A string of paper lanterns dangled criss-crossed the avenue high overhead.
At least I think it was an avenue.
We had followed our leader through the city center … under a bridge and through cordoned-off streets ... to this magical place: Chinatown.
It all seems to pass by in a blur. I hadn’t tried to commit the street signs to memory.
Our guide directed our attention left and right, and details we might have missed came into sharp focus.
There is a stairway cleaved into the cement pillars of the bridge that connects the boroughs. “When you come this summer that should be one of the first things you do,” she says with serious excitement.
I could see the spark of it all in my son’s reaction. I watched his expression catch fire. As we pressed on toward our destination for a late lunch, I could guess that new possibilities were beginning to reveal themselves.
Shops brim with souvenirs: a tiny parade lion marionette catches my eye. It seems like a perfect replica of the elaborate costumes I’ve seen in photographs, but it is made of crafting basics: paperboard and white feather fluff. This cardboard lion leads a battalion of colorful compatriots into a jaunty little battle on the breeze.
Soon we are seated at a round table contemplating what to choose from the Dim Sum menu. The place smells warm and wonderful. We order – awkwardly pronouncing the dishes and affirming – that we would be ordering two of just about everything. Our waiter delivers a pot of tea, which I pour out into little cups.
Everyone else seems entirely comfortable. They share a plate or two by expertly plucking morsels out of steam baskets with chopsticks. None seem to slip from their grasp the way that mine do. They don’t have to resort to the comical single-prong-soup-spoon approach I have elected to ensure no dumpling goes uneaten.
I should be embarrassed but I am not.
I am hopeful. I am excited.
My son is conversing with us as he snatches a slice of beef and a spear of broccoli from his father’s plate. He is personable and excited, chatting easily with our guide, an old friend, and, who, as Kismet happens, works at the university where he will be attending come fall.
I could picture him here … without us.
Of course, he would avail himself of the meal plan … He would cycle through burgers and pizzas and other deep-fried favorites that are dished up in short order. He was also likely, with some planning, to meander into the communal kitchen late at night to cook himself an egg sandwich or microwave a lasagna.
At home, he will leave a pile of dishes in the sink after his late-night forage, and as much as it might irk me I know he will clean up after himself because it is a courtesy not just expected.
I know he will expect more of himself as he ventures into the world. In time, I know he will come back to this restaurant and he will undoubtedly find others. He will make friends and they will become a part of this neighborhood in their way. It will be his place of comfort, too.
