Sixth grade was hitting a lull with President’s Day
weekend around the corner. I was in our library room helping my mom move some
boxes, the perfect time to corner me into a conversation and drop an unexpected
question. “What do you think about going to China for a summer camp in July?”
“No, period, and another period just to be sure,” was my
reply, but four months later, I found myself packing a month’s worth of
clothes, snacks, a cat’s cradle string, and a deck of cards.
Ten years ago today, my parents, brother, and I met up with
my aunt, uncle, and cousins, Camillia and Julian (whom we affectionately call
Cam/Cami/Camie and Jules) at Newark Liberty International Airport. The swine
flu epidemic had reached peak publicity and bloody riots in Urumqi were
erupting, but the camp directors (Pang Lao Shi, Tian Lao Shi, Ge Lao Shi, and
Lai Lao Shi – whom I nicknamed “Mr. Lies-a-lot”) assured our parents that we’d
be taken care of, regardless of the itinerary changes. We, on the other hand,
had little to care about – with twelve hours of movies, games, and no parent
supervision to look forward to, nothing could stir up anxiousness. Oh, did I
mention we all got individual cartons of Häagen Dazs on the plane? Best flight
I’d taken at eleven years old.