jeff yen

I spent my Thanksgiving in New York, visiting my sister. My parents were there too. It was extraordinarily stressful, and let's just leave it at that.

The travelling was fun, though.

I had an extended conversation with a woman at the gate for my flight to New York. It started like this:

Her: [Pointing across the way to a block of phone booths] "Say... what do you think that guy is doing?"

[I look over and notice a guy dressed all in black, curly hair with long curly sideburns, and a hat, with a small book held in both hands before him. He's mumbling to himself and rocking back and forth slightly.]

Me: Er... I think he's praying.

Her: Oh, is that what it is? I was afraid he was having a seizure or something.

Me: No, I'm pretty sure that's just religion.

And so on and so forth. She speculated that he was perhaps Amish, and we both thought about that for a while, then decided he was probably a Hasidic Jew. On reflection, I can think of very few reasons an Amish person would be in an airport, even if he managed to make it through the automatic doors to the terminal without commiting a few cardinal sins. All in all, it was one of the more interesting conversations I've ever had with a stranger, and fortunately so, since I had nothing else to do since I'd forgotten my MP3 player in my car. We parted ways in that peculiar manner of strangers who are briefly thrown together by fate, with hearty well wishes and phrases pitched high with exaggerated bonhomie.

The flight itself was largely uneventful. I was seated next to an empty seat, which was nice... especially since in the next seat over, was a man who, while very agreeable and friendly, had the most awful breath. He seemed blissfully unaware of it too, and I tried to refrain from asking him any questions that might have many "h" sounds in the answer. In some circumstances, such a reek might be appreciated, or even savored; for example, ripe durian, a fine Roquefort, or this chinese dish. Coming from the mouth of a man seated next to me in what was essentially an airtight tin can with wings was not one of them.

We only exchanged a handful of words during the entire flight, but on one memorable occasion, when he turned to me and inquired, "HHHHey, do you HHHHHappen to HAHHHave a pair of HHHHeadphones?" I had to battle the urge to wrestle open the window for some fresh air.
Of New York itself, let me just say that it was, for me, a peculiar experience. It is one of those places with some features that are so patently awful that it makes you appreciate the small blessings that much more. For example, it was bitterly cold when I was there; 30 degrees Fahrenheit, with wind chill taking it down to 14. While that was -- for a Californian -- awful, it made every restaurant, store, or cafe I stopped at all the better just by virtue of being warm and out of the wind.

With all of the family there, I didn't have much time to go sightseeing. However, I did take a little walk with my sister, and we passed by a few landmarks -- Battery park, Trinity church, Wall street, and a few other spots. I had a chance to go back and step into Trinity Church by myself before I left, and the experience was fantastic. The interior of the chapel is done up in a mind-bending pink and blue color scheme, which is somewhat at odds with the soaring Gothic majesty of the exterior, and the cemetery next door. Imagine if one of those Extreme Home Makeover shows had gotten Vlad the Impaler to do the exterior, and Liberace the interior.

Festive colors aside, the chapel was a humbling experience. The place was full of September 11th displays and tributes, with various kiosks recounting tales of the days after the attack. It was deeply touching to see how people pulled together to help each other in the face of that crisis. The only thing marring the displays was one bit of shameless commercial promotion; a giant banner from a community in Hawaii, proclaiming "We will never forget you," with countless signatures and handprints... and a giant Kinko's logo. I think that little bit of advertising could have been set aside, if only in the interest of dignity.

We also had some great food; Fuleen's Seafod restaurant and Adrienne's Pizza Cafe, both in Manhattan, are highly recommended.

The flight home was also uneventful. I spent four hours crushing the puny Romans with my hordes of Persian cavalry (Civilization rules), and the rest of the time was spent trying to figure out how, though we can produce a vehicle that travels safely at 500 miles per hour at 34,000 feet, we can't make a security check line move faster than... well, just about anything at all.

On the shuttle ride home from the airport, I had the good fortune to meet a girl who can only be described by the phrase "cute as a button." If I were 40 years older, white, a grandmother, and prone to making lots of apple pie, I would have been obligated by federal law to pinch her cheek and go "Awww."

While it was an unabashed pleasure talking with her, I was a little disheartened by the fact that she made me feel so old, and so directionless. She was returning from her home in New Orleans, and she told me about all the things that went on during the hurricanes, her goals and aspirations, and so on and so forth. She was, to use another cliche, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, to the point where I almost wanted to offer her a walnut, just to see if she would scamper up the nearest tree to nibble on it.

And that, apart from family stuff and some more memorable moments that I'll detail later, was what I did on my Thanksgiving vacation.