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We’d planned to spend a day in
Santa Cruz
to celebrate our 4th
wedding anniversary. I had bought a new
red bikini which I hoped would be a hit. But that morning we awoke to miserable drizzle. Spent the day in
San Jose
instead, making computer scans of
our heads, e-mailing geneticists, and racing simulated wheelchairs at the Tech
museum.
Four months later – we decided to try again. Labor day was
nigh - ‘twas past due time to hit the beach. By the time we navigated highway 17 and shoehorned our way into parking-
We needed to feed ourselves. Standing in
front of Café Violeta, we stopped. Hmm. Gyros and onion rings sounded good to
P, and falafels beckoned me. A handsome
teen with sandy tousled, hair and gentle eyes took our orders. He reminded me
of Paul McCartney.
A piece of paper was taped to the cash register. I chuckled and pointed it out to P. In marker, someone had crookedly written
“Thai Iced tea.”
“Are the owners Thai?” P burst out.
“Yeah,’ said the McCartney boy at the same time I had
muttered, “I doubt it.”
“Oh! In that case I want one!” I added.
God knows I’ve learned never to order Thai iced tea anywhere
but a Thai establishment. We whipped our
heads around the premises and finally noticed the preponderance of Asians
working the grill, scooping ice cream.
”That’s a man,” P said of the person at the grill.
S/he had an adrondgynous haircut, long for a guy, short for
a gal. Nondescript loose navy polo shirt. Pleasant features- a bit rough for a
woman, a bit rounded for a man.
“I don’t think so.” I said. “She’s got a beautiful necklace on, definitely
Thai.”
It looked like the heavy, 24K jewelry P’s mum gave me at our
wedding.
Above the navy shirt shone the thick gold necklace (you
can’t call it a chain when it’s almost a collar) with a golden, ornate puffed
heart dangling at the gender neutral throat. Who cares about gender so long as s/he can cook?
We at the windows, orange paint and white trim.
I love it. Mediterranean food and Thai iced tea and Turkish
coffee ice cream in the same establishment.
We ate overlooking the busy intersection. Cyclists.
Motorcycle groups. Families holding grandmas’ elbows and toddlers hands’ all
headed to the beach. Parents towing
plastic wagons loaded with children and beach chairs.
“Too bad Asian parents don’t really spend this kind of time
together.” P said.
There were some Asian families there, but not many. P said that his mum’s adverse relationship to
sand rendered beachgoing an uncommon childhood activity. My parents sent me to swim school a lot but I’ll
be damned if one could get them ever into a swimsuit to take us to the
beach. Besides, we lived all my life in
N. Cal
.
Dad did take me to the beach a lot-but it was to watch
hangliders or throw rocks only since the water was so damned cold our feet went
numb instantly the one time we tried to wade in. Half Moon Bay and that little
sandy cove by
Daly City
were great for explorations but it was permanently shrouded in fog.
Finishing off the falafel, I glanced out our window and
noticed a nice Asian family. Parents in
sporty clothes, 3 children wearing shorts, all headed for the beach to sit
awhile. How nice, I thought, they
disprove P’s theory…
Then I saw it.
The oldest daughter looked about 15 years old. She had that cute, gangly look of a gal just
starting to grow into her new young body. Tucked firmly under her arm was the
beach reading material of Asian choice: The SAT Vocabulary Workbook.
While everyone else is reading a mystery or romance
paperback on the beach our young sister is cramming her way into a good college
like we’ve all been so trained to do…
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