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Sabrina is standing inside of her childhood bedroom, one that she moved out of 20 years ago. Her clothes remain forever stored in crates above the bed as she’s long since discovered H&M. A favorite toy is tied to a door. A drawing she made remains on the wall. It’s a room she shared with her sister. There’s another room for her parents, a main room, a place to cook, and a place to poo. In the main room on one wall is an advertisement from 20 years ago. Some kind of whisky. I ask Sabrina why that’s there, she says because her father likes pretty girls. On the opposite wall is a calendar from 1991. A fairly ornate one as far as calendars go. The apartment was built in 1986 and Sabrina’s family moving into when she was 11 in 1989. It looks like it was built in 1946. Fifth floor, walk-up, which is hard for the mom. It’s in a good location, near the center of town if this town has a center. ...

I’m heading to the airport in an hour and packing my suitcase. Our dog, Kobe, starts pacing. Up to me, whining. Trying to get my attention. When I head out the door he’s getting frantic. Door shut, I hear him howling. Anxiety. That’s it. I show it when I try to bring a spoonful of soup to my mouth and then put the spoon back afraid I won’t make it. I show it when I need to grab the coffee cup from the coffee machine with two hands. I show it when I avoid offsites or hang out in my hotel room when I do go. I show it when I can’t sleep on business trips. I show it when I grab that second or third glass of wine. I show it when I find negative things to comment on. ...

I got married. We got married. This is not an experience I had expected to have. Again. I married for the usual reasons, love, life partner. The accelerant was a promise I made to Sabrina three years ago. That if I returned to the US, I would not leave her behind. I’m not returning to the US but recently this was a real possibility. It was time to make good on this promise. Besides, we have a dog together. ...

I wake up. Rather I get up for sleep did not come. I get up because I am bored waiting for sleep. And I have to pee. I check my phone. And pee. These are not necessarily distinct events. It is 6:30am. Crap. I thought it was later. When Starbucks would be open. I sit on the coach and look eastward out my 12 floor window. The view is unbroken for 500 meters or so. There is a 10 story building. On the rooftop I see a man squatting. But it can’t be a man for I saw the same man yesterday at 6:30am. ...

It is Wednesday morning and I’m not sure if I’m jet lagged or getting sick. No, I’m not hungover. Not this time. My mind isn’t as sharp as it normally is. Not that it’s normally a samurai sword or even a ginza. I bolster it with coffee and make it through the day. Back in my hotel room that night I have more work calls to a city that is entering mid morning. I’m now pretty sure it’s not jet lag. I’m more comfortable with the folks on the phone and I let my annoyance show. ...

Elisa facetimes me except it isn’t facetime, it’s a WeChat video call. She wants to see Kobe, our eight month old Beagle. I point the phone at Kobe, Elisa is happy. Kobe doesn’t seem to notice. It is all about the smell for him. The kids mom took them to Guam for five nights. The kids winter break is five weeks and during that time they typically go on vacation someplace warm either with me or with their mom. A couple of times we’ve gone back to the US. Guam was picked since they’ve never been there, there would be fewer Chinese tourists because a visa is required (although I’m not sure that’s true), and because I went there five years ago. The pictures start coming in on the Kids group chat. Beach shots. Lover’s leap. The mall. Even Kmart. I remember all of them all. They go snorkeling, which I didn’t do. They go to Tony Romas, which I did do. When I went to Guam, I went alone for eight days. It was not a happy time. I drove around the island. I did sightseeing. I went to Kmart. I sat in my hotel room. I drank. I ate. I read. I wrote. I was struck by how much it felt like the US. Like Hawaii but a bit worn down. I went to the night market and ate night market things. I watched part of a high school baseball game being played under the lights. I went to the hotel gym. I went to Guam alone but I was not alone the entire time. The day before I left, I signed some papers at a lawyers office. I brought back Guam tee shirts for my kids. I went to coffee shops. I went to Ross. I texted the kids mom that it was done and I cried in the middle of a downtown street. It seems odd to me now that my kids are enjoying it there. It’s a nice enough place. My time there was about survival. A few other things that made it more than that, more than tolerable, but I’ll save that for another post. ...

I hear some people talking in the hallway outside my apartment door. I peer through the keyhole and see a woman, maybe 30, talking with the neighbors. She has something in her hand, it looks like a petition. Suddenly my apartment door is open and I’m in the hallway. The neighbors are not signing. She looks at me, I say sure, but I want to know what is it first. She shows me. It’s a birthday card for someone in the complex. I say, sure, I’ll sign it. She hands it to me and then she tells me that I need to give it to the next person to sign. And then she’s gone. I have the birthday card back in my apartment and I’m fretting what to do with it. I really don’t want to go find someone else in the complex and ask them to sign. Not exactly don’t want to. Afraid too. Getting the signature weighs on me. Yet I feel obligated to complete the task. I settle on taking it down to the 11th floor and wedging into the door jam of another apartment, maybe with a note. Then I worry what if they see me, what excuse would I have for being on the 11th floor. So I decide to try the 11th floor of another building. This plan and potential consequences weigh on me long after I wake up. The next day is my birthday. ...

I text an expat friend “Merry Christmas!” and he audios me back “Hey, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, it doesn’t feel like it but hey, Merry Christmas”. My childhood memories of Christmas start with leaving wine and cookies out for Santa on Christmas Eve until the wine stopped. Then on Christmas morning waiting on the basement stairs for my parents to give the all clear, open the door, and then rush to the gifts under the tree. When I was Elisa’s age, 10, it would be quite the scene as my father handed out gifts and we would open them one by one. My father’s delight hidden by his frustration with the mess from the wrappings and the unimaginable spoils of his children. My grandmother’s refrain to “try it on”. The excitement over gifts large and small especially. My imagination engaged as my older siblings were adults and had money to buy significant gifts. I wish I could remember who bought what. Pong, air hockey, Clue were awesome. Later, when I had kids of my own I would sit under our tree and hand out gifts. First to Aidan. Then to Aidan and Lydia. Then Aidan, Lydia, and Elisa. The excitement in their eyes as they tore open the gifts made a lifetime. It’s toned down in recent years. In part because they spend their play time on their IPads, never really needing a new toy. In part because if they need something, we get it for them. In part, because Christmas is celebrated in two homes. On Christmas Eve, Kobe (our beagle puppy) and I went to Hairun which is the apartment complex I used to live with their mom, some six years ago. We ate a fairly typical Chinese meal the nanny prepared. The kids grandmother was taking photos with her IPad, looking all ghetto without realizing it. When it came time for gifts the mom sat under the tree and handed them out. The kids were nice and got gifts for Kobe and Sabrina. I got athletic long johns which I appreciated. I’m pretty sure I will look anything but athletic with them on. Christmas day was my turn. I took the day off work which allowed me to sleep in to 7am when Kobe wanted me to take him outside. I live in a fairly large apartment complex and downstairs was bustling with kids going to school and adults going to work. I made my mom’s lasagna (actually just traditional lasagna from an internet recipe), deviled eggs, and chips and dip. I ordered salad. We had a pretty full house - seven adults and five kids. I gave my kids walkie talkies. “A Star is Born” played in the background. The lasagna was a hit. Christmas is not the same here, that is true. I’m pretty sure my parent’s Christmas wasn’t the same as their childhoods memories. My kid’s Christmas won’t be the same when they grow up. Yet we hang onto the traditions for they push us through the good times and bad times. They have the power to connect generations. And besides, the chips and dip are damn good. ...

The house cleaner comes so I take Kobe for a walk. It is not lost on me how fortunate I am and how untrained my dog is. Kobe does well on the walk. Well for him. Pulls when a smell excites him. Stops and lies down when he sees another dog. But on this December afternoon he’s mostly walking at my side with a couple pee breaks mixed in. We have about 10 minutes left on our hour long walk when a young man walks up to me on the sidewalk. He is bright looking. He says to me “I eat dogs”. I keep walking. He repeats, “I eat dogs”. His tone isn’t a joking one, more mocking. I say “ok”. He’s not satisfied. I ask him why he would say such a thing. I actually said “why the fuck would you say that?” and he said “because you are white”. “What?, I say. “That’s what white people think, that Chinese eat dogs”. There is a little bit back and forth after that, I was trying to express “what the fuck?” and he was trying to express that “You are white, so I think these things about Chinese”. Before he turns to leave he asks “How much for your dog?”. He then adds “I am also cheap labor, did you know that”? He doesn’t look like a laborer, I’m thinking, he is pretty well dressed and his English is decent. Then he’s off and I continue walking Kobe. 30 seconds later he’s back. I hear a voice “hey, sir. hey sir”. I turn around to see him running up to me. He’s close. He says “you know what? You know what? I’m a n(word). I’m a n(word)”. I mumble “whatever” and turn back up the street as he turns and jogs away. He doesn’t reappear. In the final minutes of the walk I replay all the clever things I could have said to him. None of it really matters as Kobe leans forward to pee like Beagles do. ...

It’s 2:30am and I can’t sleep. I know it’s 2:30am because I flipped my phone over to check. I can’t sleep because my eyes are crazy itchy from allergies. I can’t sleep because I am dealing with a work decision which for others would be a simple. I can’t sleep because I’m frustrated the house is a mess and I am the only one who seems to notice. So I put my headphones on, those original Apple iPhone ones, and stream the 49ers radio broadcast into my ears. It’s halftime, they are losing. I try to sleep but cannot. Around 4am, after Garoppolo’s third pick sealed the game for the Vikings, I unplug the earphones. I’m cold. Sleep comes. I dream I am in the kitchen. There are dishes that need washing. There are towels lying about. There are appliances that don’t quite appear right. This was what I felt before bed, when I was washing dishes after helping Elisa with her English homework. But the kitchen in my dream is different. It is a combination of the kitchens I’ve spent time in. At my parents home. At my first apartment. At my first house. At the first place I lived in Beijing. Where I live now. And as I looked around this kitchen I realized something wasn’t right. The appliances were all on but doing odd things. Microwave on with nothing inside. Juicer streaming tonic water. Bluetooth speaker working without power. Just as this oddness dawned on me I heard a cackle. I turned and then I was in my parents’ kitchen, near the front door. I looked left down the hallway and there was a young woman, maybe 20, petite. In an other worldly shadow. Looking at me with neither a smile or a hiss. I woke up. Later that morning I drop Elisa off at school and start to walk to the subway for my commute to work. I’m listening to a podcast and one of the guests is talking about driving in Ireland, on the wrong side of the road. My mind flashes to when Elisa was six months old, Lydia four, and Aidan five. We were on an island in Malaysia, driving on the wrong side of the road. Three small kids, far away road, we still managed a romantic dinner along the shore with Elisa in a crib and the elder kids playing with the waitresses. We could do anything. Until someone not me fucked it up. And I felt sad, just really sad. ...