In Italy, I learned to stop searching for an authentic, fixed self, or an automatic kinship with the Chinese diasporic community—especially in a globalized world.
My German cockroach infestation, almost too good a pandemic allegory, forced me to confront the question of how much I could bear from New York City.
The forces of air travel are virtually unknowable and immense, and we ourselves are small. I find a sort of peace in that.
The temporary thrill of flying around the world without consequence.
“I navigate New York by means of accumulated memory.”
“The car was a sanctuary, the only place that fully offered an escape.”
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