses in college.

* * *

If you’ve followed me on Twitter, you’ll know that my website, gamalei.net, got wiped out last month when the hosting server suffered a catastrophic hardware failure. I wasn’t too worried about this since I had my website backed up elsewhere and otherwise, I’ve never had many problems with the hosting company for the approximate decade I’ve been with them. However, I did take it as an opportunity to streamline the site as it had grown rather labyrinthine.

Among one of the semi-hidden corners of the old site, I had a section titled “Linkrot” where I had stashed a bunch of links that I thought were interesting but not interesting enough to be taking up permanent residence in my browser’s bookmark folder. It was all hand-coded which after a while, got rather tedious.

So, what to do now? Well, I’ve decided to stick all those extra links on Tumblr. Technically, I’ve created two Tumblrs. Textual Curiosities contains cool stuff I’ve found on archive.org. Its sister site, Strange Interlinks, contains everything else. The thing about Tumblr is its simplicity. I can just dump a link into it and tag it to help categorize it rather than spending too much of my time manually adding to my old page. And since it’s now on Tumblr, other people can follow and/or share these links if they wish. Of course, if no one else does, I don’t mind. This is more for my own edification and organization than anything else.

After reading some opinions on Tumblr, I was thinking about how my own views about the blogging platform has changed over time. When I first encountered it, I couldn’t really understand why anyone would have one in addition to a weblog on, say, Blogger or WordPress or LiveJournal. But I think, in some ways, simplicity is a good thing. And it also depends on what sort of project you’re working on and what sort of platform is best suited for it.

When I first started blogging, I had also included random links I’ve discovered on the internet in my posts. Sort of like Kottke.org or Rebecca’s Pocket. But eventually, I ditched that format and concentrated on writing posts that were a little more focused and coherent. So that’s sort of how I view this blog today: a journal-like site containing long content or commentary (in text or in pictures) generated by me. And while Twitter and Tumblr can in some sense also be blogging platforms, they’re both more ephemeral in my mind. I like using Twitter because it’s quite amendable to quick observations (which can be extremely cumbersome on a traditional blog) and it has an instant messaging-like capability that doesn’t quite have as much stress as an actual instant messaging program*. And as for Tumblr, you have the ease of chucking things in there without the worry of moderating comments. And these days, I find that ease has a lot to recommend it.

*Aside: One thing I hate about the electronic age is the expectation of immediacy. Some forms of electronic communication, however, have greater expectations of immediacy than others. Like instant messaging, for instance. I once had instant messaging eons ago, but I am prone to multitasking and getting distracted by more important things than random chitchat. This, of course, pissed off people I was IMing with so I ended up not doing any sort of instant messaging at all. E-mail, on the other hand, is more flexible. I respond fairly quickly if it’s from family or work, but otherwise I can put it off for a couple of days. Or respond not at all. (Or pretend that it got lost in the aether if it’s from someone I don’t really want to talk to.) Twitter is a mix between the two. While I like the IMing aspect of interacting with other people online in a semi-immediate way, I don’t think many people would get really angry with me if I get distracted and respond two hours later.

Planning for Camp NaNoWriMo April 2013

This is the first year that Camp NaNoWriMo is being held in April. I suppose they’re doing this to replace the now defunct Script Frenzy which sadly didn’t see all that many participants. (I’m guessing the low numbers may be due to the high barrier to entry–writing scripts require a special format which isn’t exactly intuitive.) However, script writers are welcome to write scripts for Camp NaNo. And there are even flexible word count goals.

Anyways, I’ll be doing this as I’ve always done ever since Camp NaNo was started. I’ve already changed my mind once on the plot which means I could very well change it again later. But so far I do know it’s going to be squarely in science fiction. I don’t have any concrete ideas, let alone an outline, set in stone yet but there are some themes that I want to explore in both a serious and satirical manner.

• Beauty pageants and dog shows. This will probably take up most of the novel. Basically in this universe, an alien species called the Collectors are in charge. They view other species, including humans, as we would view pet cats and dogs. Through “indenture contracts” and other means, the Collectors acquire other species to show off in conformation trials–hopefully to win some prizes. This is also why this writing project is tentatively titled Reserve Winners.
• Xenobiology and alternative relationships. The Collectors are extra-dimensional and sentient fungoid creatures. Humans can only perceive part of them in three-dimensional space. And that part sort of resembles a Lovecraftian fungal monster. Their thought processes are decidedly alien which makes the reason why they have all the conformation trials much more interesting. Because it really isn’t the equivalent of a beauty pageant or dog show to them. It’s for a completely different purpose. Also similar to some fungi on earth, these Collectors have hundreds of different mating types. So relationships between the Collectors will be very complicated.
• Names. A lot of characters will be named after Roman emperors and empresses. It’s a fad just as it’s a fad today to name your kids Jacob or Sophie. In some ways, this is going to make naming characters pretty easy if every other person is named Augustus…
• Genetic engineering. Just as humans have done selective breeding on domestic animals, the Collectors have done some subtle (or not so subtle) nudging with other species.
• Looking beneath the surface. Appearances and motives are never what they seem. The trick, I think, is not to turn this into a mystery or some kind of evil versus good cliche. Things aren’t repulsive, unnatural, or malevolent. Just different, depending on your point of view.

That’s my ramblings about my April writing project so far. How will it gel in the coming days? Who knows. But I’ve been reading a lot of papers on fungal biology so at least I’m learning something.

This Bookworm Won’t Be Munching That Leaf

As an unrepentant bookworm, it’s rather difficult for me to come out of a bookstore without purchasing a book. For a bookstore, they should be happy I’m dropping by because I’m almost guaranteed to be a customer. And a repeat customer at that. Other kinds of businesses (with the exception of grocery stores) can’t count on that from me.

However, note that I added the word “almost.” There are some reasons why I would not go to a physical bookstore for a book I want. Most of these reasons are practical in nature. For one, a bookstore may not have a particular book I’m looking for. Sure, I can order the book from the bookstore and get it later–and I have done this before–but I’m also the rather impatient type. If I get the yen for a particular book, that means I want to read it now, not a week from now. So it’s often faster to order it online myself. Physical bookstores (and libraries to some extent) are more for browsing, impulse buys, and finding those books that I’ve been meaning to get eventually but weren’t at the top of my mind.

The second reason why I might not go into a bookstore is that it’s a specialized bookstore. And not just any specialized bookstore. A specialized bookstore that concentrates on subjects that I have very little (if any) interest in–like self-help and religion. If there was a bookstore that specialized in nothing but fishing, I’d probably avoid that, too, unless I got advance warning that my fishing-obsessed co-workers were going to forcibly drag me to one of their weekend fishing trips. Life is short and despite being an unrepentant bookworm, I’m not indiscriminate. Because what’s the point of cluttering up my personal library with books that I don’t want or need?

And then sometimes I don’t go to a bookstore because it simply doesn’t feel right. Or to put it more bluntly, it’s the staff that attempts to make me feel ashamed for buying books that they don’t approve of. Actually, this can be generalized for all businesses. If you’re going to make a customer ashamed for buying something, then why the hell are you selling it in the first place?

The first two reasons why I don’t go to a bookstore are just mere inconveniences. The third reason annoys me. I’m noting this now because yesterday, I wandered into a bookstore in Missoula that really rubbed me the wrong way even though I did not have any direct interaction with anyone working there. While this bookstore has, as far as I’ve seen, done the best job at showcasing local authors compared to every other bookstore I’ve been to in the city, the atmosphere reeked of elitism.

The entire time I was there, I overheard the person working at the front desk talking to a customer who had asked a question. There’s a line between helpful recommendations and outright telling someone what they should read because everything else is dreck. I thought the person working there yesterday crossed that line. Another thing I noticed was a comic strip lambasting the bestseller* next to it, basically shaming anyone who wanted to read it. While I have no intention of reading this particular bestseller regardless of the comic strip’s presence, I thought it was a rather passive-aggressive attitude for the store to take towards the people who did want to read that book.

I walked out of that bookstore without buying anything. Because frankly, there was another independent bookstore literally across the street that was friendlier even if it was somewhat less organized and had a mysterious schedule for business hours. I’d rather interact with clerks who place no judgement on what readers wanted to buy.

Bookstores can run their business in whatever way they want. I’m just one potential customer, after all. Maybe I’m not that particular bookstore’s target. Perhaps I should think of it more as a specialized bookstore–one that caters to literary snobs. I’m sort of the opposite of that as I often enjoy reading genre fiction, including stuff that critics would call “trashy.” Yet despite that, I’m still bothered. I know bookstores need to carry bestsellers and genre books in order to stay afloat but I’m not sure why that particular bookstore wants to stomp on its cash cow. If you’re going to shame people away from buying a book they want, it’s going to be less likely for them to look at any of the other books you want them to buy.

*Aside: In some ways, I do agree with the comic strip’s assessment of the bestseller’s lack of literary merit, but not in the most obvious ways. It’s not that I think that most readers are stupid enough to buy into the bestseller’s philosophy–in fact, I think they’re smart enough to tell fact from fiction. The problem is in other people’s assessment of the readers, that they think that all the readers actually do buy into the book’s destructive philosophy. What is insidious is that it makes them feel they have the license to treat these readers (and others like these readers) accordingly.

From Albuquerque to Tuscon

Day 5 (December 29, 2012)

It was clear. Slightly chilly. A fine day for driving with a few detours.

There are many ghost towns in Sierra County, New Mexico. I’ve heard that Chloride was a rather nice one to visit. But we only had time for one, so we went to Cuchillo, the closest one to I-25.

Then we stopped at Truth or Consequences. Mostly to find a particular gift store. But when we arrived, we found that the gift store had closed down and moved to online only. But there was the post office…

Then we stopped at Deming for lunch at El Mirador. It had a stereotypical atmosphere of an old worn diner, but the food was rather good. Also, it was the first time that we encountered horchata.

Then it was all the way to Tuscon. My sister was quite adamant on trying Lani’s Luau, a Hawaiian restaurant, for dinner. It’s located in an unassuming store front in a strip mall. We had Kalua style pig wrapped in taro leaves. I’m personally a bit “meh” on Hawaiian-style food, but the portions at this place are huge. We saved the leftovers for lunch the next day.

Patience (or Not) of One Sort or Another

Day 4 (December 28, 2012)

The old man, a volunteer at the visitor’s center at Petroglyph National Monument, seemed to take great pleasure in explaining the park trails in roundabout detail. I only listened with half an ear, impatient to actually get on a trail. It is a fault of mine, to find long, circuitous speech tiresome. If only people would get straight to the point more often. The only exception I’d make would be for storytelling where the method and style of telling may be as important (or more so) than the bare bones plot.

Petroglyph National Monument consists of several discrete sections, wedged off by an encroaching suburbia. The first trail that we drove to, the Piedras Marcadas Canyon, was closed off for the season. But the trailhead itself sat in a strange place, behind a burrito joint and an oil change establishment, winding through people’s backyards.

At Boca Negra Canyon, the most interesting trail was the Mesa Point Trail which squirreled its way to the top of a lava flow 5,280 feet above sea level. Being at the top of the mesa is a far less scary proposition than going up or coming down. But that said, not all the tourists we saw who attempted this ever made it to the top. The steps are narrow and precarious, winding around boulders scrawled with petroglyphs in odd positions. If you’re afraid of heights, you might not even want to start this one.

One lady who gave up climbing to the top told me I had great shoes, making me momentarily confused. No one ever compliments my shoes because they’re always the practical sort. But then I realized that I was wearing hiking boots and she was wearing the sort of flats you’d find on yuppies heading to yoga class.

We ate lunch at Boca Negra, under the hungry eyes of a small chipmunk. Then we hiked Rinconada Canyon, playing hunt and find with the petroglyphs scattered along boulders and rubble which made up the canyon walls. A couple of hikers, deep in conversation, had to back track once they realized they had zoomed past us without looking at the scenery. Parents who brought their kids spent most of their time pleading and cajoling. I could understand why this particular trail would be boring to anyone under the age of fifteen. Some petroglyphs may be obvious but others are definitely less so. It takes patience to find some of them.

By the time my sister and I finished the Rinconada Canyon trail, it was around 3 PM. My sister was eager to see the tramway at Sandia Peak before the sun set and it would probably take too long if we decided to hike the volcanoes trail located at the opposite end of the park. When we got to the tramway station, though, there were warnings that there may be limited visibility at the top of the mountain. But as we were there anyway, we decided to risk that. And by the time we got to the top, the clouds had been whisked away by a brisk, numbing wind.

We walked around a bit, but it was too cold to stick around too long. I tried to send a tweet out at the top of the mountain, but there was no cell phone reception. Briefly, we took refuge at the High Finance Restaurant & Tavern. The appetizers were really mediocre although my sister gave the hot chocolate there a thumb’s up. (She should know, I suppose. She’s been to hot chocolate tasting parties with her friends.) The people at the table next to ours kept on ordering more alcohol and getting more drunk.

We came back down just as the sun started its descent. The light hit the side of the mountain, making the feldspar glow orange-pink. A pair of bobcats loped along the rocks, ignoring the metal gondola overhead filled with photograph-obsessed tourists.

At the bottom, we went to Sandiago’s for dinner. As we had the foresight to make a reservation there, we got a window-side table and watched the sun set over Albuquerque while we ate. The food here was great (I had the Baja Tacos with mahi-mahi and my sister had the Carne Adovada Plate) and I would recommend the place to anyone wanting to eat at Sandia Peak. But as the portions are extremely generous, be prepared to take home leftovers!

Wood to Stone and Capsaicin-Induced Crankiness

Day 3 (December 27, 2012)

Breakfast was cold cereal at the hotel. Soon after dawn, we headed out. Nothing marred the sky or the road. Two hours later, we turned off the exit for the Petrified Forest National Park.

At the south entrance, don’t mistake the first building you see as the visitor’s center. It’s a tourist trap, selling all sorts of petrified wood imported from elsewhere. We didn’t buy anything, of course. What would be the point of lugging back home a pretty piece of rock that wouldn’t be doing anything but sitting around collecting dust anyway? All we did was ask where the real visitor’s center was–which happened to be further down the road.

There are a lot of rules. You can’t take anything. Can’t touch anything. Stay on the paths only. On the back of the doors in the restroom stalls, there is a warning about keeping on the paths because you’d disturb the soil microbes otherwise. I certainly know the significance of this warning, given what I do, but I wondered if any other visitors to the park would understand or even care.

My sister and I slowly went through the park, systematically hiking every single trail except one (Blue Mesa) because that one was closed for the season. The chilly air was no obstacle. After all, the body warms up if you keep walking. But it was a deterrent to many of the other visitors to the park. It was amusing, and a little sad, to watch them drive up to a point, hop out to take pictures for two or three minutes, and then hop back into their cars to drive to the next sign post. Sometimes, they wouldn’t even get out of their car to take the pictures. They’d just reluctantly roll down the windows, snap a few, roll the windows back up, and go.

At one particular point, while my sister and I stood on a lookout point gazing down into a magnificent canyon as satiny as a peach, a minivan filled with Chinese tourists pulled up and we heard them loudly complaining that it was too cold to get out. Fortunately, they only stopped for a moment and then they were gone. And we had nature to ourselves again.

The ravens weren’t afraid of any of the humans in the park. Perhaps they’ve grown accustomed to all the visitors tramping around. One sat at a parking lot, letting a caw ring out every couple of seconds or so. “Maybe they’re like undercover surveillance cameras,” my sister had joked. “Every caw means they’re transmitting information.”

We ate lunch, leftover chicken tikka and saag paneer from the previous night, on cold metal picnic benches in the Painted Desert. Strangely, no animals came to this place for handouts. The picnic area stood cold, shadowy, silent, and lonely. No other visitors ventured here. By the time we finished eating, our fingers were numb. But I thought it was rather glorious. Why should nature cater to us anyway? It goes about its own way.

Our arrival in Albuquerque coincided with rush hour. And the stress began. Drivers weaved the lanes willy-nilly. Entrances and exits sat way too close to each other. Maybe it’s because I’m not used to driving in large cities. Or maybe it’s poor planning on the part of whoever designed interchanges. I’d like to think the latter.

Originally, we had “planned” on going to a restaurant serving Middle Eastern cuisine. (Planned, as in looking up highly ranked restaurants on Urbanspoon at the last minute.) But despite the fact that online, it said it served dinner, it was closed at 6 PM. Which we thought was a bit ridiculous. We resorted to wandering up and down Central Avenue looking for some place to eat and ended up settling on the Korean BBQ House. It was okay. I was mostly annoyed because the squid I ordered was dripping in spicy sauce. On the actual menu we were given in the restaurant, there had been no mention of spicy sauce. So for anyone thinking about this place, take heed of the online menu as that appears to be more accurate. I’m afraid my sister had to endure my ranting through dinner.

I think the combination of the stress of navigating Albuquerque rush hour, the disappointment of not being able to eat at our first choice restaurant, and a dish turning out not to be what I expected made me snap. At that precise moment in time, I was very unhappy. Of course, now looking back on it, it really was a minor bit of unhappiness compared to other things. And if you’re going on a road trip blind, so to speak, you have to be prepared for disappointment as well as delight.

However, the night wasn’t all lost. For dessert, we had some deliciously colorful drinks from the Boba Tea Company.

On the Road Armed with Vegetable Chips

Day 2 (December 26, 2012)

After a sizable meal at one of our cousin’s regular breakfast haunts, Kensington Cafe (I had the Sandy Eggan, a breakfast bagel with eggs, cheese, avocado and tomato, which was very filling but also pretty good), and picking up some water at a nearby Target, my sister and I headed north on I-15.

The drive on I-15 was fairly uneventful. A brief rain shower did make the drivers around me freak out and significantly slow down. And the bit of interstate going through the mountains between San Bernadino and Hesperia was rather pretty. I should probably also admit here that I did all of the driving on this road trip. Mostly due to practical reasons as my sister’s home is in a large city with an excellent public transport system and she hasn’t driven in five years. I, on the other hand, have experience navigating dirt roads and blizzard conditions. So my sister acted as navigator, looking at maps, fighting with the GPS, and checking out my blind spots when needed.

A little past noon, we arrived at Barstow. But we soon nixed plans to have lunch there. For one, we weren’t all that hungry after the large breakfast. And secondly Barstow, despite being in the middle of nowhere, appeared to be on the brink of being devoured whole by a gigantic retail monster. Outlet malls sprawled everywhere. Perhaps after Christmas sales exacerbated the effect, but the place crawled with crazy-eyed shoppers. So I gassed up the rental and we headed east on I-40, munching some vegetable chips my sister had the foresight to pack for the trip.

Along I-40, we caught glimpses of the old Route 66. I suggested that maybe we could drive on Route 66 instead. My sister pointed out that it was smaller and we’d go slower and we’d never make it to Flagstaff before the sun set. So we continued on I-40. However, we did stop for half an hour in Kingman to look around.

The drive so far had been excellent. But as the elevation climbed and we began noticing white stuff on the ground, it also began to snow. The car dashboard began hysterically beeping. After a quick check of the manual, my sister informed me it was doing that because the car was warning me it was getting below 39°F and there might be slippery road conditions. No duh, silly car. Just outside of Ash Fork, Arizona, the traffic came to a complete halt.

Ambulances and police cars passed us. The radio mentioned nothing about a jam on I-40. Just Californian traffic news. A woman who couldn’t wait jumped out of her car and took a pit stop at the side of the road. “This is probably going to be the worst part of our trip,” I mused aloud. “We’ll be going back to San Diego on the southern route.”

“I’m just glad you’re driving and I’m not,” my sister replied as all the vehicles inched forward ever so slowly on the icy slick road. “At least it’s not snowing now.” She was right. When the traffic stopped, so did the snow.

By the time we edged past the scene of the accident, all we could see was a large semi shoved to the edge of the road shoulder. The ambulances were gone. But the traffic didn’t quicken after the bottleneck either. Despite the 75 mph speed limit, everyone was going 20 mph from there all the way to Flagstaff. By the time we got to our destination, it was 9 PM and way past our estimated arrival.

The only place near the hotel that was open at that late hour was the Delhi Palace. I was pretty tired and brain dead after all the driving, so I let my sister, the knowledgeable foodie, order for me. We had chicken tikka and saag paneer. It was surprisingly good, for a strip mall joint next to a Walmart, but it possibly could have been my hunger talking, too.

That night, we watched the Weather Channel hoping things would be clear the next day.

From Snowy Montana to Sunny California and a Brief Musing on the Nature of Love

Day 1 (December 25, 2012)

The whole impetus for the trip came when my sister and I were talking about places to go for our winter vacation. “Let’s go to Albuquerque!” I said. “I don’t think they have much snow. And more importantly, I’ve never been there before.”

My sister was at first a little skeptical. After all, what was in Albuquerque? I had no idea, but that in itself wasn’t a deterrent to me. A vacation, if the sole purpose isn’t about R & R, has little purpose if there isn’t a bit of adventure and discovery along the way. But my sister, a foodie, quickly came around when she realized this was her chance to experience more authentic Mexican food. Apparently the stuff is usually of dubious quality north of the 49th parallel.

Originally, I had thought about heading straight to Albuquerque and spending time there, but it soon morphed into a road trip starting in San Diego where we would first visit one of our cousins. Our final plan became the Loop: 1) take the I-15 north from San Diego to Barstow, 2) the I-40 from Barstow to Albuquerque, 3) the I-25 from Albuquerque to Las Cruces, 4) the I-10 from Las Cruces to Tucson, and 5) the I-8 from Tucson back to San Diego.

On Christmas Day, I flew down from Missoula to San Diego to meet up with my sister. (The thing that I usually notice about fellow passengers is how some of them dress so uncomfortably for a plane ride. I suppose for them, the desire to be fashionable and to be seen trumps comfort and practicality.) I got a rental car which hadn’t been my first choice, but it’s Christmas so sometimes you just have to roll with things. The Volkswagen Passat ended up serving us well throughout the trip. The only thing I was really annoyed with was the fuel door which was definitely not user friendly. It didn’t open when I wanted it open and it opened when I didn’t want it open. Also the user manual that came with the car? My sister scoured the thing and there’s no freakin’ phone numbers to the car company’s help department.

Anyways, we hooked up the GPS to figure out a way to get to our cousin’s apartment but at first the GPS was uncooperative as it continued to think it was still in Montana. After many long minutes of attempting to coax the device into believing that it was in San Diego, we gave up and called our cousin for directions.

By the time we arrived at our cousin’s home, the GPS had decided to behave and we were starving. Our cousin, her boyfriend, and his brother decided to take us to one of their favorite restaurants, Little Sheep Mongolian Hot Pot. Seeing the place completely packed was definitely promising. Once we got a table, we decided on getting a split hot pot–one spicy, one non-spicy. We also ordered a whole bunch of stuff to go into the hot pot. And it was delicious. Highly recommended. (Also, after reading the menu I finally learned what one of my favorite vegetables tongho was in English: chrysanthemum leaves.)

Afterwards, we ambled around Balboa Park which was decked out with lights for the holidays. It was also quite weird seeing one of the museums advertising a torture exhibit. (Note: My digital camera does not do well in the dark so these are the only ones that turned out not terribly blurry.)

Later that evening during the course of conversation, our cousin brought up the fact that her sister had sent her a “salacious” picture of their parents. Apparently her sister had found an entire “romantic cruise photo shoot” on their computer. “She didn’t hack their computer,” my cousin took pains to explain. “Besides, they didn’t mind that we wanted to show the pictures.”

“Is this something that once I see I can’t unsee?” I had asked.

“No! It’s totally cute!” She showed me the picture.

My aunt and uncle were on the deck of a cruise ship in an uncomfortable looking cinch pose. Fortunately, they were wearing ordinary clothes. But it could make for a horrible romance novel cover.

“That’s…weird,” I managed. I handed the picture over to my sister.

She was a bit speechless. “Uhhh…”

The thing is, this photo shoot seemed completely at odds with what my sister and I know about our aunt and uncle. They and our parents grew up in the sort of cultural milieu where such lavish documentation of affection just isn’t done. While my uncle is a little more easy going, I think of my aunt as the quintessential tiger mom not so secretly obsessed with status and appearances (sort of like an Asian Hyacinth Bucket)–constantly driving her daughters to excel so that they could ultimately become medical professionals.

My cousin further told us that she and her sister had constantly badgered their parents to actually show that they love each other. “But we didn’t know that they would do this!” Maybe all that badgering finally made them snap and they decided to do something to embarrass their kids. Although if that’s the case, it backfired as my cousin thinks the whole thing is awesome.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with over-the-top displays of love. But what I find troubling is the belief that the only way to show that you love someone is to have that over-the-top display. Sure, some people do it and it’s natural to them. But not everyone has the personality, cultural inclination, sheer chutzpa, or any number of other things to do that sort of stuff. A grand dramatic gesture isn’t necessary to show that you love someone. The small seemingly mundane things can also express love. And to me, those small things seem far more believable because they are harder to fake and less dependent on an audience.

And so with that philosophical thought bouncing around in my head, I tried to get some sleep on my cousin’s couch before the long drive the next day.