My dad and I went out for dinner tonight - no particular reason, really; he just wanted Thai food. So I unwittingly hop into the car, we roll out of Irmo and into the relative darkness of West Columbia.
Dinner itself was nothing flashy. After an angst-inducing phone call I stomped into the restaurant, which was about twenty feet wide with fewer than twenty tables. The walls were hung with maps of southeast Asia, paper fans, silken things and a giant mural of Vietnam with 100 signatures of local veterans. My dad told me about how the particular strip mall we were in used to be bustling in the 80s but that that area of town has since been abandoned for bigger chain development further in our home's direction. He then told me about how he prefers to eat at these smaller, slightly dingier family-run restaurants that seem to have petered out on our side of town.
After we ate my dad decided to drive us home through town instead of hopping back on the interstate - and that's when it got interesting. I often forget how much of a Columbia resident my dad is. Before my mom and sister came to the states, my dad worked on the western side of town, and he got to know the place the way I would like to get to know a place -- he ate at the hole-in-the-wall places, he got his car fixed at the tiny mechanic's on a back road, he lived in a ramshackle apartment owned by a community elder. It only struck me tonight, but he did what I am wanting to do! He knows how to see beyond the quiet and what looks like slight decrepitude to the meaningful community knowledge, and I really admire that.
Driving with my dad through West Columbia also brought ease to my mind regarding my latest worries on being more grounded in place. In two weeks I will be in another new place, starting over to get to know new people and new neighborhoods and new opportunities for bourgeois -- which I fear due to my inherent tendencies for the fancy. But! My dad reminded me of one wonderful way to explore a new city: find the Golden Chopstix. There is something wonderfully grounded (and familiar, of course) about stumbling onto immigrant hubs - whether grocery stores or restaurants or makeshift places of worship - because more likely than not they are not in the fancy parts of town, and those folks know as much as anyone else what it's like to start from the ground up, to get to know a new place intimately and with everything at stake in that knowledge.
As I said, in but two weeks I will be roaming around the unknown streets of Birmingham - but with a new goal and new delight (and a new genuine way to belong to this place) in mind. Thai food, anyone?
Dinner itself was nothing flashy. After an angst-inducing phone call I stomped into the restaurant, which was about twenty feet wide with fewer than twenty tables. The walls were hung with maps of southeast Asia, paper fans, silken things and a giant mural of Vietnam with 100 signatures of local veterans. My dad told me about how the particular strip mall we were in used to be bustling in the 80s but that that area of town has since been abandoned for bigger chain development further in our home's direction. He then told me about how he prefers to eat at these smaller, slightly dingier family-run restaurants that seem to have petered out on our side of town.
After we ate my dad decided to drive us home through town instead of hopping back on the interstate - and that's when it got interesting. I often forget how much of a Columbia resident my dad is. Before my mom and sister came to the states, my dad worked on the western side of town, and he got to know the place the way I would like to get to know a place -- he ate at the hole-in-the-wall places, he got his car fixed at the tiny mechanic's on a back road, he lived in a ramshackle apartment owned by a community elder. It only struck me tonight, but he did what I am wanting to do! He knows how to see beyond the quiet and what looks like slight decrepitude to the meaningful community knowledge, and I really admire that.
Driving with my dad through West Columbia also brought ease to my mind regarding my latest worries on being more grounded in place. In two weeks I will be in another new place, starting over to get to know new people and new neighborhoods and new opportunities for bourgeois -- which I fear due to my inherent tendencies for the fancy. But! My dad reminded me of one wonderful way to explore a new city: find the Golden Chopstix. There is something wonderfully grounded (and familiar, of course) about stumbling onto immigrant hubs - whether grocery stores or restaurants or makeshift places of worship - because more likely than not they are not in the fancy parts of town, and those folks know as much as anyone else what it's like to start from the ground up, to get to know a new place intimately and with everything at stake in that knowledge.
As I said, in but two weeks I will be roaming around the unknown streets of Birmingham - but with a new goal and new delight (and a new genuine way to belong to this place) in mind. Thai food, anyone?
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