Bed & Breakfast Anniversary

It marked the end of something, but also the beginning of something new. On March 30, 2012, Tung and I celebrated 11 years of being together. Eleven years ago, as young college students taking a Spring Break stroll around Lake Cunningham park, we sealed the deal of becoming a couple. A day later, we held a picnic at the same park with a group of friends, of which Tung gave his superhuman cold to, so that no one but I made it back to school as midterms came at us full blast after the blissful Spring Break ended. I wish I could say that I was spared, but he got me sick as well, and I pulled through my exams like a zombie with a tissue fetish, courtesy of my new boyfriend.

So, this was the last year for us with a March anniversary as we will embark on the journey of being a married couple, with a new anniversary on August 25th. To celebrate, we booked our first ever bed-and-breakfast experience, heading north to experience the Sonoma Valley for the first time.

It rained the first day of our trip, so we mostly stayed at a hotel along the way, enjoying dinner at a Thai restaurant. Their pumpkin soup was delicious.

The next day, bundled in as many layers as we could comfortably walk in, we played on the beach near Point Reyes.

Sandpipers streak merrily through the silver waters

A kind photographer offered to take a picture of us as we perched on one of the beach rocks slick and slippery with moss and lichen.

The tour bus dropped us off at a scenic view area within a short hike to the Pt. Reyes Lighthouse. The view was surreal, with sapphire-blue water eking into lacy layers of white foam as it rushes to caress the shoreline, and a soft white-blue layer of ocean spray and mist hovers where the sky meets the sea.

Over two hundred steep steps paved the way to the lighthouse. There is even a resting-point dugout for the faint of heart toward the middle of the hike. We plowed straight down but had to use the dugout on the way back up.

Holy cow! Cows broke free of their pasture and ambled about the tour bus path.

We stopped by Tomales Bay Oyster Company to enjoy farm-fresh oysters on the grill. Just our luck, a couple who ordered too many gave us their leftover oysters to add to our stash. I think we would've finished shooting our raw and cooked oysters and clams had it not been for that unforeseen act of generosity. This place closes sharp at sunset, and they won't let visitors continue on the grill past closing time. I've never seen such a mad dash to shoot oysters and make for the port-a-potties before. A Chinese family not far from us had put a whole chicken on the grill to cook for a mere 5 minutes before Closing Time was called, and this place is miles from the nearest place for accommodations. Lesson learned: Come early, cook fast, eat like hell.

Oysters on the grill, and clams cooking in white while and garlic-butter sauce.

Oyster Viet Style: with "nuoc mam" and fresh green onions.

 Finally, we arrive at The Gables, our bed-and-breakfast in Santa Rosa. It's owned by a husband and wife, Pam and Mike, who are San Jose State alma maters, like us. Over the phone, Mike will even sing you the Spartan Anthem when you book. The evening we arrived, we got the whole place to ourselves!

Back View of The Gables

After bringing up our suitcases for the night's stay, we toured the premises. There is a live-in owl in the barn. She can be seen perched on one of the wooden beams most of the day.

 

Tea sets stored in the barn.

 We stayed in The Meadow, a room decorated in blue, Victorian-style. The little push-up windows and nearby tree reminds me of one of my beloved childhood books, Anne of Green Gables. My 5th-grade teacher, Mr. Tenney, gave me that book for my 11th birthday, and I read it many times, sharing in Anne's free-spirited speech, love for literature, and adventurous spirit.

 That night, despite stuffing ourselves with clams and oysters, we ventured out to try a bookmarked barbecue place called The BBQ Spot. It's right next to this tattoo parlor. The food's ok, but nothing compared to our favorite Buster's BBQ in Calistoga.

Chicken & Tri-Tip combo. Cornbread is surprisingly good for this Not-a-Fan-of-Cornbread.

 Back at The Gables, as if I hadn't had my fair share of calories for the day, I partook in the jar of fresh-baked cranberry-and-raisin oatmeal cookies and made some hot chamomile tea for the night, right after unwinding in a lavender-and-sea-salt bath. After a restful night at The Meadows, we rose and shone early, taking an idyllic stroll along the countryside road, dotted with white houses and yellow spring flowers in bloom.

On the bridge of The Gables

 Ahhh, breakfast time! Pam, who home-cooks the breakfast for all her guests, whipped up for us one of the most delectable breakfasts I've ever had. She considerately even finds out about any dietary restrictions before she prepares your meal. Seriously, I'm a fan of the light-and-simple milk and cereal for breakfast--nothing heavy, and with just one drink to wash it down (water, OJ, AND coffee for breakfast?! Wow, that's a lot of liquids!). However, this breakfast converted me to a breakfast/brunch lover. Now, Tung and I have occasional cravings to go out for brunch.

1st course: pecan and brown sugar fresh-baked scone

2nd course: baked pear sprinkled with cinnamon and drizzled in heavy cream

3rd course & breakfast entree: egg baked in a crispy phyllo-dough shell with hollandaise sauce and a dollop of lemon cream on top

Tung is a happy camper

 When we departed The Gables, Pam gave us a map for Sonoma Valley wineries and a card valid for free tastings at about 20 wineries around the area. It's dangerous to hand over a free card like this to Asians--we felt compelled to hit as many as possible to get our money's worth out of the trip. Although it was a fun-filled and action-packed experience, the drive home in a sleep-craving stupor was difficult.

St. Francis Tasting Room

Statue of St. Francis Assisi and the pets he protects

Ledson Winery: Gothic and elaborate

This staircase would make a great wedding shot

Chateau St. Jean

 Pit stop! We had lunch at Rancho Viejo, featuring Mexican and Yucatan cuisine.

Steak with Spanish rice, refried beans, and fried plaintains

Tung's giant chicken "wet burrito"

 Off again! Our last stop was Kunde, big on sustainable farming. We toured their "Biodynamic Discovery Trail" to learn fun facts about wine-making.

Scottish Highlander cows! These dudes just kick it around the Kunde estate, munching down the overgrown weeds all day long. They are cute and hairy cows with "bangs" and horns.

So, Tung and I spent our last March anniversary doing what we love the most: traveling to a new place, partaking in food from fine dining to holes-in-the-wall, and getting to taste different wines. We ate, drank, and were plenty merry. Now, to see what married life holds in store for us with an August anniversary!

Just a Pinch

I am sitting in the patient chair, making a fist as the lab technician ties my upper arm with a band and swabs the soft skin at my elbow juncture with alcohol. The slight shock of cold is the most unnerving part, the sensation of the body being touched by another. Deftly, the technician inserts the tip of the needle into my vein to draw my blood.

I remember back to when I was young, fighting my mother as she hauled me by the arm into the doctor’s office to have my blood drawn for routine examinations. I screamed and threw the full weight of my body against her to resist being taken into the exam room, but I was so small and she was so strong. The more I cried, shouted, and flailed my limbs, the stronger her grip became on me. How could I resist this force? The more I tried to pull away, the harder I was drawn to it, meshing into her body as a single unit as she picked me up and held me close, her arms wrapped around mine to discourage the thrashing.

“It’s just a pinch,” she’d say to calm me, “a bite from a tiny little ant.” Tears traced rivers of salt down my cheeks, dripping off my chin. I stared at the needle in the nurse’s hands, this giant metal tip that would soon stake claim in my body, taking away my blood, my essence. The room smelled of antiseptic and the nurse was dressed in sterile white, the color of mourning and death. The crisp wax paper on the exam bed crinkled loudly beneath me every time I shifted positions. There was no escaping two strong, full-grown women in a closed room. Terror magnified in my head and reached invisible tendrils to bind me, knotting up and entangling around themselves, rooting me down. My mother steadily pinned my arm in place and held it out to the nurse, exposing the vein, her gentle words breaking through the dizzying cloud of fear to soothe me.

There is just a pinch as the technician injects the needle, and I am a grown woman, calm and collected and watching my dark-red blood fill the test tube before gauze and bandages are put on the tiny pinprick wound. I think of how often in aikido fear can magnify itself within the limitless constructs of the mind. When I run out of breath and my test is only half over; when a technique is called that does not quite register in my head; when a very large, mountainous uke grabs me by both arms and flings me aside like a pillow and I lose all motor control, or I have to perform a koshinage or force myself to take a high fall on my bad side, or when I’m sitting seiza at one end of the dojo, that split second before I am charged at for a round of jiyu-waza--I am a lost little girl with all the world against me, and fear rears its monstrous head, threatening to tie down my flailing courage.

This is when I think, “It’s just a pinch.” Over before I know it. The pain will be fleeting, the hurt will be little, and I would have overcome all this within a few minutes’ time. There is that soft, distant little voice that quells my fluttering, frenetic thoughts. And I stop resisting. And I let them in. And this is how we grow to conquer our fears.

Alum Rock Park Hike

In the brisk month of February as the winter sun peeks shyly through the clouds in herald of a new spring, we took a hike in Alum Rock Park.

From where we parked, we could see horses.

 

The first cherry blossom buds are coaxed into blooming.

Tung & David walking the trail.

Winter White Coat

The creek flows with gentle water.

Hawks circle overhead.

View from on top of the trees.

A Rustic Log Cabin

A Perspective of Tet in America: A Letter to My Nieces and Nephews Born in this Country

I step into my parents’ house, the first one they owned in America after living with relatives and in rentals during the earlier years as they carved out a living for our family. It was the house I grew up in before I moved away, and when I arrive for Lunar New Year’s Eve, “dem giao thua,” as the Vietnamese call it, we begin lighting red candles on the Buddhist and ancestral altars. As is the custom of arriving on a night dedicated to an ancestral prayer session, I bring a few portions of food as an offering to the spirits. Sweet-and-sour soup, papaya salad, claypot-cooked eggplants and tofu. We set these out on the low offering table along with rice, seafood salad, salt-steamed chicken, cupcakes and traditional sweet cakes for dessert, along with bowls, spoons, chopsticks, and fresh-brewed tea.

The altar has been decorated for Tet with sweet-smelling, white velvet tuberoses and red-and-yellow gladiolus stems. I watch my father light incense amidst the droning voice of the sports announcer as the TV broadcasts the 49ers football game. Three joss sticks for the Buddhist altars: Quang Am Bo Tat, the Goddess of Mercy, Quang Cong, my father’s patron god, and Ong Dia, the Earth God. Four for my grandfather’s altar as his spirit is being called back to join our Tet festivities and share in our family meal.

Sitting there watching the scene, I wonder how long it has been since I have made it home for a prayer session. I spend my days in front of a computer screen, my nights working out, my weekends running errands and doing chores. Sometimes I drift from the roots that supposedly bind me, from my mother tongue, from my tiny country across the sea. In front of the altar, as an adult woman, I feel small. How many times have I gazed upon the familiar pictures and icons of worship as a little girl, feet bare and hands clasped to show my respects? But when you start drifting, you start forgetting, and I am afraid that one day I will forget how to pray, forget how many times to bow at which altar, in what order, how to formulate the words in my head.

When we were young, my little brother asked me how to pray in front of an altar. What do you do up there? When do you start and end your bows? I was eight years old, and, lacking an adult sophistication to formulate an eloquent explanation, I told him, “Your prayers are your wishes. You stand before your ancestors to tell them what your wishes are.” Perhaps I corrupted them then, so that the spirits of our ancestors became no more than Santa Claus, who only hear from the children of their children, “Dear Ancestor, during this prayer session I pray for a new bike, a better cell phone, and for a big-screen TV.” But in truth, there is some sense in that—your prayers are your wishes, selfless wishes that extend beyond your sphere of control. Sure, you pray for your family’s health and success. But for others,’ too. For how well this year should work out for everyone. For misfortune and all the past hurts and ill luck of the last year to vanish like incense smoke dissipated into thin air.

I stand in front of the altar, the first in line to pray after my parents, as the eldest sibling. In my head, I formulate the prayers in Vietnamese as I have always done. When I was young, I figured that my ancestors would not understand English, and so to get my prayers granted, I must use Vietnamese. I tell them my given name so they would recognize who stands before them, what the occasion is, and why I have come to pray.

“Nam mo a di da phat. I am Luu Hong Cuc, and today I come before you to show my respects for Lunar New Year, to invite you to share in our family meal and grace us this year with your blessings.”

I end with a wish. I wish to be rooted, to not forget. I wish to pass on this tradition to my future children, to be wise enough to answer their questions of why we do what we do, and that my current nieces and nephews, born in America, will retain some sense of culture and at least understand our ways even if they choose not to partake in them when they are grown.

I am almost a married woman. Traditionally, married women stop receiving li xi, the lucky red envelopes, and pass them out to the children in her extended family, or her own. Weeks before Tet, I take out new money from the bank, the bills crisp and sharp with their new-money smell. Tet is a time for rebirth, for ushering in a spring that starts everything anew, a time when all old debts are paid, all ill luck washes out, and everyone gets another chance. I stuff the bills into little red envelopes and label each with the name of a younger sibling, niece, or nephew.

And so, little ones who have joined our extended family within the past few years—this earth is still a new place to you, and there is still much to see, taste, hear, touch, and learn. These three days of Tet in the Year of the Dragon, I will spend my time in an office, as will your moms and dads. We busy adults cram our traditional celebrations on the American work schedule. It’s not like in Viet Nam, where all shops would close in honor of one of the most heralded holidays in the country. But on New Year’s Eve, you will hear the firecrackers exploding in the distance to ward off evil spirits, and it will make you wonder. In the next few days, you will get a bright red envelope from your Auntie Daisy. Inside is a crisp new bill just for you. As you grow up, you will look forward—as I have—to getting your own money to spend on sweets, treats, toys, clothes. But even as you grow, think not just about the money inside, but the red envelope itself. See the colorful pictures or the words and characters with their traditional wishing for your well-being. This year, I will not be there to hand it to you. I will not get to hear your sweet, high-pitched voices stutter over the Vietnamese words to pay me back with a blessing. But when you are old enough to wonder why we do this and what it all means, ask your parents, who in their youth have prayed with me at our ancestral altar. Ask how we exchanged stories and laughter over a table filled with traditional foods and how we united and celebrated amidst each other’s company. Ask about all our traditions, and they will tell you the meaning of the spirit of Tet.

Global Winter Wonderland

Great America brought a Winter Wonderland light show to the Bay Area this Christmas. We went to see trees ablaze with LED lights and inflatables of the Wonders of the World. We also enjoyed garlic fries and hot chocolate to warm us in the brisky night air, saying so long to another Christmas and welcoming the year 2012.

The Way to the Gate

Taj Mahal

Snaking dragon made from porcelain. We saw many of these structures on display during our '08 Viet Nam trip.

Mom & Dad with the Peacock

Mom & Dad at the Eiffel

Wonders of the World

Tung & Dad at the Pyramid

Hugs from a Cuddly Snowman

The Scorpios