Through the tunnel and then the big city is upon me, our huge bus squeezing itself between delivery trucks tucked curbside in alley ways, cars honking, people speedwalking, and cigarette smoke billowing around us.
But the pictures are telling a different story. The story about new city love is the not the story you will be reading about today.
I am one of the youngest in my generation of cousins, and I’m about to meet Yeounkyung near the subway station, who’s in the upper strata of cousins. I don’t know anything about her. She says she remembers meeting me when I was about 10, which I feel like should be old enough for me to remember something. But no, when I see her, I don’t recognize her face. I know nothing.
Unbeknownst to us, we would have lots of time to get to know each other.
Briefly stopping in Queens to drop off my luggage, we boarded a train to Chinatown for street food and produce shopping. It looked a bit overcast but we didn’t really give it much thought. We quickly got into asking questions about family, who’s aunty’s sister or brother’s daughter we were, what we did (me Cook, her Architect), why we were doing it (we like it), what we’re doing here (me=looking, her=came and never left) and then we noticed droplets on the windows and very soon after, a heavy rain. Looking out, angry trees were violently being silhouetted by lightning, thunder was drumming and my fellow passengers were joking about how no one had brought umbrellas.
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