Packing Up Vol. I

In which I begin summarizing trips during the last night—in haste, before doing any packing

My grandmother celebrated her 90th birthday last week and, tasked to deliver a speech, I said: “This is why we hold 90th birthday gatherings, guama—to make things easy to remember—easier to recall all your old friends who came out, and to think: I am so loved.” This idea comes up in my writing often. About sixteen years ago, I wrote about “the lost human virtue of staying the same temperature, the smallest way of making the self easy to remember.” I was describing friends who took off their coats and cardigans indoors—a minor gracefulness that never occurred to me before I had to live in a cold(er) country.

I decided twenty minutes ago on this new ritual, which combines two things I love: writing about trips, and procrastinating my packing. My excuse? To make it easier to remember.

The Laos went to Tokyo this year to celebrate the birthdays of Father Lao (Freddie) and Mother Lao (Fioretta).

We planned this as vengeance, really. Two years ago, we flew to see the Cherry Blossoms—and were welcomed by half-open buds and downpours in a frigid early spring. But this time, we got it right. We found an AirBnb near one of the quieter parks of Tokyo and acquainted ourselves with the plants. Few sentences (or scenes) automatically signify joy—but to be able to walk around with one’s mother and tell her “these flowers hadn’t come out yesterday” is one of them. I’m grateful to be able to say that sentence. It felt nice.

Every year, on their birthdays, I greet my folks by listing their virtues. On my good days, I have examples of their virtues. My mother’s undiluted thoughtfulness and warmth; and my father as the wise and brave provider. But this year, I suppose I’ve given myself the privilege of word count—so I can talk about them as travel companions. No, I am not about to roast them. But I am about to unmask them a bit. Sorry, parents.

My father Freddie is a fan of the Confucian ideal. He sees senior citizens cleaning up at the park and sings praises to societies mindful about allowing their elders to do useful things. He likes the balance the community tries to strike—that seniors are allowed pride and independence, while also being offered courtesy seats on trains. He loves small businesses—30-seater restaurants or cafes run by a married couple. Admires their doing of things. The single word: “Everything” in their job descriptions.

This trip, he never missed a vending machine. He would quickly scan each one to see if they had Bireley’s orange juice. “It’s from my childhood,” he says. In a ramen joint a few days ago, he ordered orange juice and they gave him a glass bottle of Bireley’s. He looked at me like it was Christmas, and said: “Things are starting to look up!” He said that, growing up, he had Bireley’s orange juice just once a year, on his birthdays. I didn’t know that. And that new bit of knowledge alone made the whole trip worth it. Happy birthday, dad. I love that the orange juice found its way to you—only a few days after your actual birthday.

My mother, Fioretta, is a fan of drug stores. If there are five drug stores near a station, I promise you: We are going to five drug stores. Sure, Japanese drug stores like Matsukiyo and Sun Drug are fascinating places, but they sell… mostly the same things. Aside from stalking those aisles, mom saw her sakura—finally. Although for some reason, after seeing the particular cherry blossoms in Inokashira Park, she asked a question often asked about Michael Jackson in the 90s:

“Why are they white?”

Of course, they were splendid. And of course, her smile was unbeatable—second only to the time she first saw snow. But what! Her friend told her they’re supposed to be pink! Where do we see the pink ones? We saw a few, eventually. But at that moment, moms and kids were pedaling their swan boats along the pond, teenagers had spread tarpaulins on the grass. It was spring! My mother’s first, and my first with her around. What a rarity in today’s stained and melting world—a beauty that whiteness could not ruin!

We averaged around 15,000 steps a day, but we successfully reminded ourselves not to hurry. The people of Tokyo have a way of rushing you, maybe even guilting you for your slowness—but this time we were a little less fazed by it. Some stretches, my mother held my shoulder as we walked. It felt like childhood and adulthood at the same time. As if she were telling me: “Don’t go too fast, anak.” But with me also telling her: “Please rely on me, mom.” Although most times we disguise this under: “Ang bilis mo, Pao!” and “Ma, mag-pilates ka na kasi!”

Though I’m not a parent yet, I did feel some progression in the art of letting go. My brother Liam is now 24, and certainly allowed to go out on his own. It was nice being roommates for the first time since the pandemic started, and it still felt so natural to be quiet in the same room with him, and let the day fall off our shoulders. Of course, he had things to do after 10 p.m., and it’s hard to begrudge him that. In the back of my mind, I think what my mother must have thought: “Just don’t go too far, I guess.”

That’s one thing I’ve been thinking about, being 38. These intersections of being offspring and caretaker, amplified by being our family’s under-qualified translator. I was watching my folks figure out a vending machine. Slowly, they counted the coins, inserted them one by one, and hesitated before pressing the button for the drink they wanted. I thought: Should I just do it for them, or should I let them figure it out? I decided to watch them figure it out—which felt somewhat parental. Like the tables had turned.

Of course this wasn’t because they were naive or anything—it was simply the language barrier. But it emphasized that I was doing for them what they did for me my entire childhood. It felt natural to me. I liked it, and I’d like to think I always will.

In a sense, cataloguing these memories and processing them quickly is the beginning of packing up. One’s maleta must be pregnant with stories, first. The insides are only the evidence. There were certainly sidequests during this trip—sending off a friend who’s leaving Tokyo after 12 years or so, seeing old buddies, buying an irresponsible amount of Magic cards—but I’ll end this here because I need to get packing. At least the birthdays of my two favorite Arieses seemed to be easy to remember. Now if only those sakuras weren’t so darn white!