New York 2019: Mum and me

I had an entire afternoon with my mother to myself and I intended to make the most of it. I’d even had matching wool coats made in anticipation of such an outing: powder blue for me, and a soft pink one for her.

When you have three other siblings, quality time with your remaining parent is something of a hard-fought commodity, and the older we got the more it seemed as though the only way I could get through the clutter of everyday living was by going on holidays with her. So there had been Thailand, Malaysia and Japan; and then our first big Europe trip together. Now, in the fall of 2019, we were in New York.

My brother was also along on this US trip, which made this particular rainy afternoon all the more special.

Mum eyes my purple silk scarf and pink dress underneath the blue coat. “Nice colours.” She herself has chosen an autumn-appropriate red and orange ensemble.

“Bi visibility,” I reply by way of explanation, and it might be the beginning of a coming-out speech except that it isn’t; I just want to talk a little bit about allyship, and my mother, to her everlasting credit, takes it all in stride. It is one of her under-appreciated qualities, I think. Plenty of times, this space for random honest conversations has been the kitchen at home, with her at the sink and me wandering in to share unvarnished details of the latest misadventure; today it is a Times Square hotel room.

We walk the many chilly blocks to Hudson Yards at a brisk clip.

Mum is a champion perambulator – I believe she would have once led us clear to the  summit of Mount Kinabalu in Sabah if we hadn’t stopped by a waterfall and complained we most  definitely did not sign up for a mountain hike. And she can walk fast.  I, of course, am more concerned with swishing my skirt around and pausing to look up at the mist-wreathed skyline.

The main objective was to see The Vessel, but a few months ago The New Yorker had published a piece about Mercado Little Spain – by José Andrés and the Adrià brothers, no less –   and I had sent the link to Mom. “We’re eating there.”

There turns out to be a warmly lit, welcoming wonderland of jamón and paella, a trove of Spanish treats to make every former colonial subject weep with culinary joy. I  almost cross myself with reverence in front of a bright-red cheese cabinet.

A cheeky sign overhead reminds the milling foodies: No dejas para mañana lo que puedas comerte hoy – roughly, Don’t leave for tomorrow what you can eat today –  which is frankly a big mood (and one we are all guilty of during this year of lockdowns).

We spend some time on The High Line afterwards before the rain and dropping temperatures drive us home; we venture out again shortly to catch The Phantom of the Opera.

Mum had been so insistent that we not miss a Broadway show; and because she always tolerated my travel requests, I was very happy to oblige her.

One year she got us tickets to Die Schneekönigin (The Snow Queen) at the Volksoper and agreed to visit the stables of the Winter Riding School in Vienna because I wanted to see both horses and the ballet; another year she let me drag us through the streets of Gion in Kyoto searching for the Forever Museum of Contemporary Art so we could view the Yayoi Kusama exhibit.

We stop for a snack after; the show has made us hungry. I feel slightly guilty having a mac and cheese at this hour, like I expect my mum to go Full Asian Parent and judge my unhealthy lifestyle choices as soon as she finishes  her salad. (She doesn’t.)

This little luxury of an uninterrupted meal with her also takes me back to similar moments: a delicious bowl of noodles street-side in Bangkok, eye-wateringly cheap; fish and chips by a Dutch harbour, shared with inquisitive sea birds; sausages piping hot, one frozen afternoon in Prague’s Old Town Square; that first plate of Rodic’s tapsilog at the Shopping Center in Diliman.

We stroll home and I silently file this one away too, a small, neat memory of bright lights and rain-sodden streets and matching coats. Just my mum and me.