Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail.

In 2011, it was my birthday moment. In 2010, it was the success in Journey to the End fo the Night.

2012? When I look back, there were many moments that with hindsight, they were false truths. My first impulse is to choose my birthday again. The party that I deliberately organized to gather people I loved together, to celebrate a mere moment of my existence. Or was it at Barnes & Noble where I felt immediately accepted and instantly sense that my work mattered? Or was it Adam or Ian in Manila who loved my ice cream travel guide so much and invited us out to dinner and drinks with him? Or the many ice cream makers that I immediately clicked with on my journey? Or the best friends that I made in the past year that I know will persist for awhile?

Maybe not.

But the moment that vividly comes to mind is this.

The day prior, I decided that we had to do the island hopping tour. I had realized our first day in Palawan in the Philippines that the capital city offered little for tourists. The weather was uncooperative for many outdoors activities in the proximity. Additionally, the city was dull. The humidity got to me and I was jealous of all the scuba diving tours in Northern Palawan that I dismissed because I didn’t have scuba certification. I desperately wanted to be in the water. I wanted to replicate my memories in Kolanta in Thailand.

So we joined the island hopping tour.

At the second stop, a floating pier in the middle of the ocean, we were told to swim (awkwardly with our lifevests) along a rope. We did. Chris wasn’t as good as swimming as I was. I glided smoothly toward the end of the rope…near the other floating cabin. Along the way, I attempted to dive in and out to capture the sealife, knowing the GoPro could barely see through the cloudy water. I made out coral and seaweed waving hellos and goodbyes. And the occasional fish darting to and fro through the blurry colors of the sea.

Yet toward the end, I realized how desperate I was to relieve myself. As Chris finally swam over me, his orange vest bobbing in the still saltwater, I whispered my desperate need. Thoughts of eastern toilets and uncomfortable accommodations rushed through my head. I starved for clean Western toilets.

“Remember that the ocean is one big toilet,” he responded.

And so I did. Far away from our fellow travelers. And I felt so much better afterwards.

I would describe how it felt funny, how the temperature of the water around me suddenly increased (instantly!)…but I’ll just stop here.

I tested my boundaries when I was 22. I did things that I had never done. I hosted parties. I organized large groups for parties and school projects. I hung out with people at bars, drinking only water.

But when I came back to the Bay Area after that, I had to define the boundaries. Most importantly, I had to be true to myself. How far can I go without losing who I am?

In Buenos Aires, traveling with a diverse set of people, I wonder…how far do I go and when do I say stop? It’s a dance, always a dance.

The first place.

A tall wooden colonial oor. European. No AC. Colorful drapes. High ceilings with chandeliers. Calling to the senses that there was a woman that cared for her touch throughout each of the rooms in the bed and breakfast. She wore eyeliner but with always bright eyeshadow—blue and purple, that called out her energetic personality that energized the extroverts and sucked everything out from the introverts. In every room, delicately placed trinkets—dream catchers, potpourri ceramic pots on lace runners. A dollhouse almost, but we were living in it. But outside, different. Dreary almost. Some men sprawled on mattresses, frozen and sweating in the heat. As girls walked by—especially like us Asian American—they made catcalls. A small whispery “hi” or “hola”. And if they are daring…most of them are…they said, “Cerveza conmigo?” with a wide smile spread across their face. The sidewalks were broken, forgotten by the government. Uninhabited.

The second place.

Better. For the Western. In an area inundated by malls, shops, colectivos. Our friends—3 male guys—arrived suddenly shifting the mood. Different. High ceilings and Europeans. Detailed glass trinkets. With antiques on every shelf from from old style record players (with no needle), books, collected art. AC. I love it. Residents have money. And they travel—been to San Francisco, Miami or NYC, accustomed to seeing foreign faces. A traveler here can get lost within the crowd. Shops ranging from high-end European haute couture to Starbucks dot every street. No uncomfortable glances from men, but only “permiso” from hurried office workers and the regular porteños or sometimes the pushing through “get out of my way”. It’s a thoroughfare of colectivos, taxis and buses. “Upper middle class,” the lawyer said without any apology.

A friend once told me, “You cannot keep running away. It always follows you.”

Wandering in Argentina and Uruguay, I am lost within the cultures and the languages. Although unlike Asia, this time, I understand maybe 50%…maybe just 25% as I recall my six years of Spanish in middle school and high school.

But despite my grasp of the language, my anxiety…the lifelong social anxiety grips me. Even though I most likely won’t see these people again and they forgive me instantly (an Asian speaking Spanish? really?) and attempt to speak English. I wonder if they are impressed that I have gone lengths to learn their language. Or as at the heladeria, he had surprise spread quickly over his face and then he immediately went to business.

“En un vaso?” he asked.

“Si,” I said. A cup. For the helado.

And like all the other customers., he scooped the flavors into the cup as quickly as he can and handed it to me, clean, dripless with the same jovial attitude he shown all the other customers in line waiting for 20+ minutes past midnight.

“Gracias,” I responded and tried to find my sister, standing out from the traveling Argentines and Uruguayans on the starlit Friday night.

There are faulty notions with the beliefs:

In the past year, it’s everything but that.

Due to the way I grew up and the beliefs I collected along the way, I believe that relationships are partnerships in life. Everyone—as humans—seek another for the purposes of bearing witness. We are in a world of millions of individuals. A select few have their lives remembered—whether under scrutiny or admiration. But many of us are lost among the masses. Our partner reminds us that we do matter. It’s the partner that will support you as truly the number one fan.

How can anyone deserve anyone less? To be with someone who can’t accept you as who you are—with weaknesses and strengths.

I know what I prefer in character: honesty, dedication, curiosity, passion.

I have crazy ideas of many things. And I pursue them. Sometimes recklessly. But all I want is someone to help me when I stumble and to say, “It’s ok! You can try again. I believe in you.”

After I dropped off Chris at the airport bus terminal, I wandered around Taipei Main Station…but then I decided to go to one of the most classic night markets in Taipei. Also known as Snake Alley (as I learned later).

On arrival, I let myself wander into the Longshan Temple. In the rain, its classical Chinese red reflected against the yellow streetlights and the rushing waters of a fake manmade waterfall. Modestly, darting between devout visitors, I followed other tourists, attaching myself to a group of Japanese middle-aged travelers who laughed when their guide pointed out a well spilling out smoke. They followed suit and went to the well, waving some of the smoke toward themselves. I scooted to the well and glanced in…nothing particular. Evident that the guide mentioned something amusing, yet beneficial.

Losing interest, I slipped out of the temple and headed toward the nightmarket.

Overwhelmed suddenly by the idea that I was a stranger in a strange land…I convinced myself that I needed to eat. But the feeling of being trapped was so high. The menus that I could not read (beyond the words of small and big). The language that I could not speak (not even my Cantonese could help me). And an annoying self-awareness that I looked like a local, but inside I was so very American.

Then I realized—come on, I looked like an Asian tourist. Someone from Hong Kong, obviously. Someone from Korea, Japan, Vietnam…anywhere else…where they could not read or speak either. I had the benefit of speaking English fluently and clearly. Yet unlike most tourists, I am a single female traveler, traversing on my own.

I spotted an Asian girl with clearly a male Caucasian. Immediately critical, I had a negative reaction to the couple—the Asian girl was obviously from Taiwan. Was she seeking someone of a “superior” race? Was it only attraction? Was it real? To her, was she moving up?

Eventually, I found a stand with fishy type stuff in rich intense sauce. Then I ate cake wheels with cream and taro inside. I passed around a stand with snakes, passing Cantonese speakers…which to my relief, they were somewhat disgusted as I was.

And so then, that ended my journey through Snake Alley. It being nearly uninhabited and empty due to the rain.

Two weeks ago, I landed in Manila.

“Please ma’am, I am very good tour guide,” he texted me.

Two days prior, he man made eye contact with me as I wandered lost around Intramuros—the historical enclave of Manila, Philippines filled with stories of War War II and colonial influences. Having just arrived to my hotel after a 16 hour flight, I felt dizzy with the humid bright light. The hotel front desk demanded payment for my stay and I reluctantly went outside in search of an ATM. Around and around the cobblestone streets, I walked passing locals, tending to grilling sisig and selling prepaid phone cards. Exhaustion dug at me as I walked around the block and the man on a pedicab yelled out, “Tour?! I show you Intramuros.”

I waved him off, “I am looking for an ATM.”

Insistent, he followed me, “I do a great tour!”

I walked back to the hotel and went inside to negotiate, “I have to an appointment at the Mall of Asia at 4 pm. Can I pay later?”

“Ok, I give you until 9 pm,” she said.

With relief, I turned and went back outside. The man was still there and waved his hands in the air, repeating, “Intramuros intramuros!”

“Can you take me to the Mall of Asia?” I asked.

This is one of the few photos that I took at Willow Park:

When Chris first moved to his place in Willow Park, I had only begun to know him. He had first lived in Foster City, but he never invited me over, claiming that it was “messy”. And granted, living in San Francisco, why would I venture out of the city? Then he moved to Fremont. By that point, I convinced him that I should see his place. So I did.

But then shortly after, he was forced to move again, because his unit was being purchased. And then he found his place at Willow Park in early 2007. Since then, there were starts to move, but they never transpired. It was just easier to stay in one place that fit everything he needed.

But today was the end. He found a better place in San Francisco. Gone were the days of “car safety”, the comforts of Mountain View (and the surrounding silicon valley). Gone were the strip malls—the omnipresent need to drive to a grocery store and the feeling that everything one needed was just a car ride away. The silence was going to be gone.

I’ll miss that he lived alone—no more loud noises from his home theater or insane pop music from his computer. I’ll miss having a place down in the South Bay—a pleasant positive sojurn from a tech job. Or a place to crash when I visited a friend in the South Bay (this is the real reason that I am down here).

But what I won’t miss is: having two homes. The thinking that he’s down there and I am up here. And the whoops, I left something 50 miles away.

Memories? I’ll list them next.