Space Deprivation

Travel involves relinquishing yourself to a time warp. I don't know what day it is or how long I've been awake, but my mathematical estimates are as follows: Saturday night, 48 hours. It might be October.

The group, which began with four, has since tripled. My mom, dad, brother and I met up with my aunt and uncle at the Honolulu International Airport. We picked up my two cousins in Seattle and flew to Florida. Here, we were met by my second aunty and uncle, my second cousin, her friend and another aunt. I think this makes 13, though my cousin is pregnant, thus making it 13 1/2.

We've all been falling asleep at small increments and at really inappropriate times. Some of us slip into states of comatose during 20 minute commutes. Others sleep during shows, on outdoor benches or whilst driving. We are ill, but we press onward because vacations don't last forever.

Today we made it to the John F. Kennedy Space Center and wowed ourselves silly off of rockets and space travel. The universe is out of control, and in a cool way. They had propped the Atlantis shuttle up for its launch next month, so we took our time appreciating the sight of the second-to-last spaceship getting prepped for action. My heart is broken that the shuttle missions will be ending soon.

Tomorrow we go from space to sea and embark on our Disney cruise. My cousins told me that there will be karaoke, so I'm already working on my Lion King songs. Naaaaaants ingonyamaaaa bagithi baba... and Elton John just gave me a high-5.

Prelude to a family vacation

I miss it: The packing and list drafting and three-week foresight that comes with travel. I crave those restless nights that come before departure. I would find myself shifting all night in bed, sleepless due to excitement or the morphing list of things that still need to be done.

Distractions ensue, and the result always seems to be me dashing out the door in house slippers and breakfast on my chin. But I love it.

Midnight in Venice, Italy

I’d give anything to wake up to pitch darkness and the kind of silence that signifies how the world around you is still asleep. I embrace that feeling of being suspended in my 4 a.m. preparations, moving through an early-morning resistance as if the night thickened while we REMed. I love taking my shoes off at security, even though I can feel the cold of the tile seeping through my socks, bringing with it some backpacker’s athletes foot or toe jams or whatever nonsense feet absorb and disperse. I even love sitting next to that one passenger, the one who talks incessantly about nothing at all because that’s the ridiculousness that I remember when the movement has ceased.

The stories I could tell you that have taken place during transit, oh, they range from embarrassing to heart-warming. From hair products mistaken for sex toys to old Korean men who have offered the type of kindness that breaks harbored stereotypes.

I just love to travel.

Bag piping in Edinburgh, Scotland

I’ve grown accustomed to traveling alone, navigating and getting lost and discovering things by myself. This trip I’m taking, the one that starts on Friday, is of a different design and for an alternative purpose than what I’m used to. This week, I’m going on a family vacation.

Three weeks gone with parents and siblings and relatives and cousins. Three weeks with agendas and meal plans and beds that don’t have bugs and rooms that don’t house strangers. I’ll get room service and fancy dinners, a pirate-themed party thrown by a family-friendly Disney. Someone else will navigate and someone else will get lost, and I’ll be the one tagging along in the back, just along for the ride.

Lost in the outskirts of Seattle

Though it sounds like a trip induced by leisure, it’s in fact a result of family deaths and cancers and sicknesses. Like a home-owner investing in a house alarm after being robbed, my family is taking action. Together, we will experience the nuances of being related. I haven’t done this since ’96 and I have no idea how it’s going to go down, but I have my brother and an ID that says I can buy alcohol, so I’m well-equipped to endure anything.

Three days until I’m gone. Three weeks until I’m crazy.

Florida, Bahamas, Pennsylvania, Las Vegas. Oh good gracious, here I come.

Born to Depart

Three days, two dinners, one meeting and half a day’s work stand between an airplane and I. This is an intolerable amount of time considering how desperately I’ve been longing to get my feet off the ground. It’s been seven months since I’ve been thrown into travelers abstinence, grounding myself for the sake of education. I’ve endured the withdrawals of an ex-wanderer, pacing in circles to compensate for how stationary life has been.

So I’ve strapped myself down to the circumference of an island and thrashed under my own restraints until I've exhausted the need to take off. I’ve been depressed and hopeless and lonely, but I’ve recovered from my melancholy by drinking it down, throwing it up and hanging it over. It sounds like a reckless way to recover, but I’ve been optimistic and surprisingly sober for the better part of July. Cured, I say, or broken, I think.

What matters is that I’ll be in a terminal once again, moving through gates and metal detectors like a puppet flipping off its axis. I won’t even wear shoes that day 'cause I want to impress security with my obvious familiarity with their rules and regulations. Liquids? Drank, thank you, and recycled, you’re welcome. And I already know where all the emergency exits are located, naturally.

I’m hyper on reliving the feeling of leaving. I want to be a stranger and a brand newcomer and an explorer of a place I know little of. I want to leave this mound of sand to swish in the tides without me while I drink overly chlorinated water in the tourist hub of Orlando. I’ll get paid to reach high elevations, and being on the job will not bring me down.

There’s little use in recovery when, really, I was born to depart. 

Death of the First Born iPod

In lieu of my writers block, I'm going to pull an entry that I wrote back in 2007 during my second year in South Korea. I don't remember writing it, so stumbling upon it was glorious. At the time, I was living in a small farming village located in an isolated valley, which, at one point, I refer to "the punch bowl." Enjoy.

Korea is a map in which all corners are connected by trains, subways, taxis and buses. There is no one place that is inaccessible through these means of transportation. Here, traveling is accessible, affordable and, for the most part, comfortable. The one thing it is not, is fast. When I say that it isn't fast, I don't mean that the drivers are slow, because they are anything but. Travel is slow because the big cities are small and few in-between. So, to see Korea, one must truly go the distance.

Destinations are strangely and exactly one hour apart, as if these roads and speed limits were designed in such a way as to help regulate and simplify the bus schedules. Of course, the farther you are, the more hours it takes to arrive, so I am constantly traveling here. I gladly opt for the token hour-long journey from my punch bowl to the nearest city in order to escape small town stagnation. 

It was through these long drives in which my iPod became both companion and best friend. My iPod was the medium through which "This American Life" - a Korean bus-ride favorite of mine - could reach and entertain my brain. It was what connected me to Hawksley Workman, Belle & Sebastian, Regina Spektor and The Shins. For all I knew, I was front row, VIP, BFF with every band and singer that resonated through my ear canal.

So when my iPod died, it was more than just a portable entertainment device that went to Heaven. It was death to Ira Glass and all the ways in which I could live vicariously through him. It was the demise to my mind-blowing silent power vocal solos held discreetly between the window and the empty seat beside me. It was an end to my personal serenades, sung sweetly to only me by dashing men of multiple musical talents. It was the annihilation of a personal world in which bus driver and fellow passengers ceased to exist - a world in which a custom stage and face-melting pyrotechnics were mine.

So when my iPod died, I was left with a kind of silence that I didn't know what to do with. For hours and a multitude of bus rides, I'd sit and pout because I didn't know how to appreciate the lack of electronics. Except, there comes a time when mourning ceases to cut it, and when this happens, there is true silence. It is in this void that the change begins to happen and suddenly I am thinking, I am praying and I am creating. 

I've already dreamt up a series of South Korean folk tales, inspired by the forest that I just noticed that we drive through. I've been writing a lot more, mostly thoughts on my experiences, and have mapped out the direction in which I'd like to go in life. So, although there is a gravestone dedicated to my iPod, there is also a shiny blue mylar balloon that reads, "Congratulations. It's a brain." Indeed, my thoughts were being held hostage by the completed works of others, when what I needed most, was to create some work myself.

73. Take a Self Defense Class

Ah yes, another completed goal straight down the hatch. Despite being half-way there with my 101 Goals in 1001 Days, the list itself is coming along strikingly. Last month I took a free self-defense class for women at Smith Tae Kwon Do Center in Kaneohe, and proceeded to learn what it takes to kick villain butt. In fact, I subsequently wrote an article for The Kapi'o that may help to defend your honor if you so choose to take on the responsibility.

Needless to say, the class was wonderfully educational. Having the knowledge and the practice of defending myself against an attacker has made me feel substantially more safe when I'm alone. I have since purchased a vial of pepper spray, which I whip out with enthusiasm once the sun sets. Sometimes I go through the steps of defense in my head, prepared at all times to do what it takes to ensure that I am never a victim.

Read the article, take the class, defend your honor. Goal #73, you're so history.

Video Spam

I'm going to spam you with videos, are you ready?

MAKAPU'U CLIFFSIDE HIKE
The first is my most recent, though it was shot back in March during Spring Break. (Time has no respect for anybody). Jeff, Laura, Chris, Doni, Spencer and I made a date to hit up the area around Makapu'u Lighthouse. I could write a whole story for you, but then that would defeat the purpose of my poignant narration. Behold, a great outdoor adventure.



KAWAII-KON 2010
The second was an assignment from The Kapi'o, a small newspress run out of KCC. We had written an article about Kawaii-Kon a few weeks before the event began, though I didn't read it until it hit the stands the following Monday. I took the paper to my editor, begged to attend and it was done. Press passes were promised to me and I reserved the weekend of the 17th for nerdtastic fun. Oh, and it was a beautiful weekend indeed.




HUSTLED BY WIND (SKIRTS DON'T STAND A CHANCE)
This is another video taken during spring break when my friend, Ken, and I decided to go out for lunch together. Our spontaneity led us to a post-meal trip to Pali Lookout, where the winds were on high per usual. Inspired by the footage, I went home and had the video edited within a few days. Within the week, "Hustled by Wind" had over 1,000 hits, which I miscredited to my editing skills. Thanks to YouTube's Insight data section, I was able to discover that it was just an overwhelming amount of 55-64 year old men who were doing searches for "windy skirt." This is disgusting, but the video is not. Watch it.

So good at pushing away.

My cat and I have always had an unsteady relationship. She was introduced into our family by an ex-boyfriend who thought he was doing a romantic deed back in 2003. I really loathed all the ridiculous teen-movie shenanigans that he put me through, most of which were excessively contrived and stupid. 

But I digress. During this time, I was obsessed with the musical "Cats," which is about a clan of felines who sing and dance about the woes of living on the streets. It's fantastic. I had one particular favorite whose name was Magical Mr. Mistoffelees. As you can surmise by his title, he was magical and just about the greatest cat ever. Mr. Mistoffelees was jet black with white feet and the exact model of the feline that I was in the midsts of bribing my parents to adopt for me.

So when Ex-Boyfriend showed up at my house with a surprise in his car, I was both irritated and appalled at the stark white girl cat that was hiding in his back seat. Not only was she the physical opposite of what I desired, but she couldn't dance, do magic or even be sociable for that matter. Sugar, my new cat, was a ball of allergy for me, with nails that scratched ruthlessly while leaving swollen red welts in their wake. 

I broke up with my boyfriend shortly thereafter.

In the last seven years that I've been feeding Sugar, we have never gotten along. I draw pictures of cats incased within red circles with a vicious slash drawn across it. "NO CATS!" is usually printed on the bottom. It never mattered if she could understand or not, the point was that I was laying down the law, and I had every intention of reinforcing punishment. 

So when I moved to Europe and returned 18 months later with a renewed sense of patience and love, I was startled at how accepting I had become of Sugar. Suddenly, I was petting her, hugging her and letting her pass through my cat-forsaken doors. In fact, there were nights when I would let her sleep on the foot of my bed. When I began to experience major allergic reactions to my entire bedroom due to the constant existence of dander, I just took allergy medications and carried on. 

But the point of this story isn't about a rocky relationship with a cat. It's about the rocky relationship that I have with all boys. You see, shortly after I began to extend kindness towards Sugar, she fell in love with me. She would follow me around the house and take naps next to my work space. If I went to sleep without her in my room, she would sit at my door and complain until I let her in. Although this sounds romantic, it isn't. 

I began to feel like she was encroaching on my personal space, suffocating me. I felt like I wouldn't be able to love her as much as she loved me, so I told her to leave me alone and spare herself the heartache. "It's not you, it is TOTALLY me. We gotta just be friends, I'm so sorry."

And just as I was breaking up with my cat, I realized I had commitment issues. The story of my life unfolded before me, boy after boy after boy after boy after cat. It was a repetitive tale of momentary interest followed by a sudden disappearance. I can't tolerate people being close to me, and in this way, I have become so good at pushing away.

I put the NO CAT! signs back up, shampooed the carpet and changed my sheets, eliminating all traces of dander and unrequited love. I exercised the clean and neat parting that I've grown so proficient at: No commitment, no obligations, no disappointments, no cat, no relationship.

It sounds lonely, and it actually really is. I've endured years of being single before, though not for lack of trying. Attachments kind of scare me. A lot. Perhaps this is why I so often take off traveling, leaving home for another country faster than anyone would believe logical or even safe. I have a huge heart, but one that I keep to myself; secured and barricaded behind every defensive force imaginable. Truth be told, I don't know how to change.

But last week, I surprised myself by intentionally leaving my door open before I went to sleep. When I woke up in the morning, my cat was sleeping at the foot of my bed, already forgiving my love retraction. I took an allergy pill, gathered her up in my arms and told her that what we had was true love. 

And one day, I'll get it right in the human world too.

Age is just a number

But alas, this number discourages me from going out on a school night. I like my six hours of sleep. And season 3 of Heroes.

Ode to Ireland

It was the first day of 2009 and I was drinking far more than my body could handle. I had been waking up past noon and going to bed at sunrise for the past four days, feeding myself oily plates of fish and chips in order to sustain myself. I was in Ireland, and there was no other way to experience it.

I was staying with the family of a boy that I had met in a pub in Germany. The night we met, he drunkenly offered an invitation to Ireland, and I drunkenly accepted. Days later, tickets were bought and by New Years eve, I was banging pots and pans in the streets of Arklow, "chasing away the faeries." The memories of that trip have been fogged over by alcohol, but the most important facts remain.

1) Small town living is creepy, though novel if you're a visitor. I stayed in an offbeat village called Arklow, where everyone knew everyone and who everyone knew. My first night was spent in a pub and moments after my arrival, a man drunkenly swaggered past my booth, stared obtrusively, pointed directly at my face and slurred, "HEEEEEeeyeyyyeeey," which I assumed to directly translate as, "Well good gracious, you're new in these parts, aren't you?" By the end of the night, he had written me a poem and the entire pub had introduced themselves to me. I'm pretty sure I didn't pay for any beer either.

2) The Irish breakfast - generally comprised of Irish sausage, Irish bacon, black pudding, white pudding, eggs, tomatoes, potatoes, Irish beans, Irish butter and Dubliner cheese - is somehow disgusting when sober, and yet has miraculous healing powers when hung over.

3) And lastly, Guinness is the most delicious beer ever invented, and nothing other than what streams forth from the frothy nozzle of an Irish keg will ever do it justice. The chilled glass pints, the bubbly foam head, the shot of raspberry currant and the sounds of two-dozen drunk Irish patrons will make that first sip forever memorable. It helps if there's someone in the background playing a fiddle, and when you're in Ireland, there's usually someone in the background playing a fiddle.

Though I'm not celebrating St. Patrick's Day this year, I hope every one else is having a grand time. For now, I'll just have to revisit the Irish on my own.

Me, Guinness, Ireland; December 2009.

Grimm Magic

(Circa December 2009, Germany. A notebook excerpt).

It's been a year since I ran through these woods, a regular afternoon pastime to ingest fresh air and stay fit. My old route was instinctive and it seemed to run under me instead of the other way around. The woods were exactly as I remembered them, populated with naked giants, their black bones reaching up to shake their fists at the cold. Their roots were hidden under forgotten leaves, piling and piling and piling up. I jogged around a tree and dragged my gloved fingers across its bark, continuing an old habit from 2008 and conveying the same secret message, "Hello again, tree."

The same mud patches were patched in mud and I laughed as usual as I gracelessly hopped around the worst of it. The halfway-hill was just as steep and I adopted the same restrained job to keep myself from flying forward.

But the thin streams that ran along the last leg home were dry and I wondered what became of the school of freshwater mermaids that would swim alongside me as my heart thumped my feet forward. I was the only half-breed in the woods that day, but the magic of the German forest was in infinite supply.

I dared not spit near the trees as I still believed that they had the power to absorb my DNA and transform into my duplicate. It's the way these trees moved on to their second life, and they wait in earnest for one of us to give them the opportunity.

Every path had a story and every run created more. The woods were no longer a conglomeration of flora, but instead, a living storybook where each corner was synonymous with the turning of pages. As I neared the end of my route, I already knew that running would never get any better than this.

Notebook ingenuity.

I carry around a little notebook to record my thoughts during moments of ingenuity or inspiration. Most of the time, however, I end up with useless scribbles that mean little to me once I forget their context. The last three entries, for example, are testament to my inability to appear intelligent at all times:

3) A list entitled, "AN IDEAL USE OF TIME," followed by 11 ridiculous sub-points. Ladyfy thyself, and, Have a lovely breakfast with tea, makes me wonder if I was abducted by a Debutante.

2) A series of one-lined questions addressed to no one.
     * Is the force within you?
     * What shape does your patronus take?
     * In which activity did you win your gold medal?

1) And two haikus about tofu that were created when I enthusiastically declared a class-wide tofu haiku showdown. I managed to coerce the boy behind me into participating, and after convincing another boy to be the judge, I somehow lost the competition. The proof is in my Moleskine.

Healthy little cubes

Jiggly wobbly slippery

As I swallow it

Asian creation

Coagulated soy milk

Suddenly tofu!

(Ps. I'm not saying the judgement was sexually biased, but there's no other explanation for my loss. Tofu isn't Jiggly).

Despite these nonsensical scribbles, I do sometimes come across an entry that is worthwhile. Writing, in all its forms, has given me a solid history, residually allowing my life to be captured within these pages. No matter how many repetitive To-Do lists I create or unfinished thoughts I jot down, it'll all be worth a revisit when I'm 50, not retired and fed up with raising my dirty children. One day the ingenuity will show itself, but until then, five fail-proof ways on how to dominate a 10-year-old in Monopoly will have to do. 

Don't ask.

The woes of ex-ex-patriotism

My life has become significantly less interesting since I’ve become an ex-expat. I try to supplement my blog with little excursions that I do around the island, but going to Ala Moana Beach Park for a BBQ just isn’t the same as going to Venice for the weekend. Remember when I got lost by myself in Paris where I later learned the fundamentals of travel the hard way? Well, I recently got lost while looking for Friday-night parking in downtown Honolulu and only walked away with the steadfast conviction that one-way roads should be outlawed. The later doesn’t quite have the same appeal.

But I refuse to settle into the belief that home has to be synonymous with boring. I am extraordinarily fortunate to call this tropical island my place of residence. People frequently travel to Hawaii and their experiences are usually filled with exoticism, lush beaches and smoking hot local boys*, all of which are at my daily disposal! Do I have a desire to take advantage of it? Yes. Am I successful? Rarely, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.

So a little goal has birthed itself. You’ll be hearing from me in excess over the next week just so I can prove to you that a story can be found regardless of where you’re looking for it. In many cases, adventure is just disguised as something we’ve already seen before. Sometimes, all it takes are new eyes.

*By “smoking hot local boys,” I actually mean “underaged Asians.”

Chinese New Year in Hawaii

Chinese New Year is something my mom, grandma and I have been celebrating together off and on throughout the years. Unfortunately, grandma is no longer with us, but my dad was kind enough to tag along.

We covered the usual ground of feeding lions, buying food and participating in superstitious Asian customs such as fortune telling and jewelry investments.

This has been filmed in Hawaii, so expect slight differences in how we celebrate. Happy Chinese New Year!

Facebookers, link to the video here ;)

71. Learn to drive a stick shift vehicle.

I have these goals that I've been working on, 101 of them to be exact. I have 1001 days to complete them and though the numbers seem daunting, they're not so bad when taken in stride.

The latest quest has been to tackle goal number 71) Learn to drive a stick shift vehicle.

I've tried to accomplish this off and on throughout the years starting shortly after I got my license, driving around my high school parking lot in my Dad's big blue Aerostar. I once tried with my neighbor/best friend back in 2004, grinding the gears of his brand new vehicle in the middle of the night. An exboyfriend tried to teach me, though his patience was limited and I wound up crying at the steering wheel, and then my brother later took me around the neighborhood in vain attempts to get me driving stick. I live in an area that is basically one large hill, so not only did that lesson run short, but I never got behind of the wheel of a manual transmission car again.

That is, until I sent out a request on Facebook for someone to play the role of teacher for a girl who seemed stick-shift impaired. John H. answered the call, and within weeks, I was perched in the front seat of his truck.

Were we successful? You be the judge.

Facebook, link here.

Nixfunkle Goes Geocaching

Geocaching: A form of high tech treasure hunting that I haven't been privy to until Ryan dragged me out of my shell and forced a GPS in my hand.

For a simplified explanation, someone would go out, hide a container of varying size and mark its coordinates on the internet. From here, this location can be accessed by other geocachers who then go out, GPS in hand, and search for it. Believe me, this is not nearly as easy as it sounds; The hiding places that people can execute are mind-blowing.

Ryan and I spent an entire day, scavaging around parks, deserted lots and beach cliffs only to successfully uncover seven of our original 15 locations. When you find one it's awesome all over. When you don't... well, let's just say that the walk back to the car sucks a lot more. Regardless, found caches or not, it was a great time and a worthy adventure.

For more information on the history of Geocaching, or just if you're interested in participating, go to www.geocaching.com and sign up.

Facebook, link here.

Also, many thanks to Ryan for putting up with my slow walking and short attention spans. You're super (with a German accent).

Thoughts on pidgin from a hapa haole.

My Hawaiian Studies class frequently sends me home in a state of deep thought. It's perplexing only because I solely expect to learn about the pacific islands, and yet, I spend hours musing on questions like, "what is your culture?" It's pertinent, and yet, vastly more intriguing than I anticipated.

Today we watched a film on pidgin English and before we left, our professor said, "Think about pidgin." Now, this almost seems like a last ditch phrase to encourage your students to study, but I found myself actually thinking about pidgin while I walked back to my car. While I drove home. While I ate dinner. Did you know that in 1920, the Hawaii school system became segregated? Not by race, but by language. Standard American English speakers went to good schools and those who spoke pidgin didn't. You think my grandma passed that oral exam? Do you think yours did?

And so the school system nipped pidgin in the bud, making it a lesser form of speaking. What, you don't have that stigma? Without being told directly, I grew up believing that pidgin speakers were associated with the lesser educated when really, pidgin is our culture. It's the dying spawn of a conglomeration of plantation workers, inventing a language through input and effort in order to communicate across barriers. My great and great great grandparents helped to found pidgin! My grandma carried it with her everywhere she went and I... well, I helped to kill it. I wanted to be distinctly different from the pidgin speaking kids at school, I wanted to be associated with words like "educated" and "proper" so I enunciated from the day I could speak. I conjugated properly and kept my tenses right, and pidgin, why, that creole never had a chance with me.

But without pidgin, we'd be that much closer to losing what's left of the identity of Hawaii. And though I travel and often find myself on the turf of others, these islands are still my home. No matter where I go in the world, no matter what I see, I always have the inherent belief that Hawaii is the most unique of them all. But filter out our language, make it pure and white, and you'll have nothing more particular than what you find on the rest of the US. The native Hawaiian culture has already taken a blow from tourism, don't let pidgin go aloha print too.

You got me a what?

Someone knocked on my door early Monday morning. It was my brother, Shaun, and he said to me, "I got you a treasure chest." I do this thing where my eyebrow goes up and I exude skepticism, which was his cue to repeat himself, "I got you a treasure chest. It's outside."

So, abandoning the task of getting dressed, I went to investigate just what exactly he meant by treasure chest.

I should have known that it was out of character for him to be metaphorical and poetic, because what I found waiting for me in the garage was a bona-fide treasure chest. It is also quite possibly the coolest thing I have ever received. You must concur.

Also! I recapped my first month being back home in the following video. Included are snippets of: Italian homecoming party, a failed Oreo back, mochi making, new years eve, new years day, Japanese traditions, cemetery visits and a shaka outro! Enjoy! (ps. If I saw you this month, then you are likely to have made a cameo somewhere in these four minutes!)

Facebook, you know the drill.

Viewing Pleasure.

Maintaining a blog originated as a way to memorialize my experiences abroad and keep in touch with the people back home. The thing is that I now have friends in places other than Hawaii, and my adventures are able to continue no matter where I am. To stop now would only satiate a lazy version of myself and, needless to say, I'm not enthusiastic about indulging lethargy.

Proof of a good time, if you haven't seen it already, a BBQ set up sea side with friends and lots of fish.

For facebook users, the link is HIER. Of course, subscribing would do you good too.

Not to overload you with videos, but I have also put another one up recently, and this is what I'm going to call, "A Year of Dance." For those of you know were familiar with how I was making my living abroad, you know that I spent the entirety of my working hours with four girls, two of which I taught English to. They have been a source of both joy and learning for me, and so the least I could do was to immortalize our time together in the form of a dance montage. Indeed, we danced a lot.

Facebook, QUI. Subscribe.

I suppose you'll hear from me again, soon, as my 101 Goals depend on it.

Christmas 2009

The holiday season in Hawaii is celebrated in a wide variety of ways depending on certain upbringings. There’s a plethora of cultures and ethnicities on the islands, so much so that there is no majority race. In fact, 20% of the population come from multi-ethnic backgrounds, like myself, resulting in a widespread fusion of culture.

My moms side of the family has been born and raised in Hawaii for many generations, though ethnically, we are Japanese. The following footage is from Christmas 2009, typical to how I’ve been celebrating it for the past 24 years. Enjoy!

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