“What’s the name of the city where had your first vacation?” I may be giving away the answer to my password secret question on this blog, but so be it!
I grew up in Hong Kong during the Cold War, when it was a tiny British colony surrounded by the Iron Curtain. There weren’t many places to escape the infamous concrete jungle, except for a (then) 3-hour ferry ride to the nearby Portuguese territory of Macao or by hopping on a plane to go overseas. My first plane ride happened when I was nine, on a Boeing 747-SP from HKG to SFO, with a connection in Taipei.
I had never imagined what the interior of an aircraft looked like until I walked through the jetway and entered a long aluminum tube lined with rows and rows of chairs upholstered in bright 1970s colors. People smoked and watched the same movie on a pull-down screen. (I remember it was the original “Superman” starring Christopher Reeve.) The food was scrumptious, and we were given toys and pencils to color with.
We landed in San Francisco, where we were picked up by friends of my parents. My mom’s best friend, Auntie Nancy, taught Cantonese in the SF public schools, and I would crash her class. I was amazed by how interactive the American classroom was, with kids encouraged to speak up and participate. It was a total contrast to the Catholic education I had in Hong Kong, where opening your mouth to ask a question — or even to yawn — could result in a spanking. The American kids were so healthy and sporty. I looked scrawny and malnourished by comparison.
Auntie Nancy took us to the coldest place on Earth in July — a place called Fisherman’s Wharf. The rides were fun, but what I remember most was the bone-chilling cold. I had never experienced a sensation like that. Now that I live in San Francisco, I still talk about these frozen memories whenever out-of-town guests ask me to accompany them to the Wharf without their fleece or sweatshirt.
More plane rides followed — on DC-10 and Boeing 707 — which took us to Central Oregon, Seattle, and Chicago, where my grandparents lived. After Chicago, the famous all-American road trip began. We drove to NYC by way of Detroit and Niagara Falls. I don’t remember much about the trip, except for the constant rolling down of windows due to my flatulence and the subsequent jugs of prune juice.
While San Francisco was the coldest place I had been, New York City was the dirtiest. The city just suffered the Blackout of 1977 and was on the verge of bankruptcy. It was unpleasant, with garbage, rats, and graffiti everywhere. (They’re still there, just not as shocking.) Our car got towed while we visited the Museum of Natural History. I think we parked on street-cleaning days – isn’t that ironic? At the police station, the cops offered to have me sit in the cruiser for a photo-op. I wish Instagram had existed then to impress my friends back home.
From New York, we went to Boston and then finally meandered to the happiest place on Earth in Los Angeles. Because I was a runt, I was too short to get on many Disneyland rides. No Space Mountain for me, just the Mad Tea Party. I did get my souvenir Mickey Mouse ears hat, though. I think it’s still in a box in my folks’ garage.
The vacation ended with me going back to school in September. The teacher asked us to write about what we did during the summer — I wrote what you just read on seven pages, in Chinese. I thought I would get an A++++++, like Ralphie wanted for his Red Ryder BB gun theme. The teacher didn’t grade it.
This trip across America may not mean much to most people, but it changed the life of a 9-year-old boy. What followed is a lifelong passion for travel — a wanderlust that has taken him to 73 countries — and wanting to share it all.
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