Category Archives: Contemplation

The evolution of Stonestown Galleria

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When I was growing up, malls were always exciting places with lots of different stores, various foods to eat, and experiences to have. Since I went to Lowell for high school in San Francisco, I was just a couple blocks away from Stonestown Galleria, what was then considered a more modern, chic mall in the city. Back then, it had a Macy’s, a Nordstrom, a number of mid-price-range shops, as well as a movie theater. I oftentimes would go there to get a quick smoothie or dinner during my late nights in the high school journalism room. Other times, I’d just go there and wander the mall with friends to kill time or procrastinate on studying. It was a pleasant, clean, fun place to hang out and just be.

Malls haven’t been doing so well, though, across the U.S. And according to the New York Times, the only ones that are really surviving are the ones that have successfully pivoted into experiential spaces… or become really, really Asian. Stonestown has become far more “Asian” since the last time I visited when Ed was still working at Macy’s. Almost all the restaurants inside are Chinese, Japanese, Korean, or some Asian fusion, including Supreme Dumpling, where we ate with my cousins tonight (which had a wait of at least 75 minutes and a huge crowd outside when we left). What was a bit surprising is that they had a fast casual ma la tang restaurant (like individual hot pots) where you choose your proteins, vegetables, noodles, etc., and pay by weight. Then, they cook it all for you and put it in your chosen broth of varying spice/heat levels. The seating was all open, and this place was pretty busy! Even the dessert, snack, and drink places scattered throughout the mall outside the food court are heavily leaning Asian. As soon as you enter from the main front entrance, Onigilly, a Bay Area-based mini-chain of Japanese onigiri (Japanese rice ball) and Japanese snacks greets you. On the first floor, they had WanPo, a fresh bubble tea place from Taichung, Taiwan, as well as Uncle Tetsu, a Japanese jiggly cheesecake I already had familiarity with given that they have a location in both Melbourne and New York already. The food court was unrecognizable to me, as the only place that survived from my high school days was Panda Express (ugh, but it’s still pseudo-Asian, I suppose). They had a Taiwanese night-market-type stand named after the famous Shilin Night Market, a poke bowl stand, and Matcha Cafe Maiko, a matcha/soft serve spot I like, which is originally from Hawaii, but also has a location just around the corner from Kaia’s school in Manhattan Chinatown.

Macy’s and Nordstrom, the two major department stores that made up Stonestown once upon a time, are now a relic of history. Instead, they’ve been replaced by a chain-based fitness center, a bowling alley, Whole Foods, and Trader Joe’s. It was strange to be in there and see all the changes that have happened in the last twenty years. My cousin pointed out to me that Supreme Dumpling, where we were dining and sitting in, had previously been LensCrafters, which I had completely forgotten about. A sushi-boat eatery on the second floor was previously Banana Republic, which I used to browse all the time during high school breaks. But if he didn’t remind me of these places, I would have totally forgotten. I almost felt like I was outdated walking through the mall myself. I like the changes, and given the types of food are at the mall now along with Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s, I could even see myself going here more often if I lived in the area. But the whole experience also made me sad to think that Ed wouldn’t recognize the majority of it if he just miraculously came back to life and plopped himself in there. The last time I remember being there when Ed still worked at Macy’s, Trader Joe’s was brand new, the main attraction. And Ed would occasionally go there and buy things. But now, Macy’s no longer exists there… And neither does Ed in this world.

Coming “home” and the “why” behind it

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“Are you looking forward to going back home… or, is that even an appropriate question?” my friend asked me over dinner on Wednesday.

“I’m… not really looking forward to it,” I said honestly. “It’s just something I do. There are parts I look forward to, but the idea of going home does not excite me at all.”

That sounds like a terrible thing to admit out loud, but it’s the truth. It’s like what a lot of people say about their family: they love their family, but they do not necessarily like them as people. Their bonds are due to blood, obligation, and history, as opposed to shared or aligned values or respect for each others’ respective lives. I want to see my parents in person, but for limited amounts of time to protect my sanity and mental health. I also want them to see Kaia, and for Kaia to know who they are and that they are her maternal grandparents. But I know the reality of them “spending” time together is very limited in terms of the type of interactions they will have — regardless of what age Kaia is.

After a bleary eyed 6am flight from JFK to SFO, we arrived in San Francisco just past 8:30am local time. After a car ride to my parents’ place, our driver stopped in front of the house, to which I looked up at and got really annoyed. “What the heck is all this scaffolding in front?!” The scaffolding looked precarious, as though it was so unstable that someone would fall to their death from it. Plus, there was this hideous sheer black tarp covering 80 percent of the house’s facade. And then when I opened the front gate… it would not open all the way because that wretched scaffolding was preventing me from doing so.

I hadn’t even entered my parents’ house yet, and I was already in a pissy mood.

Then we got into the house, and of course, it’s clutter central. There are so many rolls of toilet paper in the hallway that I cannot walk in a straight line to turn the corner and get to my bedroom. Frustrated, I took several bags of them and pushed them into the sun room. The door to the breakfast room is still removed, leaning against a large framed photograph of Hong Kong Harbour in the dining room. It’s been like that since pre-pandemic. All the cabinet doors are pulled out of the bathroom; the lighting has no covering, with the light bulbs exposed. There are so many cob webs hanging from the ceiling of the bathroom that I felt compelled to take out the vacuum and clean it all up — cob webs of a size that usually only exist in abandoned buildings or attics that haven’t seen life in ages. There are over ten dozen eggs in the fridge — for what purpose, who knows. And then there is a bunch of rotting fruit on the dining room table with fruit flies swarming it all. I looked out the window at my parents’ yard, and it looks like the same awful weed fest from last year. Nothing has changed. If anything, there is more garbage in the house and the backyard.

That’s not even the worst of it. At lunch, my dad barely says anything to us at the dining table. He’s mostly on his phone once again while Kaia attempts but mostly fails to get reactions out of him. My mom keeps telling my dad to talk to Kaia, as though my dad is a baby, but my dad doesn’t really listen and continues looking at his phone. Once he’s done eating, he gets up and leaves the table. Kaia then asks him why he’s not sitting with us. It’s funny and also tragic that Kaia not only notices this but calls it out. Children say things exactly as they are whether adults like it or not. My mom fusses around in the kitchen, sits for less than five minutes to eat, and then gets up and fusses around Kaia and the kitchen some more.

After some playground time and wandering along Clement Street this afternoon, we came back home. I had a shower after dinner, and it was, by far, the worst shower I can remember ever having. The water barely drips out of the low-flow shower head that my dad has installed; it’s no wonder Kaia hated her shower so much earlier in the evening. It was so atrocious that I ended up “showering” under the bathtub faucet. If that sounds awkward, it was, but it was necessary. Otherwise, I would have had a light drip down on me all night to get clean.

Sometimes, I wonder why I even go to the trouble of dealing with all this. I don’t really enjoy it. I hate the shower, the clutter, the broken things that will never get repaired, the garbage, the mouse traps everywhere. “Why do I even bother?” I even said this out loud to Chris this afternoon while Kaia was playing in the sandbox at my childhood playground. But the “why” is always a complicated, not-straightforward answer.

Americans need a Slip, Slop, Slap! campaign to protect themselves from the sun year round because they are failing at sun protection

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The first half of this week, it’s going to be quite the scorcher here in New York City. We’re seeing temperatures ranging from 92-98 degrees F, so we’ll all likely be finding reasons to stay indoors and blast our AC units (and drive up our Con Edison bills annoyingly). I took a short walk before hopping on a train slightly south of where we live to get some extra steps in. I took a yellow train to get down to Chinatown to pick up Pookster from summer camp this late afternoon. Everywhere I walked, whether it was around Columbus Circle, Times Square, SoHo, or Chinatown, I saw people sunburnt. Men with receding hairlines had the tops of their heads cherry red. I saw multiple men and women of various skin tones burnt on their cheeks, noses, shoulders, chests, and upper backs. It was pretty infuriating to see that people were not doing their due diligence to protect themselves from the sun.

The thing that bothers me pretty much every May as Memorial Day and summer grow closer here in the Northern Hemisphere is that most Americans seem to think that you only need to apply sunscreen… DURING THE SUMMER. If you walk into any Duane Reade or CVS or equivalent, you see all the sunscreen bottles front and center when you walk in. Sales go on at stores for sunscreen. It’s as though the concept of sunscreen is just for summer, and irrelevant any other time of the year. This is absolutely NOT TRUE AT ALL. The sun is shining its powerful rays onto your skin, eyes, and hair every single day, cloudy or not cloudy, and thus putting you at risk of premature wrinkles, sun spots, sun burn, and potentially even skin cancer. It’s even getting to you when you are indoors, assuming where you are has windows, because it’s shining through windows, plus you’re still getting exposed to indirect sunlight! Most people here do not think about applying sunscreen when it’s cloudy or not summer. It’s actually pretty scary how misinformed the average American is about the dangers of sun exposure.

Here in the U.S., we could do with a little lesson from our Southern Hemisphere friends in Australia. The Australian Cancer Council has a SunSmart campaign that’s stuck with our Down Under neighbors in a pretty simple slogan: Slip, Slop, Slap, (Seek, Slide). The first three S’s are seen on signs pretty frequently when you are walking around shops, storefronts, and beaches in Australia. They refer to Slip (on a cover for your skin, like sleeves or long pants), Slop (on high SPF sunscreen, and reapply when in the water, sweating, or every 2-4 hours if outside), Slap (on a wide-brimmed hat); the last two refer to Seek(ing shade/cover when possible) and Slide(ing on sunglasses to protect your eyes).

I was thinking about this slogan while also remembering Chris’s dad’s semi-frequent comment when he comes to visit us in the States every spring. Chris’s parents are very religious with wearing hats outside and seeking shade. Many times while going out, he will take a look at (who we assume are) Americans around us, and he will ask if Americans just don’t wear hats that often. And well, he’s kind of right: on any day here, regardless of what season it is, (and actually especially during the summer), the people who are walking the streets of New York wearing hats are not the majority at all. As I wore my wide-brimmed wrap-around sun visor to pick up Kaia today on this 90-plus-degree F day, I realized that I was still in the minority for wearing a hat. Even when I was in Chinatown, where there tends to be more Asians, and Asian people in general are more protective over their skin getting exposed to UV rays, people wearing hats were not the majority. We don’t have a fraction of the “Slip, Slop, Slap!” campaign happening here in the U.S., but we really should!

I told my friend and her husband on Saturday when we met that I have zero shame for my wide-brimmed sun visor, and I’m pretty darn proud to wear it now. I’m turning 40 in the next six months, and I have no reason to be embarrassed for taking care of my skin health. And I mean it!

Increased time spent online vs. with loved ones

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Several days ago, my mother-in-law sent a moving image that depicted the years moving forward and how retired people spend their time. It has categories that you would expect: volunteer work, hobbies, travel, part-time work, spending time with family, friends, and loved ones, etc. The point that she implied was disturbing is that as time moved forward into today’s era, the time spent with family/friends had decreased significantly, and instead, the top place for “time spent” was “online.” That could mean one’s mobile device or computer or tablet. The medium didn’t matter; it was the fact that they were online in front of some screen as the majority of time spent while retired. This made me think about how much time Chris’s dad spends going down Wikipedia rabbit holes when he learns of something he’s unaware of but wants to know more about (and then, I am sure, immediately forgets after he closes out the page). It made me think about my own dad and how he dangerously spends too much time on YouTube watching user-created content made by users who are likely factless and data-less. It also made me think about how my mother-in-law, ironically enough, spends a decent amount of time scrolling through her Instagram and Facebook feeds and watching way too many pointless videos that are sent via her various Whatsapp college alumni and family groups.

I responded and said, none of that was very surprising. Everyone in this chat is addicted to their own devices, so we’re just examples of what the data is showing.

Then, I thought about my friend who semi-recently gave up social media. We used to interact a lot with each other over Instagram, but she said she had to give it up because she spent way too much time doom-scrolling and wasting time on it. Now that she’s almost six months free of it, she feels more liberated than ever. She spends more time meditating, reading things she actually wants to read, and thinking about productive things she wants to do in her future. She never has to look back at her day and wonder where the hell all that time went and how it got wasted.

I was thinking about this and decided that I need to be more intentional with the time spent on my phone. I can’t control that I have to be online for work during work hours. But I can control how I use my phone and for what when it’s non-work hours and days. I really should stop doing what Hari Kondabalu joked about at his show last week, which is falling for “your phone beckoning you,” and immediately looking up something that “bothers” you or that comes to mind that you just absolutely need to know in that very second. Chris does this all the time, too. It’s a terrible phone addiction. Chances are high that it wasn’t that important, anyway, so why do you feel so compelled to immediately go online and look it up? Instead, I am spending more time with my phone in another room. I do not respond to texts right away unless they are urgent (surprise: none have been), and instead, I respond to them in groups at a time. I am also being more intentional about how much time I spend on certain apps and when I use them. After three days of doing this, I already feel mentally better and like my intentions with the world are better. I do not want to be one of those people who is addicted to their phone. And I definitely do not want my child to think that I rather spend time on my phone than be present with her.

“They Called Us Exceptional: And Other Lies That Raised Us”

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Since getting pregnant with Kaia, I’ve thought a lot about the concept of intergenerational trauma or inherited trauma. I suppose my generation is the first to acknowledge that such a thing even exists and how toxic it can be. In previous generations, it was all about survival. Now, my generation is being more introspective about why we are the way we are, and how the way we are is largely shaped by how we were raised and what we were told was expected or “normal.”

I’ve read more books in the last several years about complicated parent-adult child relationships, dysfunctional ethnic family dynamics, and child-rearing in general. In the last year, I came across a book recommendation, a memoir entitled, “They Called Us Exceptional: And Other Lies that Raised Us” by Prachi Gupta, an Indian-American journalist who is my age. In her memoir, she details her parents’ journey to the U.S., their path to the “American dream,” and how the model minority myth fractured her family and even potentially even led to her brother’s premature, untimely death.

Prachi is exactly 18 months older than her brother. Her parents told her they had intended always to have two children, and for them to be close in age, because they wanted the two of them to be each other’s best friend; their mom said that they wanted them to take care of each other once they both passed. Prachi and Yush were basically like best friends up until their late teen/early adult years, when their relationship became unsteady due to their diverging views on men vs. women’s roles in society, as well as their family’s dysfunctions.

I really felt for Prachi reading this book; I finished the book within just a few sittings. Even though she specifically discusses the Indian American / desi experience, I could relate a lot to the complexities of the dysfunctions of her family, the verbal and psychological abuse she, her brother, and their mother endured. I could hear the same echoes and pressures of keeping things a secret or “having/losing face” in my own family. And I could especially feel for her in the moment she found out that her little brother was dead. All the things she so eloquently writes about in detailing her emotions around her brother’s life and death feel so eerily familiar, so similar to how I felt with Ed. The only difference was that Yush was a high achieving, outwardly “successful” Asian American, and well, Ed was not. Both were depressed and suffered from different psychological disorders; both felt that they were less than human beings in their on-earth-bodily states. This is a pretty good quote to summarize how she felt about her family in the world:

“I had once thought that I came from a line of Gods, and I had punished myself for failing to be Godlike. But we were not Gods, and I was not the avatar for our family’s unraveling. I was just another product of inherited trauma, unresolved grief, and reactive survival mechanisms, like everyone else who came before me. We were mortals who felt ashamed when we failed to appear omnipotent. Now I see that my job was to release my ancestors from this burden, to allow those who come next the freedom to be ordinary.”

The book ends with her having little to no contact with her parents. The memoir is written as a letter addressing her mother throughout, saying all the things she wish she could say to her, but her mom refuses to listen to. While she yearns to have a close relationship with her mom as she did when she was a child, it cannot happen without the meddling of her abusive, controlling, and mentally ill father.

Even though it’s been a few days since I finished reading the book, I’m still thinking about it a lot. The emotional rawness of it felt so real, so scarily relatable. As a review in The Atlantic wrote, “She explains better than any writer I’ve ever encountered how conflicts that may appear low-stakes—such as an argument over grades or extracurriculars—can tear open an unnavigable gulf.” People always say that certain arguments don’t matter or don’t mean anything — but my general thought is, well, actually, these seemingly little arguments can expose larger fractures that should very likely be addressed before they blow up. I’m happy to see people of color in my generation writing books like this, and also addressing exactly how complex and unpredictable “dysfunction” can look like.

Why people who read books are the best kind of people

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Ever since I started learning to read as a child, I have loved it. I read voraciously as a child, and throughout my life, I’ve always enjoyed reading and have done it for leisure. Sometimes as a kid, I read because I had nothing else to do; when I was young, my parents never enrolled me in any activities, so I’d just be stuck at home during school breaks and summers. I’d end up reading whatever I could get my hands on. Sometimes, that included home remedy and house repair books. Other times, it included gardening and cookbooks. But even when I did start getting out of the house more, I always, always enjoyed my quiet time reading. When we read, we are able to whisk ourselves away from our current place and time and fully immerse ourselves in the stories, times, and lands where the book’s story takes place. We are able to learn and see through another person’s eyes, and thus, are likely to be more empathetic and understanding of different people’s experiences. Reading broadens our scope of knowledge and exposes us to different aspects of the human experience that we may never have the opportunity to get exposed to, for better or worse. I’d like to think this makes us more capable of deeper feelings. While reading the very best and complex novels, it can feel like a bit of time travel. As the physician/novelist Abraham Verghese says, “You suspend disbelief, and you live through centuries, sometimes, or at least decades, (…) births and deaths, and you put the book down and it’s still Tuesday.”

On top of adding to one’s knowledge of the world, increasing empathy, and just being a form of entertainment and even “time travel,” in its most basic sense, reading helps to improve critical thinking, vocabulary, grammar/sentence structure, and can even help with stress relief. It’s also been linked to helping with preventing dementia/Alzheimer’s Disease. So given this, it’s been really strange and unsettling to hear that to this day, Chris’s dad thinks reading books is not a good use of time, and even mocks his mother for being an avid reader. Apparently, he “learned” this disdain from his own mother, Chris’s Nana, who always thought that a woman’s place was in the home to take care of the household and children, and to never do anything else. She used to mock Chris’s mom’s love of books and tell Chris’s dad to get her to stop. They both failed in this endeavor (thankfully). Chris’s dad has often times made disparaging comments about Chris’s mom’s love of reading, saying things like, “She must get these crazy ideas through the stories she reads!”

Given we’re in the year 2025, Chris’s parents are in their late 60s/early 70s, and Chris’s mom is a medical doctor, this disdain for reading books is quite a primeval and unenlightened idea to have. I never would have thought I would meet someone in my lifetime who would disparage reading books of all things, but alas, the person ended up coming right under my nose in my own father-in-law, someone who has grown up in great wealth, comfort, and access to education and knowledge. I was reminded of this negative opinion while finishing The Covenant of Water by Abraham Verghese this week. It’s a long, long book (over 700 pages) that spans three generations of a family and two continents, but along with Verghese’s Cutting for Stone, it’s likely one of my all-time favorite books I’ve ever read. I love the character development, the interwoven stories of multiple families across countries, and how they all came together. I love the imagery of water and how it brings us together yet divides us, and I even loved all the medical details and how they came to life for me right on the page. Every time I picked up the book, I knew I was in love with it because it would literally feel like I was escaping reality and being transported to another place while I was reading it. While both of Verghese’s novels are rumored to be in film production, like pretty much every time I have seen any book I have read become a movie, it’s never the same. The richness of character development and locations is never quite there. The subtlety of speech and body language always falls far short in a movie than on a page. I have rarely rooted for any character in a movie the way I have rooted for a character in a book.

Coincidentally, and it’s really no shock, most of the people I’ve liked and have enjoyed company with in my adult life are readers. They read fiction and nonfiction, and they love sharing what books they are enjoying (or not enjoying). Readers are the very best kind of people. I don’t think that’s really a debatable point.

Uniquely female burdens

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Last year when I was in Denver for work, I got an unexpected message from a friend’s friend saying that she and her family had actually moved here from New York, and that she’d like to catch up if possible. Unfortunately at that time, all my evenings were packed with pre-booked work events, so I wasn’t able to get away. It was a bit unexpected, to be frank, that she reached out. While I’d never really considered her a friend while in New York, I did see her from time to time at mutual friends’ events, and we did get along. We’d tried hanging out once before with our partners, but we never did much more than that. So when she reached out, I figured she was having a difficult time transitioning from urban to suburban life, coupled with transitioning into motherhood (her daughter is about six months younger than Kaia). She probably wanted to see a familiar face.

So this time ahead of this trip, I reached out to see if she could meet. We did have a decent amount in common on paper: we both love food, desserts, travel, and now we’re both mothers, so we’d have that to bond over. She immediately accepted and we made plans for dinner, which ended up happening last night. I was really touched; she actually drove almost an hour to see me (Denver traffic can be crazy during rush hour), and we spent three hours discussing marriage, motherhood, work, travel, moving, and life in general. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her, but it felt really good to have a deep chat… and to get away from colleagues for a night.

Sometimes, I think about all the trials and tribulations that women have to go through just to procreate, and I cannot believe that women still want to bear children. This friend had three miscarriages: two happened before her daughter was conceived; the third happened last year, before her current pregnancy. Miscarriages are more common than they are not, but her first one was particularly traumatic. At around 11 weeks of pregnancy, she started bleeding profusely. She drove herself to the hospital, where they confirmed she had miscarried. She was given the option of having a dilation and curettage (D&C) to remove the dead fetal tissue from her uterus, or letting it expel itself naturally. Her father, who is a doctor, advised her against the D&C, and suggested she just go home and let it happen naturally. Well, it just got worse from there: the next two days, everything she sat or lied on was soaked with pools of blood, and she basically laid on her bathroom floor most of that time, experiencing painful contractions for almost 48 hours. These are one of those scary miscarriage stories that no one warns you about, that for some women when they have miscarriages, regardless of whether it’s first trimester or not, they can actually go into labor.

The thought is just beyond sad and excruciating — to go through labor without seeing a living, breathing baby at the end. I think of all the women who have had stillbirths, where they know their fetus is dead, but they still have to go through the labor and “give birth” to a dead baby. The mere thought brings me to tears. And somehow, even after this horrible and painful experience, this friend kept trekking along to try to conceive. She went on to experience a second miscarriage, a viable pregnancy and birth and baby, and then a THIRD miscarriage, and finally a second viable pregnancy, and she’s still here and excited to be pregnant. It just shows how much burden women have to bear, literally on their own, and how resilient we all are. It takes a lot emotionally, mentally, physically, to go through all this stress and loss. It likely raises cortisol levels and puts you on the defensive for everything. In the end, we vacillate between surviving and thriving.

But it sounds like since she’s moved down to the southern suburbs of Denver, she’s been mostly in survival mode. She has no friends here. She works fully remotely. She has a sister and their family who live in a nearby suburb, but that’s it. She misses walking (people drive everywhere here, like in most of the U.S.) and going from store to store to restaurant by foot. She feels isolated and like she does 90 percent-plus of all the child rearing. When she saw me for dinner last night, it was the only time since they’d moved here that she’d actually gone out to dinner, alone without her daughter, to catch up with a friend. While she’s excited for her second baby, she’s terrified what it will mean for the division of labor at home, her marriage, and the effect it will have on her daughter, who is extremely attached to her and who has had an assortment of frustrating health issues since birth.

I hear these stories, and I realize even more how lucky I am. Although IVF was certainly no walk on the beach, I went through just one stimulation cycle. I’ve never had a physically painful miscarriage experience (though I do still mourn my “vanishing twin”). I had a straightforward pregnancy and child birth. I was lucky and privileged to have a healthy, easy-going baby in Kaia Pookie. Kaia Pookie, knock on wood, is still thriving and impressing (while simultaneously infuriating) Chris and me every single day with all she learns and knows. I’m also lucky to have a partner who has done his share and tries to make sure I’m not carrying all the burden of child rearing. At the same time, it makes me sad and angry that women who are as smart, accomplished, well educated, and confident like this friend still allow themselves to be put into situations where they have to bear the brunt of all stereotypical gender roles, such as child rearing and the mental load of maintaining a functional household – much against their own wishes. Are men really that ill equipped for the current century, or are women just so desperate to have heterosexual partners to procreate with that we “settle” in that regard?

Travel insurance with credit card – the debacle comes to a conclusion

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It’s been almost two months since I was at the Mount Sinai West emergency room, on the day I was actually supposed to leave for our Thanksgiving European trip. Chris had to cancel and rebook train tickets. He also had to cancel hotel reservations, make new ones, and also change our outbound flight to Paris. It wasn’t fun for him, and just the flight change itself was extremely costly. But he realized that the credit card we used to book the original flight had travel insurance on it for trip cancellation/interruption, so I took photos of all my ER and Urgent Care forms and sent them in for consideration for our itinerary change costs due to my sudden illness.

You would think that given I was not only in the emergency room, but I also had extremely detailed documentation, that this would have been a smooth process that would have gotten approved relatively swiftly. Unfortunately, it was anything but. First, the contact details to file the travel insurance claim were not clear, likely by design. It’s not on Mastercard’s website. You have to call Mastercard, then get re-routed to a specific agent, who can then share the secret website you have to login to in order to submit all your claim details and proof forms. Then once you submit all of that, you wait. And wait. And then, for the first 8-10 days, I got no feedback. I simply saw “pending” as the status of my claim every time I logged into the portal. When I finally got in contact with the claims agent (a third party works for Mastercard to handle travel insurance), she grilled me about the time we left the apartment, when we would have needed to leave for the airport, what time I was admitted into Urgent Care and then ER, when I started having symptoms, etc. It felt extremely unempathetic, like she was simply looking for reasons to deny my claim. Chris copied and pasted literal paragraphs from their travel insurance policy stating why this was, in fact, applicable. I was shocked: wasn’t it clear that this was a very serious case, especially given all the details in the Urgent Care and ER forms? All of the forms had time stamps on them, so I wasn’t even sure why she was further grilling me. Did she even read any of the forms I submitted at all??

The claim was initially denied, as they originally said that my trip wasn’t cancelled, that we still went, so there was “nothing to claim” or get reimbursed for. I had to call them nearly every business day we were away in Australia, have at least 6-8 email back and forth communications with them, endless voice messages playing phone tag, and then finally a very annoying and painful phone call in the middle of the night, Australia time, to explain to them: what the hell else did they need to understand that I was genuinely sick, that I was in the ER for something that could have easily resulted in pneumonia or death, and that as a result of all that chaos, my outbound flight needed to be changed…?! It was clear that the claims agent barely read any of the documentation I sent. She may not have even opened them as far as I was concerned. I had to literally open each document, one by one, and point out to her where the time stamps or remarks around my illness were (e.g. “On the ER form, page 1, in the bottom left hand corner. do you see the time stamp that says ‘3:49pm’?”). It felt like I was instructing a small child instead of an adult. She finally realized after having her hand held by me that yes, this was a legitimate claim, and yes, it should be reimbursed. She reopened the claim for me as a “claim determination dispute,” then told me that at this point, the only reason it would be denied is if the manager thought I had some “pre-existing condition” back when the flight was booked. The flight was booked in July. You cannot have a pre-existing condition for a peritonsillar abscess; that’s just medically impossible and could easily be disproven. Plus, no one would have an abscess in their throat from July all the way to November!

I finally got an email notification last week that the claim dispute was accepted. I got my requested payment back today. While it was closure (and some much needed money back), it made me angry to think about how insurance works in this country. Insurance feels like it exists simply to exist and get money out of you. Then when you actually do need to use it, the insurance companies will do everything in their power to withhold money from you or even make you pay.

Not everyone would be as persistent as I was to get my money back. I made sure to call and email almost every day for over a month. Most people just let these things go. I’m sure they count on that happening. But no, I’m not getting screwed by all these stupid insurance companies as long as I can help it.

HK vs. NY: independence always threatened, plus the case for more public restrooms

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While wandering around the streets of Hong Kong and using its fast, efficient, and super clean metro, I thought about how similar New York City is to Hong Kong. Both cities are densely populated. Both have subway systems that the majority of its citizens rely on. Both have a fast paced nature. People in both cities live in relatively small and expensive spaces. It’s not uncommon in either city to hear that people rarely, if ever, cook, and most eat almost every single meal out. Both also are notorious for having very intense, grueling work hours yet exciting and late night party scenes. People also love to say that the people of New York and Hong Kong are rude (as a New York resident, I do not believe this is true. As a former New York tourist, I never thought it was true. And as someone who has visited Hong Kong twice, I do not find people ruder there than anywhere else at all. In fact, I think people are generally kind in Hong Kong, and they are far more kind to those who have young children/are pushing a stroller and who are elderly).

There are obvious differences, though, other than culture and language: wages and salaries are far lower overall in Hong Kong despite sky-high costs of living, for one. Hong Kong is a Special Administrative Region of China, which means that its independence, or perception of, is constantly in threat. Hong Kongers want to stay separate from China, but China sees them as part of “One China.” Some hawker on the street who tried to sell Chris and me some lame shoe cleaner made some small talk with me while in Guangzhou. He asked where we were from and where we had been during our travels. I told him we had come from Hong Kong, and his response was, “Oh, so you were in China. You know Hong Kong is China, right?” Of course, a Guangzhou resident would say that, but I think you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who lives in Hong Kong who would say the same thing. Being in Hong Kong, it’s like you’re in one country, yet also in another. And the rules can change just like that, and you as an individual would have zero control over it.

The other difference that more immediately sticks out to me as a visitor is this: Hong Kong has endless clean and glorious public restrooms. It felt like every few blocks we’d run into one. I never had to worry about cleanliness or availability of toilet paper or whether there was enough soap. In New York, public restrooms are so sorely lacking that it’s an embarrassment. And when you are able to find one, it’s unlikely to be a desirable or even mildly pleasant experience. And how funny that in the last few weeks, The New York Times published an op-ed to make the case for more public restrooms in New York City; how timely!

The Vietnam (American) War from the eyes of a Vietnamese person

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In my adulthood, I’ve tried to find more books to read that would educate me about China and Vietnam, my father and mother lands, that are written from the perspective of people who are actually Chinese and Vietnamese. It’s been a pretty big mix of movies, documentaries, fiction, non-fiction, and perhaps one of my favorite book genres — historical fiction. It’s been easier to find books on Chinese culture and the Cultural Revolution. It’s been more of a challenge to find books that are written on Vietnam’s rich history (especially the French colonial period and the Vietnam War) that are NOT told from an American or European perspective, but rather that of a native Vietnamese person. Then I finally stumbled across a book recommendation in my Modern Asian Moms (MAMs) group called The Mountains Sing by Nguyen Phan Que Mai. From the first page, I knew it would be an easy read, a real page turner of a book. And oddly enough, it was just published in 2020, so it’s a relatively recent book. Some people criticize the book and say the language is too simple since the book was written in English, which is the author’s second language after Vietnamese (someone on Good Reads actually complained that he had to look up words in a dictionary only a handful of times as a person who knows English as a second language… because apparently, that should be the barometer of “complex language”).

When I say the book was an “easy” read, I meant that it took no time to get into the story. It’s actually a really hard book to read when you think of all the brutal portrayals of hardship, death, rape, hunger, and exposure to Agent Orange and its effects on not just the people it physically touched, but future generations; one baby born in the book (this was a time pre ultrasounds) was born without any arms or legs; she had a forehead that was three times the size of her body, and she died within seconds of being born. But it made me realize even more how flawed the western portrayal of the Vietnam War was, as it was nowhere as simplistic as it was taught to me in school. There were people in the North who were recruited to the Southern Army and vice versa. There were many people who were pro French and actually reaped plenty of benefits of French colonialism. And there was a mass re-education camp that was like a prison after the war, which pretty much everyone on the Southern Army was forced into. The land reform of the 1950s created immediate violence and destruction across all of Vietnam; people who were wealthy were stripped of everything they owned and many were executed publicly and brutally.

I thought about what my mom said about growing up poor and the contradictions of the stories she shared. Her dad, my paternal grandma, died when she was only 6, from choking on his own mucus. But he was a highly educated man who was fluent and literate in both Vietnamese and Chinese. She said in her younger days, her dad was a respected “high official” in government. What that meant for her family once the war started, I’ll never know because my mom doesn’t like to talk about it. I don’t even think she’d like to know I’m reading books on Vietnam or the war at all. She seems to want to wipe all that out of her memory, which is not unlike many others who lived through that difficult period in Vietnamese history.

There are two protagonists we shift point of view from in the book: the grandma in the 1950s and her granddaughter in the 1970s. The grandma says, “Do you understand why I’ve decided to tell you about our family? If our stories survive, we will not die, even when are bodies are no longer here on earth.”

It’s the stories of our families, of our lives that keep people alive. And though I’ll probably never fully know my mom’s stories of Vietnam, I’ll have sources like this historical fiction book for me to lean on for at least a glimpse of what she experienced.