If I can hide away a few sounds and colors and smells in the backward seconds of the clock, can I also store tastes? Feelings? This is my magic clock, of course I can.
So I’d squeeze in there some Robata sushi, and I hope there are enough frozen seconds to make a whole minute of it.
But I don’t want just the sushi. I want the lunch counter, the upstairs group dining rooms, no air con, fly-catching competition arenas. The phrase the staff shouts when we walk in, that I’ve never figured out. The tra-da. The sushi plates named after friends. The…soundtrack. So many seasons in the sun.
I’d even take the indulgent bite of a Macca’s* pre-brekkie* sandwich at 5 a.m., the moment we weren’t allowed chips* no matter how many times we asked; it was officially the morning already.
*I’ll take learning to speak Australian, and a bit of German, and Spanish and yeah, maybe a little Vietnamese. Geschmacksfeuerwerk!
Passing ships in the night.
A grapefruit run at Family Mart.
Three Bites of everything — except dessert.
Christmas songs played year-round.
An accidental three-hour Friday lunch. An on-purpose three-hour Friday lunch.
Cam on. Em moi. DIM DEHHHNG.
Not enough karaoke, for living in Asia.
Type racer competitions. Puzzles and riddles and brain teasers and Usain Bolt and straws.
Every single eight-person-or-more cab ride and elevator ride, a sweet, quieter moment stolen between the loud thumps of the clubs. Laughing, together. Our ears ringing.
The thrill of a lucky, straight-shot ride on the slowest elevator in the world at Dreamplex.
The motorbikes taking too sharp of turns around the alley corners, no-look.
Da Nang. Phu Quoc. Phong Nha. Da Lat.
Of coming back from a weekend away and pulling into District 1 and feeling it — home.