You Are Here, page 14
“I said I was handsome and smart, not strong. Sure, I might have been wiry, but I was actually pretty good at—”
My dad stops when a muffled voice comes over the intercom.
“This is an announcement for Gate B15: Flight 203 to Da Nang has been delayed.”
An audible groan courses through the crowd.
“We don’t have further details at this time. Please check the monitors regularly for updates. We will provide you with more information as we have it.”
I look around and feel the tension of the crowd all throughout the airport. I guess we aren’t the only ones being delayed. I wonder if it has anything to do with that commotion in the security line.
I can feel everyone’s temperature rising. The airport is like a pot of phở just starting to boil. Except a roiling pot of phở is cause for excitement—the only things bubbling over here are disappointment and anger.
My mom stands up and declares, “I’m getting in line at the desk to find out more.”
My dad also leaps into action, announcing, “I’m going to check the monitors to see if they’ve updated anything yet. Khoi, you stay here and—”
“I’ll stay here and watch our stuff, no worries. I’m not going anywhere.”
As my parents march off on their scouting mission, I pick up my phrase book again. I open to the back of my notepad where I’ve been keeping a running list of sentences that I think I might need.
“Tôi không hiểu. / I don’t understand.”
“Tôi sinh ra ở nước Mỹ. / I was born in the United States.”
“Xin lỗi, tôi không nói tiếng Việt. / Sorry, I don’t speak Vietnamese.”
“Vâng, tôi cũng thất vọng về tôi. / Yes, I’m disappointed in me, too.”
It’s possible I’m being a little pessimistic about this trip. I flip through the phrase book and decide to add some more helpful sentences.
“Nhà vệ sinh ở đâu? / Where is the bathroom?”
“Xin cho tôi một tô phở? / Can you bring me a bowl of phở?”
“Tôi muốn mua cuốn sách này. Giá bao nhiêu vậy? / I want to buy this book. How much is it?”
That should do it for now. It’s not like I’m going to master the entire language on the flight over, even with a delay. I close my book and look around the terminal. I actually like airports because they’re places of such possibility. People are mostly giddy as they head off to who knows where . . . but when everyone’s flights are delayed like this, suddenly that sense of possibility turns to annoyance. We’re all stuck here together in this strange world in between home and adventure.
My eyes catch a group of kids over by the food court. I think they’re a team of some sort. They’re all pretty tall, so maybe a basketball team . . . though everyone seems tall to me, so who knows?
It looks like the delay might be getting to one of them, because he is definitely having words with two bigger teammates. They seem shocked as he lets them have it. This can’t end well, so I brace myself (even from a distance I’m allergic to conflict), but then the kid just walks away. He’s walking tall and proud—is that what it feels like to win an argument? He sees me looking and gives me a little nod.
I, being deeply and eternally awkward, immediately turn away. Maybe someday I’ll be cool enough to make eye contact with random people without panicking. But today is not that day. I wish I could be as confident and relaxed as he is . . . instead of sitting over here, worried that I’ve somehow disappointed an entire country of people who don’t even know me.
I flip to a new section of my notepad. If we’re going to be here for a while, I might as well be productive. My school is making everyone keep a daily journal of any summer trips and give reports when we get back in the fall.
So that’s just great. Not only am I stressed out by this trip, I get the bonus nightmare of having to stand in front of the whole class and talk about it. My hands are getting clammy just at the thought of it.
But of course I’m going to keep the journal (even the mere idea of skipping an assignment makes me feel ill), so I find a fresh page and start writing.
DAY ONE
Well, this trip has gotten off to a great start. We’re stuck at the airport, and they just announced that our flight has been delayed. We have no idea for how long.
If I’m being real, though, part of me is hoping that the flight is totally canceled. And by part of me, I mean pretty much all of me.
Maybe not my stomach, because I was looking forward to good real Vietnamese food, but the rest of me would be totally fine if we had to turn around and go home.
Though, of course, if that happened, I might play it up to my parents and act real disappointed. That way maybe we’d get to go get donuts, and they’d give me extra time to play video games to ease my pain. Of course, if the trip gets canceled, then I won’t have to keep this “daily journal,” so that’s another reason to hope for the airport to call everything off.
Ooh, if they do cancel the flight, I just thought of a great joke to break the news to my parents.
—Knock, knock.
—Who’s there?
—Ph.
—Ph who?
—Ph-get about this trip. Let’s go to the mall and buy a new video game!
Then we’ll all have a big laugh (my parents love those kind of jokes), and they’ll be so charmed that they’ll happily go along with it.
Good plan? No. Brilliant plan.
Hmm . . . that kinda took a weird turn. I don’t think that’s the sort of journal entry the school had in mind. I turn the page and start again.
DAY ONE
At the airport, flight is delayed. Not sure if I think that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Parents went to find out more details, so we’ll see.
I close my notepad and look around. I can see my parents still trying to get answers (good luck with that), so I have nothing to do but sit here. I’m tempted to watch something. I’ve downloaded three seasons of my favorite show, Samurai’s Son (which my grandma calls “Sam Horizon”), but I have just enough episodes to cover the long plane ride to Vietnam. I calculated it almost down to the minute, and I don’t want to find myself stuck over the Pacific and out of options.
With nothing left to do and nowhere to go, I decide on my go-to move: NAP.
I stick my arm through my backpack strap and put my feet up on the luggage, so I’ll wake up if someone tries any funny business. I’ll just close my eyes for a quick minute. . . .
“Time to go, Khoi!”
“What? Huh?”
I sit up with a start to see my parents calling me from down the hallway. I’m foggy, so it’s like I’m half dreaming. But I see my parents up ahead carrying their suitcases with them—how did I not wake up when they pulled them from under my feet?
“Time to go, Khoi! Hurry, we have to catch our flight!”
I grab my backpack and start running. My right leg is still asleep (owww), but I hobble along, wincing as electricity shoots up my thigh. I have to admit, my parents are pretty fast for old people. I have trouble catching up with them.
It feels like I’m running in quicksand and the hallway is getting longer, but I see them turn a corner, following the sign for customs, so I head that way. I thought my parents said we wouldn’t have to deal with customs until we arrived in Vietnam. So, this is great: another curveball.
When I round the corner, I run into a horde of people waiting to get through the customs line. I scan the crowd for my parents . . . and . . . they’ve already made it past the checkpoint and are standing in a hallway through a set of glass doors.
“Mom! Dad! Why didn’t you wait for me? Why didn’t you wake me up sooner?”
But they’re too far away to hear. I have no choice but to make my way through the line.
I shuffle along impatiently. Can’t this line move any faster? A voice comes in overhead: “Please proceed in an orderly fashion. Remain calm, and everything will go more smoothly.”
Thanks a lot, intercom lady. I try to glare at everyone in line to make them move faster. No one makes eye contact with me, which is lucky for them, because I am shooting daggers out of my sockets.
I finally make it to the front of the line (thanks for nothing, Mom and Dad), and I walk up to the security officer at the podium.
“Con đi đâu?”
OHHH CRAAAP.
“Oh, sorry, umm . . . Tôi không . . . Việt . . . gahh. I don’t speak Vietnamese. I only speak English.”
“Tại sao con không nói tiếng Việt?”
“Wait, hold on, let me get my phrase book out real quick. . . .”
The guard glowers at me as I riffle through my bag, but I can’t find my phrase book or notepad in all the mess. The line behind me is getting restless, so I panic and just grasp for the first phrase that comes to mind.
“Cha tôi rất đẹp trai và thông minh!”
The guard looks at me with a mix of confusion and disgust. He switches to English.
“I don’t care if your father is good-looking and smart. You still have to fill out these forms.”
The guard shoves a clipboard with a thick stack of papers on it at me. He marches me to a nearby seat and hands me a pen.
“My parents are already through. Can I just—”
But the guard has already left me and gone back to his post.
I sit down with the clipboard, which says Customs in large, bold letters across the top. My parents warned me about customs before the trip. We just have to declare any unusual items we might have packed away. I only have my bag, and I’m not bringing any fruits, vegetables, or exotic creatures on the plane with me, so hopefully I can just breeze through these forms—
OH NO.
Vietnamese Customs Question #1: What is the name of the Buddhist holiday that celebrates parents, and what day is it?
WHAT THE—This can’t be right . . . but the whole page is filled with questions like this. I flip to the middle of the packet and pick another random question.
Vietnamese Customs Question #658: You enter a room and see your parents, their childhood friends, an older couple about eighty-five years old (whom you don’t know), and a monk.
Whom do you address first?
How do you refer to them?
Do you refer to yourself in the first person, third person, or not at all?
Do you bow, and if so, how deeply?
GAAAAHHHH. I can’t answer these questions on my own! I stand and look for my parents, but they are still too far ahead of me to help. I open to another page, hoping for an easier question.
Vietnamese Customs Question #1,713: You are having dinner at your grandmother’s house. You have finished two rounds of food already, and you are totally full. She goes to fill your bowl again. Do you:
Say thank you but decline because you are full.
Lay your chopsticks over your bowl to signal that you’re done.
Say yes and just do your best to keep eating.
Say yes for eternity and keep eating until you end up in the hospital.
Run away screaming, never to return.
My collar is hot around my neck, and my palms are clammy with panic. I look past the guard to the other side of the glass, where my parents are waiting to board the plane. But now they aren’t alone.
Next to them I see my mom’s parents (my ông bà ngoại) and some uncles and aunts gathering around. Then I see others, ancestors who died long ago, whom I recognize from old photographs and paintings. Many are dressed in traditional Vietnamese áo dài; all of them are staring at me, waiting for me to come through.
I have no idea what is going on, but I somehow know that I am going to disappoint them.
I might as well just give up: there is no way this is going to turn out well.
I put the clipboard down and pick up my backpack.
Looking out on the sea of strangers that fills the airport, I want to just disappear into the crowd.
I turn back for one last look at my family. They are all still standing there on the other side of the glass. Nothing has changed . . . and yet, as I scan these faces, my parents, my grandparents, all the ancestors, they don’t look disappointed, just . . . nervous and hopeful.
My grandmother’s eyes lock onto mine, anxiously waiting to see what I’m going to do next, and suddenly I’m not ready to walk away.
I push my way through the crowd and stand up to the security guard. I nervously clear my throat and, carefully and deliberately, say: “Tôi bị lạc.”
“You are lost?”
“Yes . . . Tôi bị lạc. Xin tìm gia đình giúp tôi.”
“Of course I can help you find your family. Why didn’t you just say so before?”
I let out the breath I had been holding as he leads me back to the glass hall. I can see my parents and all the other family members and ancestors smiling as I head their way.
They start to board the plane as the guard opens the door.
I walk through and pause in the doorway as a wave of relief washes over me.
I made it.
I look up, and most of the family has started boarding. My parents are standing at the door of the plane, waving and calling for me to come join them.
“Time to go, Khoi!”
I smile and excitedly head toward them.
“Time to go, Khoi!”
I feel light on my feet. I’m practically flying and can’t wait to get on the plane.
“Time to go, Khoi!”
I wake with a start. I look around. I’m still at Gate B15. The airport crowd still feels disgruntled. That basketball team is still huddled around the food court.
“Time to go, Khoi!”
My parents are standing above me, gathering their bags.
“Time to go. They just changed our gate to one on the other side of the terminal. Let’s head that way now so we can get a good spot.”
How long was I asleep? I rub my face and chest with my hands. This all feels real. . . .
“Are we headed to customs?”
“What? No, customs is when we get to Vietnam, remember? Now, hurry and let’s get going!”
We grab our stuff. My parents roll off with their luggage as I throw my backpack on and follow. My leg is asleep, so I kind of hobble after them. I get about fifteen feet when I feel someone tug on my backpack. I turn around.
It’s one of the basketball players from the food court. He’s smiling at me. It’s that same confident smile he had on his face earlier when he walked away after that fight.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, but you forgot this.”
He hands me my Vietnamese phrase book.
“Oh, hey, thanks . . .
“No problem. My name’s AJ. First trip back to the motherland, huh?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Kinda. My first trip back to the Philippines, I was a total mess, too. I even had a book like this, but for Tagalog.”
“Yeah? And how was the trip?”
“Best trip of my life.”
“Really? Even though you couldn’t speak that well?”
“Yup . . . I think you’ll find that some things are just deeper than words. Trust that, and you’ll be fine.”
“Wow, I hope you’re right . . . but I should go. I don’t want my family to leave me behind.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that.”
AJ points over my shoulder. I look down the hall to see my parents gesturing wildly for me to follow them.
“Khoi, come on, let’s go! Keep up so you don’t get lost!”
“Ha, I gotta run. Thanks for the book!”
“Have a great trip, man!”
I say bye to AJ and hurry toward my parents. I finally reach them as we step onto one of those moving sidewalks. Then we have a chance to catch our breath for a minute.
“Hey, I have a question. . . . In Vietnam, if there are a lot of people in a room, how do I know who to greet first?”
“Ha, that is always a tricky question,” my mom responds. “I still have problems with that, too . . . but it’s a long flight, and we’ll have plenty of time to talk about traditions and customs on the plane!”
We step off the moving walkway and scurry down the hall to our new gate. My parents are still frazzled, looking on their phones, eyes darting all over, checking the flight information on the overhead monitors.
As we wait, I pull out my notepad and open to my daily journal entry.
DAY ONE (CONTINUED)
Fell asleep in airport. Had a wild (kind of terrifying) dream. But it turned out okay in the end, and I actually—surprise!—managed to speak a little Vietnamese in the dream. So that kinda feels like progress?
We’re waiting again. And I’m realizing now that I’m hoping for the flight to start boarding. I’m actually not rooting for everything to be canceled anymore.
So, fingers crossed that we take off soon—and that my next journal entry will be from Vietnam.
Then I flip a few pages in my notepad and check my phrase book to add a few new sentences to my list:
“Tên tôi là Khoi. / My name is Khoi.”
“Tôi rất vui được ở đây. / I’m excited to be here.”
12
Soojin
Soojin Yoo glared at the directory. On the map, the airport was a sprawling complex with numerous concourses branching out from the main terminal like long, curving spider legs. There were many stores scattered throughout the airport, even luxury brand names found in high-end shopping malls, but Soojin’s eyes were fixed on the one little circle that said, You are here.
She didn’t want to be here.
In an airport.
In Chicago.
They’d just gotten off a plane from New York to transfer to their fourteen-hour flight to Seoul, and her mother scoured the map as she muttered, “Gate B17.” Eomma asked Soojin to help look for the gate, but Soojin ignored her. She kept staring at the little circle.
“I am here, but not for long,” Soojin whispered as she traced the circle with her finger. She leaned her head to rest it on the cool glass surface of the display.
“I don’t want to move to Korea,” she said loudly.
