Hot Latina Waitress

The life of a teenager, it seems to me, is most dramatically shaped and defined by memories made at night. This is true whether you spend your nights playing dota at a brofest sleepover, grabbing a midnight snack with your friends at Carl’s Jr or smoking the shit out of your consciousness at a house party. Sometimes it’s merely the glamour of secrecy, that guilty pleasure that comes with knowing your parents have no fucking idea what you are up to. Your friends are your accomplices in a shared crime. Sometimes it’s the range of activities that are well, only available or legit at night. Like having a session at an empty parking lot. But sometimes it’s just the vibe. There’s an electrifying mystery in the night air that leaves tingles of unfounded fascination and ecstasy.

The night of my visit to Hollywood with three friends, as described in the previous post, was already fantastic for the above three impulses. And then I got an icing on the cake.

After an exciting day of watching the screening of Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader and gazing at the L.A. nightscape from Griffith Observatory, the four of us headed over to Katsuya restaurant. My friend had reserved seats for the four of us at 10 p.m. I am usually wary of eating dinner past 9, but the restaurant was supposed to be a hot spot for meeting celebrities and I was willing to allow the inconvenience in exchange for meeting Kobe Bryant.

A burly man in tuxedo opened the door for us as we came in. We walked straight into the middle of what seemed like a museum exhibit; rectangular glass prisms mounted on slender marble platforms studded the waiting area in front of the bar like a checkerboard. Each prism contained a crystal figure or design, though I can’t recall any specific one.

The restaurant was composed of three large areas, all of them seamlessly joined by a walkway. There was the bar and artistic flurry described above; a rather spacious sushi kitchen with dining tables around it; and then more tables on the opposite side of the restaurant in a more secluded setting. I was confused why there was such little separation between the bar and sushi tables. But most people didn’t seem to mind. They ordered a drink at the bar to raise their spirits, chatted with some friends, exchanged some hugs, and usually spilled out to the tables with new munchies.

The music was incredibly loud in all areas of the restaurant. I can’t recall the genre or quality of the music played. I just remember wondering out loud how people could hear themselves above this cacophony. People don’t come to Katsuya to have a decent audible conversation or enjoy a quiet meal.

What perhaps surprised me most that night was the age group of the customers – almost all of them were in their late 20’s and mid 30’s. I guess it does take a reasonable amount of time to amass enough money to afford eating at such high-end restaurants. But somehow the idea of a “hip” bar / sushi joint for wilting flowers that are human beings at the age of 30 seemed foreign and gaudy. When I think of that stage of human life, I envision settling down, going fishing, or playing at Bingo Club – not wild drinking nights, double dates, and one night stands. And this is coming from a guy who will soon turn 20. I will be a miserable bastard very soon.

Anyway I am describing all these things before even mentioning the dining experience because I did a lot of watching and waiting before eating. Our reservation at 10, well, didn’t quite mean anything. Apparently a restaurant frequented by Jay-Z cares little about honoring promises to us common folks. We were given a table by the sushi kitchen at about 10:20 after watching special guests take their seats at empty tables. I’m pretty sure our reservation had an asterisk next to it.

It was about 10 minutes after we got seated that a waiter showed up with empty glasses. He would’ve done us a favor if he had just filled them with cold water when he first brought them. I guess I looked like I needed a drink that night.
Our waiter was a gregarious Asian guy in his mid 20’s, who, according to my friend who is male, was rather handsome. He gave us a quick overview of the menu and made some recommendations that he said could “really change our lives.” We ordered two rolls, a sashimi dish, crunchy rice with tuna, and spicy albacore with onions. Each of the dishes ranged somewhere from $8 to $15, which seemed pretty reasonable at the time.

It wasn’t until we saw the portions that the cruel joke became apparent to us. The rice in “crunchy rice with tuna” was composed of four spoonfuls of rice fried into little squares like graham crackers. A piece of tuna the size of a mini-oreo sat atop each of these culinary monstrosities. I said out loud, “What the fuck do I do with this?” It sounds amusing but after shelling out $14 for nanoseconds of salivary stimulation (the food was good), I was rather genuinely pissed off.

So the dining proceeded in a similar fashion for the rest of the night – the four of us eagerly anticipating the next dish, only to be disappointed by the meager servings.

But my night did conclude with fireworks. Before explaining what happened, though, I have to provide a context for my actions.

It’s funny how the things we read, see, and hear can have unexpected and far-reaching consequences in our lives. At the moment of absorption, the external stimuli seem to possess no significance at all. They are shoved into some compartment in our brain without our knowing, dormant but surely there. Then later we encounter another seemingly ordinary stimulus, and it triggers the release of one of these captured memories. Together they shape our response.

At the time of my visit to Katsuya, I happened to be reading John Steinbeck’s East of Eden and watching Two and a Half Men on a nightly basis. These two informants of my psychological and moral condition made the outcome of that night inevitable. Steinbeck’s profound veneration for that thing called free will empowered me to act and decide my own destiny. Charlie Harper in Two and a Half Men reminded me of the arena of life in which this free will could be exercised.

It was between nibbles of the crunchy rice with tuna that I glanced up and happened to notice her. The beautiful Latina waitress was in her mid-20’s – I would say 24 or 25. She was wearing the same chaste and demure black uniform like all other waiters, but my God, that did not stop her from flaunting that figure. Not that she was the type of girl to flaunt her figure. When your booty has that extra oomph, well, your booty has that extra oomph and no earthly power can do anything about it. Hips are one of the few creatures that always speaks the truth.

But the feature that initially caught my eyes and that convinced me she was a very special beauty indeed was her face. Never mind the flawless bronze complexion and the majestic sharp features unusual for a Latina. Her eyes were round and clear and literally sparkling, the kind of eyes that bewitch princes and kings in fables. But they also projected a gentleness and shyness that made me feel all snug and warm as if huddled under a blanket.

I pointed her out to Alex, the same guy who had called our waiter handsome.

“Dude she is hot.”
“Who?”
“The Latina waitress over there.”
“Oh, yeah she is hot.”

In a few minutes, I saw her heading toward our table illuminating the ground beneath her with her purity.

I stared. Her eyes met mine just as she reached our table, and I knew she knew. She gave me a shy smile that killed me.

She passed by our table about three more times and each time, my eyes never wavered from her face from the moment she appeared in my view to the moment she left. Each time, her eyes met mine and that subtle knowing smile haunted me. Each time, she became hotter and younger.

I put my head on the table and started thinking. “What kind of a person was she? Was she really as nice and innocent as she looked? Was she sympathetic and sensible?” The nagging thought of her being a bad girl tormented me.

While I was silently writhing in my seat, our waiter had arrived to check on us. By this time, we had struck up several conversations with our waiter (who happened to be from our area) and were on friendly terms with him. At the behest of the other two friends, Alex began talking.

“So we are aware that there is a pretty hot Latina waitress that works here.”
“Hot Latina waitress?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
Alex correctly identified her, even with her back turned.
“Oh, her. Who thinks she is hot?”

My three friends pointed at me. I raised my hand.

“I think her name is Charlene,” the waiter said.

Damn right she was a Charlene. She looked like a Charlene.

“Does she have a boyfriend?” I asked.
“Yeah… and her boyfriend is me.”

In the dramatic two seconds or so that followed, my mind violently recoiled. The waiter then changed face.

“I’m just kidding. She’s dating that white guy over there.”

I craned my neck to see but had trouble finding him and frankly didn’t care. Suddenly I became irate at the prospect of a white male stealing yet another beautiful exotic woman.

“You should try to date her,” I said to the waiter. “She’s a beauty.”
“But she has a boyfriend.”
“Fuck that. You can take him. People come and go.”
“Are you going to have dreams about her?”
“Nah I’m too old for that.”

I paused and thought. Then I said what had been at the back of my mind all along, the strange truth that had eluded articulation.

“I just want to make sure that she’s a good girl. I guess it’s like a paternal instinct. I just want to know if she’s a good girl.”

The waiter laughed for a while and jokingly said something about her being the exact opposite of what I envisioned. He was joking though.

A few minutes later, Charlene made her way toward our table again but this time, stopped, looked at me, and then extended her hand.

“Hi my name is Charlene.”
“Hi my name is Min.”

Her hands were soft like the cold side of the pillow. I don’t recall anything else that was said then, and I don’t have the imagination to guess either. All I remember is that I noticed her nose piercing for the first time, and it gave her a sort of new sinful appearance, which excited me.

Our waiter returned to the table with a smile.

“How was that? Did I embarrass you?”
“Nah, that was fucking great. The only thing, though, is that I didn’t get a picture with her.”

I don’t think I would’ve said that in any other situation because I hate to make others feel uncomfortable. I mean this wasn’t Hooters or anything. I didn’t want to act unprofessionally. But I figured you only meet so many special women in your lifetime. Might as well take a picture to remember the special occasion.

So Charlene was gracious enough to come over once again. We were wondering where to take the picture, and then our waiter made a brilliant suggestion. He led us to the ginormous canvas of a woman’s sultry, bright red lips that hung against the wall. Taking a picture there would be like metaphorically making out with her.

By the time we found the desired location and got ready to pose, I saw a small crowd watching the spectacle from behind the table where we had dined. Two Mexican waiters were clapping and laughing. I beamed. I hope her boyfriend was watching.



The picture doesn’t do her justice but I plan to go there again during winter break. Whenever I think of that night though, the song that runs through my head is “Today was a good day.”

Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?

I am on a fucking blogging roll. Honestly I'm trying to write everything down before I get to Harvard because I know I am not going to have time to do it as often (it referring to blogging.) So I am just taking care of business like Rick Pitino. Yes, every blog post from now on will have a reference to Rick Pitino.

I had seen the FOX show “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader” only twice or so, but I was nevertheless excited about attending my first television screening. My friend from Gamut invited me to spend the day with her and her two friends, one of whom happens to be a friend of my old friend from elementary school. Not that this matters, but he is my closest look-alike I have ever seen; I plan to employ him as a stunt double or alibi should such a need ever arise.

When we arrived at the venue and patiently waited in line for the start of the screening, we were rather surprised by the demographics of the audience. A sturdy representation of white folks was present, as expected. But hardly any Asians, if at all (we saw an Asian guy coming out of the previous screening with a white girlfriend, which greatly lifted my spirits). This was a free event, an opportunity made for our people. There should have been throngs of them waiting in line two hours prior to the screening, eating cup noodles and playing hand games to withstand the boredom. There is even Korean folklore about our brave mothers walking miles for free shit. I guess our relatively short history in this beautiful continent has kept us from discovering these hidden sources of entertainment. After all, this was my time going to a screening too.

Once we passed the metal detectors and were finally let inside the set, I was struck by how small it was. Cameras and angles blow up a musty auditorium half the size of the Oxford gym into a fancy technological cathedral of huge proportions. After all, this is Hollywood. The four of us were comfortably seated on the bleachers and ready to welcome host Jeff Foxworthy to the stage when one of the production managers, a white woman, told me and my friend our shirts were too bright and reflecting the light. They had us switch places with – surprise, surprise – two handsomely dressed black gentlemen. People just won’t let them alone, won’t they?

In my quest to discover my future profession, I have only had success in eliminating jobs I know I cannot stand. After the screening, I added one more to my list: the poor bastard who has to signal the audience to clap and laugh throughout the screening. The guy said he had completed eight screenings before we came that afternoon. That’s about 96 times he’s had to fight for the crowd’s fake laughter and about twice as many for applause. Living is hard, man.

Another thing I learned about game shows – they are nowhere near as intense or dramatic as they seem on television. Really, the only person nervous in the room is the contestant. When the woman on our show was getting ready to make a pretty important $5000 decision, there was a sense that neither the audience nor the host really gave a damn. I suspect this is not always the case in shows where more money is involved or the audience actually participates, like Who Wants to Be a Millionare. Still, the incredibly pedestrian nature of the whole affair was startling. People are walking out of there with thousands of dollars!

Some other notables from the actual show:

-One of the fifth graders aiding the contestants was a real smart black kid named Malakai. Actually, all three of the fifth graders were really smart, but I found myself rooting most heartily for Malakai. What a name.

-One of the contestants was a white female junior high teacher from Tennessee with a thick Southern accent. She had loads of trouble trying to figure out the question, “True or false. The sum of any two odd numbers is even.” She was confused because seven plus eight is fifteen.

-There were at least three questions I couldn’t answer. One asked for the two states from which the first five presidents of the U.S. originated. The second asked for the state that has the yucca plant as its state flower. The third had something to do with Greeks.

-Jeff Foxworthy is not as bad a comic as I thought he was. He thinks well on his feet and cracked a couple funny jokes.

-Toward the end of the show, my friend and I, who had been forced to switch seats with two handsomely dressed black gentlemen earlier, were told our bright shirts were reflecting too much light again. We were told to switch seats with – surprise, surprise – two handsomely dressed black women.

Next up: Hot Latina waitress at sushi restaurant

Summer Highlights Cont.

Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles / Santa Monica Pier: I have been craving Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffle’s pretty much ever since Tim reviewed the restaurant in The Gamut, but lack of transportation and general laziness had delayed my satisfaction. Finally the wingless streak ended when Brian invited me to have lunch at the Los Angeles location with Peter and another friend.

As usual, the L.A. traffic was horrible, and we arrived at Roscoe’s about an hour and a half later than we had wanted. That meant I was feeling extra hungry so I went ahead and ordered two waffles with ½ chicken. Peter did the same. I hadn’t seen a real chicken in so long I didn’t realize how big they could be. I’m sure they didn’t really bring me ½ of a whole chicken, but considering the portions were large enough to warrant a tray the size of a small pillow, the difference must have been pretty slight.

To be honest, the chicken wasn’t spectacular. And I don’t blame the chicken. I had been building up so much hype about the chicken for the last two years that it could not possibly live up to my expectations. But the waffles? Quite spectacular. I tried the first waffle with generous servings of syrup and butter, and it was great. I did without the condiments my second time, and it was even better. The round crispy buttermilk waffles don’t need a sidekick, just as Rick Pitino… well, never mind.



The lunch turned out to be more entertaining than we expected when Peter took it upon himself to finish his entire meal. By the time I stopped eating, I had one piece of chicken left, a gargantuan monstrosity big enough to contain the chicken’s soul and moral compass. Peter faced a similar workload and still had a good chunk of waffle on top of it. But he insisted on plowing right through, though his breathing was noticeably heavier and his hands showed some of the tremor that is so natural to me. It was agonizing for the rest of us to watch this ordeal. His pace of eating had considerably slowed, as if he himself were swimming in that thick pool of syrup, and watching the endless sluggish routine of his hand made me dizzy too. To fight the boredom and nausea, I began videotaping the scene, and Peter’s expressions are hilarious in that they seem to capture the broad spectrum of emotions present in the human experience. Anyway, Peter finished everything except for the skin of the chicken. A pretty impressive but completely unnecessary feat.



After lunch, we headed over to 3rd Street Promenade and Santa Monica Pier. I’m not sure if it’s because there is an Urban Outfitters store in that area, but people there were dressed very.. distinctly. Some street performers we saw were a trio of dancers that talked more than danced, a Mexican breakdancer who claimed to “fly” and hardly got off the ground, and a pacifist playing some mutant guitar. We mostly sat on the beach and talked. Then I discovered an avocado seed and proceeded to throw it at pigeons that walked my way. I am usually very kind toward animals, but pigeons sometimes piss the shit out of me. I hit one on my second try, and to my surprise, it fluttered helplessly for about five seconds as if its wings could no longer support its weight. Again, I was reminded of Hau on the basketball court.

One note of caution about Brian’s ipod: It has nothing but Euro trance and Jack Johnson.

Elementary School Friends Hangout: I got to meet up with two friends from elementary school, both of whom were in my second grade class (with Kendra) and lived in my apartment complex (Kendra did too). It was a pleasant surprise because I never expected to see them again after elementary school. Especially the friend who moved to the East Coast after sixth grade. But rather miraculously, I was able to keep in touch with her via AIM and Myspace throughout high school. Then, I hadn’t heard from her in about two years until this summer, when she found me on Facebook. She told me she was visiting California for a little while and wanted to meet up. These social networking utilities are pretty amazing if you think about it.

I was pretty nervous about meeting someone I hadn’t seen in seven years, but once we saw each other, neither of us acted surprised. Her face certainly hadn’t changed. She said the same about me. There was a sense, though, that too much had happened during those years of absence for us to ever become close friends again. We were strangely distant though as far as I could tell, our personalities hadn’t changed much. I guess life does that to you sometimes.

After eating at Guppy’s, the two of us – and a sidekick from Oxford I will not name – went to pick up my other elementary school friend. Then the four of us went to Long Beach Towne Center to talk. It was well past 11 p.m. The one memory that’s come to stick out most in my mind about my second friend is the two of us eating lunch together during a 3rd grade field trip to a local museum, and her proceeding to eat most of the kimbab my mom had packed for me. This I shared with her, and we all had a good laugh about it. As we started reminiscing, we realized how much we remembered of our elementary school years. It’s strange I can’t recall my junior high and high school years with the same sharpness. We sat and talked for about an hour before heading home.

I think I will always remember that night – a sort of dreaminess crept up on me that I hadn’t felt before. I suspect it was mainly a feeling of having grown ridiculously old. Yet I seem to have been comforted by the sight of my old friends, knowing they have been safe and sound all these years and that they all have seen enough good things in life to keep fighting and pushing on.

Camping Trip to Kings Canyon

I tutor the 8th grade daughter of my mom’s long-time friend, and when the mother told me about her family’s upcoming camping trip to Kings Canyon – and innocuously asked if I wanted to come along – I casually replied that I appreciated the offer but would decline. Even though our families have known each other for years, I hardly knew the girl I tutored or her older sister, a high school senior. Imagine how awkward it would be if I came along!

Then I got to thinking about it some more, and I started taking her offer seriously. I had gone camping only once before, with Chad’s family, and that was really fun. This time, I would be camping for five full days at a beautiful national park. With college and adulthood starting soon, I wouldn’t have such an opportunity for a long time. Still, I couldn’t make up my mind so I consulted few of my friends. I give a lot of credit to Jonathan Lee for convincing me to go. He said the awkwardness would go away in time – it would just take time.

It turned out that the two sisters were very very close to each other. They did most of the talking to themselves and politely ignored me. They also brought along their golden retriever, which demanded most of their attention and adoration. I ended up talking mostly to the parents, and whether it was because I tutored their daughter or because they thought of me as the son they never had, they were extremely kind to me.

I now realize that camping holds no beauty of its own, at least for me. Sleeping in a tent in Mother Nature is pretty cool, but I am a man who loves modern amenities. What really killed me was not being able to take a shower every day. The showers were located several miles from our campground and besides, they charged $4.00 for 10 minutes. That plus the absence of cellphone service and Internet connection (Lamar Odom signing happened while I was gone) nearly drove me crazy. Camping definitely made me develop a greater appreciation for what I have. But it’s one of those travails I love only after having done it. I’m not sure if I will ever willingly share a sink and bathroom with 50 other people again.

The sisters’ father is a hiking veteran who has conquered some of the longest and most difficult trails in parks across the nation, including Yosemite, Grand Canyon, and Yellowstone. Bearing a heavy backpack with water and his high-tech camera, he led the sisters and me on some intense hiking excursions – they were intense for me anyway. I believe we hiked 12-14 miles in total. That doesn’t seem too bad but the high altitudes, uneven grounds, and lack of shade really took a toll on me. And on our longest hike, a constant uphill battle on Hotel Creek Trail (a fucked up name because there was nothing close to a hotel or creek in our sights), we made the mistake of not bringing enough water. Once we had reached the peak, there was one half-full water bottle left; we would have to survive the three-hour hike down with little to no water. That day I learned what it means to be thirsty, and I hope I never have to be reminded of such a burning desire for water. With two hours left, I began to feel dizzy and the sun was beating down harder than before. Now when I look back at those trying moments, I really do believe they will be my source of strength in the future.

Once the nightmarish trial was complete and we safely got into the car, we stopped at the nearest market to buy water and drinks. I bought three Powerades and drank all of them in one sitting. Once we returned to the campsite, I guzzled down two more water bottles. Needless to say, I passed on dinner.

Actually I did very little eating during those five days, and I am not quite sure why. The mother is a very skilled cook who prides on her creativity. She prepared traditional Korean dishes with unique ingredients, and every meal was a delicious surprise. But I filled my stomach with water. I really really love drinking water. My mom thinks I have diabetes.

There was a time when I used to love dogs, but I don’t anymore. They bark against your will. They pee and poop in the wrong places, and even when they do it right, you have to pick up after them. They shed hair. They bite and drool over your stuff. And if you manage to get past all of that and still love your dog, well, dogs only live for so long. Saying farewell to loved ones is a bitch. So I was pretty amazed by how much the sisters loved their golden retriever. The dog did pretty much all of the things I described above (except die) and yet the sisters still cooed and petted and hugged and kissed. I guess I am not cut out to be a father and I may never be ready for that.

The 8th grader is 5’7’’ and her older sister is 5’8’’. I think it was their height that intimidated me and made it so hard to break the ice. But the ice did break. That was the turning point of my trip and it came in the sluggish afternoon of the day before the last. The younger sister was taking a nap in her tent, and the older one was reading a book by herself on a mat. The older one asked me to look after the dog while she used the restroom. Then she came back, sat on the wooden bench facing me, and we talked. What did we talk about? I don’t even remember. It was small talk about our respective schools, interests, friends, hobbies – the usual stuff. But she laughed at the things I said. And for the first time, I knew she understood who I was. She knew me as a person and not her sister’s tutor or the son of her mom’s friend who is going to Harvard. I can’t describe how happy that made me feel. I really felt like jumping up and down in excitement. I can’t recall the last time that happened. I don’t even have a crush on this girl.

We always tell our friends not to change. It’s true that life and people around us make us change but I think more difficult than resisting that change is presenting our true selves to others. Shakespeare is famous for saying all human beings are actors in life. It’s true because we may know who we are deep inside, but we must learn how to transmit our real identities to other people through social interaction. Even if we do become good actors, however, others may still form distorted views of who we are. This is best illustrated by a case in which many people can look at one event and interpret it differently. Because of their background and personalities, they judge one’s actions and words in a unique way. As a result, they form different impressions of other people.

We may be confident with our personalities, beliefs, and moral values, but revealing them to new people we meet is another matter. It takes not only courage and initiative but also time. It takes time to truly get to know someone, and once we are fully understood by our new acquaintances – and accepted for who we are – then we experience that inexplicable joy of both belonging to a larger community and understanding we are unique individuals.

K I'm done preaching.

Road Trip

There is so much I have been waiting to write in here, but the lull of summer keeps drawing me back. Now there’s about two and a half weeks of summer left. There are moments these days when a vague excitement rises in me, and I begin looking forward to college despite knowing too well I am more nervous about it than anything. I think it started when I got my room assignments. I will be rooming with three other people in a three-room suite, among them a fellow from Zimbabwe. His middle name is Happy. It will be my first time meeting anyone from Zimbabwe, and I figure it will be his first time meeting anyone from Southern California, maybe even his first time meeting an Asian. Hopefully I will make a good first impression.

These next series of posts will be dedicated to some of the major highlights of my summer thus far, starting with my road trip to Big Sur and Monterey Bay.

Never mind that some of the trails in Big Sur were closed due to last year’s forest fire, that the Monterey Bay Aquarium did not actually have all the exhibits listed on its web site, or that planning the four-day trip was a mo’fucking hassle. This was a legit road trip, and my perception of how great it was will only sweeten as time passes. Seth, Charlie, Peter, and Erik: thanks for an amazing time.

1st DAY: Started out at 11:30 a.m. [Seth] Drove the 5 ½ hours to our lodging, Carmel Mission Inn in Carmel-by-the-sea. Stopped along the way to refill gas and grab Jack-in-the-Box. On a two-way, two-lane freeway, we were stuck behind a single European mother driving a navy blue jeep, which was stuck behind an unjustly large white square trailer. Cheered on the single mother to make the bold pass while no cars came in the other lane. After much craning of her neck, the mother overcame her fear, possibly adopted an attitude of cruel nihilism, and made the brave maneuver, which we executed moments later (on both the mother and the trailer). Miles up ahead, we faced a similar challenge: tired of tailgating a sluggish transport truck, we attempted a pass and came too close to crashing with the vehicle in the other lane because the trucker suddenly saw it as a symbolic battle of masculinity and sped up like a goddamn bastard.

Checked into Carmel Mission Inn at around 6. Enjoyed the 37’’ flat screen TV but did not enjoy getting my ass kicked in Halo. I come from the generation of Super Mario Bros and Dick Tracy so I didn’t stand a chance. Video games these days are too realistic. The fluid camera control, graphical precision, and painstaking ordeal of aiming before shooting make me feel like I’m really there. That must’ve been the case because the real me flinched every time the fake me got shot.

Had dinner at Tommy’s Wok, a Chinese cuisine. Before I describe the meal, I must explain something about Carmel-by-the-sea. Everything there is small and short. Street signs are at least half a foot lower than the ones in my neighborhood.



And there are many shops and restaurants lining the streets, but the catch is, you must find them first. They are not only crowded into small spaces but some of them are also located behind the single visible layer of stores lining the streets (that second layer is not visible on the next street over). Tourists must find street parking – which is very hard because there are apparently more cars than people in Carmel – and then carefully probe each nook and cranny to find dining.

It took us about 15 minutes to find Tommy’s Wok. We were exploring what seemed like a small alley that ran perpendicular to the sidewalk of the main street and at last we spotted the welcoming sign. The restaurant didn’t list its capacity but I would say any more than 20 people would’ve jeopardized the fire escape procedures. The entire restaurant was probably the size of a Sorrento home’s backyard. Maybe smaller. When the five of us walked in together, the waiter and manager both seemed bewildered. They acted as if they had never accommodated such a large group before. We saw an empty table for four and next to it, another empty table for two. Put four and two together, and you have six seats. The manager, though, seemed too baffled by the situation to see this easy solution, and instead told us to return in 15 minutes until the arrangements were ready. I think he just needed to compose himself.

The food? Quite delicious. We tried the chow mein, Orange chicken, duck, and a fourth dish I can’t remember, and they were all worthy of the compliments listed on the traveler’s guide. Surprisingly good Chinese food in an area with no Asians at all.




2nd DAY: Drove down highway 1 to Big Sur. It’s the scenic road, of course, and the overlooks of the ocean and inlets after every turn were breathtaking. In the morning, fog and cloud cast a gloomy shadow on the waters but in our return trip later in the afternoon, the sun gave the ocean an entirely new character. We hiked about three or four miles in Big Sur. It was disappointing that some trails leading to vista points were closed, but we were too tired by the end of the day to try another trail anyway. We did reach one vista point, and the view of the forests for miles around was awesome. The fresh air and smell of trees never get old. On our drive back, we stopped along the highway because the ocean was ridiculously blue. It’s funny that it was my first time seeing the real color of the ocean, the color an ocean is supposed to be. The vast majestic blueness (uninterrupted save for little cute rock islands) and the sun-bathed meadows that hug the coastline made for an amazing panorama.

For lunch, we had soggy Subway sandwiches. I had come up with the idiotic idea (any idea sounds fucking brilliant when you first think of it) of trying to preserve the sandwiches we bought in the morning with ice, and the ice melted and soaked the sandwiches.



Dinner was better for pretty much all of us except Erik. We went to Club Jalapeno, a dimly lit bar and restaurant that, well, didn’t actually resemble a club in any way or form. In fact, they gave us red non-reusable plastic cups for water, which are usually found at Mexican family get-together’s at your nearest public parks. Anyway, the reason Erik didn’t enjoy his dinner is that he’s a risk-taker. He ordered the House Specialty, an enchilada with the “Oaxacan mole” sauce. The rest of us had thought about getting it too but we didn’t know what it would taste like. And that can yield either a very pleasant result or a downright shitty one. In Erik’s case, the latter. Oaxaca is a southeastern region of Mexico that was initially occupied by Zapotec people, lovers of the chili pepper and tomato, which are the two fundamental ingredients of mole sauce. After watching the mole sauce’s effects on Erik, I now understand why the Zapotec people were so easily conquered. It was easy to see from his first bite that he detested the taste of it. But curiously, as Erik miserably consumed spoonful after spoonful, his very vitality seemed to be slipping from him. He became languid and sluggish, his speech slurred, and his eyes rolled about lazily. Erik seemed to clear up a bit after drinking water, but he is now a mole hater for life.

3rd DAY: Had some difficulty in finding Cottage Restaurant, our pick for breakfast. But the search was worth it because all of us, including Erik, enjoyed our meals. Their specialty was a kind of fat sausage called “Baby bangers”. The kindly old white lady who took our orders seemed to be aware of the unfortunate name and simply referred to them as “bangers.”

We went to Monterey Bay Aquarium. To be honest, the size of their collection disappointed me. I was expecting to see more exotic species, especially because they were mentioned on the aquarium website. What made up for it, though, was the series of astonishingly large fish tanks that reminded me of ocean’s and mother nature’s vastness.



Giant sea bass and tuna look even more intimidating when they have space to move about. Schools of fish are also extensively featured at Monterey Bay; there is one tank in the shape of a giant glass ring full of busy conforming masses of sardines.

My favorite creature was this sand crab that hides in burrows under the sediment floor and then tragically flounders in seemingly uncontrolled motion as it rises upward. It reminded me of Hau on the basketball court.

After going through all the exhibits, we went out to a kind of boardwalk that overlooks the ocean. The aquarium is located right at the edge of the coast, and we could see the water for miles around. We spotted a small colony of seals and otters basking atop some jutting rocks in the warm afternoon sun. They were lazy sons of bitches and shifted their weight uncomfortably as the tide started rolling back. One seal, positioned on its side, strained to lift its head above the water even as the rest of its body was nearly submerged. I am tempted to say it is something Kevin Yoon would do, but I know it’s not true. He would say to his comrades, “Hey bro, it’s time to move to higher rocks” and then with surprising nimbleness and that quick triumphant smile of his, find a more permanent abode.

Dinner was at Persian Grill. Coming in, we had huge expectations because we had read rather a scintillating review: “ZOMG. BEST. LAMB. EVAR.” Now I should’ve known better than to trust a human being who uses “zomg”, but I have a soft side for lamb and so did the rest of the guys. The restaurant interior certainly looked legit. On the walls hung drawings of ancient gods and buildings, gilded with glorious gold, and subtle spices and fragrances formed visions of ancient Persia in our minds (I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. I don’t even know where Persia was/is.) When it came to ordering, I actually ended up not getting lamb because it was a bit pricey. I ordered chicken instead, and Seth, Erik, and Peter got lamb. Charlie got something else. When our dishes arrived, though, they were very much similar in a surprising way. One side of the oval plates was adorned by a single layer of meat. Mathematically speaking, the total surface area taken up by the meat would be about 15%. The rest of the dish? Rice. Rice and rice and rice. There must’ve been a rice factory in the kitchen with Oompa loompas running giant chaffing machinery. The restaurant could feed all the starving children in North Korea, and it would still have rice left over to help children in the South. If this was an accurate representation of ancient Persians’ diet… then we know why Persia doesn’t exist anymore. Just kidding. But I am not kidding when I say I have not seen so much rice before. And I eat rice every day.

There was another surprise waiting for us, however. The man who ate the most rice out of all of us was… Seth. The American. He finished all of his rice. And then Peter’s leftovers. And then my leftovers. That man is a beast. I’m glad someone finished his rice because I wanted to see if there was a congratulatory note hidden under the mountain of rice. There wasn’t.

4th DAY: We come home! Seth draws power from the 2 tons of rice he devoured the previous day and drives for another 6 hours straight.

Epic.